Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  What could he do to Angus that wouldn’t create suspicion? It was a delicate balance of duties, one that often left the king in a precarious position. How could he maintain the separateness of his two lives? The King of Tyr and the de facto head of the underworld in Tyr. At least he didn’t have to host Argyle himself, like so many of his forebears had done. But how could he? His responsibilities as king were too demanding for lengthy excursions into the dungeons below the castle, and Argyle’s network had grown so much that it needed far more attention than he could give it. He frowned. At least, it had grown; the past few years had weakened Argyle’s inner circle greatly, and now….

  Angus. He had already ordered his movements to be restricted when he checked in—if he checked in. He could have been killed during his confrontation with Argyle. He shook his head. No. Something told him that Angus had survived that encounter. Voltari’s training, perhaps? It didn’t matter. He was a Banner man, and that made him subject to the king’s will. But he couldn’t call up a Banner without having a good reason for doing so. It was part of the charter agreements. If it was a mission that could be performed by the regular army, the Banners were exempt from it, except in times of war. Were they at war? The fishmen…

  Angus again. He was woven through the puzzles confronting the king, and that made him important—and dangerous. He could rely upon his privilege as the king to bring the Banner before him. A feast in their honor? A medal? No, there wasn’t sufficient cause for it, and they would know it. But if he brought them to Tyrag in order to send them on a special mission…

  Voltari. He scowled. The old wizard had been a cyst in the kingdom’s backside for as long as anyone could remember. He had been idle for so long that most thought he was dead. Foolish optimism, that. And there was Angus again. He had to be a wizard of great skill to be Voltari’s apprentice—Voltari would have seen to that—and he would see through any flimsy excuse the King gave for bringing him to Tyrag. He needed a plausible reason for doing it, something that would bear closer scrutiny than a claim of king’s privilege. But Angus was a member of one of his Banners, and the king could use those Banners for special missions. What kind of mission might that be? If Grayle was dead, it would have to be one that would lead to Angus’s death…

  Should he send them to the Lake of Scales to find out if the fishmen are there? No, Commander Garrett was already doing that, and rightly so. It wasn’t a task for the Banner. But what about sending them into The Death Swamps? Those rumors about soldiers disappearing weren’t rumors at all, and Captain Blanchard knew it. Something was stirring deep within that foul swamp’s bowels, and he needed to know what it was. He could send them there, couldn’t he? Yes. Captain Blanchard had said he had served in The Borderlands with Hobart. It would make sense to send an old veteran like Hobart into the swamps to see what was in there, and it was an ideal mission for a Banner. Too ideal. They would probably survive, and he couldn’t have that. So, where could he send them to die?

  King Tyr shook his head. He didn’t have to make the decision yet. Grayle could still be alive, and if she was, there would be no reason to waste a Banner on a fool’s errand, no reason to have Angus killed…

  11

  “I thought you dead,” a woman gruffly said as she shook Taro’s shoulders. Taro opened his eyes and looked at her. What was her name? Someone’s wife, wasn’t she? Clarise? No. Clareth? Yes, she—

  “That was a foul thing you did, Master Taro,” Humphrey scolded him from his left. Taro tried to turn his head to look at Humphrey, but his neck was too stiff for him to do it. Instead, he looked sidelong at his former apprentice, who was sitting at the table with his hands wrapped possessively, protectively around a large mug. The large man stared into that mug as if he could discern the future by studying the remnants of his drink. It was futile, of course, but try telling that to the villagers duped by diviners. “A foul thing,” he repeated, slowly rotating the mug.

  “No, Humphrey,” Taro said in his softest, most sympathetic tone. “It was necessary.”

  “Necessary!” Humphrey snapped as he fixed an angry glare on Taro. “How can you say that? I would have helped you without it!”

  Taro sat unruffled and dismissed Humphrey’s anger while accepting his admonition. “I know,” he said, twisting his body around to look at the common room. Villagers were everywhere. Some were sitting with their heads lowered, much like Humphrey had done. Others were rousing those who hadn’t recovered on their own yet. A few looked at him and quickly turned away. Most ignored him and focused on what they were doing.

  “Why did you do it, Master Taro?” Humphrey asked into his mug.

  Taro lifted his right leg and turned his chair away from the fire so he could face his former apprentice. Humphrey was a large man—portly, well-muscled, energetic—but he somehow looked small sitting hunched over his mug like that. “It was inevitable,” Taro said. “It was part of my vision.”

  Humphrey reluctantly glanced at him. The anger softened but was still there, along with hints of pain and sorrow. What have you seen? Taro wondered as Humphrey resumed studying his mug. Taro reached out his hand and patted Humphrey’s bulky forearm. “Tell me,” he said. “What did you see?”

  Humphrey shuddered and shook his head. “It was horrible, Master Taro,” he said.

  “Describe it to me,” Taro ordered. “I must know.”

  Humphrey didn’t look at him as he said, “Fire. Screams. Death.”

  Taro waited for Humphrey to continue, but when he didn’t, he asked, “Where will it happen?”

  Humphrey sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I see are the flames.” He frowned and added, “And bodies.”

  Taro frowned. “How many?” he asked.

  Humphrey shrugged. “Too many.”

  “Humphrey,” Taro said in his most patient tone. “Describe it too me. I need to know the details.”

  Humphrey didn’t look up as he answered, “Fire is everywhere. They’re trying to get away from it. They’re too slow.”

  “Who?” Taro prompted. “Where?”

  “Their beards burn, Master Taro,” he added as he lifted his head. There was a deep sorrow in his eyes as he finished. “They have nowhere to run. Their tunnels are full of fire and smoke.”

  Taro frowned. Beards? Tunnels? He hadn’t seen anything like that, had he? The fires he saw were raging over the mountains, not underneath them. But those mountains were volcanoes, and volcanoes belched forth fire and ash and smoke, didn’t they?

  “Those poor little men,” Humphrey muttered.

  Little? “Are they dwarves?” Taro asked.

  “Dwarves?” Humphrey repeated, a hint of hopefulness in his eyes as he met Taro’s stare. “Yes,” he said. “They are dwarves, aren’t they? They aren’t men at all.”

  Did the dwarves set the fire and get caught in it themselves? Taro wondered. Or did the wizard set the fire to defeat them?

  “Their screams are horrible, Master Taro,” Humphrey said. “I still hear them.”

  Taro nodded. The echoes of his recent vision had lingered for some time before fading out of his consciousness. All but the vision of the wizard—Angus?—surrounded by the flames. It hovered at the edge of his thoughts, reminding him of his purpose, his destination. “They will fade,” he assured his young friend. He squeezed Humphrey’s forearm and smiled. “In time, it will be but a memory.”

  “Enough of this,” Clareth told her husband. “You must rest.”

  “No,” Humphrey declared with sudden conviction. “There is no time for rest. We must try to prevent this from happening.”

  Taro shook his head. “I am sorry, Humphrey,” he said. “Visions do not lie. What we see will happen. We cannot prevent it from occurring.” Is that true? he wondered. “But we must try, anyway,” he sadly added.

  “No,” Clareth said in a firm tone. “He will not go with you.”

  “Clareth,” Humphrey began, and then fell silent. “You are right,” he sighed, s
wallowing her hand in his huge paw. “I cannot leave you and the children. But I also must help Master Taro on his quest.” He turned to Master Taro and said, “I can go with you to the next village, but no further.”

  Before Taro could say anything, a man nearly as old as himself came up to their table and quietly dropped a few coins down in front of Taro. His gaze lingered on the coins for a long moment before he quietly turned away and walked out of the common room. By the time he was gone, a second villager was approaching with his coin purse in hand.

  The third offered him the use of an old mule cart and his second son.

  The fourth….

  12

  As Hobart secured the last of his gear to Leslie’s saddle, he considered his options. His Banner days were at an end, and he hadn’t really considered outliving them. Perhaps with the fishmen gone from the Death Swamps, he could return to the army? His experience would be valuable, and if he wasn’t stationed in The Borderlands, he wouldn’t have to deal with sneezing all the time. Would the king want him back? With the fishmen gone, he might thin down the army—or, more like, resume the expansion of the kingdom. He would need capable men for that, and Hobart was more than capable. But did he want to join another extended campaign? He wasn’t too old for it, but he also wasn’t that young. Maybe he could hire himself off as a trainer? The army always needed trainers, and he had done it before. If he could finish out his tour, he could retire with a manor and lands and—

  “Don’t you think you’ve retied that strap enough times?” a soft feminine voice asked from behind him. He turned quickly, but not abruptly, and half-smiled at the diminutive little elf. She barely reached up to his ribcage and couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds, but he had no desire to face her in battle—especially with that staff in her hand. She had a heavy dark blue cloak draped over her shoulders, and her violet eyes peered out at him from beneath the shadows of her cowl.

  “Dagremon,” Hobart acknowledged with a nod. “It’s unlike you to see us off.”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “I have a request of you.”

  “If it is in my power,” Hobart said as he looked down at her. “However, I have been ordered to return to Hellsbreath and report in; I cannot dally long.”

  “I wish to travel with you to Hellsbreath,” Dagremon replied. “I will pay you well for your protection.”

  He had never heard of Dagremon leaving her inn. Didn’t the caravans bring her all the supplies she could sell? The first caravans would be arriving from The Southlands soon, so what was she really up to? Hobart smiled and shook his head. “You don’t need protection, Dagremon. Only a fool would risk crossing you.”

  “There are many fools in this world, Hobart,” she replied.

  Hobart shrugged and turned back to the strap. It would take longer to get to Hellsbreath with Dagremon with them, but he wasn’t in any hurry to comply with Commander Garret’s summons—or to end his Banner. He finished with the strap and turned back to face her. “You are more than welcome to join us, Dagremon,” he said, “but there is no need for payment. Ortis and I will be happy to have your company.”

  “Thank you, Hobart,” Dagremon said, bowing slightly. Then she turned and gave a sharp tweet, like a songbird’s chirp, and was answered with a whinny from behind her inn. Hobart turned in that direction and saw a beautiful chestnut pony prancing anxiously up to her. It was saddled, and behind the saddle were a blanket bundle, a few jugs, and other odds and ends he couldn’t make out. Strapped to the top of the bundle was a thin little sword with a plain iron hilt tucked into a black leather scabbard studded with iron. An elf blade? Perhaps she will show it to me while we travel? He raised his eyes and looked once more at Dagremon, wondering what other surprises she might have in store for him.

  “Are you expecting mischief?” he asked her.

  Her violet eyes flashed with humor as she turned away and lithely leapt into her saddle. “It is best to do so, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “Prepare for the worst, eh?” Hobart chuckled. “And you’re prepared for anything else that can happen.”

  Her horse danced as if it sensed its rider’s good humor, and then settled down to a quiet rest. “I do not think it possible to prepare for the worst, Hobart,” she gravely admitted. “Nevertheless, it is wise to prepare for what you can.”

  Ortis rode up next to him and said, “We should make good time while the weather holds.”

  “It will be clear for at least five days,” Dagremon said with certainty.

  “Good,” Hobart said, wondering how she could be so sure of herself. He had a decent weather sense, but Ortis was much better than he was—and Ortis would never claim to know what the weather would be like even three or four days in advance. He climbed into the saddle, the familiar shifting of the metal plates of his armor bringing him alert. “Let’s be off, then.” He turned to Ortis and added, “Dagremon is going with us to Hellsbreath.”

  Ortis nodded and urged his horse to a quick walk. The rest of them fell into place behind him.

  13

  Tears ran down Grayle’s cheeks as she backed out of the dusty, cobwebbed tunnel yet again. It was no use. She just couldn’t get very far before the grime drove her crazy. The tunnel had to be cleaned, and she didn’t have any clean cloth or water to do it. Damn Argyle and his disgusting habits! she thought, trying to ignore the hideous stench of Argyle’s chamber.

  She tried closing her eyes so she couldn’t see the tunnel, but that didn’t work either. With each step she took up the stair, she imagined the cobwebs were reaching out for her and the dust was sidling up against her bare skin, and each time a cobweb brushed against her, she cringed. She got further with her eyes open—but only by a few steps. “Why didn’t you keep it clean!” she screamed up the dingy stairwell. “I’m trapped!” But it did no good. There was no one up there to hear her.

  She thought about leaving through one of Argyle’s exit tunnels but rejected the idea. None of her guards knew who she was, and they would probably kill her on sight when she stepped out of Argyle’s chamber. That’s what she would do if she were them, considering what had just happened.

  Poor Pug, she sobbed. Why did Sardach have to kill you? A burst of anger burned through her tears. Damn you Sardach! she thought fiercely, Why did you have to leave me? She clenched her fingers into fists and snarled, “It’s his fault! He’ll pay for it! I’ll make sure of it!” But how? The Wizard’s Pact…

  She started pacing. If she used the golden key to bring Argyle back, she could give her minions orders to escort Grayle out of the place. That would keep them from killing her, but nobody cleaned those tunnels either. Argyle didn’t care if they got dirty. At least they wouldn’t have cobwebs. Maybe she could cope with the dirt if there weren’t any cobwebs hanging about. Maybe. She glared at the stairwell again. Argyle would find it delightful, but he wouldn’t even fit through the door.

  She was hungry. She was cold. She refused to put on the worm-eaten dress she had worn when she had come down to become Argyle for the last time. It would be the last time, too! She would just tell her uncle that she was finished with being Argyle. She had had enough! He’d listen, too, and then say, “Now Grayle…”

  “Damn him, too,” she muttered, only half-meaning it. But the half that meant it was vindictive and ugly. The other half didn’t care.

  She looked at the key, at the little box that held the Golden Key. It was powerful, old magic from the time before The Taming. Argyle waited inside it, and all she needed to do was open the box and hold it. Argyle could deal with the grime. Argyle loved grime. But Argyle wouldn’t fit in any of the exit tunnels, either. He was trapped in his own tomb. It wouldn’t do to have him rummaging around in the city streets.

  No! she thought, twisting around so fast that her hair slashed across her naked shoulders and sent a shiver through her. She hadn’t felt that shiver in a long time. Argyle’s horrid, greasy hair had always made her cringe when she was inside him. No, not inside him. She
was him in the same way that he was her while she was under the influence of the Golden Key. They acted. They spoke. They thought as one. Only with the golden key did she have full control, and that key had been gone for a long time. He had left his mark on her, and he was vicious, cold-blooded, calculating. It was his revenge that she sought to bring against Angus.

  Pug! She had loved that dog because it was the only thing in Argyle’s dungeons that she could love. For Argyle, Pug had been a vicious tool, just like all the other vicious tools he had used to bend people to his will. They were her vicious tools, now, and she couldn’t even use them.

  She looked at the tunnel opening and furiously plunged into the cobwebs. This time, she drew upon the residue of Argyle within her that relished the grime instead of being reviled by it. She hurried up the stairs—and managed to get further than she had on any other attempt before she screamed in horror, swatted at her hair, and fled down the stairs and out of tunnel. Once past the secret entrance, she tumbled to her knees and swiped at the cobwebs on her arms and breasts and hips and feet. She tugged violently at the ones clinging to her hair. She screamed again as she tried to shake the cobwebs from her hands and they stuck fast to her fingers. Finally, she crawled over to Argyle’s gigantic purple pantaloons and vigorously ran her hands over them until the cobwebs were gone. Tears formed runnels through the dust on her cheeks, and she buried her face in the foul-smelling cloth whose familiar reek somehow brought her comfort. Slowly, she sagged into the folds of the pantaloons; her anger, her frustration easing as their energy was sapped by the tears.

  She was still laying there, silent tears seeping slowly from her eyes, when someone behind her softly called, “Milady Grayle?”

  She whirled around, the pantaloons draped over her. A young man stood just beyond the secret tunnel’s entry, a torch in his hand. He stepped into the room, and his eyes quickly fell upon her. “Milady Grayle,” he said a moment later, lowering his eyes and bowing. “Your king will be pleased to see that you are alive.”