Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  “Yes,” Heather said with a sigh. “I believe so. I can’t imagine what he’s going through though.”

  Scar licked at a paw and then at his back, turning around as though chasing his tail. He snapped at the air then snapped again as if he hadn’t quite caught something. The pup ran off toward the nearby woods, stopping mid-way to spin around several more times. He continued snapping at the air as though biting at an annoying fly.

  “What’s he doing?” Heather asked.

  Scar began to grow as if danger was approaching. When he became half the size of the house, he pounced onto nothing and shrank again. He continued snapping, and growled.

  “I don’t understand,” Heather said worriedly.

  “We should go in the house,” Janda suggested.

  “No.” Heather pulled Janda’s sleeve and pointed at the ground. “Look.”

  A small bubble rose from the pavement, followed by several more. Foam covered the ground as if the earth was a dishtowel being squeezed clean. Larger bubbles formed around Scar as he bit and wrestled with each one.

  Heather pulled Janda hurriedly toward the road. Scar saw them, leaped forward with a wagging tail as if ready to accompany them then spun about to snap at another bubble. The puppy grew, and barked so loudly it vibrated in her bones.

  Janda summoned her lioness swifen and looked at Heather expectantly.

  “I don’t know how,” Heather said desperately.

  They inched over to a nearby stump so Heather could wrestle her way onto the creature. Janda mounted quickly behind her and brought the swifen about so they could watch. Scar continued to battle with the bubbles, and himself, as though fending off madness. He leaped from one end of the clearing to another, changing sizes, snapping at unseen bubbles. He stopped, half the size of the monster he could become, and looked after Heather with sad eyes.

  Scar barked one loud warning. It was enough, and Janda reared her swifen about and took off at a frantic pace. After several minutes she slowed, her hand burning bright for warmth and light. Heather listened, but the sound of Scar’s barking was now distant.

  “That poor thing,” Janda said. “I feel like we should go back and help.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do,” Heather said sadly. “We’ll have to wait for Angst.”

  Janda wondered to herself—if this was happening to Scar, what was happening to Angst? She kept quiet, nodding with a forced smile.

  “We should go to Unsel and wait for him to return,” Janda suggested.

  “Let’s go to Graloon’s,” Heather agreed.

  She looked back once more to hear the lonely wail of the giant monster dog she’d left behind. Heather patted Janda gently on the shoulder, and they rode toward Unsel.

  Unsel

  Isabelle sighed deeply as she finally approached the hallway to her room. It had taken everything she had not to ask the guards for help. Instead, she had dismissed them. Tyrell was off to seek healing, and she wanted nothing more than quiet and solitude to settle her nerves.

  She glanced around quickly, found the hallway to her room empty, and immediately began pulling pins from her hair in a very un-queen-like fashion. It was her kingdom, and her castle, and she had earned the right to some impropriety. She smiled to herself—it was a small reward for being correct.

  Alloria was the right choice for princess and, one day, queen. Although she hadn’t consulted Isabelle with the treachery threatening Unsel, Alloria had done the right thing and saved the kingdom. It was a relief to know there was a responsible princess as her heir, one she could trust to lead Unsel. Tomorrow, she would sign the papers making it formal. She sighed happily to herself at this thought as she opened the doors to her room.

  Her handmaid had failed to light candles or lamps, and the room was mostly dark, save for a small fire in the grate. Isabelle closed the double doors behind her, picked up a nearby candle and walked toward the fire. Resting on the floor in front of the fire was a dark, oblong object. Isabelle slowed.

  “What is this?” she questioned loudly.

  Isabelle kneeled before the object and placed her hand on it. Hair. Her heart raced as she pulled it around to see in the dim firelight.

  “No,” she pleaded desperately. “Tyrell, no!”

  She took a deep breath to scream, but was stopped by the long fingers of a strong hand covering her mouth. Isabelle flailed her arms, letting go of Tyrell’s head and trying to beat at the man standing behind her. She reached over her shoulders to grab at hair, but there wasn’t enough. She pushed with her legs only to feel the cold steel of armor against her back.

  “Just relax, Your Majesty,” Vars whispered. “You may have died in your sleep, but Unsel is in good hands now.”

  63

  Epilogue 1

  Victoria cried inconsolably, rocking back and forth in a ball between Angst’s arms. Through her wracking sobs, he could hear Tarness and Hector shuffle anxiously outside their tent. He was at a loss for what to do, or what to say, and did his best to console the princess by patting her hair and holding her tightly.

  “Angst,” Tarness said carefully, his voice hushed and deeper than normal. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes,” Angst said, looking at her. “I think.”

  Victoria’s eyes were dark and wet with tears, a sunset of red blotched her pale skin beneath them. She looked up at Angst with mournful eyes before losing herself to uncontrollable tears again. Angst made more vain attempts at consoling her as she rested her forehead on his shoulder. What had happened? He struggled to recall. It was a blur—their dreams strung together like wisps of white cloud in a blue sky.

  Angst squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. He remembered being everywhere. He remembered a Fulk’han prisoner, and Niihlu of Nordruaut, and Tyrell...and...and Isabelle. His mouth dropped open, and Angst sucked in air as the dreams came back. Victoria sought his eyes again as realization struck.

  “Oh, Tori,” he said sadly, holding her even tighter.

  Another wave of heavy sobs overtook her when she realized Angst understood, and remembered everything that had happened. He didn’t dare question whether it was real, or if it could have been a mistake. Somehow, Angst knew, and judging by the conviction in Victoria’s grief, she knew as well.

  Minutes passed, and the heat of a rekindled campfire warmed his back through the tent. Victoria pulled away from his embrace and lay on her side, curling into a protective ball. He covered her with blankets, and kept patting her back consolingly.

  “Go,” she said in a thick voice. “Tell the others.”

  “Are you sure?” Angst asked.

  “They have to know,” she said quietly. “Tell them all of it.”

  Angst left the tent, surprised to find it still night. Warmth from the fire barely held back the cold winter air. Hector paced and Tarness waited, almost holding his breath. Dallow wrung his hands together. Now that they all knew what the princess was capable of, they understood the gravity of her outburst. Angst pressed through his friends to stand before the fire.

  “There’s been a coup,” Angst said. “I don’t remember it all clearly. We can ask Tori for more details in the morning.”

  “In Unsel?” Dallow asked cautiously.

  “Everywhere,” Angst said.

  “What?” Hector said in shock. He stopped his pacing and walked to Angst.

  “Gaarder is dead. Melkier’s now ruled by Nicadilia and Crloc,” Angst said, though he still couldn’t wrap his brain around the enormity of it all. “Rohjek is consorting with Fulk’han. Even the tribes of Vex’steppe have been seized. I don’t remember everything, but...I think all of them have been taken.”

  “Unsel,” Hector questioned. He gripped Angst’s shoulder and pulled him around. “What of Unsel?”

  64

  Epilogue 2

  Alloria sat on the throne and leaned back into it. The room was finally quiet. The last of the thin-faced coroners had left with Fulk’han bodies in tow, guards had been dismissed, and Isabelle had
finally turned in for the night. Alloria patted her plain, unbecoming white gown, and couldn’t wait to be rid of it. If she was forced to wear something so uncomfortable, it should’ve at least been flattering. She sighed as she tousled her honey-brown hair. It was only a matter of waiting, which she hated.

  Not only had she done everything she had been tasked to do, she was now considered a hero of Unsel. With Isabelle’s recognition, she had earned everyone’s respect. It was far more than she had expected, or even hoped for. It was just as the Dark Vivek had advised.

  Vars strode into the room, his thin gray hair high and tight over his long wrinkled face. He wore his stodgy old armor—polished silver decorated with brightened gold leafy flourishes. Vars’s hands rested behind his back as he slowly made his way to Alloria. His face was stoic, not a hint of success or failure in his posture. Not a single speck of red tarnished his armor, and she wondered if he had stopped to polish it.

  “I have been in contact with the Dark Vivek,” Alloria stated. “It seems most of the coups have been successful, though not all.”

  “Oh?”

  “Rohjek and Fulk’han have become allies,” Alloria said. “We ignored Meldusia, as they’re harmless. There’s been nothing from Angoria, yet.”

  “Did we have any success?” Vars asked sternly.

  “The king of Melkier is dead, as is the beserk tribal leader of northern Vex’steppe.”

  “What of the Nordruauts?” he asked coolly.

  “They now have a champion, one who wields a foci,” she said with a smile. “Eastern Nordruaut is with us.”

  “Very good,” Vars said. “That’s worth much. The Vivek must be pleased.”

  “Dark Vivek,” she corrected.

  “Is there really more than one?” Vars asked.

  “I haven’t questioned,” Alloria said. “You are welcome to.”

  Vars looked down at his missing fingers and shuddered in fear. He shook his head.

  “How fares Tyrell?” she asked.

  “A lone Fulk’han beheaded the poor Captain Guard,” Vars lied smoothly with raised eyebrows.

  Alloria looked momentarily saddened or guilty. Tyrell was the one man who’d believed in her, and it was unfortunate that he’d had to die.

  “Second thoughts, milady?” Vars asked.

  “There is no room for second thoughts, Captain Guard Vars,” she said calmly. “And Isabelle?”

  Vars pulled Isabelle’s crown from behind his back and casually tossed it toward her. It landed on the tile with several clinks before sliding neatly to Alloria’s feet. The large ruby centerpiece of the main spike was cracked in half.

  “Long live the queen,” Vars said with a smirk.

  Drowning in Angst

  Book 3

  Prologue

  Four months ago in Melkier

  The princess hugged herself, squeezing tight for protection from the misery hovering over the harbor. A dense fog surrounded her, and the damp chill seeped into her pores. Like a low-hanging cloud, the fog hid the stormy waves until they were too close to dodge, breaking against the rock wall at her feet. She wiggled her toes and huffed in annoyance at their sogginess. This trip made her bitter, being a middle-aged, single princess made her bitter, and now her wet feet made her bitter.

  Men had once come to her like these waves, begging at her feet to be let in before washing away. It had been fun, until it wasn’t. How had it come to this? Her pale hair had few grays, she kept herself thin, and she was important. And yet, here she was. It wasn’t just the cool wet between her toes or the thick-as-fur fog that made her shiver; it was embarrassment. She dreaded this so much she would’ve done anything to stay here and remain unmarried and unwooed. The old fool king, her father, wouldn’t give in, insisting this suitor could be the one—which was exactly what he’d said last time. And so she waited with her cold shoulders and wet toes and embarrassment, wrapped in a blanket of bitterness.

  “Your Majesty’s ship will be leaving for Unsel soon,” said the double-wide man with the formidable shoulders and beard to match. King Gaarder had handpicked her guards for this trip, so she trusted them, reluctantly, but this one made her uneasy. His tiresome worry and constant attentions were unwarranted, and his gaze wandered up and down her body like a child picking out a new toy.

  “The ship will wait until I’m ready,” she commanded.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” He bowed before suddenly jerking upright. The bearded man grabbed his sword. “What’s that smell?”

  “I smell nothing but fish.” She tried speaking down to him in her highest of haughty voices, but when she took in a short breath, she caught the scent. “Smoke?”

  The bearded man sniffed deeply and frowned. “Smoke,” he agreed.

  “Dragons!” screamed a far-off voice.

  A stream of fire tore through the fog, crashing into the ocean only fifty feet away. Water boiled on contact and chunks of flotsam burned. Another barrage of liquid flame shot through the cloudy air, closely followed by dying screams. Like a curtain rising before a tragedy, the dragons’ heat began lifting the nearby fog.

  Every ship, from the smallest fishing boat to the king’s pride, burned, listed, or was already sinking. Fires from the boats cast the dragons’ long shadows onto the foggy backdrop. The princess stood awestruck as the scene unfolded to screams and madness and chaos. Survivors jumped from boats only to be snatched up by the large winged creatures. Dragons fought over the sailors, tugging like dogs over scraps of meat.

  “Your Majesty,” a man said from a walkway behind them. “You must run!”

  “No need to run.” The bearded man wielded his sword, gripping her arm firmly. “Stay behind me, Princess Nicadilia. I’ve slain many dragons.”

  “Many?” she pleaded. “Commander Loc?”

  “That’s Crloc, Your Majesty.” He let go and gripped his sword with both hands. “Well, some.”

  A horned beast descended from the mist, flapping its great wings slowly. Ocean sprayed their faces as it hovered a short nightmare away. The diamond-shaped head of the dragon was bright red and covered in wet scale. A forked tongue danced hungrily along its lips before the enormous head reared back in a deep breath. The princess grabbed Crloc’s arm and hid behind him, knowing full well that not even a dozen armored knights could protect her at this distance.

  “I don’t want to die!” Nicadilia cried.

  Just as the blast began to engulf her, in that briefest second between pain and obliteration, everything stopped. She looked around to see that nothing moved, except for Crloc, who let go of his melting sword to wiggle what remained of his burned fingers.

  An ageless man pushed through the smoke and fog, moving it aside to clear the air as though it were a curtain of silk. He was awkwardly tall, with a long face and protruding eyes. His cheeks were sunken, and dark shadows painted every curve and crevice. He was hairless, except for thin dark eyebrows that arched threateningly.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The man shook his head. “This is no way for a princess to die.” He walked in front of the blast of dragonfire, which hung in the air like a decoration. “Is this how you wanted it to happen, Princess Nicadilia?”

  “N-no,” she stuttered.

  “You don’t have to die this day,” he said. “Not completely. Not yet.”

  “What do you want?” Crloc demanded.

  Three months ago in Vex’steppe

  The desert attacked with such ferocity, ANduaut expected the storm to wield daggers and bare sharp teeth. The roaring wind was deafening, and the abrasive sand pricked and bit at their arms and faces. ANduaut’s dark skin was raw as layers were cooked off by the heat, but it still wasn’t enough to make him give up.

  “We can survive this.” He pulled EnDaer by the hand, dragging his reluctant second through the onslaught.

  “Please stop,” EnDaer replied in his squeaky voice. “We can go back. Endure the punishment, not this slow death!”

  ANduaut pulled EnDaer very close so his lips were
against the other man’s ear. “The punishment for loving another man is slow death, you idiot!”

  “The Iroquia will forgive you,” EnDaer cried out. “You are his son!”

  “They will never understand you, me, us! Now go!” ANduaut kissed the ear, bit it, and then jerked his arm to follow. “We will heal and be whole together, free from my father and the old laws!”

  ANduaut stopped believing his own words after only a few steps. They were already dead, or so near death he wondered if there was a difference. He wrapped his arms around EnDaer protectively, preparing to meet his death, but then the sand fell from the sky as though the very wind had given up. The heat, the painful heat, subsided to a gentle simmer. The men let go of one another, wiping sand and blood from their faces as they looked around in stunned silence.

  “What...what was that?” EnDaer asked. “Are we free?”

  ANduaut looked at his love’s bright blue eyes, his dark, sunken cheeks, and receding light brown hair. He sighed in relief and nodded to himself. They lived. It had been worth all the effort.

  There was a crunchy thud as something landed in the sand nearby. They spun about, EnDaer wielding two long, curved daggers and ANduaut twirling his stadauf staff in one hand. They faced dozens of small, dog-sized dragons. Foamy lava spilled from the beasts’ mouths like drool, and they peered at the men with hungry, golden eyes.

  “Stop,” a familiar voice shouted behind them.

  “What’s this?” ANduaut shouted over his shoulder.

  “How on Ehrde did the old man find us?” EnDaer spat.

  “That way is death! Come back to me, son,” his father yelled, still several hundred yards away. “Both of you, my sons. We will find a way.”

  “It’s a trick.” ANduaut looked into EnDaer’s eyes. “If we return to the tribe, we will never be together. They will kill us!”