“Did you have any success returning that weapon?”
“We tried,” said Cal, “but it didn’t go as we planned. Something went wrong with the portway and it blew up in our faces.”
“Blew up?” echoed Rienne. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means don’t go down the cellar,” said Taran. “A lot of plaster’s come down and it’s a real mess.”
“You mean it literally blew up? Were you hurt?” She looked them over, relieved to find no sign of injury.
“Not physically, just a bit of backlash,” said Taran. “Nasty headache, that sort of thing.”
“I’ve got willow extract, if you need some,” she offered.
“Thanks Rienne, but it’s nearly gone now, which is more than I can say for the Staff.”
Watching the sombre expression darken Taran’s face, Rienne remained silent. She was out of her depth. They weren’t injured, so she had nothing to offer.
Cal seemed to sense Rienne’s unease. “Are you any closer to deciding what we should do?” he asked Taran, even though they had puzzled it through while waiting for Rienne. “I don’t fancy building another portway around it, that’s for sure. What about moving it, building one and then carrying it through?”
“If you’re volunteering, be my guest,” snorted Taran. “The last thing I want to do is touch the thing again. Something about it seems to be making the Veils react, but I have no idea what it is. I don’t know what to suggest. My father has nothing in his notes to cover situations like this. As far as I can tell, he never came across such a thing. And there’s no one else we can ask.”
He sat with his eyes downcast. As if trying to lighten the tension, Rienne said, “I saw Paulus earlier. He’s got a company of Kingsmen at the tavern, on their way back from dealing with some outlander raiding somewhere farther south. He said he’d heard them mention demons.”
Far from relieving the tension, her words made Taran stiffen.
“What? Andaryans raiding through the Veils again? But what about the Pact?”
Although he’d known little enough, Taran’s father had told his son about the agreement brokered to stop Andaryans raiding wholesale into Albia. Apparently, some twenty years ago, a Senior Master—the highest of the eight Artesan ranks—had somehow managed to convince Andaryan nobles to curb their aggression. Raiding still went on, but it was mainly perpetrated by slavers from Relkor, the Third Realm. Rienne’s news was bad indeed if Andaryan raids were starting again.
Taran felt a peculiar cold sensation run the length of his spine.
“I don’t know anything for sure,” said Rienne hurriedly. “All I know is that Paulus overheard the swordsmen talking and thought they had mentioned demons.”
“Dear gods, I hope not,” said Taran.
His heart suddenly turned over and he swore. “Cal, what if they’re looking for the Staff?”
Cal’s dark eyes went wide with fear.
A note of dread in his voice, Taran said, “I need to talk to Paulus, see if he overheard anything else.”
Chapter Six
The early dark of an autumn evening covered the fields. It was broken briefly by an eerie shimmer appearing over newly turned earth. There were no eyes abroad to see it or the band of riders emerging with cautious stealth from its depths. Illuminated by the swirling light, their horses’ breath stirred the chilled air. Then the controlling mind released the structure and the shimmer vanished.
“Right, lads,” came the husky voice of their commander, “you heard what his Grace said—maximum chaos. Hit ’em hard, keep ’em guessing. Kill any who get in your way but don’t hang around. And don’t forget, lose touch with either Race or me and you won’t get back. His Grace won’t wait for you to catch up. Let’s go.”
The thirty-strong band followed its commander toward the edge of the field, tracing the line of its boundary hedge. Lights
“We tried,” said Cal, “but it didn’t go as we planned. Something went wrong with the portway and it blew up in our faces.”
“Blew up?” echoed Rienne. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means don’t go down the cellar,” said Taran. “A lot of plaster’s come down and it’s a real mess.”
“You mean it literally blew up? Were you hurt?” She looked them over, relieved to find no sign of injury.
“Not physically, just a bit of backlash,” said Taran. “Nasty headache, that sort of thing.”
“I’ve got willow extract, if you need some,” she offered.
“Thanks Rienne, but it’s nearly gone now, which is more than I can say for the Staff.”
Watching the sombre expression darken Taran’s face, Rienne remained silent. She was out of her depth. They weren’t injured, so she had nothing to offer.
Cal seemed to sense Rienne’s unease. “Are you any closer to deciding what we should do?” he asked Taran, even though they had puzzled it through while waiting for Rienne. “I don’t fancy building another portway around it, that’s for sure. What about moving it, building one and then carrying it through?”
“If you’re volunteering, be my guest,” snorted Taran. “The last thing I want to do is touch the thing again. Something about it seems to be making the Veils react, but I have no idea what it is. I don’t know what to suggest. My father has nothing in his notes to cover situations like this. As far as I can tell, he never came across such a thing. And there’s no one else we can ask.”
He sat with his eyes downcast. As if trying to lighten the tension, Rienne said, “I saw Paulus earlier. He’s got a company of Kingsmen at the tavern, on their way back from dealing with some outlander raiding somewhere farther south. He said he’d heard them mention demons.”
Far from relieving the tension, her words made Taran stiffen.
“What? Andaryans raiding through the Veils again? But what about the Pact?”
Although he’d known little enough, Taran’s father had told his son about the agreement brokered to stop Andaryans raiding wholesale into Albia. Apparently, some twenty years ago, a Senior Master—the highest of the eight Artesan ranks—had somehow managed to convince Andaryan nobles to curb their aggression. Raiding still went on, but it was mainly perpetrated by slavers from Relkor, the Third Realm. Rienne’s news was bad indeed if Andaryan raids were starting again.
Taran felt a peculiar cold sensation run the length of his spine.
“I don’t know anything for sure,” said Rienne hurriedly. “All I know is that Paulus overheard the swordsmen talking and thought they had mentioned demons.”
“Dear gods, I hope not,” said Taran.
His heart suddenly turned over and he swore. “Cal, what if they’re looking for the Staff?”
Cal’s dark eyes went wide with fear.
A note of dread in his voice, Taran said, “I need to talk to Paulus, see if he overheard anything else.”
Chapter Six
The early dark of an autumn evening covered the fields. It was broken briefly by an eerie shimmer appearing over newly turned earth. There were no eyes abroad to see it or the band of riders emerging with cautious stealth from its depths. Illuminated by the swirling light, their horses’ breath stirred the chilled air. Then the controlling mind released the structure and the shimmer vanished.
“Right, lads,” came the husky voice of their commander, “you heard what his Grace said—maximum chaos. Hit ’em hard, keep ’em guessing. Kill any who get in your way but don’t hang around. And don’t forget, lose touch with either Race or me and you won’t get back. His Grace won’t wait for you to catch up. Let’s go.”
The thirty-strong band followed its commander toward the edge of the field, tracing the line of its boundary hedge. Lights
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