Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (44 page)

It had been a week since Heron and Verris received the change to their orders and now they were holding yet another hurried command conference in the field. This was taking longer than either of them had expected, but when Heron asked his fellow officer if he knew the reason behind the delay, Verris replied scathingly.

“The Duke doesn’t tell me his reasons, Heron, any more than your fat general tells you. He just gives orders and expects me to obey. I’ll tell you this, though, he’s in a ranting powerful rage. I don’t know what caused it but I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end. He’s been known to do murder when something angers him like that. We’re better off where we are, Heron. I hope your lord knows how to keep his head down.”

Heron and Verris had come to an uneasy arrangement over the deployment of their joint forces. They had agreed to put aside their rivalry to concentrate on presenting a united front once the true skill and experience of the Albian forces became apparent. Although fully expecting a strong response once Verris’ brutal tactics began to bite, neither of them had anticipated the strength of the companies sent against them, nor their coordinated skill.

Since the Hierarch’s edict against wholesale raiding into Albia, the Andaryan nobility had had no opportunity to test Albia’s defenses. The elusive nature of Heron’s and Verris’ initial attacks hadn’t increased their knowledge. Although neither had expected an easy ride, the effectiveness and determination of the Albian swordsmen was a nasty shock.

However, the Andaryan companies were also strong and had swelled over the past week with fresh troops. They had continued to push the Albians hard, forging their way northward. They had no definite goal other than the emphatic order to keep the Albians occupied, and this did not help morale. Heron and Verris, however, gave their men no time to ponder the whys and wherefores of their duty. They had been instructed to engage and harass the enemy at every opportunity and they did.

Once they had decided the day’s strategy, Heron and Verris parted, each with their own section of the countryside. They had agreed to split up, but not so far apart that they couldn’t come to each others’ aid. Heron strode back to his assembled men and gave the order to mount.

In keeping with the week, it was another exhausting day of harry, engage, retreat and regroup. Heron kept in touch with Verris through the substrate and they managed to push the enemy forces farther north. Late in the day, Heron felt a familiar touch on his mind as Verris passed him the long-awaited command: they were at last to begin falling back.

He was relieved. He was finding it hard to obey his orders while keeping his men alive and free from serious wounds. Those who suffered incapacitating injuries were sent back through the substrate immediately, before the wounds could become infected. The severely injured were killed. This did not sit well with Heron but he recognized the need. He signaled his men and they began a slow, organized retreat.

He rode behind his men, leading them through what cover they could find. Suddenly, a dreadful pang shot through his brain, nearly knocking him from his horse. The shocking death cry—Verris’—reverberated in his mind, blinding him, making him gasp with agonizing pain. It was swift, it was violent, and there was nothing he could do. The cry was automatic, subconscious, and it only reached him because of the intimacy he’d shared with Verris during the campaign.

Fearful, his brain aching fiercely, Heron shook his head to clear his mind. He yelled his men onward, heading for the designated campsite where the remnants of Verris’ command would meet him.

Once the last straggler had ridden in to the camp in the frosty darkness, Heron called one of Verris’ men over. “What the hell happened?”

The swordsman responded sullenly. “He took a crossbow bolt right between the eyes, Commander. Right between the eyes! Bloody lucky shot if ever I saw one.”

“What in the Void was he doing to leave himself open to crossbows?” Heron was furious, only too sure he knew the answer.

There were smaller crossbows that could be shot from horseback but mainly the weapon was used by foot troops. This meant that either Verris had ridden into an ambush, which wasn’t likely as the humans couldn’t possibly have known where they would be, or Verris had taken advantage of the order to fall back and had stopped to do some looting. That would have left him and his men vulnerable.

The swordsman’s shifty demeanor confirmed Heron’s suspicions. “What the hell did he think he was doing? How many survived?”

“A handful,” the man said, drawing another curse from Heron.

“Get them over here. You’re all under my command now and there are going to be some changes. If you and your comrades want to make it back alive, you’re going to have to learn to obey new orders. Jump to it.”

The man hastened to do Heron’s bidding and the Commander watched him go. So, Verris had finally reaped the rewards of his greedy nature and vastly inflated ego. Heron couldn’t say he was surprised—or particularly sorry—but he was furious. Any failure of this magnitude would reflect badly on him and he still had Lord Sonten’s as-yet-undisclosed plans to worry about, not to mention the forthcoming conflict in his own realm.

Assimilating Verris’ disaffected men was not something he wanted to deal with right now, but he’d have to do it. Every available man was needed for the war and Heron could not afford to lose any more. Cursing under his breath, he swung away to instruct his own company leaders.

The week passed incredibly quickly for Taran, caught up as he was in fighting the invasion. Each day blurred into the next, each consisted of scouting, fighting, sleeping and eating. The weather was cold, gray and damp. He never seemed to be able to get warm unless he was fighting and then he was too warm.

At least he seemed to be acquitting himself well with his comrades. Some of his broadsword maneuvers were even being copied as they proved most effective against the raiders. He and Cal were also increasingly respectful of Robin’s leadership and they had learned that Robin was an ace shot with both longbow and crossbow. Taran had heard some of the men boasting about it earlier in the week but had treated the stories with skepticism. Until now. That very afternoon they had come across a group of raiders looting an abandoned village. Robin immediately took advantage of their greed, he and his men taking a heavy toll. Taran himself had witnessed Robin killing their leader, an unerring shot that took the demon squarely between the eyes.

This feat seemed to ease Robin’s soul, for which Taran was grateful. During the week, Robin had grown increasingly distraught at Sullyan’s silence. Bull’s obvious fretting, which the big man couldn’t hide when any of them communed with him, didn’t help.

The young Captain was desperate to return through the Veils to the Count’s mansion, to demand answers, but he was tied to his command, responsible for his men, and couldn’t abandon the fighting. Each night he’d railed against the General’s refusal to send someone to relieve him.

He tried again that evening, once the men were settled. It had been a fairly light day for once—the outlanders finally seemed to be falling back. From his seat opposite, Taran watched as Robin’s eyes cleared from contact with the General.

“Bloody bastard cares nothing for her,” snarled Robin, startling both Taran and Cal. “You’d never believe he owed her his life, would you? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘gratitude.’”

“He owes her his life?” said Taran. He hadn’t heard the story Sullyan had told Rienne.

Robin spat. “Oh, yes. A command of his was overrun by Relkorians. He’d have died had she not staunched his wounds and run for help. She even warned him before he engaged them, but he wouldn’t listen. Typical of his bloody arrogance.”

“When was this?” asked Taran.

“Oh, years ago, before she came to the Manor. That’s what started it all. She saved his neck and beat off a raiding party all by herself, and she was only ten years old.”

“Ten?” said Cal, looking up from oiling his sword. “That’s incredible.”

Robin’s voice was suddenly tinged with exhaustion. “Yes. She’s an incredible person.”

He flung himself onto an old log that was doing duty as a stool, his anger abruptly draining away. He dropped his head into his hands.

“Oh, gods, I can’t lose her. I really couldn’t stand it. She’s all I’ve ever lived for. She’s taught me everything I know, from soldiering to using my powers. She’s made me what I am. If something really bad has happened to her, I just don’t think I could go on.”

This speech frightened Taran. Robin had never let himself go quite so thoroughly before. They were all tired and worn down by the constant fighting and they all had minor wounds and aching muscles. The last thing they needed was for Robin to lose control. Yet Taran couldn’t think of a way to comfort the young man. He appreciated how the Captain felt, being more than half in love with Sullyan himself.

Handing Robin a mug of fellan fresh from the pot, he patted his shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll be free to go search soon,” he said. “The Andaryans were definitely falling back today. The worst is over and once we drive them back, we’ll be recalled. Then we can cross the Veils again and go and see what’s happened. You never know, there might be a simple explanation. Communication through the substrate is never constant, something might be blocking her link.”

Robin shook his head. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Taran, but I know for sure something’s wrong. She’d never be gone this long, no matter what the reason for the invasion. No, she’s either hurt, or prisoner, or both. I pray to the gods it’s not worse.”

Taran could only drink his fellan in silence.

That night, in the dark and weary early hours, Taran woke. He thought he’d heard a cry and sat up, his heart beating painfully in his throat. Vaguely, he was aware of having been in an unpleasant dream. It seemed that Cal had also been disturbed because he, too, was sitting up, already reaching for his sword.

A noise across the tent drew Taran’s attention. Robin had thrown back his blankets and was looking wildly around. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

Taran shook his head. “I was having a nightmare, I think. What did you hear?”

The camp was silent; there was no outcry from the sentries, no warning of raiders. Robin stood and Taran could see him trembling.

“It was Sullyan,” he whispered. Taran stared at him. “She was calling out to me, screaming. I know it was her.” He hugged his chest. “She’s in great danger and pain, Taran. We’ve got to find her.”