There was a loud pop followed by a crack. Crloc’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. Angst stared at the man’s legs, which made a disturbing grinding sound loud enough that Victoria covered her ears. Instinctively, Dallow looked away. Crloc began to shorten as the now-silver armor compressed, slowly crushing him. When it became too much, Crloc finally screamed through his forced-close mouth, his eyes crazy with panic and pain. King Gaarder covered his face with both hands, and Angst’s friends turned away—all save Victoria, who smiled wickedly at the Captain Guard’s ordeal.
After long minutes, the popping of bones, wrenching of metal, and screaming of man stopped. Crloc continued to stand, but he was now five feet tall—a full head shorter than Angst—and an odd sight, with arms and torso too long for the rest of his body. Angst approached the Captain Guard and pushed on his chest. The man toppled backward and fell to the stone floor with a crash, no longer understanding where his center of gravity was. Angst concentrated, and with one final push, Crloc’s armor flitted away to sand, leaving him in dirty undergarments.
“What...what did you do?” the king stuttered, looking at Crloc in shock. “Your magics shouldn’t have affected his armor! Guards!”
“We came in peace,” Angst said through gritted teeth. He grabbed the lapel of Gaarder’s tunic and pulled him close. “I asked for help because I trusted you! You hurt my friends...you hunted and killed people just because they could do magic!”
“This is what we had to defend against,” Gaarder yelled, pointing at the soldiers stuck in the wall. “That armor is the only thing keeping them at bay! It’s the only thing keeping us safe! You don’t understand!”
“Magic is the only thing that will keep your kingdom from being destroyed!” Angst said in a cold, deliberate voice.
Angst threw Gaarder aside, pulled the giant sword from his back and drove it into the ground. The king shuddered in spite of himself. Angst leaned against the blade, his head lowered. Gaarder and his soldiers struggled to move forward, but found their legs locked into place. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for several long minutes. Oily darkness leaked from the Rehmans’ Charge still stuck into the wall, puddles on the ground like juice squeezed from lemons. Long moments passed before Angst finally opened his eyes.
“Let’s go. We need to find Rose,” Angst told his friends. “We’ve wasted too much time here.”
“What did you do?” Gaarder asked.
“I’ve removed the dragonbone from your soldiers’ armor and weapons,” Angst replied matter-of-factly. “All of them. Every single one.”
“No! You...you don’t understand what you’ve done!” Gaarder said in a panic, grasping Angst’s arm in desperation. “We’re defenseless! You’ve killed us all!”
“I’m saving you, whether you like it or not!” Angst replied, yanking his arm from the old man’s grip. “You no longer have any defense against magic users, so you’d better make peace with them fast if you want someone to defend Melkier.”
Gaarder’s face paled with fear. His lip quivered, and the great king suddenly seemed very old. “The armor wasn’t to protect us from the magic users!” The king sounded mad. “Without it, we’ll be overrun! They will destroy us!”
“Then I would recommend that you start apologizing to wielders, and making friends quickly.” Angst looked around at the guards in disgust. “They’re your only hope.”
Angst walked past the king, closely followed by his friends. Victoria stopped in front of Crloc and kicked him in the crotch with all her might. He screamed loudly before passing out.
“Bitch!” she yelled at the fallen man, spitting in his face.
Angst walked back, gripped her behind her elbow and pulled her down the hallway. “Feel better?”
“Maybe just a little,” Victoria said, her eyes boiling with fury. “I thought you were trying to become a better person?”
“Only a little better,” Angst said with a smirk. “These things take time.”
The room shook violently, dust and small stones falling from the dungeon ceiling, creating a cloud. The shaking abated for a moment. Angst looked at his friends, and every eye looked back at him accusingly.
“Can’t you make that thing stop?” Tarness asked, pointing at Dulgirgraut.
“It’s not the sword this time,” Angst said. He looked back at Gaarder.
“I told you! I told you and now it’s happening. They know....they know we’re defenseless,” Gaarder muttered. “There will be hundreds.”
“Hundreds of what?” Hector growled.
The king looked at Hector with wide, crazed eyes.
“Dragons,” he whispered.
52
Alloria curtsied respectfully to the crowd before moving to stand to the left of Queen Isabelle. Tyrell stood behind the queen austerely, his stiff white tunic and gray leggings handsomely complimenting her attire. He feared none in the castle enough to don armor for this affair. A thin steel longsword rested across from his able right hand. Piercing gray eyes darted over the busy crowd in impatient focus.
Isabelle leaned forward to stand until Tyrell gently pulled her back.
“Aren’t we done?” Isabelle whispered over her shoulder.
“Soon, Your Majesty,” Tyrell replied with a tolerant smile. “You agreed to personally receive ambassadors from Meldusia, Nordruaut, and Fulk’han—each of whom is here for the coronation.”
Queen Isabelle looked at her Captain Guard with displeasure, as though this was his fault and she intended to hold him responsible. Tyrell merely shrugged before standing upright. Without waiting for any acknowledgement that she was ready, Tyrell signaled the crier, whose yell made several in the room jump with a start.
“Ambassador Jintorich of Meldusia,” the crier announced from the hall entrance.
Curiosity turned every head in the giant hallway. Each step the Meldusian took brought loud clacking sounds into the otherwise quiet space. Those standing along the outer edge of the room lifted on tiptoes to better see the sight. Observers close to Jintorich didn’t bother to hide their shock as jaws unceremoniously unhinged and eyes widened at his passing.
Isabelle forced herself to smile, an unnatural act. It looked as though her ears were tugging her painted red lips back in an uncomfortable arc. The Meldusian was no taller than her knee. In spite of his height, the “man” was wide and bulbous. His nose and cheeks were round and reddish, like strawberries not quite ripened. Jintorich was almost bald, and his forehead protruded as though he wore a helmet. His ears were thin and tall as his head, coming to a point, with tufts of hair framing their edges. He wore white robes of rich fabric with vertical rows of soft leather insets. Jintorich had no shoes—the clicking apparently came from his incredibly thick toenails, which curved over the front of his toes like armor, tapping on the floor with a clicker-clack. He stopped before the throne, and with some assistance from his toothpick staff, he bowed low at the waist, his tiny white terrycloth robe creasing over his feet. Long thin wisps of brown hair flipped over his forehead.
“Your Majesty,” Jintorich said in a loud, high-pitched voice. “It is my sincere honor to make your acquaintance.”
“It is our honor to receive you, ambassador.” Isabelle nodded. She forced herself to blink, certain she hadn’t since he’d entered the hall.
Jintorich looked at her with tiny black eyes that twinkled mischievously. He smiled and reached into a pocket. Nearby guards readied themselves, hefting polearms and swords as the Meldusian pulled out a small box.
Isabelle rolled her eyes at the soldiers, and Tyrell shook his head and sighed.
“I’m certain the queen is in no danger,” Tyrell said wearily. “So please stand down.”
The nearby soldiers shuffled their feet in embarrassment as they relaxed, still eyeing the visitor in apparent disbelief.
Jintorich’s plume of dark brown eyebrows lifted high in delight and his ears drooped. “Are all of the West so fearful of change, Your Highness?” Jintorich said pleasantly.
“My apologies, ambassador,” the queen said, her painted cheeks flushing. “The changes have been many and the frequency great. We weren’t completely prepared for how much change to expect.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Jintorich stated with a diplomatic nod of his large head, and then jovially replied in his high-pitched voice, “we were even more surprised than you!”
The queen’s eyes widened at his direct response, and she politely chuckled with him before becoming serious. “Can we assist in any way?” Isabelle asked sincerely. “Is Meldusia in need of aid?”
“Thank you, Queen, but we manage. Unsel and Meldusia have enjoyed a long friendship,” Jintorich acknowledged, holding the box out to her. “We are, indeed, grateful for that relationship.”
Tyrell intercepted the small wooden box, inspecting it briefly before handing it to Isabelle.
“As are we,” she replied. She opened the box and immediately oohed in spite of herself.
The flower broach was made from five small red dragonscales held together by tiny silver chains encrusted in diamonds. The center featured a sizeable diamond, large enough to make Isabelle’s mouth twitch hungrily. The delicate craftsmanship was unsurpassed, and it required a great amount of self-control to return it to its box instead of dashing from her throne to change into appropriate attire and wear it. With a sigh, she handed the gift back to the princess.
“For your Princess Alloria, in honor of her coronation,” the small man said enthusiastically. He rose onto his thickly-nailed toes and looked about the room.
“A very kind gift, ambassador,” Alloria said gratefully, tugging the box from Isabelle’s reluctant grip. “It is quite beautiful.”
“We had heard the same of you, princess, and thought it appropriate,” Jintorich said, still looking around—almost, but not quite, turning his back on the queen in an effort to see.
“Is there something we can help you find, ambassador?” Isabelle asked stiffly.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Jintorich replied. “Height was never an advantage my people enjoyed, and even less so now. I was wondering, if it pleased Your Majesty...I would very much like to meet Mr. Angst.”
Isabelle’s back stiffened as if she’d been slapped in the rear. She swallowed hard and glanced back at Tyrell, who shrugged in surprise at the request.
“Angst is on a mission for Unsel, ambassador, and his exact whereabouts are unknown,” she said tersely, her voice pitching almost as high as Jintorich’s. “Is there something we can do for Meldusia?”
“We believe we have identified another foci, like his great blade, and seek his guidance,” he said with an oblivious smile.
“Oh, of course,” Isabelle said in surprise. “We are hoping he will be back within several weeks. You are welcome to be our guest while waiting.”
“You are too kind.” Jintorich smiled and bowed. “At your convenience, Your Majesty, I would enjoy the opportunity to discuss other matters as well.”
“I would love to breakfast with you in several days, ambassador,” the queen offered.
“That would be quite lovely,” he said, bowing once more. “With your leave.”
The queen nodded and the small, bulbous ambassador waddled to her left. He found an empty chair, upon which he climbed and perched to watch from a better view.
“Ambassador Maarja of Nordruaut,” the crier yelled at Tyrell’s behest.
Isabelle was irritated at Tyrell’s rush to see the visitors without her lead, though secretly grateful to finish this quickly.
Maarja entered the room, mostly covered in white furs and soft tan leather. Her tanned skin and platinum blond hair made her beautiful face that much more striking. Two lines of white paint stretched from her eyes over her cheeks. She towered over every guard, and her hands were large enough to crush the head of any soldier. In spite of her great size, she appeared nervous, as though attempting to tread lightly on another’s property. The difference in size between the Meldusian and the Nordruaut made her entrance shocking.
“Your Majesty,” Maarja said in a husky voice, dropping to one knee and placing her hands on the hilt of her daggers.
Tyrell immediately turned to the nearby guards. “Leave your weapons be,” he whispered, “unless you want her to feed them to you.”
Maarja lifted her head, barely, and winked at the Captain Guard in acknowledgement. Tyrell’s eyes widened in surprise that her hearing was so keen. Maarja let go of her daggers and spread out her arms in a wide, welcoming gesture.
“Please tell us your story, young Maarja,” Queen Isabelle stated as she opened her arms respectfully.
Maarja remained kneeling so she could look at Isabelle eye-to-eye. She studied the other woman, inspecting the queen up and down. She immediately noticed the scarring and false eye, and nodded respectfully.
“Good hunting, Your Majesty?” Maarja asked.
Several in the hall gasped at this question—the queen’s eye was never mentioned—but, to their surprise, Isabelle did not react harshly.
“It was a good hunt, and a story I will gladly share in the future,” Isabelle said calmly.
Maarja smiled at this and nodded once in respect then handed the queen a large bundle wrapped in soft leather. Tyrell took the bundle and untied the straps to reveal the white fur of a snow fox.
“A rare gift, indeed,” Tyrell said respectfully, handing one of the furs to Alloria.
“Thank you,” the princess cooed, petting the luxurious fur.
“Are you a mate of Angst?” Maarja questioned Alloria.
“No, of course not!” Alloria blurted out, but after seeing Tyrell’s calming hand, she gentled her response. “I mean, Angst is a dear friend. Why do you ask?”
“In my brief time with him, it seems you would be a woman he would want to mate,” she stated. The large woman sighed, sounding exasperated. In a discouraged and rushed sentence, she quickly said, “IseekcounselfromAngst.”
“Did you say, you seek Angst’s counsel?” Isabelle said, her throat constricting once more.
“Yes,” Maarja replied, visibly distraught.
“Angst is away on a mission,” Isabelle replied tersely, gripping the ends of her throne’s armrests.
“I’ll wait,” Maarja said.
“May I ask why you need Angst?” the queen asked.
“Eastern Nordruaut will soon war with Unsel,” Maarja stated matter-of-factly.
Noisy speculation immediately filled the hall as dozens of attendants raised voice to question this new threat.
“I’ve been told there is one who would soon challenge Angst for the right to battle,” Maarja continued.
“Oh, of course,” Isabelle said, as her insides collapsed in panic. “I’m certain Angst will accept that challenge—if not, Unsel will meet you on the glorious battlefield.”
Maarja suddenly stood, making everyone but the queen jump in surprise. She seemed excited by Isabelle’s offer, as if she had been bestowed a gift. “The battle will be great, Your Majesty!”
“It will be a battle for stories,” Isabelle said, standing with raised fist over her heart.
Maarja looked ready to hug the queen in her excitement, but instead fought to restrain herself.
“Please be our guest until Angst returns,” Isabelle requested calmly as she sat back on her throne.
Isabelle gestured toward the spot where Jintorich rested. Maarja bowed her head and walked over to the small man. She looked at him curiously, and at his beckon gently shook hands. She immediately smiled with fond respect, in spite of his size.
“Enough waiting!” boomed the Fulk’han Ambassador as he stormed into the room.
Five Fulk’han escorted the Ambassador into the hall—two gray men and three brightly colored women.
“Who allowed five into the throne room?” Tyrell asked a nearby soldier.
With a nod, the soldier left ranks to seek an answer.
The men appeared practically identical, light gray and covered head t
o toe in armor that looked as though bones had grown outside their body. The women were sex. Each a different color—pink, bright blue, or purple. Slightly darker hair seemed to pour from their heads, falling long to the back of their knees. Cat-like tails rose up and down their calves seductively, and all men in the room breathlessly followed every curvy cat-like step. The five strode to the throne, the lead gray man bowing as briefly and curtly as the tiniest of sneezes from the smallest woman on Ehrde.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Isabelle said drolly, reluctant to welcome the Fulk’han’s rude demeanor.
“I am Ambassador Boiter,” he said curtly. “And I am here for Angst.”
“Is anyone here to see me today?” Alloria whispered to Tyrell.
“Angst is on a mission, but I’m sure when he returns—” the queen began.
“When he returns, he will be taken into our custody,” the Fulk’han ambassador advised her. He pulled a parchment from a round leather case at his waist and read: “The Fulk’han Empire does hereby place Angst, Hector, Tarness, and Rose under arrest for the murder of our lord and savior, Ivan,” Boiter yelled.
Maarja looked at Jintorich, who appeared in shock and gripped his short staff tightly. She took a step closer to the nearest Fulk’han.
“Deemed guilty by the high command of Fulk’han, these perpetrators will be returned for incarceration and execution, or war with Unsel is imminent.”
Isabelle’s pressed her hand to her mouth thoughtfully. Tyrell reached for the parchment and handed it to the queen. She reviewed it, immediately confused by the illegible scribbles. It was nonsense, but she nodded diplomatically and handed the scroll back to Tyrell.
“My council will discuss your demands, ambassador—”
“No!” he commanded. “The accused will return with us or I will return with their heads!”
With the suddenness of a cat, Maarja leaped into the air, grappled the Fulk’han ambassador around the neck with her enormous legs, and spun about. There was a loud snapping sound, as if someone had broken a piece of wood. Maarja rolled to stand, flipping the gray man’s carcass over to an empty area far beyond the throne.
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