Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  “Mistake?” Niihlu approached, sheets of sloshy ice falling from his arms and covering the Nordruaut corpses. “More proof that he needed to be killed. But we did not need more proof, did we? Not after he killed her.”

  It was the end of the conversation for his old companion, and Niihlu marched off, looking for signs of a trail. Jarle sought wisdom from the king, hoping that Rasaol would speak reason. A tired shadow covered the man’s face as he avoided making eye contact. He knew this was wrong, Jarle could feel it. There was an edge to this group as sharp as any axe. These Nordruaut no longer wanted to hunt for food or manage the land. The youngest in their party licked his lips as if thirsting to avenge their fallen comrades. Niihlu stared south, his eyes sharp as he sought a trail. Rasaol, their king, seemed driven in an unnatural way, despite his exhaustion. It was as if a sickness had taken over them, and Jarle feared what they would wreak on Ehrde if set loose.

  “Niihlu may be right,” Rasaol said, peering at Jarle warily.

  “We are hunters, old friend, not warriors,” Jarle reminded his king. “This is not our way. Remember.”

  “We need to defend ourselves,” Rasaol hissed. “That Fulk’han sneaks into Owenqua and kills our people! We can’t let that rest.”

  “Yes, yes, we can,” Jarle said.

  “You would have us let this killer go free?” Niihlu asked, spinning on his heel, the enormous war axe raised high in anger. “After what he did to one of your own?”

  “He survived judgment in battle,” Jarle said, staring down Niihlu for the young man’s failure. “I don’t like it, but that is our way.”

  “I should have killed the monster,” Niihlu growled.

  “Yes,” Jarle agreed. “As judgment in the challenge. You defeated him, but failed to kill him.”

  Rasaol moved quickly to keep Niihlu from swinging. He placed a hand on the young man’s chest, but jerked it back as frost instantly covered it.

  “Maybe there needs to be another challenge,” Niihlu said hungrily.

  “You see, my king. Do you see?” Jarle accused. “This is the champion you have chosen? Is this the path you have chosen, too?”

  “Bah,” Niihlu grunted, letting the axe fall. Soft snow hardened as the blade struck, shattering like ice under its weight.

  Rasaol wouldn’t answer, merely looking between Jarle and Niihlu. It was as if the man knew the right course of action, but was too far down the wrong path to turn around. Jarle shook his head and marched to his hairy bokeen mount.

  “Where are you going?” Rasaol asked.

  “I’m returning to Owenqua,” Jarle called out over his shoulder. “I’m going to convince others of your foolishness, and put a stop to this before it’s too late.”

  Without making contact, Rasaol held out a hand to keep Niihlu back. The young man was tense with indecision, his muscles ready to leap forward, but a sliver of respect for the king remained.

  “Why do I not kill him as well?” Niihlu asked.

  “Because we are going with him,” Rasaol commanded. “Everyone, mount up.”

  “But the hunt! The kill?” Niihlu said, spit from his indignation frosting on his lips.

  “You will get your chance, champion,” Rasaol said calmingly. “But this is our one opportunity to blame Jarle for all of it.”

  Unsel

  Vars remembered being very young when his father, Vasil, was killed. It had been a friendly joust between Unsel and Melkier. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but just had to see his dad win, and snuck under the risers to watch between legs. His father looked powerful on his dark steed, both wearing plate armor with gold leaves. He had the honor of carrying Princess Isabelle’s kerchief, and waved it high to many cheers. The Melkier knight appeared almost as powerful, wearing rich colors of green and blue atop his pale mount. When the flag lowered, young Vars watched intently to see which lance struck first. The Melkier knight held his lance low, his father’s was level to his opponent’s chest. There was an odd moment of silence, either the anticipation of the crowd, or his focus blocking out all sound. He had to look back and forth quickly, unable to see both of them at the same time until the lance tips were close enough to scratch the horses’ noses. There was a flash of blue light, and a sound so horrific he would never forget it. The crash of lance to armor, the squelching sound of blood, the whines of horses, and the screams.

  Now that sound was all around him again, and it was unending. He opened his eyes, the memory of his father’s death appearing between blinks, a reminder of why he was here. He swung his broadsword wide, the flat of the blade striking what remained of his gargoyle opponent. Thick oily fluid sprayed out as his sword swung through the creature. He watched it collapse into a green puddle that he kicked over the sinkhole ledge. Two men cried out from high overhead, and he blinked.

  Young Vars had been watching his father joust ever since he could sneak out of the keep. He’d seen men die at the lance many times, and often thought the loser deserved death for being weak. He was used to death in its many forms. Vars had even seen a display of sparks as swords met. He’d never seen a flash of blue light, and knew what it had to be, even as he ran toward his father’s body.

  Vars opened his eyes to see two men, high in the air, their arms flailing. They were already lost, for it would be impossible to live through a fall from that distance. Even so, he watched with a morbid curiosity as one was caught between two gargoyle creatures. They drifted to each side of him, almost casually, both grabbing an arm and a leg. The gargoyles’ feet met and then pushed away, quartering the man and ending his screams. Blink.

  The Melkier soldier had been absolutely still, but Vasil twitched, his body holding onto life, which meant he’d won. Vars elbowed his way between the long legs of useless adults and dropped to his knees beside his father. The shaft of a lance protruded from Vasil’s chest as if someone had planted a tree. Large men hovered over the body, fighting to remove the weapon. It had his father pinned to the ground like a specimen.

  He opened his eyes and ran forward with his sword upright, as if preparing to slice the nearest gargoyle like bread. As he cut into the creature, the wound opened for but a second. The gargoyle was twice his size, and he’d seen them close their bodies around swords to hold them firm while killing their attacker. He leapt forward fast enough to land inside the creature as it tried to envelop him. Vars lifted the sword up into the monster’s head and sliced through its back. The gargoyle spilt in half, dropping him to the ground. He jumped, spinning about while holding out his sword. Gargoyle remains spread wildly.

  “I didn’t command you to fall back,” he shouted to nervous soldiers. “If an old man can kill these monsters, so can you.” Blink.

  “Son.” Vasil gripped the back of young Vars’s neck. His voice was barely perceptible through bubbles of blood.

  “You won, Father,” Vars answered.

  Vasil blinked once in acknowledgement, as much of a smile as Vars had ever seen from the man. His legs had stopped moving altogether, but his chest and arms shuddered. The grip on his neck shook Vars painfully, but he didn’t call out, even as the man pulled him forward.

  “It was the magics killed me,” Vasil gurgled. “Make it right, son.”

  Vars knew that men didn’t always realize they were wielders, that the magic would come out in the direst of circumstances. Dangerous and uncontrolled like lightning from a storm. Wielding the magics could be every bit as frightening as the battle that aroused them. A soldier near the edge of the sinkhole shouted in surprise as yellow sparks flew from his hands and burned holes through his attacker. Vars sprinted toward them, his sword held high, and swung with all his might. The blade removed the virgin wielder’s head from his body. His swing carried Vars around full circle to face the gargoyle, even as the sparks turned it into a thick mist. He blinked.

  Vasil was lost to the magics, killed representing the country he’d loved. In later years, Queen Isabelle had suppressed magics like any good ruler, but not long after the
birth of her daughter, she’d become soft. The laws opened enough to allow the tiniest bit of magic in, like welcoming a tiny spider into your house. Not only had Unsel been under constant threat by magic, but magic had killed his father, and his son. Isabelle had no longer been a fit leader when he’d killed her; she had deserved the justice he’d delivered. No man should outlive his son, and he almost hadn’t. But in the name of his father, and his son, he’d agreed to the Dark Vivek’s offer. He’d agreed to live.

  Vars opened his eyes and looked over the ledge of the sinkhole. A giant, watery fist pounded in the depths far below the battleground, taking long minutes to pull free. A new hole would emerge within the hour, right beneath his feet. Brave men were losing their lives to enormous mystical gargoyles—maybe a third of Unsel’s army had already been defeated by the beasts. In the hazy distance, he saw the great castle of Unsel. Maybe, with enough misdirection, he could destroy half of Unsel’s army. More than he’d promised, and the least they deserved.

  “With Jaden, we’ve got twenty-one able wielders. We leave the two oldest, and the two youngest behind.” Rook was pacing, dictating his thoughts to Janda, Nikkola, and Jaden. “When we arrive, we’ll have ten wielders who can throw crap at the monsters. Five who can cast defensive spells. Two who can... I don’t know, what can they do?”

  “Simon can heal,” Nikkola said hopefully.

  “He’s good with illness, a natural,” Jaden said, his nasally tone disappointed. “I’ve been trying to teach him what I know of mending physical damage, but he’s too afraid to cast and relies too much on instinct. Maybe the battle will break down that wall.”

  Rook merely nodded, grateful for Jaden’s efforts but too distracted to acknowledge further. “And his brother?”

  “I tried talking him out of coming,” Janda said. “He’s almost smaller than I am, and he doesn’t talk... Well, not to people.”

  “He communes with animals,” Jaden confirmed. “It’s a rare gift, useful for information gathering, but I don’t know what else he can do.”

  “At this point, I’ll take what I can get,” Rook said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. There just weren’t enough to handle Vars and his soldiers, the gargoyles, and anything else they might meet on the way.

  “What about Jackson?” Jaden asked. “She’s got power to spare!”

  “She’s also sixteen,” Rook said firmly, shaking his head. “I won’t do it. She’s too young.”

  “I’ve been fighting since before I was sixteen,” Jaden disagreed.

  “Where, Jaden?” Rook asked. “Fighting who?”

  “I...I don’t...” Jaden stared off into the distance, his eyes glassy and lost to memories impossible for him to grasp.

  “If you’ve been fighting for that long, you know what war can do to children. Let’s avoid that sort of exposure at all costs,” Rook said finally. “She stays. Just in case something goes wrong, they’ll need her here.”

  Jaden nodded reluctantly.

  “We should group them, one defensive wielder with every two offensive wielders,” Rook declared. “Jaden, Janda, and Nikkola with me, and one offensive wielder with the other two. Jaden, can you pair the others up? I think you have the best knowledge of whose spells would work well together.”

  “Sure,” Jaden said, excitedly. “I—”

  “But not the people,” Janda interrupted. “Let my sister help. She knows who likes each other, and who doesn’t.”

  “Right.” Jaden grimaced. “But, I—”

  “Mom!” Kala yelled from the entrance.

  Nikkola stood, always attentive to her daughter’s needs, especially now. Rook had noticed the worry hadn’t left her face after they’d successfully restrained Scar. Her hands wrung out the air like a wet towel, nervously squeezing until Kala ran into her arms. She knelt beside her daughter and brushed long black hair from her round face.

  “Mom,” Kala said, her words high and fast. “Scar says it’s time. Scar says you need to leave now!”

  “What?” Rook asked, walking over to kneel by the girl.

  “He’s not upset anymore.” Her eyes flashed blue and she stared off. “Scar’s sorry he scared you, but you need to leave now. He’s coming! Everything is coming!”

  “Have you been out there?” Nikkola asked her daughter, grabbing her arm firmly. “I told you to stay away from that monster!”

  Rook pulled Nikkola’s hand from the girl’s arm and pulled it away. He looked at Kala’s eyes, focusing through the blue light to see the pupils, to see her sincerity. The young girl swallowed hard, her hands clenched in brave fists. She’d been out to see Scar, and knew she would get in trouble if she brought this message.

  “It’s going to be bad, Mr. Rook,” she said sadly.

  “I believe you,” he said with a sigh. “Thank you, Kala, this was a very brave thing to do.” He stood, his hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “You heard her, it’s time to go, now! Jaden, tell everyone to suit up. They have fifteen minutes.”

  “I should stay,” Nikkola said.

  “You should go,” Kala disagreed, hugging her mom with all the ferocity a twelve-year-old could fit into a hug. “But please come back.”

  “Stay away from that monster,” Nikkola said, pulling her daughter away to stare into her eyes. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” she said, looking at the ground.

  “Let me see your fingers,” she asked. “Are they crossed?”

  “I’ll go hide in our home,” Kala called out, running between Jaden’s legs as he rushed out the door.

  “You’re pale,” Janda said to Nikkola. “Are you okay?”

  “Kala’s a bad liar,” Nikkola said. “She’s headed to that dog right now.”

  “And she’s probably safer than the rest of us,” Rook said.

  50

  A thudding finally woke Dallow. It was like a distant neighbor beating dust out of a rug. As he became more conscious, it sounded closer, steadier, like the wheels of a book cart rolling over tile. He was in a library, and that book cart would be better than other alternatives. But as the thudding became painful, Dallow realized it was the beating of a heart. His heart. It thrummed on the back of his skull like hooves clopping along hard stone. He lurched forward to vomit, but then remembered, books! He swallowed the acid down and returned to his bed of books, hoping his blocky mattress was the books-read pile. Dallow concentrated, trying to remember what had happened.

  After hours of non-stop absorption, he’d read through hundreds of delicious books. He wished he could actually eat them, he was starving, and he had to pee, but both could wait. This brief moment of learning was the absolute best time he’d had on this adventure. It was the very thing he’d hoped for most. He’d absorbed old books in Gressmore Towers, but most of that was lost when Angst broke time. Returning that mage city to the past, as though they’d never found it, had forced two sets of memories to overlap. It was confusing to the others, and physically hurt all of them, but worst of all was the vast knowledge lost. This time, in this library, was making up for that and more.

  His consumption of information within the books began slowly as he struggled to understand the unique dialect of Acratic. As he became more comfortable with it, his pace quickened. Some books couldn’t be read at all, the years having turned the paper inside to dust. They were thrown toward the door, their pages hissing like sand on impact. The official read pile was stacked neatly to his left. To his right were books that needed to be kept and transferred to Unsel for other scholars. His friends might argue about the additional load, but after everything he’d sacrificed, they wouldn’t argue much.

  Without the use of his eyes, the process of sorting and stacking books took much longer than absorbing them. He reached for one that seemed to hover at an odd angle. He pulled the book, freeing it with a grotesque crunch that made him wince and wonder. With the book in his lap, he reached forward and grasped a bony arm covered in dusty cloth. He didn’t bother pulling his hand back
. What would be the point?

  “You poor thing,” Dallow said aloud. “I would guess your one consolation is dying in a pile of books. It’s how I would want to die. I’ve never told anyone, they would think it crazy, but I bet you would understand.”

  He settled back, resting the hefty volume on his lap. He didn’t dare open it for fear the pages would crumble to dust. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said to the corpse. “This book must be important for you to die with it in your hands. Maybe I can save what’s in these pages.”

  His relationship with books was one few would understand. It was the pleasure of getting lost in a good story, those books with characters so relatable you missed them when you were finished reading. They were like friends or lovers, and he had the ability to visit with them whenever he wanted. Even tomes of reference and history books had their own personality that made them a pleasure to call on when he needed to remember something. Dallow couldn’t have been more grateful for his gift, and smiled broadly when he placed both hands on the freed volume. With a deep breath, he drew the words in, absorbing them through his hands, along his arms, and into his head. Pages unfolded in his mind’s eye like thoughts and ideas.

  “No!” He jerked both hands away. Dallow scrambled to his feet, sliding on books as he reached for the nearby table. His throat constricted and his mouth dried. “It can’t be you. Angst!” he called out, his voice shaky. “Hector!”

  Nobody replied, not even an echo. His hands shook as he gripped the book and braced himself to absorb the rest.

  “Oh no!” His heart leaped in his chest. “Please, no. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to tell them. I’ve got to let Angst know.”

  He took hurried steps forward, trying to remember his path here and cursing his blindness. His foot came down on a thick leather cover whose contents were dust. The binding slipped underfoot, he fell back, and his head met the table with a loud crack.