The few remaining partygoers near the scene did nothing but watch and laugh. Ivan, now quite aware of the extra attention, decided to be offended. He grabbed Rose’s wrist and lifted it high so she was forced to balance on her toes. She looked so very small next to the knight. He lifted his right hand and balled it into a fist, barking angrily in slurred speech that couldn’t be understood from a distance. He pulled the fist back in a dramatically wide arc. When his hand finally reached the apex of its swing, it hit a wall, accompanied by the familiar ringing of metal. Those watching gave a quick gasp. Ivan looked to see what he’d inadvertently struck.
Next to his hand was the broad side of an enormous sword. The harrowing width of the blade was easily four times the size of Ivan’s hand and emitted a dark blue glow. His face went slightly pale, he swallowed hard, and lowered his right arm. His eyes slowly followed the edge of the blade to two extended arms, which were rigid and unshaking.
“Let. Her. Go. Now!” Each word was separated by the briefest pause, and rang loud enough to be heard far beyond the confines of the courtyard. Angst seethed with anger. Not the anger or frustration of embarrassment caused by a serving girl. No, this was genuine bitterness. The kind of anger that came from deep in his gut, and drove him to do unexpected things—such as lifting the sword that was supposed to be nothing more than a statue.
As with many fish tales, this one was told and retold and embellished and elaborated. In the years that followed, Angst heard many variations. One version claimed Angst had miraculously grown to be twelve feet tall after lifting the sword. Others would say that he swung that sword and tables went flying throughout the courtyard. Some would say the knight wet himself in fear of Angst the giant. However the tale was told, everyone shivered a little at the prospect of someone actually picking up that sword.
The knight paused, disbelief widening his bloodshot eyes. His left arm was still outstretched and holding Rose, but she was too busy gaping at Angst to take advantage of the distraction. Then, Ivan let go. He smiled drunkenly, put his right forearm against his waist and bowed slightly. “Of course, Sir Knight. I didn’t realize she was with you.”
5
The queen stared into nothing, concentrating and contemplating. Isabelle ignored the “good mornings” and the “Your Majestys” as advisors entered her war room, but still felt their gazes, and the weight of their fears that echoed her own. She couldn’t remember miscalculating so badly throughout her reign. Rather than showing weakness, she had attempted to cover her mistake in elaborate formality. Her bold crimson dress was intricately detailed with gold embroidery. The queen’s crown rested on coifed white hair, and her handsome features were covered in a heavily applied layer of makeup that attempted to hide the weariness of crown and daughter.
These distractions may have worked on her advisors and staff, but certainly not everyone. Victoria must have immediately perceived Queen Isabelle’s worry, waking far earlier than normal for a teenage princess to see her before this meeting. The princess’ insight that everything would work out was kind if not comforting. Captain Tyrell simply returned her worried looks with his own, which didn’t help.
Unlike most of the kingdoms of Ehrde, the queen had welcomed those inflicted with magics into her borders. She had even graciously employed some into her court and her staff. Inclusion required constant attention to balance the needs of those who could wield and those who hated them. Ten years of laws and controls had put that delicate balance in place, and the thanks she received for these gifts were defiance, at best, and at worst, alienation from what she thought of as an entirely different race of people.
In recent years, the balance had irrevocably shifted. Tensions were already high, and they now had someone to rally around. Isabelle grimaced at the very name. Angst. She had despised the man ever since his courtyard visit with her daughter, and loathed how fond Victoria had become of him. The queen wanted Victoria to be strong, and that day in the courtyard she’d shown strength in her defiance. But did it have to be for him?
Isabelle had never seen Angst as anything but a stubby magic-inflicted rock carver with a melancholy demeanor. He was always distracted, offered very little at their meetings, and was ungrateful for the many opportunities she’d bestowed upon him, including his job. Angst was a good tool to keep in her pocket, and not only for his popularity with those like him. More importantly, he could be used as leverage with her daughter. She’d been waiting for the day the princess forgot about Angst, for any fondness to pass, so she could dismiss him from Unsel, but she had waited too long, and completely underestimated his potential.
The queen rarely underestimated people. After the courtyard incident, spies had kept watch on Angst and his friends. The only thing remarkable about him was how much he dreamed and how little he did. He appeared happy on the outside, but bitter on the inside, and seemed to twist and turn in his own trappings. She’d dreaded reading the incredibly tedious reports about him, but had never been concerned. Until now. Now, her entire kingdom may be in danger because she’d let them in.
Straightening her dress, she sat up and looked around. The room had filled with people and apprehension. Everyone whose opinion mattered had been mustered out of bed at first light. Meeting in the war room seemed somewhat overdramatic, but this was one of the few private rooms in the castle that could host this many. The over-decorated soldiers sat at the large oak table opposite the well-respected advisors, each of them pining to present their unique knee-jerk assessment of the event. Everyone began to settle and await her nod.
The queen closed her eyes and listened. When the room became perfectly quiet, she simply said, “Go.”
Words came from around the table as those in attendance spoke freely, fighting for the queen’s recognition with the advice they provided.
“What is it?”
“I guess we now know it isn’t a statue.”
“That’s not necessarily true. Angst can use magic on stone. Maybe it was all for show.”
“His name is really Angst?”
“Back to my question, what is it?” The room became quiet again. “Okay, if we don’t know what it is, what isn’t it?”
“I still say it isn’t a statue.”
“I think it’s a weapon.”
“Did someone actually invite you?”
“Don’t be insulting. Obviously it’s a weapon, because it’s a sword. People have reported that the sword was glowing. That says magic to me, and probably dangerous.”
“Just because something glows doesn’t mean it’s dangerous.”
“A glowing blue sword that nobody has been able to lift in recorded history, and you don’t believe it’s dangerous? In my world, if it looks like fire, it probably is fire. I say magic, and I say dangerous.”
Most mumbled in agreement at this.
“Is it possible that we were supposed to be guarding it?”
“I don’t follow.”
“A dangerous, magic, glowing weapon that is securely fastened to a pedestal within castle walls. It may be a leap, but I’m guessing we weren’t supposed to be using it as a party favor, but instead keeping it out of hands.”
“Whose hands?”
“Angst’s would’ve been a good start.”
“Where’s the sword now?”
“He has it with him.”
“You let him leave with it?”
“He looked angry.”
“Does anyone else have a problem with this?”
“It’s bigger than any of the guards, and he carries it like a stick.”
“So, you’re telling me that this could be a weapon with unknown magical powers and it’s in some cabin in the middle of town.”
“It’s not like he’s going to sneak out with it.”
“What do we do now?”
“Killing him would be easy. I hear he drinks a lot.”
“Maybe he could be an asset. A new weapon against what’s going on out there. We aren’t exactly winning.”
> “Does that mean we have to make him a knight?”
“One of them? A knight? Are you serious?”
“Speaking of them, it’s not going to take them long to rally around Angst like he’s accomplished something.”
“We can’t kill him. That could just make him a martyr. The magic wielders are already in an uproar about all the new laws.”
“Stop.” The queen held up a hand, and the room grew quiet once more. “What happened last night was significant, and requires thorough understanding, not just conjecture. We need information, and we need to keep Angst occupied without causing riots. You’ve all given me much to ponder. If anyone is able to obtain further information about the sword, bring it to my attention immediately. Wilfred, Tyrell, General Mirot, please remain. Everyone else is dismissed.”
The meeting dispersed, with only a few noticeably sneering at those chosen to remain. Captain Guard Tyrell and General Mirot stood at attention, while Wilfred seemed to lounge, enjoying the recognition in front of his peers.
“We all heard the same theories, now we need to come up with a plan, but let me be clear on what we’re discussing. Our primary goal is to protect the kingdom. The people living in Unsel would be completely defenseless against the magic-wielders. If it means making that sap a knight to avoid rebellion, so be it. Our forces are spread too thin along the borders to defend against our own people, especially those who can wield magic.” Isabelle looked around the room to make sure everyone understood. “General Mirot?”
The general’s shoulders drooped from the weight of decoration and recognition. He tugged on his limp gray moustache and peered at the queen through dark, calculating eyes. “Your Majesty, he’s an unknown element. We’re already losing men to bizarre attacks on our borders, which, may I remind you, also seem to be of a magical nature. With Angst dead, we’re safe.”
“Are we safe, General?” Captain Guard Tyrell asked, tugging at the hem of his conservative navy uniform, a single bar on his chest the only evidence of his advanced rank. “You’ve told us that defending the kingdom by traditional means has been unsuccessful. What if this is our untraditional answer?”
“Sounds dangerous,” Mirot huffed. “We don't even know what he’s capable of with that statue he’s carrying.”
“Your Majesty, I offer my blade to test him,” Tyrell said. “We’ve fenced in the past. I know his capabilities and could tell if something has changed.”
“And if he has?” Isabelle asked.
“Kill him before it’s too late,” Mirot said, his jaw tight.
The queen sighed heavily. “General, I doubt we’ll kill him, I agree that the wielders don’t need a martyr. But, what if he is more powerful? Do we actually knight him?” Queen Isabelle asked, shuddering at the prospect.
“Angst spent some time training with the soldiers and knights before it was discovered he could wield magic,” Tyrell said. “He’s familiar with what would be expected of him.”
“The military would be fiercely opposed to knighting a wielder!” Mirot’s words exploded as if personally offended.
“He’s well respected,” Tyrell argued calmly, brushing the general’s spittle off his arm. “Even liked.”
“But not trusted,” Mirot said between deep, calming breaths. “He already holds too much power for one man, and if the sword augments that power...even those who like him would be fiercely opposed to his knighting. There has to be an alternative.”
“If he has become more powerful, and we even decide he could be an asset, how do we avoid knighting him?” Isabelle asked.
Mirot stared off as if upset that Angst wasn’t dead yet. Tyrell frowned at Wilfred quizzically, who was the only one in the room smiling.
Isabelle narrowed her eyes at Wilfred, “You’re never this quiet. I will hear your advice, but I weigh it with the knowledge that Angst is your friend.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I would hope my service to your court balances any bias you might perceive.” He paused until she reluctantly acknowledged this with a nod. “Your Majesty, what you have now is a new representative for the underdog, so to speak. If he is, indeed, more powerful, Unsel could use him. But, his loyalties lie with his friends, his family, and, forgive me for saying so, your daughter, not with you. He won’t come to your side just because you ask it.”
“I don’t see where this is going,” she said, fidgeting with the brocade on her sleeve.
“Angst has always wanted to be a knight, and by lifting the sword, he has won that chance,” Wilfred said, his words rushed. “Make him earn it. Send him away on a mission, some long menial task through the heart of danger, with the promise of becoming a knight should he succeed. Something important enough that he can’t refuse.”
“And dangerous enough that he may not come back,” Mirot said in agreement.
“Temporarily rid yourself of Angst and his friends,” Wilfred continued. “In the process, you garner the support of all those who believe in him.”
She looked at Wilfred, letting this idea sink in. “What is it you have in mind, exactly?”
“Wheat, my queen. Wheat.”
She shook her head, not understanding.
“We’ve lost three scouting parties to whatever’s going on out there, and haven’t seen a trade shipment from anyone in over a month. With winter coming, our stores of wheat are certain to run short if something isn’t done. Send Angst and his friends on a mission to Fulk’han, to free the blocked trade routes.”
“It could take months,” she said hopefully, the stiffness in her shoulders loosening slightly.
“Get rid of Angst while sending him on a ‘noble’ mission for the kingdom,” he continued.
“Chances are he’ll just get eaten,” Mirot said.
“There’s little to lose, Your Majesty,” Wilfred said, sticking out his chest proudly. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
The queen shot Wilfred a cool, direct look. “He could succeed.”
6
It was unquestionably the longest morning Angst had ever endured. He was awoken by courier shortly after dawn with a polite note from Captain Guard Tyrell advising him not to come to work and to expect to hear from someone later in the day. This required an exceptional amount of pacing and worry on Angst’s part. The constant barrage of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what nexts’ drove Heather out of the house to visit the market, leaving Angst alone with his hopes, his concerns, and the sword.
He'd tried setting the sword on their old wooden table, but the table had buckled and creaked before he could even let go, as had the wall of their cottage when he attempted to lean it in a corner. So the sword rested unceremoniously on the floor, in the middle of everything, waiting impatiently. Angst tried to ignore it as he paced from room to room, but the sword taunted him. Every time he passed, it glowed just enough to see from the corner of his eye, but the glow was always gone when he looked directly at it. The first time, he ignored it as a figment of his imagination. But after several passes, Angst was convinced the glow was real. He unsuccessfully tried to catch the blade in the act by whipping around, walking backward, or peeking from around a corner.
Angst finally dragged a battered chair across the floor and slammed it down a mere foot away from the beast. He stared at it awhile. It wasn’t an elaborately designed weapon made by some legendary craftsman. The sword was crude, like a giant metal stick with a handle. The edges were straight and sharp until they finally bent to form a tip. There was no decoration or writing engraved anywhere. Most broadswords had a fuller, a groove through the center of the blade to make it lighter, but this one actually featured a riser, with more steel down the center instead of less. The grip was thin, looking almost silly in comparison to the rest of the blade. It was so wide and so long it seemed to fill half the room, making Angst feel small as he sat and pondered.
He continued staring, waiting for something to happen, before finally asking, “What? What do you want?”
As though relieved, the sword
began to glow blue once more, though subdued this time. Angst could barely hear something, but it was so very quiet that he leaned toward the floor. After realizing that didn’t help, he gripped the hilt, holding it for the first time since last night’s mess.
The sword was singing. It was a chorus of musical instruments unlike any he had ever heard, and he worried it would disturb the neighbors. A quick glance out the door at some uncaring pedestrians passing by gave him the impression the song was for him. The music quieted, sounding as though he’d begun humming to himself. The song wasn’t beautiful, but it was nice to listen to. At first he didn’t recognize the tune, but it became more familiar the longer he listened. If he could just concentrate enough, maybe he could...
“Chryslaenor,” rang through his head like a bell, and he dropped the sword. It fell with a loud bang, cracking parts of the wooden floor where it landed.
“What was that?” asked Heather, walking in with a bag of food. “What happened to my floor? Are you okay?”
“It talks,” was all Angst could say. Goosebumps covered his arms, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the sword.
“Very funny,” Heather replied.
“No. Really. It talks. Sort of.” Angst kneeled by the sword, and it started glowing again. “The sword has a name.”
“Angst, I know you’re excited that they might make you a knight, or something, and I’m sure you’re exhausted after last night, but a talking sword? Maybe you should sit down.” She walked past him and set her groceries on the table.
“It’s not really talking. It kind of sings. I can’t explain it, but I think it’s trying to communicate with me.” He reached for the hilt again.
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