King Tyr frowned. “All of the major nexus points have Wizards’ Schools built over them to ensure they are protected. Most of the minor ones are well-known and well-guarded.”
The Grand Master began to tap the tabletop with the fingertips of his left hand. It was a methodical, rhythmic tapping that King Tyr found comforting. One, two, three, four, pause, thump the thumb firmly, pause and repeat. Perhaps that was why the Grand Master did it? When Grand Master Thom spoke, his voice was soft. “It is perhaps our most guarded secret. Only I and one other know of it, and that other is in Hellsbreath. Long ago, there was an order of wizard priests who called themselves the Angst. They worshipped a fire god whose name has been lost, and their temple was built upon a major nexus of flame magic. At the time of The Taming, the Angst refused to submit to the will of the kings because they believed their nexus was the breath of this god. A war ensued. The Angst were dwarves, and that war bears their name.”
The Dwarf Wars? King Tyr blinked at the Grand Master and began to tap his fingers. One, two, three, four, pause, thump the thumb firmly, pause and repeat. King Vir had sought power in those mountains, but—a nexus? What could he have wanted with that?
“Only a handful of master wizards of the time knew the truth,” the Grand Master continued. “The dwarves did not understand why they were being attacked, and we could not tell them. The battles brewed for years until the dwarves were forced to flee. King Vir settled the mountains and sent out patrols, but the dwarves had abandoned the area. Outposts were built. They could not find the Angst. All was calm for a time, and then the Angst did the unthinkable: they uprooted themselves and took the nexus with them.”
“How could they do that?” King Tyr asked in alarm. If a nexus point could be moved, there was no telling how dangerous it could be. “Nexus points are static.”
“The nexus is deep in the earth, and its stone is unlike the others,” the Grand Master said. “The Tiger’s Eye—that is the name given to this nexus stone—reaches out for the magic of the nexus and draws it to it. Where the stone goes, so goes the nexus.”
Phillip returned, and the Grand Master stopped tapping his fingers to accept the proffered wine. King Tyr continued to tap the table as he accepted the wine with his other hand.
When Phillip had once more left the room, the Grand Master continued, “Many were lost during the ensuing volcanic eruptions as the Angst travelled through the region. By the time they stopped, those who knew the truth thought it best to conceal it, to forget about the nexus, to rework The Taming by separating the Angst nexus from the rest of the network. Over time, it was forgotten. Until now.”
The Grand Master swirled the wine in his goblet and held it up to his nose. He breathed deeply and then took a sip. He nodded and took another sip.
“Someone has found it?” King Tyr said.
“Yes,” the Grand Master said, swirling the wine again. “Last fall, an Angst text surfaced in Hellsbreath. We were fortunate it was there and not elsewhere. The one who knows of the Angst nexus paid handsomely for it, and was well-rewarded for his efforts. The knowledge contained in it was invaluable, especially the chronicle of the Angst migrations after the Dwarf Wars. Unfortunately, the text was discovered in the Angst temple, and that put the nexus at risk.”
“Surely, you took action to secure it,” King Tyr said, barely keeping his scolding tongue in check. Magic may exist in the Grand Master’s world, but such a thing as this also affected his own domain.
“Of course,” the Grand Master said. “But there was little that could be done openly during the winter, and the temple is in a secluded valley deep within the mountains held by the dwarves. We had to wait for spring, when the patrol went to investigate the temple for further signs of fishmen.”
“What?” King Tyr said, his fingers coming to a stop as his hand flattened on the tabletop. “Fishmen?” There was only one report of fishmen being discovered in The Tween, and that was—
“Yes,” the Grand Master replied, setting down his empty goblet. “One of your Banners discovered a small band of fishmen at the temple and reported their deaths last fall. Commander Garret organized a mission to return to the temple this spring to see if other fishmen were there. The Banner was supposed to lead them to it, but they did not return to Hellsbreath in time and the patrol left without them. We made sure the wizard accompanying them was one of our choosing. His task was simple: protect the nexus from being discovered. He apparently failed.”
King Tyr stared at a spot just above and to the left of the Grand Master’s shoulder. All of his recent puzzles seemed to revolve around one person. “Angus,” King Tyr muttered. “He found the nexus.”
The Grand Master’s eyebrows rose slightly as he asked, “Do you know of him?”
King Tyr drained his goblet and poured them both a second one, making sure that each goblet contained the same amount. “No,” he admitted. “But I am quickly learning of him. What I have learned thus far would not suggest he was capable of wreaking such havoc.”
The Grand Master nodded. “I do not think he intended it,” he agreed. “Quite the contrary. I have been told that he left the safeguarding of the nexus in what he thought were very capable hands—more capable, in fact, than our own agent. However, his plan also went awry. There is no doubt that The Tiger’s Eye has been disturbed. The volcanoes are already beginning to stir as the source of the flame magic bubbles up to the surface.”
“What do you suggest?” King Tyr asked.
“There is little that can be done until we find out who has taken The Tiger’s Eye and where they have taken it. The movement of the nexus should become apparent soon, but for now it seems to be static. We should be able to track it by its influence, and once the nexus stone has been recovered it will be returned to its proper place.” He paused and half-whispered, “If we can do it. The longer it takes to find it, the more active the volcanoes will become.” He took a long draught from his goblet and set it softly down.
“I see,” King Tyr said, beginning to tap his fingers again. “Thank you for telling me of this.” He paused to sip his wine, this time savoring the flavor as it swirled over his tongue, and then set it down. “Is there anything I can do to assist you with its recovery?”
“Yes,” the Grand Master said. “Send no more patrols into The Tween and recall the ones that are already there. We will deal with the situation ourselves—if it can be dealt with at all. If we cannot return the nexus,” the Grand Master shook his head, “it may become necessary to abandon Hellsbreath. You should prepare for that contingency.”
King Tyr met the Grand Master’s steady, blue-gray eyes and didn’t bother asking if he was serious. The Grand Master was always serious. If Hellsbreath could be lost…
The Grand Master waited a few seconds before leaning back in his seat and asking, “Now, why don’t you tell me about that little disturbance beneath the castle? From what I hear, you were recently visited by—” he paused and gave a knowing half-smile “—a dragon.”
King Tyr reached for the last of the wine and, this time, he poured it all into his own goblet. By the time the goblet was empty again, the Grand Master’s curiosity had been satisfied. They parted company at the door, and as Phillip turned to lead him down the corridor, King Tyr called out, “Bring more wine when you return, Phillip.” It had been some time since he had gotten drunk, and if any occasion called for it, this one did.
When Phillip returned with the wine, King Tyr was pacing in a small square, as if Captain Blanchard were there. Periodically, he stopped, turned, and glared where the captain should have been, but it wasn’t the captain that he was seeing when he glared. It was a wizard named Angus.
10
Giorge rode at a gallop until dusk, and then gradually slowed until it became too dark to ride at all. Then he dismounted and led the horse off the road to rest until moonrise. He ate, and the horse grazed. An hour later, he resumed his ride, giving the horse its head while he dozed in the saddle. Shortly before mo
onset, he rode into Lieutenant Jarhad’s abandoned campsite. He waited there until false dawn, when there was enough light to see by, before searching it. He found what he expected: nothing of interest. Then he mounted the horse and nudged it to a fast walk. When false dawn gave birth to daybreak, they galloped. Near midday, the Swiftness spell wore off, and he slowed to a quick walk. By the time the sun dropped behind the mountains, there was a hint of smoke in the air, and when night fell, there was an orange tint to the mountains behind him.
That night and into the next day, he rode as far and as fast as he dared, resting only when needed. When he reached the crossroads he slowed down. Should he go south? Or should he continue on and catch up with Lieutenant Jarhad’s patrol? He couldn’t be more than a day or so behind them. He stopped where the roads met and dismounted to study their tracks. They confirmed his suspicion: the patrol had passed the crossroads no more than a day earlier, and they had been riding as hard as he had been. But there were other tracks, too: footprints heading north. A small group with broad feet no longer than his own. The footprints had crossed over the patrol’s trail. Where are the dwarves going? He wondered as he looked south. And how many more are there? It’s about the right number for a scouting party…
He bent down and listened to the old stone roadbed. There was a soft rumbling, as if a large number of men were on the move. An army? He stood up and looked south. Even in daylight there was a faint suggestion of orange haze on the southern horizon. Were the volcanoes down there already erupting? He looked at the south road. If they were, the dwarves would know it before he would. The eruptions would force them up out of their holes long before the lava burbled up through the ground. If that was what it was, there could be hundreds, even thousands of dwarves coming up that road. What would they do if they saw him? He wouldn’t be able to avoid an army of that size, and if they started asking questions….
He sighed. The Western Kingdoms were no longer an option. He didn’t mind overmuch; it had never been an appealing one to begin with. He frowned. If he tarried too long at the crossroads, the dwarves might catch up with him, and there was no telling what they would do if they did.
He mounted his horse and spurred it to an almost reckless pace. He had already ridden the horse for too long, but there was no time for a proper rest. If he was going to catch up with Lieutenant Jarhad, he would have to do it before the dwarves reached him—or them. The dwarves might let a sizeable, well-armed party pass unhindered.
11
“What do you mean I can’t end my Banner?” Hobart demanded of the young scribe sitting at the access point of Hellsbreath’s southern lift area. “I can end my Banner whenever I want, and I want to end it now.”
The scribe squinted at his book and brought it closer to the lantern. He shook his head, and his long blonde braid swished across the back of his brown robe like a horse’s tail swatting at flies. “No,” he said. “Your Banner has been called into service by the King. You cannot disband your Banner until that service has been completed.”
Hobart armor clinked as he crossed his arms and glared at the young man. “What are we to do?” he demanded.
The young scribe shrugged. “I do not know,” he admitted, tilting the book toward the lantern so he could read it again. “The message says that you are to report to Commander Garret for deployment immediately upon your arrival.” He frowned and turned to the guardsman at his side. “You should bring the lift down, shouldn’t you?” he asked. “It sounds important enough, don’t you think?”
The guardsman looked as if he didn’t want to have the responsibility of making the decision, and then nodded. “If it says immediately…”
The scribe looked down and his lips moved as his fingertips ran across the page until they fell upon a funny squiggle that Hobart couldn’t understand. “Immediately,” the scribe repeated with a definitive nod. He smiled in satisfaction and turned back to the guardsman. “Bring down the lift.”
The guardsman nodded and hurried up to the wall to grab a couple of lit torches. As he rushed out to the signal point, the scribe turned back to Hobart and said, “There you go! Prompt service. The fee—”
“Look,” Hobart interrupted, letting his frustration flow easily over his tongue. “My Banner is splintered right now. Giorge is dead.” He leaned forward and tapped the Banner Registry. “Mark that down in your book.” He loomed over the scribe until the quill began to scratch the paper, and then leaned back again. “He was killed by a frost elemental summoned by a curse that plagued his family for a thousand years. That ought to read well, shouldn’t it?” He paused as if he expected a reply, and waited until the scribe had muttered, “shouldn’t it” before continuing. “Ortis is leaving the Banner, so strike him off the roster, too. As for Angus,” he shook his head, “I have no idea where he is or what happened to him.”
“Oh,” the young scribe looked up from his scribbling and smiled at him. “I can tell you where he is. He’s in Hellsbreath. He arrived nearly two weeks ago. If it is him, that is. There is some question about his identity, since he was in Tyrag only a few days before arriving here and there was no indication that he had left that city. Perhaps that is why Commander Garret wishes to see you? To find out if this Angus is the one you know? He’s been forbidden to leave, after all, and if I were Commander Garret, I would want to do that, especially since he looks different from what he was described when he was last here. Of course, considering old Filbert’s eyesight….” He shook his head and bent down to finish updating the record.
Three days! Hobart scowled at the top of the scribe’s head because he couldn’t scowl at Angus. If he can travel that far that fast why didn’t he do it when we were trying to free Giorge from that curse?
The lift was nearly to the ground when the scribe looked back up and added, “There must have been a lapse in reporting the incident. It said that he was near death when he arrived at Tyrag. See?” he turned the book toward Hobart and pointed at a passage. “Angus arrived at Tyrag with a mangled shoulder and rotted foot. He collapsed shortly thereafter, and was taken to the healer Iscara.” He turned the book back to himself and added, “There was no hint of injury when he arrived here.” The lift settled onto the ground, and a few travelers debarked. “I don’t suppose you can explain what happened to him?” the scribe asked. “For the records? He apparently didn’t have time to do it himself before he collapsed in Tyrag—and Filbert neglected to ask him about it.”
Hobart turned toward the lift and paused. So, Angus didn’t report in properly, then? Well…. “All right,” he said, “put this in your report.” He waited until the scribe had dipped his quill in the ink and then continued. “We had just crossed the Haunted Plateau—” he smiled as the scribe paused and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Yes, we had just crossed the Haunted Plateau when we were attacked by the frost elemental that killed Giorge.”
“Oh!” the scribe said, “the frost elemental hurt him, too.”
“No,” Hobart grumbled. “Sardach did that. He’s a foul creature, that Sardach. Our weapons were useless against him, and he—” Hobart paused and shook his head. He wasn’t telling the story to entertain his drinking companions; he was giving a report to the king. He needed to be succinct, direct. “We were on the platform heading down the cliff, and Angus was split in half by Sardach. Sardach is a smoke elemental. He took half of Angus with him as he flew away and dropped the other half of Angus as he went. The second half fell hundreds of feet and struck the mountainside. I have no idea how he survived that fall, but he did. We left him in a cave to die because he asked us to do it. He said he had a plan to get to Tyrag, but we didn’t believe him.” He shrugged. “We were wrong. His plan must have worked.” He paused again and finished, “You’ll have to ask him for the details.”
The young scribe finished writing, read aloud what he had written, and then smiled. “That may explain how he got from Tyrag to Hellsbreath so quickly. There are two halves of him!”
Hobart frowned. He
hadn’t told the scribe what those two halves were, and if both of them claimed to be Angus…
The scribe looked up and a frown settled on his face. “But if he were only half a man, he’d only have one arm and one leg, wouldn’t he?”
Hobart shook his head, as though the question puzzled him. “No, they both had arms and legs, and they looked different from each other.”
“Ahhhh,” the young scribe said, smiling again. “So it wasn’t Filbert’s eyesight at all! I’ll have to make a note of that. If you could tell me what each half looks like….”
Hobart shook his head. “I cannot,” he admitted. “The … separation was incomplete when Sardach took him away. I only saw the one half.” He looked at the waiting lift and asked, “Shouldn’t I be going, now?”
“In time,” the scribe said. The guardsman at his side rolled his eyes at Hobart as the scribe continued. “Tell me what you can about the half you did see, so I can compare it with the records.”
“Taller and thinner than he was when I first met him. He had dark blue eyes instead of silver. His hair was black, and the broken nose went away. His right shoulder was mush, and his left foot had nearly rotted off. There was no hint of the scar on his neck.”
The scribe scribbled down the nonsense, studied it for a moment, and then muttered, “Perhaps both of them have the same appearance?”
“Look,” Hobart said. “I am supposed to report to Commander Garret, aren’t I?”
“Yes, yes,” the young scribe muttered. Then he looked up and asked, “Is there anything to put down for Hogbart?”
“Hobart!” Hobart snapped. “My name is Hobart.”
“Hobart?” The scribe repeated, frowning down at the name. “The records indicate that it’s Hogbart. H-O-G-B-A-R-T.”
Hobart nodded. “Hobart. Why can’t you scribes say it right?”
“But there’s a G in it,” the scribe complained. “All the Hobart’s I’ve ever met spelled it H-O-B-A-R-T. Do you know your name’s etymology?”
Angst (Book 4) Page 17
