Angst Box Set 2

by David Pedersen

  “I thought you could handle your liquor,” Maarja snarked. “How much did you have to drink that night?”

  “Not enough,” Angst said. Despite the lack of concern from his sword or the gamlin, something made his own hackles rise. Maybe it was just Scar. He didn’t trust his intuition enough these days; it was too clouded by frustration and anger. But anger had never given him goosebumps.

  “Well,” Maarja barked out laughter, “I promise not to drink in Grayhollow Forest.”

  Jintorich chuckled, and Faeoris covered her mouth. Aerella looked at him like she’d found him drunk on a street corner, which wasn’t encouraging. Kala seemed to be the only one who believed him. Scar glared into the woods like a pointer dog hunting pheasant.

  “It’ll be okay,” he whispered to the young girl. “Let’s mount up. We’ll ride fast.”

  “Can we ride with you, Mr. Angst?” Kala asked. “Will your girlfriend be upset?”

  “I’m not his—” Faeoris began.

  “Of course you can,” he said, holding up a hand. This wasn’t the time. Though, for a brief second, he wondered about the stories Heather would hear. Would he ever learn his daughter’s name? With a sigh and a spell, Angst summoned his swifen. The creature still caught his breath—a solid steel ram that shone brightly in the sun, moving and snorting like the real thing. After fastening his leather satchel, he mounted the swifen and waved Faeoris over to help.

  Faeoris lifted the girl and puppy, setting them both in front of Angst. Kala’s concerns seemed washed away by the adventure as she wrapped her arms around Scar to pat the swifen. The puppy grunted, his tail wagging under her arm.

  “What’s his name?” Kala asked.

  “Scar?” he replied, dumbfounded.

  Kala’s long black hair whipped across his face as she looked over her shoulder and flashed him sincere eyes. “I know who Scar is.”

  “Right,” Angst said delicately. “My bad.”

  “Your swifen? What is his name?” she asked. “My swifen is Bubbledeath.”

  Angst barely held back his shock and laughter. He didn’t know what to say.

  Faeoris shouted, “Yes,” and Aerella said, “Oh my.”

  “Isn’t that great?” Kala asked.

  “Yes,” Angst said, not knowing if he should laugh or be frightened. “Bubbledeath is probably the greatest name I’ve heard yet.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I’ll think of a good one for your swifen, too,” she promised.

  “It will be the best name ever. Well, almost as good as Bubbledeath,” he said. “Maarja, can you lead us through here?”

  “Better than anyone,” she said proudly, holding out a hand. Jintorich leaped up, bounced off her hand and landed deftly on her shoulder. His long-nailed toes wrapped around Maarja’s broad shoulder like a monkey.

  “Faeoris, not so tight,” Aerella wheezed.

  “Sorry.” Faeoris grunted.

  Angst drew in power from Chryslaenor. It may not have been necessary, but he wanted to prepare for the unknown. Like that was even possible. As they followed Maarja into the forest, color washed away as if the blood had been sucked out of their bodies. In a way, he found it relaxing. Sure, it was disconcerting that all color was gone, but there were no distractions. Everything was black, white, or shades of gray. There was a certain clarity to this he appreciated. They paused as Maarja took note of their location.

  “Fascinating,” Jintorich said. “The stories are true. Everything changes without color.”

  “Not everything,” Faeoris said with a wry smile. “Angst’s hair hasn’t changed color.”

  Angst shook his head as they laughed at his expense. It didn’t really bother him. They needed the laugh, and it wasn’t like he could do anything about his thinning grays. He flashed her a look of mock-anger, and she blew him a kiss. Then the sound came again, that high-pitched cry. It was filled with pain, and Angst sensed longing, and blame. During his last visit, when the Mendahir Rise had approached, it was silent until it spoke. This was different; this sounded dangerous.

  “Go,” he urged.

  Maarja ran at a horse’s gallop. The pace was much slower than the swifen could ride, but after an hour, Angst was amazed that the Nordruaut had kept it. The cries followed, becoming louder as they progressed through the thick forest. The path brought them around enormous graymowl trees, easily ten feet across. How old must they be to grow so large? Was that why everything was black and white? Were they so starved that they had to eat color as well?

  Another cry, but this time in front of them. Maarja skidded to a halt. Jintorich yelped, holding tight to a handful of hair as he flew from her shoulder. He scampered back up as she freed her bow and nocked an arrow. She jerked to the left, aiming her bow at another sound, and then to the right as something else moaned in the distance. Wailing came from all around, and Angst drew Chryslaenor from his back, gripping Kala tight with his other arm.

  A cloud of thick fog formed at their feet, covering the forest floor like frosting on a cake. Thin lines of dark blue light rose from the fog, illuminating shadowy figures that slowly grew. At first, the shapes bobbed up and down like fish peeking out of a lake. As the blue light intensified, the shapes formed into tall, human-like figures. Unlike his first visit to Grayhollow when the Mendahir Rise had flowed in one direction like a river, this time they approached like a whirlpool. The party was surrounded by hundreds of apparitions. Bright blue hands with long fingers reached out from beneath shadowy cloaks. Angst sought them with his mind, but couldn’t feel any bones to lock them into place. He listened for music from his foci, pleading for spells, begging for advice. Chryslaenor and Dulgirgraut were both completely silent.

  “We need to keep moving!” Angst said firmly. “Maarja!”

  “Right,” she replied, her voice nervous, an oversized arrow still nocked.

  Angst checked on Faeoris and Aerella. Both were wide-eyed and pale, Faeoris looking all around in jerky motions, her longsword at the ready. Scar whined, and Kala petted him, but she was breathing so fast Angst worried the girl might pass out.

  “Do you want Scar and me to ride with you, Miss Faeoris?” Kala asked nervously. “We can keep you safe.”

  Faeoris said nothing, merely shaking her head.

  “You may have to,” Angst said quietly.

  “This is your fault,” Faeoris accused Maarja.

  “Mine?” Maarja snapped, her eyes wild. “This is because of the Angorian! You Berfemmian and your tribesmen!”

  “Argue later. Run now!” Angst interrupted. Nobody moved. “You can both blame me for everything when we get away. I don’t mind. I’m used to it. We need to go!”

  “Angst,” Aerella pleaded in a wheezy voice.

  Scenarios ran through his head. He would wield Chryslaenor and maybe hold the ghost-light-thingies at bay with an air shield while Faeoris flew overhead with Kala and Scar to keep them safe. Maarja was frightened, but Jintorich could help her focus so she could pick him up and run. There was a thud, as if something solid had fallen to the ground. A thud? There wasn’t time for a thud. His eyes flicked down to make sure his arm was still wrapped tightly around Kala and Scar. Jintorich remained on Maarja’s shoulder. Aerella’s mount was riderless, fading in and out of view like the ghostly Mendahir until it was just gone.

  Faeoris knelt beside Aerella, who was curled in a ball on the gray forest floor. The fog rolled in, and blue lights appeared like pinpricks in clouds. Angst dismissed his own swifen, landing on his feet and setting Kala on the ground. He knelt beside Aerella, who was incredibly still. He gently shook her shoulder. She wheezed.

  “Aerella?” he asked. “Aerella, are you okay? What the...”

  The woman who looked up at him was an Aerella he strained to recognize. To say she appeared older was flattering. Her skin was mottled with marks of age, her cheeks now wrinkled jowls that hung loosely. Her entire face was covered in fine lines that looked like a dry clay field, baked in hot summer sun. She covered her face with
emaciated hands that shook with age.

  “What did they do to you?” he asked in a rage. He could feel the power of his foci flowing through him, fueled by a sudden rage. The ground around them began to rumble. Mendahir surrounded them, as if shaken free from the forest floor, once again pointing at them. “I’ll destroy this whole forest to make it right.”

  “Not the Mendahir Rise, Angst,” she said, her voice soft and scratchy as if she hadn’t drunk water for a year. “You did this to me, a long time ago.”

  25

  Rookshire

  Wilfred’s four-hour ride to Rookshire was unacceptable. He was strangled by the gamy smell of horse. That fresh air everyone spoke so fondly of leaked freely from his nose. The sunlight was practically blinding him, most likely forever. The fact that he’d insisted on wearing the armor that made him appear so noble and heroic was one of many mistakes. With every trot, the armor became heavier, and when he adjusted his chest piece, fresh air was replaced with a blast of his own sweat and oily metal. And then, and then, there was the dire possibility he might not walk again, since the only feeling he had below his waist was throbbing pain. If it were possible, he would go back and slap Isabelle for “rewarding” Angst with land so very far away. He was a castle dweller, and spent little time on a mount for a reason. This was the second time in a month he’d visited, and he was still sore from the last ride. More than anything, he wanted to weep, and then eat pie. He deserved pie.

  “Shall we stop to rest?” Mirot asked, his lips pulled up in the barest curl. “Again?”

  “No.” Wilfred did his best to make his grunty whine sound regal. “We’re already late.”

  “Good news,” Mirot said. “I’m sure the refugee camp is only ten or fifteen minutes away.”

  “Refugee camp?” Wilfred asked.

  “What else should we call it?” the general asked with a shrug. “These wielders escaped the capital under duress and built these temporary shelters to hide away in.”

  “Have you seen them?” Wilfred asked. “What you call temporary shelters?”

  “I’ve only heard stories,” Mirot replied, looking forward, his nose a little higher than normal. “Huts of stone that look like mushrooms or some such.”

  “Huh,” Wilfred said, shifting his rear to another uncomfortable position. “They’re proud of this place, as they should be. It’s more impressive than you’ve heard, and they’re trying to make it into something.”

  “What could that possibly be?” Mirot asked, his snide showing.

  “Home,” Wilfred said softly.

  Those ten minutes passed slowly and noisily in his rattling armor. Anticipation sweated out of his hands as worry jumbled the thoughts he’d prepared last night. Wilfred’s heart thrummed quickly against his armor, which felt clammy inside. Maybe only a few wielders would show up, and they could meet at Graloon’s over some cold mead. Maybe Graloon would have something good to eat, like pie.

  “Are you all right?” Mirot asked, handing over a flask. “You look pale.”

  “Just nervous,” he said, taking a deep gulp from the flask and wincing. It was water, and he handed it to the general with a disapproving gaze.

  “I’m not Angst. I drink water,” Mirot said. “You’ll do fine.”

  “Do you think I should have a sword?” Wilfred asked. “I want to look like a leader.”

  “Only if you want someone to think you know how to use it,” Mirot said slyly.

  “Good point,” Wilfred said.

  “Oh,” Mirot said in surprise as they approached the first chatlen, homes of the wielders. He brought his great stallion to a halt.

  “Everything okay, General?” one of the four accompanying soldiers asked.

  Wilfred could understand why the gray, bulbous buildings were compared to mushrooms. The chatlen looked like bubbles of stone that had risen from the ground only to get stuck halfway. Several round windows were positioned about the circular wall, and a kept stone path led to an arched doorway with a stone overhang.

  “Not very camp-like, is it?” Wilfred taunted.

  “It’s larger...more durable than I’d expected,” Mirot said. “More like a bunker.” He pointed at smoke that drifted gently from the rooftop.

  “It’s my understanding that each one has a fireplace,” Wilfred explained. “For heat, cooking, and campfire songs.”

  Several soldiers chuckled.

  “You can stop that now,” Mirot muttered.

  “I’ll try,” Wilfred said.

  Mirot pointed once again.

  “Flowers,” Wilfred explained with a smile, admiring early spring blooms placed evenly along the path.

  “I know what flowers are,” the general snapped. “I just...it just looks like they’re here to stay.”

  “What’s that?” a soldier asked, tilting his head.

  There was shouting followed by the unhappy grumbling of a crowd. Mirot shot him a worried glance and reached for his sword. Wilfred shook his head.

  “Let’s go see,” Wilfred said. “Ask first, kill later.”

  With a grimace, Mirot led them at a painful trot off path. They rounded several chatlen until they reached a wide road leading to a much larger stone structure at the center of town. Wilfred couldn’t help but grunt in pain at every lurch forward, but the general was correct—something in that sound of discontent wasn’t right. The jeers became louder as they approached.

  Wilfred swallowed hard, and the blood drained from his face. Surely this had to be a bad dream. This wasn’t just a few people who’d shown up with mead in hand to join him at Graloon’s. The entire town was here—every man, woman, child, cat, dog, and goat filled the open space before the town hall and makeshift bar. He scanned a sea of scowls and raised fists held high. Under normal circumstances, Wilfred would’ve expected pitchforks and torches, but instead many of those fists were glowing bright with power in every color imaginable. Everyone at Rookshire glared at two men standing on a makeshift stone pedestal. Ranson, and his son Mika.

  “You misunderstand. This is for the good of all Unsel!” Ranson held out two shaky hands, as if that would be enough to stop fireballs, or lightning, or any other act of unbelievable power. Mika, the gangly young man, stood tall by his side, with the death-defying bravado of youth emboldening him.

  At this sight, Wilfred had two thoughts. What were these two men doing here, and what could they have possibly said? In spite of the urgency, he dismounted his horse with all the delicacy of a pastry chef student trying to pass their final exam. Everything that wasn’t numb was sore or itchy. A soldier led the smelly beast away to reveal Heather, who’d been standing behind it with a baby in each arm.

  “Hurry,” she urged. “Before it’s too late.”

  Wilfred followed her to the podium, his armor chafing with every step. How could she possibly move faster than him with those two squirmy bundles in her arms? Both men on the pedestal looked relieved at his approach, and Ranson pointed to Wilfred as if he were completing introductions. As if this were planned.

  “And here to tell you more about the draft,” Ranson said firmly. “The King Regent himself, Wilfred.”

  “Draft?” Wilfred snapped, ignoring the rumblings of the crowd. “King Regent? What are you talking about, man?”

  Cries and shouts erupted around them. The sky darkened, thunder rumbled, the ground shook, and something hit Wilfred’s cheek. He wiped off a papery, wet glob and met eyes with a young woman, who shrugged unremorsefully.

  “Calm down!” Heather called out. “Or I will calm you!”

  The great storm of Rookshire became a mere squall.

  “Who invited you?” Wilfred asked. “And what is this about a draft?”

  “According to law 215, page 9, paragraph 4,” rolled off Ranson’s tongue, “Unsel can recruit by draft any man, woman, or child over the age of twelve who could potentially aid or assist Unsel at a time of war in any capacity by said leadership or by those designated to represent. And, as I have explained to thes
e good people, they must serve Unsel at her greatest time of need, under your command, King Regent Wilfred.”

  The wielders hushed, looking at them with accusing eyes that threatened life and limb.

  “You are correct about law 215, Duke Ranson,” Wilfred said apologetically.

  A rainbow of raised fists shook, brighter than before. Heather moved away, holding her babies close. Wilfred shook his head no at the soldiers who reached for swords and put his hands behind his back. He looked sternly at the crowd until they quieted.

  “I’m no King Regent, nor King, and nor do I wish to be called one,” Wilfred said as loudly as he could. “We have a princess waiting to be crowned queen. Her name is Victoria, and she wields magic!” Angry fists lowered, and lights dimmed. “I am merely a servant of the crown, and a defender of Unsel, like our friend Angst!” More nods. “I am merely waiting for her return, just like you!”

  “And until her return,” Ranson cut in, “we need—”

  “Heroes,” Wilfred said firmly. “People of Rookshire, it’s true—Unsel needs your help. Your queen needs your help. I need your help. Unsel needs soldiers who can wield magic. They were once called zyn’ight.”

  “Just one minute,” Ranson cried, placing a hand on Wilfred’s shoulder and jerking him around. “These people are obliged to help, by law. They have no choice.”

  “By law, page 1, paragraph 1, sentence the first, who is in charge?” Wilfred asked firmly.

  “The royal family,” Ranson stuttered.

  “And who shall make decisions in their stead?” Wilfred egged on.

  “The person designated to represent the throne,” Ranson said, defeat thick in his voice. “You.”

  “Me,” Wilfred said. He pointed to the crowd. “But I have no real control. Simply put, these people have a choice. What you don’t understand, what many don’t understand is that they always have had a choice. No matter the law, they can say no, and have the power to stand behind it. Let me say that again, they have the power to say no. Do you understand?”

  Ranson glared at him with hatred and vitriol, but after glancing over the crowd, he reluctantly nodded.