Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy Read Online Free Page A

Taran’s eyes. Taran studied him without locking gazes. It was tempting to stare back but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would be a mistake. He needed to focus his attention on the noble’s body; if he turned out to be the experienced swordsman he seemed, his eyes would give away nothing.
Taran raised his sword to the salute. With no warning, his opponent lunged at him, blade aimed directly at Taran’s chest.
     
Despite the distance between them, Taran was caught off guard. Wrong-footed, he parried awkwardly, only just managing to slide away.
     
He tried to protest but his opponent didn’t give him time, immediately lunging into another strike that clashed on Taran’s hastily raised blade. The contemptuous look in his cat-like eyes told its own story and Taran realized protest was futile. The noble was after sport and Taran was his prey; there would be no quarter given and no respect paid to the rules.
     
Dismayed by this flagrant disregard for the codes, Taran struggled to force his mind back to sword play. He must not let his fear and outrage interfere with his skill. Those opening strikes, treacherous though they were, had alerted him to the talent and lack of moral code he was facing. The noble wouldn’t be an easy conquest. He was fighting on his own soil and by his own terms. Taran was the usurper, the outlander, and he was alone.
     
For the first time since conceiving the plan, Taran acknowledged this flaw. But it was too late now, he was locked into this fate. He threw himself into the combat, determined not to lose.
     
He cut and blocked, grateful that his skill had saved him from injury during those first deceitful moves. His pulse raced. His opponent was coming at him again, striking at his unprotected left, causing Taran to veer sharply aside. He swept his blade around, hoping to catch the noble off balance, but he had already danced out of the way.
     
Taran circled the noble warily, searching for weak points. The sun’s heat was increasing, he was sweating profusely. He lunged at the noble, forcing him back across the dusty ground, but the man disengaged and came at Taran again, giving him no time to draw breath. We’re too evenly matched, thought Taran, there’s no advantage. Sunlight struck blindingly from steel as his blade clashed and rang on the noble’s, labored breaths grunting through his throat.
     
They struggled back and forth for half an hour or so. Taran was bleeding from many superficial cuts; he was bruised and sore, but so was his opponent. Neither, it seemed, could gain the upper hand. Now that Taran’s early anger had been forgotten in his struggle for survival, he began to despair. A strange heaviness was weighing his arm and he was having trouble holding his own. He was dismayed; his stamina was usually greater than this. But his concentration was centered on his opponent’s latest flurry of vicious cuts and it took him a while to figure out what was happening.
     
He couldn’t understand it. What he suspected should not be possible. He and the noble hadn’t learned each other’s pattern of psyche, there was no way the other man could be affecting Taran’s life force. But it was undeniable. Insidiously, and contrary to all the rules and codes, the noble was draining Taran’s metaforce and using it to empower himself.
     
Outraged and confused, Taran’s mind shut down like a steel trap, cutting off the other’s leaching force. In panic, he accessed his psyche, using his own Artesan skills to bolster his flagging strength.
     
“Foul,” yelled his opponent. “The use of metaforce is forbidden by the codes.”
     
Taran saw the watching huntsmen stir at this cry. Infuriated by its hypocrisy, he realized he had walked straight into a trap. He couldn’t impeach the noble though, it was too late. And anyway, there was no one to believe him.
     
As he automatically blocked a low swipe to his leg, Taran recalled a glance exchanged between the noble and someone among