“Citizens of Unsel,” Wilfred said. “And you are citizens of Unsel. You have come to Unsel’s aid time and time again, but now, finally, it will not go unrewarded. Long, long ago, before my time, even before Graloon...” Laughter, tension breaking laughter. “...wielders represented the crown as zyn’ight. They wore armor like Angst, like I wear now! I will not recruit you by force or by draft. I will offer you equality, and it is your choice to protect our people as soldiers of Unsel.”
Wilfred had hoped for cheers, but was met with silence. He looked around to see less angry people muttering to each other. He waited.
“If I may ask, what can I do to prove that we want wielders to be seen as equals?” Wilfred asked.
“Equals?” Ranson scoffed.
“Please remove him,” Wilfred said with a wave.
“Rookshire,” Graloon said in his gravelly voice, looking around at the other wielders. “We want Rookshire to be recognized as an official town of Unsel. A city, a mage city.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd, and Graloon raised a fist triumphantly in the air. The people of Rookshire were still hot with anger from Ranson’s foolish demands, and the barkeep had stirred them into a flurry.
Wilfred made himself look as worried as possible, writhing his hands and looking at the ground in apparent calculation. When the clamor finally subsided, he coughed.
“That’s a lot, what you ask,” he said hesitantly, giving the crowd time to grumble. “Unsel hasn’t recognized a new city in a hundred years.” Wilfred waited for the grumbling to grow before holding up a hand. The noise subsided. “But, as Duke Ranson confirmed, I guess I’m in charge, and it’s the least I could do for friends.”
Cheers, the right kind, erupted from the crowd. Heather stood beside him again, which he took as a sign that they probably weren’t going to be burned to a crisp or turned into candy.
“In order for this to happen, we need you,” Wilfred said sincerely. “We need wielders willing to be zyn’ight.”
Many hands raised in the crowd, as if it were that easy to become a knight of Unsel. Wilfred nodded, clasping arms with Graloon and helping the large, old man onto the platform. He had done it. What would Faeoris have thought? His chest heaved proudly. It may have even earned him a kiss on the cheek. Those cheeks warmed at the thought.
“Graloon,” he began. “Do you have any pie?”
“The best roogdibar pie you’ve ever had,” Graloon said with a wink.
“Let’s bring our zyn’ight in for some pie, and port,” Wilfred said. “On the crown.”
“Not only our leader, now you’re my hero too,” the barkeep replied, slapping him roughly on the back.
He was glad to be wearing armor.
26
Grayhollow Forest
The needles of blue light rising from the ground became broad and bright. Shadowy faces of the Mendahir Rise formed into something from nightmares, with wide, open mouths and eyes like angry blue pits. Angst couldn’t move, as if held in place by his own trick. But it wasn’t his trick. Cold hands reached from the ground, pulling at his legs, dragging down his arms. Faeoris and Maarja both cried out and collapsed, rocking back and forth. Scar’s eyes flashed bright red, but the dog seemed unable to grow, howling in frustration.
“I’ve got you, Scar,” Kala said, grasping the pup away from the reaching hands. “Mr. Angst, help!”
The same hands that held him in place shot up into Maarja and Faeoris. His companions had stopped making noise, but their eyes showed their pain. Maarja was locked in a silent scream while Faeoris’s face looked strained as though ready to burst. They were dying.
“You’re not killing anyone!” he bellowed. Lightning flickered around his arm, and he wrenched it free, holding Chryslaenor high. He let anger overtake him, and power flowed from his foci.
The rage-fueled lightning poured down his chest and bit at the restraining hands around his legs. With a loud crack, the ghostly limbs returned into the ground. Cascades of blue lightning flowed from him, snapping and popping as it leaped to each companion. The Mendahir released their hold and backed away. Faeoris and Maarja coughed between gasping breaths. Kala rushed to Aerella, setting Scar down. The lab instantly grew into his larger form, his fur becoming angry steel daggers. The dog’s six eyes glared menacingly at their opponents. He barked, making the trees shake as if nervous they would become a chew toy.
The foggy shapes avoided the lightning so Angst directed it into a circle around them. Grass and leaves flashed, instantly burning to ash as the ring grew. They stood in the middle of the blackened circle, still surrounded, but now at arm’s length from the horde of the Rise. Setting Chryslaenor on its tip in the center of the circle, he willed it to remain on guard. The sword continued to feed lighting into their line of protection as Angst approached the edge.
“I know you can speak,” Angst shouted. “Tell me what this is about before everyone calls this a Mendahir Fell!”
The Mendahir parted, making a path for the tallest of their shadows. It floated slowly toward the lightning’s edge, its horrific features washing away as it got closer. The other ghosts dimmed even as the tallest one became more opaque. The echo of life transformed into something more recognizable. It appeared tangible, more human, but barely. It hovered at the edge of the lightning, waiting, looking on them all sternly, but at least the anger appeared gone.
“I’m Angst,” he began.
“I remember,” it said in a low, hollow voice. “I am Kitecor.”
“What is this?” Angst asked, pointing all around. “Why did you attack us? And why are you still alive?”
This made Kitecor smile, maybe—Angst had never seen a shadow smile. The figure nodded toward Faeoris and Maarja, and both looked at each other guiltily.
“Your friends destroyed us long ago,” he whispered. “The Mendahir are forever lost to this half-life, neither fully alive nor completely dead. Because of their treachery, you shall all perish.”
“Probably not,” Angst snapped. “I’ll finish whatever it is they started if I have to.”
“Or you could try bringing them back,” Jintorich said positively, staring on in awe.
“That’s not possible. At least not for an Al’eyrn,” Aerella said. “Those in a state of half-life are forever lost.”
“You can explain that later,” Angst said over his shoulder. He pointed directly at the shadow. “You, Kittycat, tell your people to back off, or this gets ugly. You have no idea what my sword and I can do.”
“I am very aware of what Chryslaenor can do,” he said in a haughty tone.
Angst’s heart skipped, but he hoped it didn’t show on his face. He felt the need to appear strong, and intelligent, and couldn't bear losing any sort of verbal fencing. But, how did this ghost know the name of his foci? Kitecor must be ancient and, in spite of his condition, maybe he had retained a lot of knowledge. Or maybe the ghost was just a know-it-all trying to make him look like an idiot.
“And Dulgirgraut?” Angst asked.
Kitecor looked around for long moments, as if he’d lost his keys. Finally, he said, “I see no Dulgirgraut.”
“I don’t like carrying both my foci at the same time. It scares people, and ghosts, and everything.” He lowered his head and peered at Kitecor. Very slowly, he said, “I’m bonded to both foci.”
“Oh,” the Mendahir said, sounding surprised.
Angst wanted to cheer for himself and point and say, "Who looks like an idiot now?" There was something about surprising a gaggle of ancient half-dead ghost creatures that felt like a small win. The thin blue lights shooting up from the ground became brighter and then dimmed, again and again. Before he could prepare for an attack, it stopped, and all lights diminished save the ones around Kitecor.
“You can leave,” Kitecor said. He pointed at Faeoris and Maarja. “But there must be justice. We will have one.”
“I’ll stay,” Faeoris said sadly, sheathing her sword.
“No, you won’t,” Ang
st snapped.
“This is my responsibility,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.
“I don’t believe this.” How hard would it really be to burn their way out with lightning? “What could you have possibly done?”
“You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Then how is this your responsibility?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Wait, I can barely hear anything.” He willed the sword to stop spewing lightning. The noisy circle faded, and he faced Kitecor. “Don’t think you can haunt your way over here fast enough to hurt anyone. With my last breath, I’ll destroy everything before I let her, or any of them, be harmed. Got it, cloudy?”
It almost looked like the Mendahir grimaced, but he nodded in agreement, and nothing approached.
“Go on,” Angst said to Faeoris. His heart skipped at her wolfish smile. Apparently, she liked his threats.
“Thousands of years ago, all of Ehrde was at war. That was when the Berfemmian and the Vex’steppe tribes lived together in Angoria,” she said with a longing sigh. “The Mendahir had refused to fight. They believed their magic would be too destructive for the world, but the Nordruaut attacked everyone. My people joined the Mendahir to stop Nordruaut, but soon learned that the Mendahir were planning to turn on us after the Nordruaut were destroyed.”
“So, you defended yourself,” he said.
“We killed them, Angst,” she said, looking ashamed. “In our bloodlust, we killed all of them.”
“But that wasn’t you,” Angst said.
“It was my people,” she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes. “And it’s time someone took the responsibility for their actions.”
“Not you,” Maarja said, now standing beside them. “That responsibility is mine.”
“Really?” Angst asked. “You two don’t need to compete over this. Let me just blaze a path out of here...”
“You won’t burn down this forest, Angst,” Maarja said fiercely. “Not when my people have worked so hard to tend this world. It has been our penance for letting the Mendahir die. I’ve heard the story many times. We were trying to stop the madness that had taken over Ehrde. My people were warriors, barbaric at times, but we stayed in Nordruaut until it became too much. We learned that the Mendahir were the catalyst for the great war, and that they merely waited until other armies were mostly defeated before striking. We attacked the Mendahir first and were winning, but were forced to retreat when they allied with Angoria. The Angorians, our fiercest rivals, turned on what remained of the Mendahir. We stood by and watched. The Nordruaut could have stopped them. Instead, we let them all die. This was our fault, and I will stay behind.”
“You are both mistaken, and so are you, dear Kitecor,” Aerella said in a wheezy voice, looking up from her kneeling position. “Angst, come here and help an old woman stand.”
To Angst’s surprise, Kitecor waited patiently, almost respectfully. Angst helped Aerella up slowly; she seemed very frail. Was she continuing to age? Her hands shook so violently, it was as if her body was failing before his eyes. Could he heal her? Was it possible to will life into her before she died in his arms? He began summoning power, but she abruptly shook her head no.
“We don’t want him to feel threatened, and even if you could heal me, it would weaken you too much to protect the others,” she said, taking tired, wheezing breaths. “This will take me a minute, but I’ll be fine. Now isn’t my time—”
“But...” Angst interrupted.
“I’ve read how I am to die,” Aerella said, squeezing his hand gently. “You have to trust me, my oldest friend.”
“Hey,” he replied with a half-smile. “I’m not that old.”
“I’ve got this,” she said, patting him on the face. She stood up straight, gathering not strength or magic, but something else. It was as if wisdom and experience had their own power. Whatever this was, it was enough, and her voice sounded stronger. “I’m the oldest human who has ever walked Ehrde, and only one will ever be older,” she began. “I have danced through millennium like a bee to flowers. I have been to the future and the past. So much has happened I don’t remember it all, but I have walked among the powerful Mendahir of old. Remember, if you can, because I was there.”
Kitecor nodded once, but otherwise said nothing.
“Faeoris, Maarja, you are both right, but you don’t quite have the full story. Thousands of years ago, the Mendahir stood as the most powerful beings on Ehrde,” she explained. “A kind and benevolent race of creatures who wielded magic like no other. They lived long, and were aware of the element wars that took place every two thousand years. They taught all peaceful races how to protect themselves through magic, built cities where they could stay safe, and forged weapons of great power.”
“The foci,” Jintorich said in wonder.
“No,” Angst said in disbelief.
Kitecor nodded again, smiling at Angst’s shock. Did the ghostly figure wink at him like he had gotten ahead in their verbal battle?
“The elements feared what the Mendahir could create, and most avoided confrontation,” she went on. “Magic felt they were his greatest threat, and worried they could make a person dangerous enough to destroy all elements. They couldn't, the Mendahir weren’t able to make weapons more powerful, so some tried to wield more than one foci. A ring and a dagger, armor and—”
“I had that dream! Right after I first wielded Chryslaenor,” Angst said. “Some guy tried to wear armor he wasn’t supposed to, but it...broke him.”
“No one was meant to wield another, Angst,” she said, her old face dour. “Semiya’s attempt pushed Magic into action. He is the slippery one, the element with a plan, and he connived. Alone, he wasn’t powerful enough to destroy the Mendahir and all their Al’eyrn.”
“But the Angorians and Nordruaut were powerful enough,” Maarja said, her eyes wide with horror.
“He tricked us?” Faeoris asked, her fists shaking.
“Magic first drove the Nordruaut to war and sent them to battle the Mendahir. Later, Magic tricked the Angorians into believing that the Mendahir would turn on them.” she said. “After the war was over, the realization that they’d committed genocide was too much. The Nordruaut changed their ways, becoming hunters and tending to the land. The Angorians agreed to live on separate sides of Ehrde, only coming together once a year to mate.”
“Magic is the reason I didn’t get my sex!” Faeoris cried out. “That bastard is the reason I live on an island with all women!”
“I love that island,” Angst said, not thinking before speaking.
Everyone turned to look at him, including Kitecor. Angst frowned and looked at Faeoris as if she were the one who’d farted. Her cheeks flushed, and she crossed her arms.
“You’re right. Magic is the reason your people killed the Mendahir,” Aerella said. “And the reason Nordruaut let it happen.”
“Well...right,” Faeoris replied, her cheeks a deeper crimson. “That’s awful, all of it.”
“How could they possibly kill the Mendahir if they were so powerful?” Angst asked, struggling to grasp it all.
“It’s a longer story,” Aerella said. “But their last battle was in the mage city Enurthen. The city had a powerful shield to protect them against all manner of creatures, including the Nordruaut. It is said a curse drove them out of the city. They were slaughtered on a field at the foot of Enurthen, and those who tried to sneak back into the mage city were never seen or heard from again. It was assumed they were dead.”
“Or half-dead,” Jintorich said. “And cursed to live here, where it’s said they originated.”
There was a moment of silence as the stories sank in like the first spring rain. Even the poor, half-alive Mendahir seemed lost in speculation.
“Mendahir,” Aerella called out, her loud voice only crackling slightly with age. “You were killed by the Angorians and Nordruaut, but this death was not the fault of these two children. Their people were misled by power well beyond their com
prehension. It is Magic’s will, above all others, to pit nations against one another. He tricks them into battle so they do not threaten the elements and their play at power over Ehrde. You cannot blame these two for the transgressions of their races when all were misled by one so powerful. Not when they are trying so hard to make it right. Don’t push them further away. Do not create martyrs of yesterday’s children. Show them that power comes from peace and wisdom, as you always taught.”
Aerella sagged into Angst. He held her shoulders with both hands, his mind whirling to understand everything she’d said. But deep down he seethed in anger that living beings on Ehrde had always been merely objects for Magic and the other elements to use. It was as if everyone was merely a pawn, especially to Magic. It had to stop. He had to stop it, at all costs.
The blue light of Mendahir that surrounded them glowed increasingly brighter. They moved, gathering, coalescing to become a singular point of light too bright to look at directly. Angst turned away, blinking spots from his eyes and burying Aerella’s face in his chest protectively. Something about the light made him happy. His mind wandered, thinking of his wife, thinking of Thom and his daughter, imagining a lazy future of walks through pastures and teaching his children magic. Euphoria overwhelmed him, and he was smiling when a weight pressed gently on his shoulder.
Angst blinked away happy thoughts to see a very tall man standing before him. He was beautiful. In all his life, Angst had never before said a man was beautiful, but this man was perfection. If you could combine the best features from every human and make them glow a dim shade of blue, it would’ve been this lone Mendahir. His light faded in and out like the moon behind clouds.
“Who are you?” Jintorich asked.
“I am one,” the man said. “One of many.”
Jintorich’s black eyes went wide, and the hair on his ears stood up. He said nothing else, merely watching the Mendahir glide to Faeoris and Maarja.
“You are forgiven,” he said to Maarja then faced Faeoris. “As are you, my child.”
Angst Box Set 2 Page 18
