Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  “Here you go, Mr. Dallow,” the page said, placing a large book on the desk and wrestling it under Dallow’s hands.

  Dallow caressed the leather cover hungrily. He placed one on the binding and rubbed his fingers along the cool, compressed pages. It wasn’t necessary, but he opened the book to feel the print as though fondling a long lost lover. With a deep breath, Dallow concentrated.

  “Um...um...sir?” the page said in a panic, taking several steps back. “Mr. Dallow! They’re glowing... You, you have eyes!”

  Dallow looked toward the boy’s voice and saw nothing, but the words from the text flowed into his mind. Dallow wanted to cry, but that ability had been lost too. After several labored breaths, he smiled.

  “I can still read,” he said, his voice choked with disbelief.

  He cataloged the book and a sense of relief washed over him as he took in the contents. With a sigh, he closed the large, leather-bound book and placed his hands on another. He absorbed that one quickly and soon made his way through the stack.

  “It seems you can read too,” Dallow stated, almost out of breath from excitement.

  “Well, yes, I can, Mr. Dallow,” the page said proudly. “How did you know?”

  “You brought me the books I asked for,” Dallow said with a smile. He instinctively tried to wink then sighed to himself once more. “Can you stay for a while?”

  “Gladly, Mr. Dallow,” the boy said excitedly.

  “That’s a good man,” Dallow said. “I need more. Bring me anything you can find on old history and magic.”

  “Right away, Mr. Dallow,” the boy said.

  “Hurry, young man,” Dallow requested, finally feeling at home. “As fast as you can bring them to me. I’m hungry, and I need stacks and stacks, as many as you can carry!”

  Within minutes, the boy’s quick footsteps thudded over the hardwood floor as he rushed back, excited to help his new friend. Just as the page arrived, there was a loud clatter as a stack of books fell to the ground.

  “You must be careful,” Dallow corrected instinctively. “Are you okay?”

  When he got no answer, Dallow stood, and the armored hand of a soldier landed heavily on his shoulder.

  “What’s the meaning of this? Who’s there? What do you want?” Dallow asked.

  “It’s the Charge,” the boy whispered.

  Tarness was used to quieting a room simply by walking in. His size had always brought him the wrong kind of attention, but he’d gotten used to it. Years of whispers, fearful stares, and even some pointing had been enough to harden his shell. Tarness had been an average-sized boy, but after the other kids stopped growing, he didn’t. He was too large to ridicule or bully, but he wasn’t immune to the things left unsaid in the wide eyes that followed his every movement.

  This night had been a frustrating one. The drinks were watered down, the women ignored him, and his questions went unanswered. There was something about Crloc and Nicadilia they needed to know, but every time he asked, he was quickly ignored. The urge to hurry itched in his veins. He worried that the trail of destroyed tables, stools, and bouncers left behind at various bars would bring attention to his quest. More importantly, Angst needed answers that the evening hadn’t provided. And maybe, hopefully, when all this was done, they could find Maarja.

  The Stale Talon was different from the other bars he had visited tonight. Not because it was a rickety old dump hidden down a dark city alley and so crammed under a building Tarness had to duck to enter. Nor because it lived up to its name as the acrid stale scent of unwashed ale-spilled floors met his nose. The Stale Talon was different because a dozen men got to their feet as he came in.

  Tarness made his way through the standing ovation to wait politely at the bar for several moments before coughing to get the barkeep’s attention. The craggy older man ignored Tarness, choosing instead to focus on the mugs he wiped out with a dirty towel. His wiry black and gray hair was unkempt and as oily as the rag he held. He wore baggy brown pants, a blue linen shirt too large for his thin frame, and an apron that must have been held together by cooking oil and ale stains. The barkeep continued scrubbing away, making the mug more greasy than clean.

  “A mug of mead, please,” Tarness said in his deep voice.

  “We’re out,” the barkeep snapped, slamming the mug on the table and picking up another.

  “Then how about some port?” Tarness asked.

  “Nope,” the barkeep grunted. His voice was high-pitched and whiny. “Out of that too.”

  “Ale?” Tarness asked, frustrated and thirsty.

  “You’ll find what you’re looking for at another bar,” the man replied.

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder, and he smiled. He turned to see a tall, sturdy man he assumed was the muscle. The fifth muscle he’d met that night. The man tried tugging, but Tarness ignored the hint and turned back to stare at the barkeep. He was losing his patience.

  “I was told what I’m looking for is here,” Tarness said, struggling to remain courteous.

  “Get this guy out of here,” the barkeep told the muscle, completely ignoring Tarness.

  The man holding onto his shoulder attempted to yank Tarness from his seat, but Tarness was upset enough that there was no budging him. There was a crunching noise that sounded like wagon wheels on gravel followed by laughter from around the bar. The pull on his heavy cloak began to pinch. Tarness looked over his shoulder to find that the bouncer had changed into a grayish rock, or covered himself in rock. He looked the rock man up and down, unimpressed.

  “I’m not leaving until I get a drink,” Tarness said in frustration, “or two.”

  “Fine, we’ll do this your way,” the stone man grumbled.

  Patrons now clapped and laughed, pointing at Tarness, obviously excited that there would soon be entertainment to accompany their drinks. The stone man pulled an arm back and swung, striking Tarness in the chest with a loud crunch. The stone man didn’t move as several large cracks crawled up his arm. The bar went quiet, in shock that Tarness hadn’t been knocked across the room. Tarness puckered his wide lips and blew, and several pieces of cracked stone fell to the ground. He picked up the man by the waist and threw him down onto the nearest table.

  “Hold it, everyone!” the old barkeep yelled. “Before my bar gets destroyed. How did you do that? Nobody can handle a punch from Dusty.”

  “It’s what I do,” Tarness said shortly, his nostrils flaring. As he eyed the other patrons, several hands and arms began glowing. They looked ready to attack him at any moment. “I thought this might be a place I’d fit in.”

  “Did anyone follow you here?” the barkeep asked.

  “It looks like someone beat me here,” Tarness said, pointing at a tall man in the corner shadows whose eyes grew wide with worry. “You usually host the Rehmans’ Charge?”

  The spy bolted for the door, but Tarness reached him first. The soldier tried running past, so Tarness slammed a large fist into the side of his head. He tripped and went face first into a support beam. The man collapsed to the ground.

  “Is he dead?” the barkeep asked.

  “Nah, he’s breathin’,” a husky voice near the body said. “What do we do with him?”

  “We can’t kill him,” said another patron. “Too many questions.”

  “But what about Dusty?” the husky voice asked. “His whole family will be in danger!”

  Dusty pushed himself up from the table, the stone facade shed. He held his bloodied arm and looked about in panic. “What am I going to do? Where should I go?”

  “Go to Unsel, find the Wizard’s Revenge,” Tarness advised. He tossed Dusty a gold coin. “Ask for Graloon.”

  “Graloon?” the old man said with a sneering grin. “How do you know that old bastard?”

  “He’s a friend,” Tarness grunted. “Go on, Dusty. Hurry. This one may have friends nearby.”

  Dusty seemed at a loss for words, merely nodding at the man he’d tried to beat just moments ago. He gripped t
he coin tight and rushed from the bar.

  “What about that mess?” the barkeep said, thumbing toward the soldier sprawled on the dirty floor.

  “I’ll take him with me when I leave,” Tarness offered.

  “Thanks... What is it you want, exactly?”

  “A drink would be good,” Tarness suggested, “and then maybe we can start over.”

  The barkeep slapped a large mug of mead in front of Tarness. He downed the entire glass and waited for a refill before speaking. The barkeep hesitated, but only until Tarness flipped a coin onto the bar.

  “Is that why you’re here?” the skinny barkeep asked. “For the mead?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Tarness asked. “Does anyone come to your bar for the mead?”

  There was some laughter, and Tarness downed his second mug. He wiped his lips with his forearm and slammed it on the bar expectantly, waiting for another quick refill. When it arrived, Tarness stared at it in contemplation. He believed in Angst, and had supported his friend through all of this mess. He wanted the man to live, and he’d worked way too hard for the little guy to die. He would do anything to get answers.

  “I need to know about Crloc,” Tarness said simply. “And the queen regent.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” the barkeep grunted, waving his arm dismissively.

  “See that guy?” Tarness asked, pointing to the Rehmans’ Charge soldier lying in his own drool and blood. “That could be every man and woman in here. I really don’t care.”

  “I...” The barkeep hesitated. “I don’t know much.”

  “I don’t think we have time to banter.” Tarness nodded to the body on the floor. “So out with it.”

  The barkeep sighed deeply and wiped beads of sweat from his tall forehead. Several customers shuffled away from the guard’s body nervously, while others dropped coin on their tables and left abruptly.

  “They died.” The barkeep’s face tensed. “They both died months ago.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tarness asked. “That’s nonsense.”

  “I agree. Nothing I’ve heard makes any sense,” he said in frustration. “Nicadilia was a princess, promised to wed a nobleman. Crloc was just one of her guards.”

  The barkeep looked about nervously; several more patrons left, the others looked at the floor.

  “Go on,” Tarness encouraged.

  “They were leaving Melkier,” he continued. “Rumor has it to join the king on his trip to Unsel. They were a day behind His Majesty when the monsters came.”

  “Monsters from the Vex’kvette?” Tarness asked.

  “No. It was dragons,” he said in a quiet, raspy voice. “It was the first attack by two of the beasts. An entire regiment of soldiers, Princess Nicadilia, and her guards...all burnt to ashes.”

  “But they’re alive,” Tarness pressed.

  “No, they aren’t,” he whispered, looking around the room nervously. “They were lost to dragonfire!”

  “Then how are they at the castle?” Tarness asked in amazement.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” the barkeep asked, staring at Tarness with wild eyes. “After that, everything changed. Wielders were put to death, Her Majesty became Queen Regent, the soldiers started wearing that blasted dark armor, and her betrothed—”

  Melkier soldiers poured into the bar, shrouded in the dark blue-black armor. They spread around the room, a sword or polearm pointed at every remaining patron. Four soldiers surrounded Tarness nervously, their weapons at the ready, shaking only slightly.

  Tarness smiled at the barkeep and tossed several coins onto the bar before turning around. He raised his arms in feigned helplessness.

  “I suggest you all behave before I dent that pretty armor,” Tarness advised.

  45

  Even at night, the castle had more soldiers than shadows, making it near impossible for Hector to sneak about. The bright stone walls and well-candled corridors offered little opportunity to hide. It didn’t help that his joints were sore from long cold rides and the abusive years he’d put them through. Crouching at length was near impossible, and in spite of his many talents, becoming invisible wasn’t one. This left him with little choice but to acquire a suit of the shiny blue-black armor from an unwary soldier roaming down the wrong corridor at the right time.

  The armor fit snugly and felt cold to the touch; the discomfort from wearing it almost made him ill. But everything about Melkier made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t only the armor, but the king, the queen regent, that bastard Crloc—every courtesy seemed forced. Through all his years in the employ of Unsel, he had never experienced such passive disrespect. Princess Victoria was treated only barely better than a commoner and was constantly under the rude inspections of Crloc. He gawked at her more openly than Angst. She was too young, or simply too distracted with Angst, to notice.

  Hector was still dumbfounded that the princess was here and, of all things, had bested him in a duel. Either he was getting old, which was true, or there was something else. Every time he gave it further thought there was a distraction—an oddly timed attack, or more recently, an argument between Angst and Victoria. This made him sigh deeply.

  Hector had been a soldier almost since he’d wielded his first weapon. He’d followed the king blindly, and on His Majesty’s passing, supported the queen without question. While he didn’t always agree with her decisions, she was a strong leader and Hector supported Isabelle proudly. Victoria was young, and showed potential, but from the first moment Angst had admitted to their relationship, Hector had worried. Somehow, his short, chubby, old friend had a way with women that affected them in ways Hector just didn’t understand. No one seemed to be bothered by this. Hector felt he struggled with this concept even more than Heather did, which meant he had no one to turn to with his concerns. The worries rested in a cauldron that boiled over more every day they spent with the young princess.

  Normally, he would’ve let it roll off him like beads of sweat after a well-fought duel. Angst could do what he wanted with whomever he wanted; that was between his friend and Heather. Victoria was different. She was a princess, royalty who would one day be Queen of Unsel. Her need for Angst, her desire for his company, was a crutch that confused her decisions now and would hinder her ability to lead the country one day. In this opinion, Hector stood alone. No matter how he argued, Angst would never understand. His friend was infatuated with her youth and attention without realizing how strong her manipulations were. Angst was too quick to blindly trust, and too needy to be a hero for the princess.

  If he could only have convinced Dallow to side with him, Angst might have weighed his decisions differently, but Dallow was more infatuated with Rose than Angst was with Victoria. Where Angst was somewhat used to the attentions of younger women, Dallow was lost in them. The constant bickering with Dallow on this trip, the way he blindly backed Angst as though he understood the ramifications, was so frustrating it made Hector want to leave. Now that Dallow was injured, Hector couldn’t even bring himself to argue further.

  Then there was Tarness, who accepted and encouraged whatever Angst chose to do. He was so hungry to find someone that he lived through Angst vicariously. Hector hoped when this was over he could help his large friend find Maarja just to gain an ally.

  His frustration, coated in a thick layer of anxiety, festered uselessly, and like a good soldier, Hector shook it off to focus on his search for Dulgirgraut. One of the two largest swords in all of Ehrde, and he couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on display like Chryslaenor, nor hidden in some room on the main floor. The only place remaining was the dungeon. This made some tiny bit of sense because it seemed the only entrance in the castle under heavy guard. He was filled with doubt the sword would be there. As Angst had suggested, it was every bit as unlikely as the sword being hidden away in a distant tower—who would have moved it?

  Six guards stood before the stairway leading down. There were only six, which was a relief, especially since none currently h
eld a weapon. They stood at focused attention, hands down at their sides and staring forward instead of being watchful, which was as useless as sleeping. He licked his lips and wiggled his calloused fingers in anticipation. Every fiber of Hector longed to take them down. Even with the armor they wore, four would be incapacitated before he would have to “struggle” with the other two. Hector drew in a deep, controlling breath and decided to attempt tact. He hoped it would fail.

  The guards remained at attention on his arrival. Hector smiled inwardly, more than a little grateful at his luck in acquiring armor that paraded a high rank. They saluted with forked hands over hearts, and he emulated their odd motion before passing through the doors. While he had wanted a throwdown, it would have been noisy and, for one, brief moment, he was grateful for easy. Easy was a rare creature he only occasionally met in passing through life.

  A long flight of marble stairs brought him deep into the belly of the castle’s dungeon. He hated dungeons; no matter how well decorated the entrance, they were almost all the same—seeping into one’s pores and sucking life direct from the bone. This one was different. There was an unnatural energy to this dungeon. The hair on his arms rose and goosebumps crept down his back. It wasn’t right.

  The cave-like corridor under the castle was bright and almost beautiful. Light tan limestone walls reflected flickering torch fire, casting his shadow on dark wooden doors. Hector checked each door as he walked down the long, wide stone hall, confirming each one locked. His teeth buzzed as he approached the end, and an unnatural sound filled his ears. He drew a long dagger and a short sword, holding the dagger down low, almost hidden in his left hand, and the sword high and at the ready.

  At the end of the hallway was an enormous blue-black steel door, almost the size of the corridor. The door had enough locks and bolts that Hector wanted to pick them all just to cause trouble. He ignored the few remaining cells and approached the large door. Hector slid a thin black-steel plate aside to look into the room. In the center was a giant stone monument that looked identical to the one in Unsel’s courtyard. An enormous sword lay on the ground close to a wall, a glowing green light emanating from the blade.