Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  “We must make camp soon, Master Taro,” Abner said.

  “No,” Taro replied with a certainty that he had no reason to feel. “We will not rest this night.”

  Abner looked at him for a long moment and then flicked the reins to coax the old mule into a faster pace, but it ignored him.

  Taro almost smiled; he had seen the boy look at him like that too many times on this trip. Abner had a sincere, deep trust in him that Taro didn’t deserve. It wasn’t always there, of course, but whenever Taro made a proclamation of the sort he had just made—without even understanding why he was doing it, himself—Abner took for granted that it was what needed to be done. They would ride through the night even if Abner had to get off the mule cart and drag it himself.

  “Something important is about to happen, Abner,” he said. No, he added to himself. It is happening already. Angus is up to something. How did he know that?

  Abner nodded. “I can feel it too, Master Taro. There is a foreboding in the air.”

  Taro looked at the young man and wondered if the boy’s presence was as accidental as he had first thought. He was even glad he was there—Abner was much better at dealing with people than Taro was—but now he spoke as if he was on the verge of having a vision, himself. He was right, too; there was something unsettling in the evening air. He didn’t know what it was, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was reaching out for him. It was like the vision he’d had when he had met Hobart and that green snake had tried to eat him. Foreboding is the right word. “A change is upon us, Abner,” Taro said in an uneasy, low, soft voice. “The paths before us are narrowing. A crossroads is upon him, and down one fork is a darkness that will swallow up all of us. Down the other are shadows that will consume him. It is up to him to decide the path he will take.”

  Abner looked at him, but this time there was no trust in his eyes; instead, they were filled with a sad resignation. “It will cost him dearly, Master Taro.”

  Taro nodded, and they rode in silence until it was quite dark. Then a single thunderclap rumbled in the distance. Taro stiffened, and his breath caught in his throat as a cloud of green smoke descended upon him. He held up his arms in a futile attempt to ward it off, but the smoke exploded before it reached him. A moment later, it was gone.

  Taro blinked and took a quick breath. His hands were shaking. He looked around them, but there was no hint of green smoke.

  “Master Taro?” Abner asked. “Did you have another vision?”

  Taro shook his head. It hadn’t been a vision, not really. His visions didn’t feel like that when he had them. When he had a vision, it was as if he were a detached observer. There were no smells, no sense of touch in his visions; they were all about seeing and hearing things. This had been something else. He had felt the smoke as it dissipated, and when it touched him, it had been cold. Then came the vision, a brief one of an island slowly sinking back into the sea. It was a familiar island, the one he had seen in his vision when the green snake-like cloud had sought to devour him and the rest of the world. Only that snake hadn’t touched him like this one had; that one didn’t smell like charred flesh; that one hadn’t felt like the early morning breeze by the shrine curling up under his threadbare cloak. He shuddered, but it wasn’t from cold or fear. “He’s gone,” he muttered, not sure who it was he meant. He turned to Abner and said, “We must hurry, Abner. It may already be too late.”

  Abner tried to urge the mule to a faster pace, but, as usual, it ignored him.

  Taro sighed and leaned back to rest. As he closed his eyes, he thought, His choice is almost upon him. What path will he take?

  2

  “Sire,” Phillip said as he hurried into King Tyr’s private bedroom. “The Grand Master has arrived. He is waiting for you in your dining chamber. Shall I bring wine?”

  King Tyr frowned. The Grand Master had kept him waiting for more than two days and then shows up just as he is preparing for bed. It was already well past dark, and he had had another long day. “All right, Phillip, but not the wine from my private supplies. Bring one of the better vintages that we serve at banquets. Give me a few minutes and then show him to my private study.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Phillip said as he nodded and turned to leave.

  After he had gone, King Tyr sat down on the edge of his bed and composed himself. He needed a clear head to present his arguments to the Grand Master, and the hectic events of the past two days had left him exhausted. After a few seconds, he stretched, stood up, and briskly walked around his room, thinking about what he would say. When he felt energized enough for the confrontation, he stopped, stretched again, and slipped into the robe he wore for his late-night engagements. Once he was satisfied with its placement on his shoulders and the tightness of the sash, he walked over to the door of his study, opened it, and frowned. Even though it had been two days since his confrontation with Symptata, he still had not found the time to tidy it up. King Cyr’s journal and the box with the Gem of Transformation in it were still sitting on the table where he had left them after Iscara had healed his hand. The Grand Master was standing at that table with his back to him.

  “Grand Master Thom,” King Tyr said as he stepped inside the room and calmly strode over to the table. The Grand Master was preoccupied with King Cyr’s journal and didn’t bother to acknowledge him. King Tyr frowned; he had left the journal open to the passage about Symptata and the Gem of Transformation, and since that was what he wanted to discuss with the Grand Master, he waited until he had finished reading it.

  “Most interesting,” Grand Master Thom murmured. Then he looked up and saw the king. “Sire,” he acknowledged as he straightened up. “You have need of my assistance?”

  King Tyr reluctantly tapped the journal. “What do you know of this Symptata?” he asked.

  Grand Master Thom shrugged. “Only what I have read here,” he admitted. “It is strange that I know nothing more than that, since few wizards of such power are unknown to me.”

  “The Wizards’ School has records, does it not?” King Tyr asked.

  “Yes,” the Grand Master said. “I reviewed most of them as part of my preparation to become Grand Master.”

  “Good,” King Tyr said. “I would like you to search through them. We need to learn as much as we can about Symptata before we engage him. He has wrested control of Argyle from us.”

  The Grand Master frowned and glanced down at the book again. “I have always known that you held sway over Argyle—my predecessor informed me of it—but I did not know how you achieved it. This Gem of Transformation allows you to control him?”

  King Tyr did not like to provide the Grand Master with information; he was too crafty with it. But what choice did he have? Symptata was a wizard, and they had to deal with him. The best way to do that was with powerful magic of their own. The most powerful wizard in Tyrag was the Grand Master, and he could draw upon the unparalleled resources of Tyrag’s Wizards’ School. He would need him if a battle became necessary, and as Symptata’s silence lengthened, that battle was becoming more and more likely. Especially since neither Iscara nor Rascal had returned.

  “Yes,” King Tyr admitted. “My line has used it for centuries to build Argyle’s organization and keep it under our control. But Symptata has returned. He used the master gem to take control of Argyle when I tried to host him.”

  “May I see the stone?” the Grand Master asked. “It will help me understand Symptata’s magic.”

  King Tyr did not want to show the Gem of Transformation to the Grand Master, but if the wizard was to prepare for a confrontation with Symptata, he would need to know what he was about to face. He reluctantly nodded and reached for the box. The lid was closed, and the little gold key was still in its lock. He turned the key, lifted the lid, and turned the box so the Grand Master could see the gem resting in it.

  The Grand Master’s eyes grew distant as he reached out for it, but the king pulled the box away from his hand and closed the lid. “All but the
royal family are forbidden to touch it,” he said. It wasn’t true, of course; anyone who wanted to use it could do so if they knew how it worked. There had even been a few loyal servants who had hosted Argyle in the king’s absence. “Even within the royal family, few know of its existence.”

  “A wise precaution,” the Grand Master said. “How does it work?”

  King Tyr frowned. The secret of the Gem’s function was known to only the king and the one who hosted Argyle. He had never disclosed it to anyone else, and neither had any of his forebears. “That knowledge must be safeguarded against ill use,” he said. “It is only shared with the host.”

  The Grand Master frowned and started tapping the table with his fingertips, but the pattern wasn’t as rhythmic as it normally was. It was discordant—perhaps because of the inconsistent pauses between taps?—and that bothered King Tyr. “If I am to assist you in this matter,” Grand Master Thom began, “I must understand Symptata’s magic. I cannot counter the master gem’s influence without knowing how the Gem of Transformation functions. It would be best if I saw the spell in action.”

  King Tyr knew the Grand Master was telling the truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to disclose the secrets of the stone. It was bad enough that the Grand Master knew about the king’s relationship with Argyle, and even worse that he now knew the source of that influence. To tell him how it worked…

  But it wasn’t working, was it? Symptata had seen to that, and as long as Symptata was in control of Argyle the kingdom was in danger. He needed to oust Symptata and break his link with Argyle. He could not do that without the Grand Master, and if what the Grand Master said was true, then he had little choice in the matter. He had to tell him. “Very well, Grand Master,” he began. “It is very simple, actually.” He turned to the box and locked it. “All that is necessary to summon Argyle when he is not present is to unlock the box with this key—” he did so “—and pick up the Gem.” He reached into the box and brought the gem out. “To end it—”

  King Tyr gasped. There was a yellow haze covering everything, and the room was getting smaller. It was like what Grayle said would happen when—

  His head struck the ceiling. He bent forward and dropped to his knees. Argyle! King Tyr thought—

  His head struck the ceiling again, and he reflexively lowered it. If Argyle is here, then—

  His shoulders struck the ceiling, and he felt a surge of power rush through him as he pushed against it. There was a soft crunching followed by a cascade of plaster flecks falling around him. He growled and surged upward. Symptata!

  He heard the heavy snap of a wooden beam and felt the ceiling give way. Bits of it fell around him as if he were shedding. The growl deepened in his throat, and—

  Argyle slammed his fist knuckle-deep into the floor, and his growl turned into a slow, guttural howl as Argyle tried to stand—

  Argyle! King Tyr shouted in his mind. Be still! He focused on exerting his will the way Grayle had told him to do, but it didn’t work. Argyle angrily pushed him away and braced himself. His back was against the ceiling, and he pushed, lifting it higher.

  Stop! King Tyr shouted again, trying to bend Argyle’s knees.

  Bits of the crumbling ceiling slid from his shoulders and back—and then his knees buckled.

  “SYMPTATA!” Argyle bellowed, his booming voice careening through the small chamber like the echo of a thunderclap.

  King Tyr clamped down on his jaw and frantically thought, It’s me, Argyle! King Tyr! Calm down! You’re making a mess of my study!

  SYMPTATA! Argyle thought back at him with such hostility that King Tyr cringed. Then Argyle’s fury eased up enough for King Tyr to lower his body to his hands and knees.

  Debris fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. He breathed it in and—

  “Sire!” Phillip frantically called.

  “Sire!” Captain Blanchard shouted.

  —King Tyr sneezed with such force that his forehead struck the carpeted floor.

  “Fetch the men!” Captain Blanchard shouted. “The incursion is here!”

  “Sire?” the Grand Master said into his left ear. His voice was calm, and it brought a sense of steadiness with it. “Is this how the transformation always happens?”

  “Where’s the box?” King Tyr grumbled through Argyle’s massive maw. He looked under his belly for it, but the table had been smashed under his knee. He propped himself up with his arms, but he still couldn’t see it. He tried to move, but Argyle was too massive to maneuver effectively. At least Argyle wasn’t fighting against his control anymore. “I need the box!”

  Where am I? Argyle demanded.

  In my study, King Tyr replied. Help me find the box. You can’t fit into this room. I have to transform back into myself.

  Argyle shifted his body around, pawing at the debris beneath him.

  Is Symptata with you? King Tyr asked as Argyle easily shoved aside a slab of plaster.

  There was a long pause before Argyle answered. I do not sense him, he thought back. He may return.

  “Most interesting,” the Grand Master said in his ear. “The transformation is not merely an illusion; it has form and substance. Yet, you are still there, in the core of Argyle’s mass. The complexity of the interconnectedness of the magic within each of you is astonishing!”

  This isn’t working, King Tyr thought. We need help finding it. He turned Argyle’s head to the left and said, “Grand Master. I need you to find the box for me. I will also need the key and the Gem of Transformation.”

  The Grand Master frowned and looked under Argyle’s bulk.

  “Yes,” King Tyr said. “You need to crawl under me to find them. I am too bulky to find it myself. ”

  The Grand Master nodded, crouched, and warily stepped forward to duck under his chest. He had only begun to rummage around in the debris when Captain Blanchard and his men burst into the study with their swords drawn. They plunged forward before King Tyr—or Argyle—could react, and a handful of blades plunged into his shoulder and side.

  Argyle howled and waved his arm in a wide arc that sent Captain Blanchard and two of his men into the wall. They struck with a thud and slid down to the floor. Only Captain Blanchard managed to remain conscious. He feebly tried to hold his sword up in an effort to defend himself. The rest of his men scampered back from Argyle as he threatened to make another swipe. They regrouped quickly and spread out in an arc around him. As one end of the group feinted, the rest waited for him to swing at them and then ran in to poke their swords into him. They ducked and retreated before he could swat them away.

  “Hold!” King Tyr cried, expecting them to obey him. But they didn’t; they lunged forward and slashed at him again. “Hold!” he shouted again. “I am your king, you fools!”

  They retreated and prepared to attack again, but they held back long enough for King Tyr to say, “Captain Blanchard, will you please call off your men?”

  A few of the men turned toward Captain Blanchard and waited for his response. He didn’t make one right away, and when he did, his voice was shaky, “If you are the king, then tell me my son’s name.”

  King Tyr—Argyle—scowled and rumbled, “How would I know that? We’ve never talked about your family.” He seldom asked about his subject’s personal lives; he always had more important matters that required his attention. Besides, his subjects were only tools to be used for the good of the kingdom, and it was better not to think of them as people with families.

  Captain Blanchard nodded and weakly asked, “What must your visitors do when they come to see you in your private quarters?”

  “Bathe, of course,” he replied.

  Captain Blanchard nodded again before continuing gasping, “Who were you with when I interrupted you—”

  “Rascal, you fool,” King Tyr growled. Blood flowed freely from his side and arms, and the pain was beginning to register.

  “It is the king,” Captain Blanchard said, giving him a weak salute from where he slumped against the wall.
“How may we assist you?”

  “Bring a healer,” King Tyr said at once. “And help the Grand Master. I may have injured him.”

  Captain Blanchard waved toward his men but said nothing.

  “Tell them to hurry,” the king added. There was already a bit of a slur in his voice, and he was feeling light-headed. He sagged and felt something squirming out from beneath him. It was the Grand Master, and he held the box in one hand and the Gem of Transformation in the other. He gasped, “You found them.”

  “Yes,” the Grand Master said. “What must I do?”

  “Put the Gem in the box and lock it.” His breath was shallow, and he sagged to the floor. “Set the box near my hand.” He was having difficulty seeing, and the pain in his side was mind-numbing.

  The Grand Master locked the box and set it down. “What next?” he asked with some urgency.

  King Tyr fumbled for the key with his right hand, but his left arm gave out and he collapsed onto the floor. His fingers weren’t working properly. His vision was blurry. His breath came in strangled little puffs. He reached for the key again.

  3

  After a few seconds, Angus lifted his face from Embril’s hair and looked around. “Embril,” he murmured, “It isn’t over yet.”

  “What?” Embril said, lifting her head from his chest and sniffling.

  Angus gently took her shoulders and eased her away from him. The energy from Dagremon’s staff wrapped around Giorge and pinned him to the mountain, but there was no hint of Symptata’s strange green magic—but that didn’t mean he was dead. “We have to make sure Symptata is gone,” he said without looking away from Giorge.

  Embril pivoted until she was standing at his side, cradled under his arm.

  The energy from Dagremon’s staff retracted, and its gem grew dim. She walked up to Giorge and knelt down. “He is gravely injured but alive,” she said, her voice barely reaching them.