Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  “Fey,” Taro said, waving his hand. “We have something urgent to report, too,” he half-shouted above the growing din of beating hooves. “Go faster. Maybe we can reach Hellsbreath in time to ride up with them.”

  Abner ignored him and came to a stop at the edge of the road. More than a dozen riders went by them, and then Abner coaxed the mule forward at the fastest speed the mule agreed to go. It was not that fast.

  The lift was almost down when they reached the lift area, and Abner tried to urge the mule cart in behind the waiting patrol.

  “Hold!” an armed guard dressed in brown said, stepping out in front of them and holding up his right arm while his left rested on the hilt of his sword. “You have to register, first.”

  Abner reined in the mule cart and looked as if he was about to speak, but Taro blurted out, “Nonsense! I have urgent business in the city. Hellsbreath is in danger! A wall of fire is coming!” The lift was settling on the ground and Taro was determined to be on it when it rose back up.

  “We know,” the guardsman said. “But you still have to register.”

  “Good Sir,” Abner said with a nod. “This is Master Taro, Great Elder of the Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight. He seeks a—”

  “Makes no nevermind to me,” the guardsman said. “Tell it to the scribe.” The guardsman glanced behind him. The lift was already emptying, and the riders were impatiently waiting to board it. “If you want to catch this lift’s run, I suggest you hurry. There’s no telling how long it will take for the next one to come down.”

  “But—” Taro began as Abner turned the mule toward the scribe. “I—” Taro began as Abner came up beside the scribe—but he didn’t stop. Instead, he made a looping circle so that he—Abner—was next to the Scribe.

  “Good Sir,” Abner said in a pleasant, respectful tone. “This is Master Taro, Great Elder of the Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight. I am Abner, his manservant. We wish to gain entry to Hellsbreath. It is a matter of great urgency, and any delay could have dire consequences for your fair city.”

  “Indeed,” the young scribe said it as if he had heard such a tale many times before. “And what is this urgent business?”

  Abner gestured at Taro and replied, “He has had visions of a great fire that is about to descend upon this land and this city.” He said it in a grandiose way that didn’t at all sound pompous or arrogant, the way it sounded whenever Taro had said it. “But there is one who can prevent the catastrophe from happening. We seek him here.”

  “Oh?” the young scribe prompted, a hint of amusement in his tone. “And who might this one be?”

  Most of the riders were on the lift, and it looked like they were preparing to raise it again.

  Abner sighed and shook his head. “Alas, the vision is unclear.”

  “Indeed,” the scribe muttered.

  “We know only that he is a black-robed wizard named Angus,” Abner continued, completely unruffled by the scribe’s behavior. “He was, is, or will be in your fair city. We have traveled far to find him so that we can aid him in his efforts to save this city and the lands beyond.”

  The riders had all gone inside the lift, and the door was closing. The scribe looked over at it, then turned back to them. He sighed and shook his head. “I fear you may be too late,” he said, the amusement completely gone from his tone. He turned to the guardsman next to him and said, “Hold the lift for them.”

  The guardsman hurried off to do so, and the scribe smiled up at them. “Mule, cart, and two men. That will be three silvers.”

  11

  King Tyr stared at the books in dismay. The only reference to Symptata had been in King Cyr’s journal, and it had been a cryptic one at that. None of his other ancestors had mentioned him or the Gem of Transformation. Even his search of the index of the forbidden texts had proven to be futile. It had no references listed for Symptata, the Gem of Transformation, or The Golden Key. That didn’t mean there wasn’t any mention of them in the books, themselves, but if they did mention them, those references hadn’t been indexed. It would be an incredibly daft oversight, but it could have happened. He wouldn’t make that mistake, though; he had already written down a lengthy passage about his experience in his own journal, and it had helped him to focus on what he needed to do. Unfortunately, for the moment, all he could do was wait.

  Iscara had been gone more than a day, and that did not bode well for her. He hadn’t given up hope, yet, though; Grayle had described her as resourceful and self-serving. Still, her absence did not sit well with him. If he were Symptata—and the brief contact he had had with the foul wizard had given him a strong impression of what he was like—he would have listened to Iscara and then killed her. He wouldn’t have done it because he needed to kill her; he would have done it because he wanted to kill her. There was something infernally evil about the mind he had touched, and it was mixed with a kind of calculated insanity that was capable of anything. Fortunately, Symptata hadn’t come out of Argyle’s lair, presumably because Argyle wouldn’t fit through any of the tunnels. Even more fortunate for King Tyr, no one else wanted to go down into them. Captain Blanchard’s men would have noticed if they had, and the good Captain would have reported it to him at once. But he also hadn’t seen Captain Blanchard in more than a day, not even for an update on the preparations he was undertaking to deal with Argyle—Symptata—if he should find a way out of his dungeon.

  Rascal hadn’t come back, either, and Captain Blanchard’s men hadn’t seen him since he had reported the strange apparition in Argyle’s dungeon. Perhaps he was too afraid to go down there? King Tyr wouldn’t put it past the scoundrel, but he had given him an order and a promise of payment. Usually, that was enough. Still, if he didn’t hear from him soon, he would have to send Captain Blanchard after him again. That he would listen to.

  Then there was Grand Master Thom. The fiend still had not responded to his urgent summons, and he was growing weary of waiting. The Grand Master should know it was important, since he never summoned the man without good reason. Still, the Grand Master had his own concerns, didn’t he? Someone had taken The Tiger’s Eye and it was probably causing all kinds of havoc on the nexus network—or so the Grand Master had led him to believe it would. Perhaps it was worse than that? Still, the Grand Master should have sent someone to tell him he couldn’t come.

  And what about The Tiger’s Eye? He had done what the Grand Master had asked him to by recalling all of his troops from The Tween, and he had even had Captain Blanchard stir up the garrison stationed at Hellsbreath. “Tell them to prepare for an evacuation scenario,” he had told him. “Have them run through drills as if the mountains around them were exploding and the dome had failed.” It was a useful exercise, especially since the mountains were about to do just that—according to Grand Master Thom—and the dome could easily fail if Hellsbreath’s nexus was disrupted. There was one thing he had been able to do about The Tiger’s Eye, and that was to send Angus after it. It was Angus’s fault The Tiger’s Eye was taken, wasn’t it? Besides, if Angus failed to return it, then he would be dead. If he was dead, it would be one less problem for King Tyr to worry about. If he succeeded, then that would be the end of it for him, and he would order Grayle not to seek vengeance against Angus. A reward, of sorts, that was only half-deserved. It was unfortunate that Hobart’s Banner had to be sacrificed along with him, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t order Angus to go after it by himself, could he? That would be suspicious. But ordering the Banner to do it made perfect sense. It was the kind of mission well-suited for a Banner, wasn’t it?

  Then there was Grayle. Word was already circulating through the castle that something was going on in her rooms, and that had rekindled the old rumors about her death being faked. And why not? What other reason could there be for having guards posted outside her rooms? One of them almost certainly had said something already, and if they hadn’t, the servant or healer had. It was bound to have happened when so many people knew the truth, but he wasn’t
prepared to face the consequences of that truth yet. Still, he was the king, and as the king, his command was law. None of the ones who would challenge him would do so openly—at least until Grayle made her appearance and turned the rumors into truth. If she reappeared. She hadn’t left her rooms since showing Captain Blanchard where all of Argyle’s exits were located. She said it was because she wanted to be there if Argyle sent for her, but he suspected there was more to it than that. He frowned. There was something dreadfully wrong with Grayle. First she protests against hosting Argyle, and then she acts as if he’s her lover. She has spent too much time as his host, he thought with distress. She doesn’t know how to be herself anymore.

  Phillip walked into his chambers and said, “Sire, Captain Blanchard seeks an audience.”

  King Tyr looked up at Phillip. It was hard to believe that he had been on the verge of death but a day ago, and now he looked as if nothing had happened. But he didn’t act that way. He wasn’t as deferential as he had been. It was as if he knew something that he could use against the king, and he thought it gave him power. Perhaps he did, but if he ever made the mistake of exercising that power…

  “Very well,” King Tyr said. “I shall speak with him momentarily.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Phillip said. There was a brief delay, as if he was reluctant to do it, and then he bowed and turned away. Perhaps he would have to do something about Phillip after all? He shook his head. Not now; there were too many other things to deal with. He didn’t have time to train a new manservant.

  He stood up and walked out of his private bedroom and into his sitting room. Captain Blanchard was standing at attention with his cap draped over his forearm. “Sire,” he said. “I have news.”

  “What news?” he asked. “Has the Grand Master finally decided to meet with me?”

  “No, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied. “I have news of the fishmen. The patrol we sent to The Lake of Scales has returned to Hellsbreath. They have confirmed that the fishmen are at the lake’s western shore. Thousands of them, by their estimation. The dwarves must have helped them get there through their tunnels, the way Angus said they did.”

  “Indeed,” King Tyr said. “That is welcome news. I assume you have carried out my orders?”

  “Sire?” Captain Blanchard asked.

  “The redeployment of troops, Captain,” King Tyr said. “Bring the army from The Borderlands south to the main road to Wyrmwood. They are to converge on the village of Neem, and once they have assembled there, they are to prepare to march for Hellsbreath. I intend to send them to The Lake of Scales. I want those fishmen dead.”

  Captain Blanchard hesitated, then asked, “Are you certain you want to do that, Sire? It will leave The Borderlands defenseless.”

  “Defenseless against what?” King Tyr mused. “The fishmen are no longer there.”

  “Something else is there, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “And as long as the fishmen stay at The Lake of Scales, they are no longer a threat to us.”

  King Tyr smiled, a cold, ruthless smile. “I will not allow the fishmen to return, Captain,” he told him. “Hellsbreath is not far from that lake, and I will not leave that city vulnerable to an attack.” Especially in these circumstances, he thought.

  “Sire—”

  “You have your orders, Captain,” King Tyr said in his most dismissive tone. “The troops in The Borderlands are to head south to the main road, and when they reach it they are to proceed to Neem. Is that understood?”

  Captain Blanchard frowned, nodded, and said, “Yes, Sire. I will see to it at once.”

  “A moment,” King Tyr said. “I want you to remind the Grand Master that I am in urgent need of his assistance. Tell him there is a dragon beneath the castle that needs to be slain.” That ought to encourage him to make the time to come to the castle. If not, I will make it an order. Even he would have to obey me then.

  “Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. He hesitated for a moment and then pivoted on his heel and hurried out the door.

  After he was gone, King Tyr wondered if the Captain was right. With all the things that were happening, could he afford to risk leaving The Borderlands unprotected? But then, Captain Blanchard didn’t know what his real plans were—and couldn’t know them until it was time to put them into action. It would not do to have them disclosed prematurely, before the real enemy approached Tyrag from the north. He didn’t know who that enemy was, but they were a cunning one, and he had to be equally cunning in drawing them out. But who were they? Would the mission through the Death Swamps return with the information he needed about them before they attacked? Would they come out of the shadows when his troops left, like he hoped they would? Or would they know it was a trap? He sighed. They were a patient enemy, one he respected, but who were they?

  12

  “Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight, you say?” mused the young wizard at the Wizards’ School’s gate. “I thought you SOPS were all dead.”

  Taro scowled at the blurry young man in a dark orange, almost brown blob of a robe. “We are not dead,” he protested, trying to keep the scorn from clouding his words. “There are a few of us left,” he asserted, standing as tall and straight as his bum knee and walking stick could manage. “We are Seers, not SOPS,” he added for good measure. “I have had true visions, not the nonsense your diviners peddle.”

  The young man smiled and his voice was pleasant enough as he said, “So you say. What is your business here?”

  “I seek a wizard,” Taro said, nodding vigorously.

  The young man waited for a few seconds, and then said, “This is a Wizards’ School. There are many wizards here. Does the wizard you seek have a name?”

  “Of course,” Taro scoffed. He closed his eyes and brought the resilient image from his vision into focus. “His name is Angus, and he wears a black robe. He may have—”

  “That wizard?” the gatekeeper said with alarm. His tone suddenly grew more serious as he asked, “What business do you have with him?”

  Taro opened his eyes and scowled again. “That is between him and me,” he declared.

  “Now, Master Taro,” Abner said from too close beside him. “There’s no need for you to be surly.” He turned to the gatekeeper and said, “Master Taro has received visions related to this wizard and wishes to impart the information in them to him. What he has seen is of great import to this wizard, this city, and all the lands about them.”

  Taro glare at Abner and grumbled, “I was getting to that!”

  Abner bowed his head, but before he could speak, the gatekeeper said, “Perhaps you should speak with the Grand Master?”

  “Oh?” Taro asked, a sudden burst of hope reviving his spirits. “Is he Angus?”

  “No,” the gatekeeper said, shaking his head. “But he can speak to you about him.”

  Taro shook his head. “I need to speak to Angus, not about him.”

  “Angus is no longer here,” the gatekeeper said, looking uncomfortably at the western skies. “He left two days ago.”

  Taro frowned. He had expected Angus to be at the Wizards’ School, especially after seeing its spire from the top of Hellsbreath’s wall. “Where did he go?” he asked.

  The gatekeeper shook his head. “I do not know,” he admitted, “but the Grand Master might. I will take you to him.” He gestured toward the tower and waited.

  Taro looked up the side of the tower and shook his head. “I am old and feeble,” he stated. “I am not climbing around in that tower. If the Grand Master wishes to see me, he can come here. Otherwise, I will be leaving.”

  The gatekeeper frowned, nodded, and gestured toward a bench just outside the gate. “If you would care to wait, I will send word to him. I am sure he will accommodate you when he can find the time, but he is quite busy.”

  Taro scowled at the bench. It was made from stone and looked about as uncomfortable as it was sturdy. He turned to Abner and said, “He left through the north gate. We will go there.” Then he turned back to th
e gatekeeper and added, “The Grand Master can find us there until the lift lowers.” He hobbled the short distance back to the mule cart and held his arm out for Abner’s assistance getting up onto it. Once seated, they turned around and plodded north.

  “How do you know that Angus went north?” Abner asked. “Did you have a vision?”

  “Ha!” Taro laughed. “If he had gone south, we would have seen him on the south road.”

  Abner nodded.

  Almost two hours passed while they made their way through the streets and up the long ramp to The Rim—that’s what they called the top of the wall surrounding Hellsbreath—and when they reached the lift area, the Grand Master was waiting for them.

  “Master Taro?” a young man in a dark blue robe asked as he approached them. “I am glad to have caught you before you left.”

  “And you are?” Taro demanded.

  “Forgive me,” the man said with a slight bow. “I am Grand Master Fredrick.”

  Taro’s eyes narrowed as he squinted at the young man. “You are too young to be the Grand Master,” he declared.

  Grand Master Fredrick smiled and shook his head. “No,” he protested. “I only appear much younger than I actually am. There was a bit of a mishap with a spell when I was—” he paused, shook his head, and pointed at his face “—this young. But it is of no consequence.”

  Taro shrugged. What was it to him how young the Grand Master looked? What mattered was what the Grand Master knew. “I am told that you know where Angus went,” he said. “I would go after him.”

  The Grand Master looked around them, then gestured at the narrow seat of the mule cart and asked, “May I join you?”

  Taro considered it for a few seconds, and then reluctantly turned to Abner. “Why don’t you go tell that scribe we’re leaving?”

  Abner looked at him, shrugged, and then stepped down from the mule cart. As soon as he was down, the Grand Master climbed up and sat down beside Taro.

  “Tell me, Master Taro,” the Grand Master said. “Is it true that you have had visions? It is somewhat difficult to believe after all this time that your order has been revived.”