Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  “Maybe that’s not a good idea,” Heather suggested, but it was too late.

  Angst had picked up the sword once more and concentrated as he had before.

  “Chryslaenor,” it sang once again.

  “I was right. It does have a name.” Angst cocked his head to the side. He felt detached, as though he was trying to explain a conversation he was having in another room at the same time. He pointed the tip at the ground so that the sword was upright, the hilt now over his head. Heather jumped out of the way when Angst let go, but the sword remained vertical, resting on its tip.

  “How did you do that?” Heather asked, more curious than concerned.

  “It taught me,” he replied, then looked at her. “You couldn’t hear any of that?”

  She shook her head.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Heather startled, her head whipping back and forth between the door and the sword. “Can’t you lie it back down? We don’t want to scare the neighbors.”

  The knock was louder this time.

  “Angst, are you in there?” It was Hector, and they both sighed with relief.

  Angst opened the door. Hector was standing before him in formal black leather armor with several soldiers behind him. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed and his piercing blue-gray eyes looked oddly guilty. Sweat trickled down his friend’s cheek to rest in the deep scar running along his square jaw.

  “May I come in?” Hector asked.

  “I think everyone should come on in. Thimes, Rook, Simmons, please. You are all welcome.” Angst bowed formally and waved them in.

  The soldiers looked at each other, clearly unsettled by this breach of protocol. Armed soldiers on official business weren’t typically presented with casual invitations. Angst smirked at their reactions, and winked at Heather to let her know all was well.

  “I’ll make tea,” she offered.

  “No need, Heather. Thank you, but we won’t be staying long.” Hector stepped inside and immediately leapt away from the giant sword resting on its tip. “What in blazes is it doing?”

  “Actually, it has a name. Chryslaenor. Chryslaenor doesn’t like to lie on the floor.”

  “Right,” Hector said, sounding dumbfounded, staring at Chryslaenor warily as if it would fall over at any second. “That answers that question. So last night wasn’t just you wielding stone or metal, was it? That wasn’t all for show?”

  “I’ll take some of the credit, I picked it up, but no, it wasn’t just me,” Angst replied.

  “I have an invitation for you.” Hector tore his eyes away from the sword. “It’s from the Captain Guard. He would like to fence with you.”

  Angst smiled, but Heather didn’t. “Isn’t he the best? Angst, didn’t he break your wrist once by accident?”

  They both answered at the same time. “He’s one of the best.” “It was an accident.”

  Angst put his hands on Heather’s shoulders and looked into her worried eyes. “Tyrell is a good man. I trust him, and I trust Hector. It’ll be fun.” He turned to Hector and asked, “When?”

  “Now,” Hector replied politely.

  Angst nodded and took Chryslaenor from its resting position. As he approached the door with it, the guards moved away nervously.

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Heather said.

  “Honey, it wasn’t really a request.”

  7

  Angst, Hector, Tyrell, and the three guards arrived at the training grounds. They were instantly enveloped by heat, dust, and air thick with humidity. Several acres stretched out before them. Areas had been marked off with short stone fences, each designated by wooden signposts. Classes were in session, and groups of sweaty young men busily trained with swords, halberds, in hand-to-hand combat and horseback riding, or simply did pushups.

  Captain Guard Tyrell walked in front, his long gait making everyone scramble to catch up. Tyrell was forty-ish, like Angst, and while his body was in much better shape, his face seemed older from the heavy weight of responsibility. He was thin, all sinewy muscle, which stood out along his neck and jaw. His light brown hair was cut short, and his long nose and jutted chin seemed to point from his pale face. Many thought the man preened a bit much—the way he arched his back and lifted his chin made it seem as though he was looking down at everyone—but Angst had always felt that Tyrell was simply on duty at all times, and that his confidence and pride were often mistaken for haughtiness. Tyrell had reason to be confident. He was the only person Queen Isabelle trusted, and he was considered one of the best swordsmen in all the kingdoms.

  Tyrell checked the nearest sign and waved for everyone to follow. Chryslaenor rose high over the party. There was no easy way to carry it. Angst had to rest the sword on his shoulder as though carrying a long beam of timber. Students, teachers, and sometimes entire classes came to an abrupt stop when they passed. Some stared, a few pointed, and one was struck upside the head by his sparring partner.

  In spite of the heat and humidity and dust and attention, Angst was smiling. Tyrell had stated on the hike here that this would be nothing more than a friendly fencing match, to see if Angst could do anything more than threaten drunk knights, but Angst wasn’t fooled. This was a test. He could only guess what the queen and Captain Guard were looking for, or what the results of the test could mean for him, but he too wanted to know what Chryslaenor could do in his hands.

  “I haven't been here for a long time,” Angst reflected as he nodded at several onlookers.

  Hector smiled slyly. “You weren’t really that bad...twenty years ago.”

  “Wait, I haven’t been away that long, have I?” Angst asked, jerking to a stop.

  “No, you only stopped coming about ten years ago. Just saying that twenty years ago, you were pretty good.” Hector grinned mischievously.

  “Here we are.” Tyrell stopped next to a Dueling and Fencing sign. He glanced around the dirt-strewn space then casually looked up at the distant castle, which loomed over them like a mountain. While the castle wasn’t close, someone with a good spyglass could see everything.

  “So,” said Rook, admiring the weapon still leaning on Angst’s shoulder. “Any chance I can give that thing a swing?”

  Angst shrugged. Until now, nobody else had asked. “Sure, why not?” He pulled it off his shoulder, and, holding the blade, offered it to Rook.

  Rook was a burly man with a tan complexion and light, curly hair. One look at his broad shoulders and strong arms and you would do just about anything to avoid arm wrestling with him. He reached for the hilt then yelped as Angst let go. Chryslaenor fell and landed with a solid thud, dust billowing up around it.

  “What was that for?” Rook said, rubbing his hand with a perturbed look on his face.

  “What was what for?” Angst replied defensively, picking up Chryslaenor. “It really isn’t that heavy, just awkward.” He held the sword out to Rook again, who refused it this time.

  Hector stepped forward and grabbed the hilt. He gripped tightly, but the sword immediately fell to the ground when Angst let go.

  “That almost broke my wrist, Angst. What were you thinking?” Hector rubbed his forearm. “Not a great time for one of your jokes.”

  Angst shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  The Captain Guard rolled his eyes, familiar with Angst’s abilities and often irreverent sense of humor. “Let’s get this started. Angst, we brought training armor. You should pick out some pieces.”

  The soldiers ungraciously dropped several large bags in front of Angst and Hector with a crash.

  Angst backed away, his eyes narrowing. He hadn’t anticipated the need for armor. Wasn’t this supposed to be a friendly sparring match? “Captain, I should be fine. I don’t really need—”

  “Not really a request, Angst.” Tyrell’s face was stone. “There’s at least one at the castle who would try to see me in irons were you injured.”

  Angst pondered this for a second, and quickly decided
it was best not to think about it.

  Hector had been picking through the armor to find a few pieces. “Does this bring back memories? We never could find a full set of practice armor for you, even when you were a bit, well, a bit more in shape.” Hector held up a leather chest piece that was a foot longer than Angst’s torso. “The only things that are going to fit are the top half of some leg guards and maybe a helm.”

  “Hmm. That could be a problem,” observed Tyrell.

  Angst rested his sword on its tip then roughly grabbed a T-face helm in frustration. It rarely crossed his mind that he was shorter than most, nor did he dwell on the fact he needed to lose a bit of weight, but this was both the wound and some salt to rub in it. The smallest helmet was still large for his head. It featured a T-shaped opening for his eyes and mouth, but hung so low he could barely see. He then attempted to squeeze into plate leggings that were made for someone thinner and taller, making him feel more like a court jester in tights than a knight in armor. Hector helped unstrap and remove everything below the knee joint. They still hung over his knee awkwardly, but his thighs were protected. Everyone was smirking at him.

  “Oh, this is silly,” Angst said, shaking out his arms and legs, half-hoping that some of it would fall off.

  “Her Majesty’s orders, Angst,” Tyrell proclaimed.

  “I bet I know which Her Majesty,” Angst muttered to himself.

  Angst went to pick up Chryslaenor, but Rook grabbed his shoulder. “How about a little warm-up?” He handed Angst a wooden broadsword. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” Rook was still upset about dropping Chryslaenor, and Angst could tell he wasn’t going to hold back during the “warm-up”.

  Angst took the sword and held it wrong, pointing it down awkwardly at a bad, almost defenseless angle. Hector, always the teacher, began to correct him, but Tyrell held up his hand. This was test time. Rook smirked, shaking his head at Angst’s handling of the sword. He swung out at Angst’s chest.

  But Angst had a plan. Quickly correcting his stance, he held the wooden sword horizontal with one hand at both ends. He expertly blocked Rook’s swing then moved in close. Pressing the flat of the sword against Rook’s chest, he stepped around, sliding his foot behind Rook’s left ankle. With a shove Rook tripped over Angst’s foot. It wasn’t a graceful fall or landing. Hector laughed, but Tyrell’s expression was stony, staring on as if the entirety of Unsel was collectively disappointed with his shenanigans. Angst held a hand out to Rook, who slapped it away and stood on his own. Before Angst could say anything, Rook swung his wooden sword at Angst’s head. Angst blocked, then blocked again, and again. Rook was relentless, swinging and thrusting all his frustration at Angst. Angst couldn’t gain any ground; he could only defend against Rook’s onslaught. He continued to block and parry until Rook finally swung at his leg and made contact. The wooden sword shattered against the leg armor, and would have probably broken Angst’s thigh if not for the plate shielding him. He was glad, now, the princess had demanded the armor.

  “Hey, Angst, I didn’t mean...” Rook trailed off.

  Angst smiled at the other man. “Can we say we’re even now?”

  Rook nodded.

  “All right, not bad. You’ve obviously spent a little time with Hector,” said Tyrell. “Let’s see how you do with that...thing.” He jerked his head in the direction of Chryslaenor. Then he looked at it more closely, finally squinting and rubbing his eyes.

  Angst saw it too, the sword seemed to reflect a bit too much sunlight. Instead of glowing as it had on occasion, it now seemed blurry, as though shivering in anticipation. He frowned as he walked over to it, not quite understanding what was different. When he reached up to grab the hilt, Chryslaenor stopped vibrating.

  Every time Angst held it, it fit. It wasn’t merely an extension of his arm, or a tool to pick up and use. Chryslaenor seemed more like another limb that had always been there. Angst breathed in deeply and lifted it properly with both hands. A gentle blue aura surrounded the blade. He looked over toward Rook, who was in a basic attack stance, and now holding a large steel broadsword. They both nodded, and the duel began.

  This time, the contest was different. Angst flawlessly blocked every swing Rook made. More than that, the blocks seemed effortless, his movements flowing smoothly. Angst stepped nimble and swung quick, like an over-excited twenty-year-old instead of a creaky, out-of-shape forty-year-old.

  They paused long enough for him to notice Hector and the captain sharing looks of surprise, and concern. Nearby soldiers in training were now making their way toward the duel.

  Hector watched the battle with a trained eye. He’d taught Angst how to fight, and seen him duel many times. This was like watching a different man. Someone who could do things he’d never seen. His swings were too effortless; neither Angst nor Chryslaenor were being tested by this match. Hector looked about quickly then grabbed a small shield from the armor pile. This hadn’t been a part of the plan, nor did Hector really think it through. He drew a short sword and joined the fray.

  Rook was used to fighting alongside others, so he automatically adjusted his stance to place Hector at his side. Angst’s head jerked back and forth between the two men, all the while defending himself. After a brief moment of unsure footing, he seemed to relax and smoothly changed course. He continued to step back while defending himself against the two men. Within seconds, he appeared to hit his stride and smoothly changed course. Angst advanced, his steps sure and his swings accurate. He gently tapped Hector once on the arm and then spun to slap Rook on his leg. Angst’s movements were so controlled that he never hurt the other men, yet still blocked every swing they made.

  All the teachers and students had stopped their training and were now surrounding the combatants. The impromptu audience quickly divided itself, several cheering for Hector and Rook, while others rooted for the giant sword. The two guards who’d accompanied the group kept everyone a safe distance from the fighters, while holding their own weapons at the ready.

  Even Angst seemed surprised to lift the giant sword over his head and block a sudden blow from Tyrell. The four men paused, assessing the situation for a moment, each breathing heavily. Angst lowered the sword and adjusted his helm. He made brief eye contact with each of them and smirked confidently.

  “Fine, let’s go,” he challenged. Angst swung Chryslaenor in a wild arc, making Hector, Rook, and Tyrell all jump back. The crowd cheered loudly.

  The three returned to the battle in force, stepping forward and working in conjunction against Angst and Chryslaenor. Two would swing, the third would defend. This strategy would’ve brought down any skilled blade master, if only by tiring him out. They were unrelenting, and soon quickened their pace. But even as they swung, attacked, and defended faster, so did Angst. The sword in his hand was glowing brighter, and Angst was now moving unnaturally fast. His arms, at times his entire body, were nothing more than a blur.

  Angst blocked a double attack from Tyrell and Hector then spun and struck Rook in the chest with the flat of the blade. Rook flew several feet and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He lay unmoving for a few tense moments, the cheers quieting to murmurs, then Rook suddenly sat up with a gasp, blinking rapidly. He waved to the others, signaling his part of the battle was over. The crowd returned their attention to the remaining fighters and were soon cheering again.

  Angst ignored the crowd, focused only on the battle and the sword. Chryslaenor was glowing, and whipped around like a blue streak of lightning. Angst felt like he was swinging a mountain, but knew how. He was conducting a symphony without knowing the music. He was aware of everything around him—his attackers, the crowd, even the queen at the castle watching him through the spyglass. Chryslaenor guided his movements, the song becoming louder and trying to seep into him as the fight continued.

  Hector backed away, sheathing his weapon and holding up both hands. Angst immediately stopped attacking him, turning his focus solely on Tyrell. The crowd was now making bets, cheering for
Tyrell, or just gawking at the spectacle before them, pleased with the unexpected entertainment.

  The Captain Guard didn’t lose, ever. A true master of the blade, he rarely got an opportunity that tested his skill. Now, the man was drenched in sweat and caked in dust, and, like Angst, grinning from ear to ear. They circled each other, swinging and blocking in a constant flow of metal and sparks. Both were hungry for more, but after five minutes, Hector stepped between them, unarmed.

  Angst reared back mid-swing to avoid injuring him. The Captain Guard almost fell to keep from running Hector through.

  Tyrell caught himself and slowly leaned over, hands on his knees. Gulping for air, he looked up at Angst suspiciously. “You used your magic,” he accused.

  Hector and Angst both shook their heads. Hector spoke first, “The explanation’s not that simple. I never taught Angst any of that, and you know swordplay isn’t his type of magic. If it is magic, it had to come from the sword.”

  Angst pulled off his helmet. His hair was drenched and sweat trickled down his dusty face. “That was fun,” he said, unable to steady his voice. His hand shook and his heart pounded like angry bees circling their nest. He looked around at everyone, looked at his sword, smiled weakly, and everything went dark.

  8

  Angst crawled out of his deep slumber. His first breath was sweet, but there seemed to be a weight on his chest, and his mouth was too dry to open. Angst could only see blotches of light when he forced his eyelids open. His stomach was a yawning pit. It felt as though he hadn’t eaten. Ever. Every tiny movement he attempted was thwarted by sore muscles or angry joints. The weight lifted from his chest as the room gradually came into focus.

  “Angst?” said a voice that sounded young and fresh as the first day of spring. He could smell the gentle fragrance of strawberries.