Angst looked at Ivan, cold fury still coursing through his veins. Saying nothing, Angst pointed to the highway.
Ivan looked away from Angst, pathetically attempting to hide his red puffy cheek from the others. He scrambled to stand then, without a word, ran into the woods.
Angst turned to look at his friends. Rose and Dallow had shied away, either embarrassed for him, or by him. Tarness looked at Angst as though through new eyes, obviously disappointed by the attack.
“Angst...” Hector said consolingly, but his voice trailed off.
Angst eyed each of them, feeling betrayed by their lack of response. “That’s all the support I get? He deserved that, and you can all piss off.” He walked to his sword, hoisted it, and stomped off into the woods.
He found a stone outcrop at the firelight's edge and sat down, facing the camp. Their voices were faint from this distant. They were arguing about something... about him. Actually, it wasn't much of an argument since the only one yelling was Rose, but he heard his name several times between loud curses. Who could blame them? He was surprised they weren't packing up to leave. Maybe they were.
He must have seemed as crazy as Ivan, attacking the knight like that. The very thought of the man made him grimace. Who says those kinds of things? Angst was no stranger to insults, and could handle the occasional bully, but don't poke his friends without expecting to lose a finger. What he did may have been wrong, no, it was wrong, but he would have done it again.
The distant argument faded, replaced by the sound of footsteps.
“Feel better?” Rose asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“I didn’t enjoy that.” Angst’s voice was low and husky. “He’s not welcome back. I won’t have you, or anyone, treated like that.”
She dropped her arms, and her body eased. “Well, for that part, thank you.” Rose stepped closer, and Angst made room for her to sit on the rock.
She hesitated, not uncomfortable but still cautious. Rose seemed to hover over the spot awkwardly.
“I promise not to make a pass at you, Rose,” Angst offered, and she rolled her eyes. He wanted to avoid talking about what had just happened, and only one distraction came to mind. “I also don’t need to be healed. I’m fine,” he blurted.
She stilled, her large, pretty eyes widened with surprise.
“What?” Angst asked defensively. “I’m not a fool. We are friends, aren’t we? You think I don’t pay attention? I’ve always kind of known, but when we found you with the monster and you healed Dallow, I finally put it together. It took me a while, but I figured that’s why you chose to ride with him, so it would remain your secret.”
“Yes, that’s part of it.” She hesitated. He could tell she wanted to be upset but had no reason, so she just sat next to him, bumping shoulders in the process.
“I was going to wait for you to tell me, but I’m a little stressed right now,” Angst explained.
Rose waited beside him quietly, and Angst worried that he’d hurt her by stealing her secret. “I think it was noble of you to heal Tarness the night after his fight with the Nordruaut,” Angst said in an approving tone.
“I couldn’t let him continue trying to keep up the pace in that condition,” Rose said as though her actions needed justification. “Especially when he was trying so hard to impress that huge woman.”
“I’ve been a little disappointed that you hold back. All the knocks and bruises we’ve been taking...but I assumed there was a reason.”
“I’m sorry, Angst, but it hurts so much. I don’t actually heal people, I take on their injuries myself,” Rose explained.
“I’m not sure I completely understand,” Angst said, confused.
Rose sighed. “Hold out your hand,” she commanded.
Angst held his hand out in front of her. It still tingled a bit from striking Ivan. Rose quickly pulled out a dagger and cut deep into his palm.
“Hey! What the—” Angst yanked his hand back.
Rose threw down the dagger and grabbed his wrist. “Quit being such a baby.” She touched his hand with her fingers, skin to skin, for the briefest of moments. The cut, and even the tingling, were instantly gone. Rose grimaced as she opened her own palm. The injury had appeared on her hand and was bleeding. Before his eyes, the skin reformed and the cut faded away.
“Wow,” Angst whispered. “That has to hurt.”
“The longer I make contact, the more I transfer. It’s hard to touch someone injured, knowing I’m going to be instantly bathed in their pain. I remove both physical and emotional wounds. I experience the full brunt of it, but it passes quickly, because I heal incredibly fast. But you’re right, it hurts. A lot.” Everything Rose had been holding back burst out like water breaking free of a dam. She pulled on her long red hair nervously as she watched Angst’s reactions. “You must think I’m a terrible person for not healing everyone more often.”
Angst shook his head. “I’m not here to judge you, Rose. Not you or anyone. I’ve always had faith that if needed, you would be there. But this explains a lot. Thank you for telling me the rest of the story.”
She smiled. “Thanks. You, uh, won’t tell anyone else, will you?”
“It's your secret to share, I can’t imagine why I would.” Angst sighed. “If you don’t mind, though, I came out here to mope and wallow. You’re a bit too distracting for self-pity.”
“And I’ve known you too long for you to be able to cover your emotions with weak flirting. Very weak flirting,” she chided.
Angst laughed politely.
“Angst, that thing,” Rose pointed at the sword, “seems to weigh heavily on you.”
“Nah, light as a feather,” Angst said with mock cheer.
“Cute. I don’t mean the physical weight. You seem to get disappointed and frustrated a lot more often and that outburst with Ivan was, well, a bit frightening,” Rose said, a hand on his shoulder. “You seem so upset sometimes. We’re all worried.”
Angst looked at the ground. “I’m fine. There’s just been so much change in so little time. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing. You’d think something this powerful would come with some sort of manual. It’s embarrassing, especially after wanting this life for all these years. Some hero,” he scoffed.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say, Angst. I can listen, or I can take away some of the pain.” Rose reached for his hand again. “I can heal some of what’s making this hard for you.”
Angst stood quickly to avoid being touched. “No!” he practically shouted.
Rose looked as though he’d struck her.
“You don’t understand, but this weight, this burden won’t just go away. It can’t go away. Doesn’t anyone see? Don’t you? It drives me. I need it to drive me. It keeps me going. That means it has to stay.” Angst sounded angry when he hadn’t meant to. He was just desperate for Rose to understand.
Rose visibly reeled, obviously offended that he’d turned her down. “I couldn’t have healed you enough to make you stop being an ass, anyway.” She stormed back to the campsite.
“Rose, you don’t understand,” Angst called after her, but it made no difference. Her temper was as sudden and fierce as a lightning strike, and the mark left by that strike would take days to wash away.
What could he say? How could he explain that his dreams were haunted by people who used to wield his sword? That he now heard music almost all the time? Everyone would say he was as crazy as Ivan. Maybe he was. Rose couldn’t possibly heal those visions. Who knew what it would do to her? Angst sat again, this time turning away from the campsite.
Scar brushed up against his knee, and he reached over to pet the small black lab. Scar wagged his tail, and Angst couldn’t help but smile. “At least I don’t have to justify everything I do to you.” Angst rolled his eyes. “I’m now talking to a dog. Great. Pretty soon someone’s going to start slapping me, and it will probably be Rose.”
Scar’s tail stopped wagging as
he shivered for a moment. The dog whimpered then moved forward several feet and sniffed at the ground. Flickering light from the distant campfire reflected off a tall object in front of the dog. Angst stood with a grunt of effort and walked over, reaching out to touch the smooth surface of the object. He stepped out of the firelight’s path for a better look, and realized it was another obelisk. It was too dark to read, but it had to be another signpost pointing to Gressmore Towers.
28
Fall winds blustered through the roads and pathways of Unsel, bringing with them a fresh crisp scent that hinted of snow. A whirlwind of leaves and dust danced along the wide cobblestone walkway in front of the castle. Samsen paid little heed to the elements since he was well-protected by several well-fed layers, covered with the tough leather hide of his guard’s armor. He turned his head to watch an attractive young woman hasten by, unsuccessfully attempting to get her attention with a smile. Samsen assured himself it was the cold wind that had kept her from noticing him, or stopping to talk, or inviting him to a pub. But he admired the view anyway, coming and going, and was so distracted, he couldn’t help but jump in surprise when something brushed his shoulder.
“Gave me a start, you did!” Samsen barked as he adjusted his considerable girth to face...something. What appeared to be a tall person had begun to form in front of him. The guard’s thick brows furrowed, and he rubbed his eyes with meaty knuckles. Only the merest blurry impression of a body was visible, and Samsen strained to focus on anything, just to ensure his vision wasn’t going bad. Blinking rapidly, he looked around to see nearby bushes that had already lost leaves to fall, blowing dust along the cobblestone walk, and a cracked stone bench. Everything else was clear and remained in focus.
This person would just have to stand still, and Samsen would be the one to tell him. He assumed the air of his formidable authority. With commanding intent, he took a deep breath, paused, and suddenly smiled. He could smell roast. And not just any roast, but the roast his mum used to make on holiday.
“Am I in Unsel?” questioned the blur in a whispery voice that sounded far away.
“Unsel, the capital city,” the guard answered distractedly, still floating through memories of food and family.
“Good,” said the voice. The blur slowly formed into a man. “And where might I find Queen Isabelle?”
Samsen took in another deep breath, and swiped self-consciously at the drool dribbling onto his chest piece. “Her Majesty is in the castle there,” he said in a sleepy voice, pointing toward the castle entrance. “Maybe in the throne room?”
The man was now more clearly visible, with dark hair and a pale complexion. He nodded in approval of the guard’s information. “You do fine work, don’t you?”
The guard dropped his halberd, nodding in agreement. Samsen would agree to anything this man said, his mind abuzz with such wonderful scents. He recognized all of them from holiday meals. Tables of happy memories that made his stomach rumble.
“It’s such a shame that you’re so very hungry,” the stranger crooned sympathetically. “Couldn’t they feed you? Just the tiniest bit? For all your hard work?” The tall pale man leaned forward and gently blew in the guard’s face.
The smell of roast had become so incredible and so overwhelming that the guard immediately lumbered off toward the castle entrance to find some. “Yes, just a little to eat. So very hungry,” Samsen muttered to himself, too distracted to notice that the man was gone, leaving behind only a dry laugh and a dusty whirlwind of leaves that danced toward the castle.
It was unusual for them to meet in the throne room, but Tyrell unquestioningly adhered to the queen’s ever-changing whims. He’d just finished describing to the queen, in great and boring detail, each dead end the advisors had brought to him. They’d either presented him with nonsense or nothing at all. Every report he received was tainted with insinuation and misdirection that blamed the attack on everything from the magic wielders to the weather. Advisors desperate to keep their jobs and their standing dramatically exaggerated any hint of a lead, but Tyrell knew better and wasted as much time disproving their research as they’d spent fabricating it.
When he finished, Tyrell stood in silence, waiting for the tirade he knew would ensue. They were the only two in the throne room since the queen had dismissed the guards, something she’d been doing with increasing frequency. Normally, he would’ve expected a stomping bout of anger followed by a stream of threats and possibly even the exile of an advisor or two. Instead, Isabelle fidgeted uncomfortably in her high throne. She stood to pace, pretending to analyze what he’d told her before sitting once again, but not still. When she finally reached up to her glass eye, Tyrell coughed.
“Her Majesty’s physician has stated that isn’t a good idea,” he reminded her in an almost chiding voice.
“My physician should be kicked out with half my advisors,” Isabelle grumbled. Her hand shook as she fought with her instinct, desperate to wiggle the glass eye. “You have no idea what this is like. Had you lost your eye—”
“I would rest easier knowing that you were safe, my queen,” Tyrell finished for her.
“Fine,” the queen harrumphed, dropping her hand. She stood to pace once again. “So, what you are telling me is that after three days, we still have nothing. There’s no indication, whatsoever, that this attack was brought about by magic?”
“Your Majesty, we’ve been most thorough in our investigations, almost to the point of inciting protests. Not only have we been unable to find someone with the ability to cause that attack on you, there are very few who appear to hate you enough to do so.”
“So we just wait?” the queen asked. She stopped to stand directly in front of him. “We simply wait for another attack?”
“I’m at a loss,” Tyrell admitted in frustration. He watched her one good eye as it moved, while the other remained unsettlingly still. “What I do know is that this investigation hasn’t made you popular with the magic-wielding crowd.”
“That’s easy to fix,” she said, waving her hand in a regally dismissive gesture. “We loosen the reins a bit until they calm down.” Queen Isabelle returned to the throne and tossed herself into the ornate gold chair.
The oversized doors at the entrance of the room crashed open, startling them both. Rook ran through the doorway. He stopped before the queen and bowed so quickly it could be considered rude.
“My sincere apologies, Your Majesty,” he offered to the queen before turning to Tyrell. “Captain, it’s one of the guards, he appears to be...well, it’s hard to explain... Please come quickly.”
Tyrell sighed and looked at Isabelle. She rolled her eye and shooed him off.
“I’ll send your guards back in, and request that your daughter join you, Your Majesty,” Tyrell announced, his bow interrupted by Rook pulling on his arm. He rushed out of the room with Rook before Isabelle could countermand his suggestion.
Tyrell entered the kitchen to find Samsen lying dead on the floor. Samsen’s armor was scattered about the room as if it had been on fire and removing it was an emergency. A large handful of uncooked meat scraps remained in one greasy fist, while the other hand gripped a basted ham hock. The guard’s stomach distended grotesquely, well beyond the confines of his shirt and pants, as though he had consumed an entire lake. His cheeks and eyes bulged from his head. Tyrell leaned closer and saw what appeared to be several chicken bones protruding from the man’s stomach and neck. The body was quickly beginning to smell of putrid bile.
“He beat off several members of the kitchen staff with his bare hands, and almost killed one of the chefs,” Rook explained, shaking his head in disbelief. “Everyone else ran out to find guards. They told us Samsen immediately started gorging himself on every piece of food he could stuff in his mouth. Cooked or uncooked, it didn’t seem to matter.”
Tyrell circled Samsen, analyzing the situation before barking commands. “Get some bags, collect every bit of food in the kitchen, bring it to the training grounds, and
burn it.” He paused, considering, before letting out a long sigh. “Burn the guard too. Try not to touch him, though. Cover him with something and drag him to the fire as well.”
“Captain? I don’t understand,” Rook said, looking utterly confused.
“We don’t know if some disease floating through this man’s head caused this, but I’m not taking any risks. Now go,” Tyrell ordered, pointing to the entrance.
Rook rushed out of the kitchen to gather reinforcements. Tyrell continued circling the body, the whole time covering his mouth with his hand. He grabbed a fire poker and awkwardly flipped the guard over. The rolling was accompanied by ungracious burping sounds and more horrid stench. Tyrell refused to touch the body, but lifting arms and legs with the poker revealed nothing. There was no sign the man had been attacked or forced. It was obviously suicide, but by engorgement, which made absolutely no sense at all. The death was grotesque and sad and served no purpose other than interrupting his time with the queen.
With this realization, Tyrell’s head whipped up and he tore out of the room as fast as he could.
When he arrived at the closed throne room doors, Tyrell was immediately relieved to hear the queen’s laughter and just as quickly disturbed by it. Isabelle didn’t laugh, hadn’t genuinely laughed since the king passed away, unless it was to be polite, or mocking. Tyrell pushed the doors open to find Queen Isabelle, perched on the edge of her throne, lost in conversation with someone he didn’t recognize: a tall, thin man sitting boldly on the king’s throne. He stopped talking to look up at Tyrell and smiled smugly.
Isabelle giggled once more before turning to Tyrell. “Please do come, Tyrell. I would like you to meet a friend of mine. Aereon, please meet my Captain Guard Tyrell.” Isabelle gestured in Tyrell’s direction.
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