Angst Box Set 2

by David Pedersen

  “I don’t deserve it,” Maarja said.

  “No, you do not,” he replied sternly. “But we forgive you, because it is time to move on.”

  Faeoris looked at him, her face filled with disappointment, her mouth poised on the edge of words.

  “We are sorry about your sex,” the Mendahir said. “Our mating cycle was similar to your own. We are sorry you are hurting even now.”

  Angst wanted to laugh but managed not to. Really? Sex? They were talking about sex?

  “It’s not your fault,” she said with a grimace. “Thank you for understanding.”

  The Mendahir floated to Angst and Aerella. Angst looked into the deep, ocean-blue globes of the creature’s eyes and saw...something. Intelligence, sadness, and an unknowable wonder that made his breath catch.

  “We did, indeed, make the foci,” he said. “And I made your swords myself.”

  “Oh fine,” Angst replied, rolling his eyes. “You win.”

  Kitecor smiled a gentle, knowing smile that was infectious. Angst had a sudden longing to know him better. Something in that smile, and those blue orbs that must be more than eyes, made him wonder. Under other circumstances, in another world or another time, could they have been friends? He could sense a mentor in that face, and would’ve loved the opportunity to learn more. It gave him hope, which felt so much better than anger.

  “You can wield two?” he asked, his voice like steel striking rock in an empty canyon.

  “I can,” Angst said, surprised at the question.

  “They are at war?” he asked. “In your mind?

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he replied, exasperated. “Always at odds, always striving to be noticed, always wanting to be better than the other. They are so different, but so similar.”

  “Like siblings,” he said.

  “Yes!” Angst said. Finally, someone understood. “They offer so much, often too much information that I have to ignore them both. But I feel, sometimes, if I don’t hold them back, I might...I might go—”

  “Mad,” he said knowingly, the corners of his mouth tight.

  “Yes,” Angst whispered.

  “It is too much power for any one person,” he said sternly, his voice becoming deeper. “You must release one or you will go insane and break Ehrde in half.”

  “The last time I released one, I almost died,” Angst said.

  “It can be done in one place. Seek Prendere before it is too late. It is a place from dreams where all is possible, and you can set things right,” the Mendahir said before turning his focus to Aerella. “We remember you with honor, and your actions have saved your friends. As have your words.”

  “Thank you, maiestatem,” Aerella replied, bowing her head low.

  The being placed his long fingers on her head and uttered words Angst couldn’t recognize.

  “You are welcome to leave,” he said. “You can pass through safely, but you must go and not return.”

  “We will,” she said. “But know this. Your time will come again. Your magic is strong, too powerful to let you die completely, and you will rise. I can now remember that a Mendahir Rise is not an anomaly, like a rainbow. It is a prophecy of what is to come.”

  27

  Eastern Border of Unsel

  Guldrich sat by a roaring bonfire, gnawing on the last chunk of raw beast from the end of his long hunting knife. He wiped the blade on his lap before looking at his too-bare arm forlornly. It had grown back and was once again at full strength, maybe even stronger than before. He should’ve been grateful to Takarn Ivan for this miraculous gift, but still wished that the kill scars had returned as well. It was one of the few things that made him stand out amongst other gray men, who were all practically identical. He would have to replace those scars, but at this rate, it would take a very long time.

  The familiar tickle of Selina’s purple tail crept over his shoulder and along his cheek. Guldrich threw the knife into the muddy ground before jerking the tail hard. Selina screamed as he dragged her over his shoulder and threw her to the ground. She rolled away and stood, ready to attack with her clawed hands.

  “Where have you been?” he shouted, unable to hold back a smile.

  She struck him across the face with her claws, carving away skin and leaving behind three lines of blood. She swung again, but Guldrich caught her small hand.

  “Don’t you ever, ever treat me like you can do this without me!” she shouted.

  He was taken aback, having never seen this side of her. She’d always been seductive and conniving, yet, despite her great power, Selina had never shown backbone. It made little difference—she had always been correct in her premonitions, and that was all he cared about. This was something different. She was very aware of her value, and so was he. Up until now, she’d been a means to an end, but could she be more than that?

  “You missed the first three raids,” he said, less demand in his voice.

  “You’re still alive,” she said, jerking her hand away.

  “As is everyone else.” He grunted in frustration. “Almost everyone.”

  “Almost?” She sounded concerned.

  “A raiding party found Angst,” he said. “He let one of them go. She confirmed that he’s leaving Unsel, like you said he would.”

  “But how did they die?” Selina demanded.

  “He butchered them, or burned them with lightning,” Guldrich said dismissively. “What difference does it make?”

  They were interrupted by the noisy rattle of bone-laden armor as two Fulk’han approached, dragging a third. They threw his body to the ground, both spitting in disgust. Guldrich kicked the body over. The gray man wheezed and coughed, dark blood flecked from his toothless mouth. He’d been beaten senseless, both eyes wide but staring at nothing. Many of the protruding bones that had formed his armor were cracked or completely torn off.

  “This is the one,” a soldier said. “He killed a dozen villagers before we could stop him.”

  “Lost to a blood lust,” the other soldier said. “I’ve seen the look in others’ eyes, but he’s the first to give in.”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” the beaten man lisped, sitting up on his elbows.

  Guldrich’s arm had taken a month to grow back, and months again to become strong. This man was healing before their eyes. Bones crunched as they once again covered his body in armor. There was a grotesque squishing sound as sharp teeth grew out from his gums. The focus that returned to his eyes quickly turned to worry.

  “It was Takarn Ivan, my liege,” the man said. “He hungered for blood, demanded revenge, and I lost myself to his cries.”

  “I’ve heard others whisper the same,” a soldier said in a hushed voice. “Is a sickness coming over us?”

  Guldrich had no answer, and Selina wouldn’t make eye contact, her gaze mischievous. Was it more frightening that the man healed so quickly, or that his soldiers were losing their minds to battle?

  “We have the strength to kill everyone in these towns,” the man lying on the ground said. “But instead we pick like carrion.”

  “If we kill everyone, there will be nobody left to beg for help,” Selina said, her voice purring. “Even now, a town hero is racing to Unsel. They will march with their armies before we attack again.”

  “It is cowardice,” he argued.

  “These...were...my...orders!” Guldrich stomped on his chest over and over.

  The others moved away as new bones splintered and the man’s chest caved in. When the light in his eyes was gone, Guldrich jerked out his blood-covered boot. Wiping his foot on the grass, he drew out his hunting knife and carved a scar into his forearm. “I don’t care about dead Unsel villagers,” Guldrich barked. “I only care that you do what you’re told. Make sure this is clear to the others.”

  The other two men nodded quickly, their eyes wide as the moon.

  “No more kills!” he shouted. “We continue north, to the next border town, and do it again.”

  “Guldrich,”
Selina said, her voice filled with excitement. She pointed at the corpse. “Look!”

  The body jerked and seized as its chest began to reform. The soldier’s eyes snapped open, wide with fear as he tried to breathe without lungs. He scratched at his chest then looked at his blood-soaked hands.

  “What is this?” Guldrich looked at the men, who now seemed more like frightened children than frightening warriors.

  “It’s wonderful,” Selina said melodically. “You’re becoming more powerful every day.”

  Guldrich dropped to his knees, wrestled the soldier’s hands away, and chopped at the neck with his hunting knife. Blood splattered his face with every swing until the blade finally struck stone, and the head rolled to one side. Like creeping vines, tendons and muscle grew from the body, reaching for the head. They crawled to the skull, grasping at it like bloody fingers.

  He jerked the head away from the body with a snap and handed it to a soldier. The gray man took it reluctantly.

  “Burn it in a fire, on that side of camp.” He pointed far to the south. “And wait until there is nothing left.”

  The man ran off with the skull, which he held at arm’s length.

  “You,” Guldrich said to the other soldier. He kicked the writhing mass, neck muscles still grasping for something that wasn’t there. “Take the body to a fire at the other end of camp. Burn it before another head grows back.”

  The soldier seemed reluctant. Guldrich bared his teeth like a hungry wolf and pointed his knife at the body. The man grabbed a foot and dragged it away.

  “More...powerful?” Guldrich said. “Is that what we’ve become?”

  “I promised you revenge on Nordruaut,” she said. “How could they possibly beat you now?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “And Angst?” he snarled.

  “We will both get our revenge,” she said.

  Rohjek

  SMyket approached ANduaut’s tent with the same caution one would take sneaking up to pet a wild panther. His measured steps and forced calm came from a combination of fear and respect. There was no actual sneaking—the tent was wide open and ANduaut sat in the middle, cross-legged with his stadauf resting on his knees. The man was as still as an ice-covered tree on a windless day. SMyket stopped before the entrance and watched, waiting for the broken man to breathe, hoping he wouldn’t.

  It was impossible not to stare at the caved-in corner of ANduaut’s forehead. He may have been magicked to continue living, but it was so unnatural it felt wrong. ANduaut squeezed his eyes in concentration until a thick, orange tear leaked from the damaged one. He finally gasped as he took a deep breath.

  “Why have they gathered?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. “Is this treason? Do we need more examples?”

  “It would take a lot of examples. They have questions,” SMyket said, licking his salty lips. He was sweating, and it wasn’t from the heat of this place. He steeled himself. “I have questions. And if you wish, I’ll be the example.”

  “Oh?” ANduaut’s eye opened, his one eyebrow raising in surprise. “Feeling brave?”

  “Just because I chose to live when you killed the other two does not make me a coward,” SMyket said defiantly, his words braver than his heart.

  “Then why do you follow my lead?” ANduaut asked.

  “Because you have become a leader, my Iroquai,” SMyket said sincerely. “Your injury has changed you. You are suddenly bold and decisive. Though I don’t agree with all your decisions, you have become what the tribes need.”

  “But you challenge my decisions?” ANduaut asked. He remained seated, but the grip on his stadauf tightened.

  “I haven’t,” SMyket said, sweat now trickling down his cheeks. His knees were locked, and his muscles would soon join them. He would lose a battle with a squirrel if attacked. “I’ve followed you, but if you are leading our people to death, then yes.”

  To his surprise, ANduaut didn’t rush forward and slice out the contents of his stomach. Instead, the Iroquois of the Vex’steppe tribes stood and stretched. The man’s forehead was the only thing broken. He wore nothing but the barest of leather loincloths and a large ruby ring. Everything else was dark skin stretched over sinewy muscle. He had neither an ounce of fat or a drop of sweat, and looked as dangerous as that panther. He approached SMyket calmly and smiled, which was almost as frightening as the fight he had half expected.

  “Bring me to my people,” he said, his voice a little tired. “And I will tell what I know.”

  SMyket nodded once and turned around, leading the Iroquai to a great bonfire. ANduaut followed uncomfortably close, a mere half-step behind, still within peripheral vision. They approached the fire surrounded by a thousand men, all waiting with the impatience of toddlers. Angry toddlers ready to pounce, shifting anxiously from side to side on muscular legs or moving their weapons from one hand to the other. Their loud voices subsided on ANduaut’s appearance. In the distance, a large, shadowy form loomed beside a jagged structure that SMyket wished with all his being didn’t exist.

  “The tribes of Vex’steppe fear nothing,” ANduaut began, his voice booming. “We do not fear Nordruaut or Fulk’han or any creature on Unsel, nor do we fear death.”

  Those closest nodded pensively, as if more worried that they were the front line than in total agreement.

  “When I was injured, I learned a fear I had never experienced,” ANduaut said, placing a hand on his dent. “Not fear of death, for I fought knowing I would die to protect our people. Instead, the fear I learned is that a war is coming that could end our tribes forever.”

  A great muttering came from all around, and ANduaut raised his hand for silence, surprisingly patient as he waited for the voices to quiet.

  “My father Maudusta hid from the truth. My father, our Iroquai, tried to stop me from protecting our people.” He covered his eye with one hand. “To my shame, I was forced to kill him. It was a great loss to the tribes, and to myself, but had I not escaped, it would have been far worse.”

  More shuffling, eyes looking to and fro, but nobody spoke.

  “What my father did not understand, what he foolishly ignored, put us all in danger. I learned that all nations are gathering forces to battle. Some have champions of great power, wielders of magic, and others have been gifted power beyond comprehension. Many nations have changed who they are and what they believe, all for something far more insidious than mere war,” he shouted. “At great personal cost, I have learned that there is a weapon of power that appears once every two thousand years. A weapon so devastating it can eradicate nations, entire races, leaving behind nothing but memories.”

  Raised weapons lowered and jaws dropped as all became entranced by his recounting.

  “I wish this weapon did not exist, but we will not be the ones destroyed by it,” ANduaut said. “To prepare for this war, I have aligned with creatures of such raw power that none will stop us. With these allies, we will march on Nordruat, Unsel, and any other nation that gets in the way of our prize.”

  The cheers were so boisterous and rowdy that SMyket expected fireworks. Did this weapon really exist, or was ANduaut buying their people with false hope?

  “We will soon face our first challenge,” ANduaut cried out, slamming his stadauf into the ash. “I need one hundred men who will follow me to glory, or death!”

  Everyone raised their weapons, even his nearest, DEdin.

  “SMyket, my first, will choose one hundred of our best to clear a path,” ANduaut said. “Prendere, the prize, will be ours, and I pity those who choose to stand in our way!”

  28

  Grayhollow Forest

  “Why are you old?” Angst demanded.

  “Angst,” Faeoris admonished gently.

  “I could ask you the same,” Aerella rasped with a dry cackle.

  She was, indeed, older. When Aerella had collapsed in front of the Mendahir, Angst had guessed her to be sixty, maybe seventy. It was hard to gauge since that was ancient for humans in Ehrde. But Aerell
a now appeared older still. He held her frail form close as they rode through Grayhollow. She felt like dry sticks held together by a thin veil of supple satin. Her ears had lengthened, and her face was covered in a cobweb of fine wrinkles. It was hard to discern her hair color, since the graymowl trees gobbled color up like food. But her skin was blotchy, and he could see spotting around her hands.

  “I’m not old,” he muttered.

  “No, you’re not old. You’re not old at all,” Faeoris mocked, like she was speaking to a baby.

  Faeoris, Maarja, and Jintorich all laughed. Great, now that everyone was buddies, they were teaming up on him. Was he the only one taking this seriously?

  “Should I remove my armor?” he asked, looking at her bruised hands, worried that the steel could injure her back.

  “I’m not young enough for you, am I?” Aerella teased.

  More laughter. It was as if she’d saved up this teasing for, well, a millenia. His mouth was dry, and he itched all over, like he could use a hot bath. Pacing, or a long walk, would be infinitely better than a slow ride out of this depressing forest.

  “How much farther?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

  “Almost there,” Maarja said, her voice filled with mirth.

  “You never answered my question,” he said, slowing his swifen to keep the ride gentle.

  “I believe you’re old because of how Angst plucked you out of time,” Jintorich squeaked. “Your body isn’t adjusting properly to this time period.”

  “That sounds like a good theory. One of many,” she said with a wink.

  Jintorich’s black eyes went wide.

  “I remember your story, Meldusian,” she said, clearing her throat. “Maybe I’m old because it’s what Angst needs to see.”

  “Pardon?” Angst asked, trying not to roll his eyes.

  “Earlier today, I could’ve easily been in my twenties, and you enjoyed that,” she said, her tone mocking. “Now, I’m possibly older than one hundred. Am I still Aerella?”