Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy Read Online Free
Author: Cas Peace
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Epic, King’s Envoy: Artesans of Albia
scowl. Apprehensively, he waited for the man to speak.
“You’re trespassing, Albian.”
The man’s arrogant manner and rich clothing confirmed Taran’s immediate suspicions—he was an Andaryan noble. Taran’s sleep-muddled mind struggled to frame a reply but he wasn’t given the leisure.
“The penalty for trespass is death.”
Taran stared, knowing he was trapped. The huntsmen stood with bows unnocked but he knew how swiftly they could draw and shoot should he make a threatening move. And though the ugly giant birds they had were hooded and leashed, they could be loosed in an instant if he tried to run. His only chance lay in the bargain he hoped to make.
He opened his mouth to answer but was again interrupted.
“However, I came out this day for sport. What do you say to a duel, Albian, to determine your fate? If you win, you’re free to leave. If you lose, you submit to my will.”
The noble’s pale, slit-pupiled eyes were avid and he fingered the hilt of his sword as he spoke. The motion drew Taran’s gaze. Events were moving a little fast for him despite this seemingly favorable turn. He had not expected things to work out like this—according to his father’s notes, he should be the one making the challenge—but in the end, did it matter? And what choice did he have? The noble had him at a severe disadvantage and would be within his rights should he decide to kill Taran out of hand. Even if he wasn’t, there was nothing Taran could do about it. No one would protect him if he could not protect himself.
He gathered his courage and faced the noble. He looked a little younger than Taran’s twenty-eight years but Taran had faith in his own skills. He was taller than the noble and he was agile and fit, there was no reason to believe he would not win. And the noble was an Artesan, Taran could sense it. He didn’t know what rank but that wasn’t immediately important. His father’s notes indicated that Taran only had to force a draw to win the right to the noble’s aid. If he turned out to be incapable of teaching Taran himself, his duty would require him to find someone who could.
“I accept,” he said, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice. The younger man grinned and Taran frowned. Those slit-pupiled eyes, unique to the Andaryan race, made his facial expressions unfamiliar. Taran would have to be very careful when reading his moves in the duel.
As he watched this exchange surrounded by his escort, Sonten’s heart filled with contempt. That the Albian was alone was foolish enough, why was he accepting challenges as if he had a choice? Where was his second to agree the rules of combat? Didn’t he know that without witnesses, such agreements were void?
His derision grew when he realized the Albian wasn’t even going to bargain terms with Jaskin. The Andaryans’ love of dueling and the complicated haggling that preceded such bouts was well known throughout the five realms. This outlander must be naïve indeed if he thought Jaskin’s honor would constrain him to the codes. The General huffed. Honor was not involved when fighting outlanders.
He began to relax. His nephew’s plan had worried him because it carried an unnecessary measure of risk. But if Jaskin’s opponent was so ignorant of the codes, then he wouldn’t be much of a threat. Sonten could enjoy the duel and their first experimental use of the Staff would bring them another step closer to success.
He elbowed the nearest huntsman. The man moved out of his line of sight and spread his cloak over the General’s head, shielding him from the strengthening sun. Sonten saw Jaskin’s glance and acknowledged the gesture, patting the weapon that rested against his thigh.
He crossed his arms over his ample chest and watched as the duel commenced.
Taran followed the noble as he moved away from the huntsmen, seeking room to maneuver. Suddenly he stopped and turned, staring into
“You’re trespassing, Albian.”
The man’s arrogant manner and rich clothing confirmed Taran’s immediate suspicions—he was an Andaryan noble. Taran’s sleep-muddled mind struggled to frame a reply but he wasn’t given the leisure.
“The penalty for trespass is death.”
Taran stared, knowing he was trapped. The huntsmen stood with bows unnocked but he knew how swiftly they could draw and shoot should he make a threatening move. And though the ugly giant birds they had were hooded and leashed, they could be loosed in an instant if he tried to run. His only chance lay in the bargain he hoped to make.
He opened his mouth to answer but was again interrupted.
“However, I came out this day for sport. What do you say to a duel, Albian, to determine your fate? If you win, you’re free to leave. If you lose, you submit to my will.”
The noble’s pale, slit-pupiled eyes were avid and he fingered the hilt of his sword as he spoke. The motion drew Taran’s gaze. Events were moving a little fast for him despite this seemingly favorable turn. He had not expected things to work out like this—according to his father’s notes, he should be the one making the challenge—but in the end, did it matter? And what choice did he have? The noble had him at a severe disadvantage and would be within his rights should he decide to kill Taran out of hand. Even if he wasn’t, there was nothing Taran could do about it. No one would protect him if he could not protect himself.
He gathered his courage and faced the noble. He looked a little younger than Taran’s twenty-eight years but Taran had faith in his own skills. He was taller than the noble and he was agile and fit, there was no reason to believe he would not win. And the noble was an Artesan, Taran could sense it. He didn’t know what rank but that wasn’t immediately important. His father’s notes indicated that Taran only had to force a draw to win the right to the noble’s aid. If he turned out to be incapable of teaching Taran himself, his duty would require him to find someone who could.
“I accept,” he said, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice. The younger man grinned and Taran frowned. Those slit-pupiled eyes, unique to the Andaryan race, made his facial expressions unfamiliar. Taran would have to be very careful when reading his moves in the duel.
As he watched this exchange surrounded by his escort, Sonten’s heart filled with contempt. That the Albian was alone was foolish enough, why was he accepting challenges as if he had a choice? Where was his second to agree the rules of combat? Didn’t he know that without witnesses, such agreements were void?
His derision grew when he realized the Albian wasn’t even going to bargain terms with Jaskin. The Andaryans’ love of dueling and the complicated haggling that preceded such bouts was well known throughout the five realms. This outlander must be naïve indeed if he thought Jaskin’s honor would constrain him to the codes. The General huffed. Honor was not involved when fighting outlanders.
He began to relax. His nephew’s plan had worried him because it carried an unnecessary measure of risk. But if Jaskin’s opponent was so ignorant of the codes, then he wouldn’t be much of a threat. Sonten could enjoy the duel and their first experimental use of the Staff would bring them another step closer to success.
He elbowed the nearest huntsman. The man moved out of his line of sight and spread his cloak over the General’s head, shielding him from the strengthening sun. Sonten saw Jaskin’s glance and acknowledged the gesture, patting the weapon that rested against his thigh.
He crossed his arms over his ample chest and watched as the duel commenced.
Taran followed the noble as he moved away from the huntsmen, seeking room to maneuver. Suddenly he stopped and turned, staring into
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