Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  “It’s the word we use for someone who bonds with a foci. You became Al’eyrn when you merged with Chryslaenor, giving yourself to your foci and becoming its conduit. It all comes together when the music starts making sense, doesn’t it?” Anderfeld said with a knowing smile, as though Angst could relate to the experience.

  They sat silently for a moment while Angst absorbed this information. He wanted all discussion of Al’eyrn and foci to end here. “Anderfeld, can you help us? I don’t know how to stop what’s happening, but my friends and I need assistance. We have no mounts and little time, but we have to find the source of this thing before more people are hurt.”

  Anderfeld nodded thoughtfully. “I believe we can help each other, but I require some time to research and think about what we’ve discussed.” He stood and walked to the door. “First, let’s eat. You’re probably hungry after your...ordeal. I’d like to ask your friends some questions, and answer some of yours about Gressmore Towers.”

  There was a polish to the evening. Everyone had enjoyed a warm bath and a fresh change of clothes as their own gear was cleaned and repaired. They filled the seats at one end of a long dining table with Anderfeld at the head. Angst made sure to sit directly across from Aerella, but unfortunately also within punching distance from Rose. Scar slept fitfully by a warm fire, which blazed behind Anderfeld.

  The feast they enjoyed was both elaborate and exotic. Spicy roast bird with sweet meat, sugar-glazed vegetables, various types of breads, and enough wine to even make Tarness happy. Everyone was excited about their tour of Gressmore Towers, sharing with Angst some of what they had learned and about how large the city was.

  After dinner, Aerella questioned them about the outside world—not only the restrictions on magic, which seemed to upset her, but the various kingdoms, politics, people, and events. She seemed hungry for details, and everyone provided what information they could.

  An hour passed quickly as they discussed world history. Aerella finally paused to sip wine, giving Angst the opportunity to ask a question of his own. “How is it none of us have heard of Gressmore Towers?” He quickly followed up with, “No offense, of course.”

  Aerella looked up from her glass toward her father.

  “This is complicated,” Anderfeld began, taking a deep breath. “Angst, do you, or any of your friends, know what that is, or should I say, what those are?” He pointed to the swords, which hovered on point tip between the two men.

  “No, not really. Stating the obvious, they’re swords with magical properties that allow us to do things we wouldn’t otherwise even attempt.” Angst made eye contact with Anderfeld and decided to open up a little. “There seems to be something more in them, like a...consciousness buried in there, for lack of a better word.”

  Anderfeld nodded and smiled. “I don’t know what they are either, and I’ve had mine for over two thousand years. My father had it for two hundred years, as did his before him. Neither of them knew what it was or where it came from. Each generation has passed it along with whatever knowledge they could share. The rest has been learned from experience and bonding to become Al’eyrn.”

  “Al’eyrn?” asked Dallow. “Wait, did you say two thousand years?”

  Anderfeld ignored him and continued. “We know what the swords look like, and what they can help us do, but let me share what we found Dulgirgraut to be capable of. Two thousand years ago, there was a war that had raged on for a quarter century, devastating every corner of Ehrde. We were attacked by forces far too powerful even for our magical defenses. I’d done everything in my power to stop the attack, and was near death when I made the mistake. I willed Dulgirgraut to protect my people at all costs.”

  Anderfeld paused and let out a deep sigh. “I remember saying that specifically, ‘at all costs.’ We’ve been here, just like this, ever since. Not a single day has passed for any living soul in Gressmore Towers.”

  There was a long pause before Dallow said, “That doesn’t make sense. Where does the food come from?”

  “Mr. Dallow, consider what I’ve said. Time hasn’t passed. There’s no tomorrow for us, only today. After dinner we will sleep, and when we wake, it will be today once more.” Anderfeld’s face was filled with concern and crushing guilt. “We’ve been living the same day, over and over, for two thousand years.”

  31

  Ivan stumbled through the forest, holding his stomach with one hand and his cheek in the other. His face hurt all the way to his soul, and he couldn’t stop uttering his new favorite curse. “Angst.”

  Lost in the woods and surrounded by looming danger wasn’t the ideal setting to plan revenge, but there was some vague comfort in the anticipation of making Angst dead with his own hands. The magics...no, not just the magics, that sword would be the main obstacle in killing the man. Ivan’s hatred for the sword was rivaled only by his abhorrence for Angst. This was no mere grudge. This hate was a living entity with angry tendrils coiling into every corner of Ivan’s mind and body.

  The stinging numbness in Ivan’s cheek had spread to his forehead and scalp before crawling down his back like the lingering caress of an unwanted lover. He reached up to scratch the top of his head and pulled out another clump of hair. Ivan took a deep sobbing breath as he looked at the dark hair with bloody roots resting in his hand. That breath was filled with the sickeningly familiar smell of sweet honey and maple syrup. He was near the Vex’kvette.

  Panic and disorientation swept through his body. Ivan’s head throbbed, and he tripped over his own feet, sending him tumbling down a steep hill. He rolled uncontrollably, cursing at every rock or tree root he reached for and missed in an attempt slow his descent. The bottom of the hill gave way to a sudden drop. Ivan fell into open air before landing ungraciously on his belly in the softly glowing Vex’kvette.

  It took several dazed moments to figure out that he would have to rise to continue breathing. He was covered from head to toe in the iridescent slime, which filled every breath with the vomit-inducing smell. Ivan rolled and struggled and was finally able to prop himself up enough to stand. The mud was thick to his knees, and attempting to plow through it in heavy plate armor took every ounce of his considerable strength.

  He was still gathering his bearings when he realized the Vex’kvette was flowing like a river and he was fighting against it. The numbness that had been working its way down his back collided with a host of new sensations crawling up his legs. The glowing muck seeped through every opening of Ivan’s armor as he struggled forward. Under his armor, his skin felt like curdling milk as the ooze traveled to his torso.

  In a panic, Ivan struggled faster to reach the ledge. From the middle of the Vex’kvette, it had seemed scalable, but up close, the wall of dark wet mud was at least fifteen feet tall and went straight up. He wrestled with slick clay and roots and rocks for ten minutes until the sensation of drying mud on his chest became painful, as though the muck were trying to make its way into his very pores.

  Ivan ripped off his gloves and frantically grappled with his chest piece. His hands were slick, making it impossible to unbuckle the armor. He tried reaching beneath the metal to wipe the orange goo from his skin, but felt like he was only rubbing it in.

  Ivan cursed Angst once more. He needed room to breathe and space to take off the armor. It felt like a film of ooze now covered his entire body, and he was desperate to be rid of it. The other side of the river seemed level with the ground, just close enough to reach. With a deep breath, Ivan pushed away from the cliff wall and coaxed his muscles into wading back across the Vex’kvette. Halfway, the ooze was waist deep and the undercurrent pulled at his feet. Everything was so heavy. He was so tired it took all his energy and focus just to inch along the slippery ground. The smell choked away his remaining breath and, once again, tears streamed from his right eye, above the cheek Angst had attacked. Ivan felt himself give up as the Vex’kvette swept his feet from underneath him, engulfing him in glowing orange.

  As he drifted along with the
current, helplessly consumed by the ooze, his thoughts were on the humiliation wrought by Angst. It had been continuous, and embarrassing, and it hurt. He dwelled on these thoughts for what seemed like an eternity. They burned and roiled in his brain for days until, finally, the anger renewed his strength. He drew on this fearsome power to fight and claw to the surface. Ivan pulled his face free of the muck and drew a deep gasping breath. He crawled, slowly, so very slowly, to the nearby bank. When Ivan finally reached ground, he dragged himself out of the Vex’kvette with hands he didn’t recognize and passed out.

  The castle was quiet. The usual hustle and bustle of soldiers and staff had been replaced by a somber wariness. Friendly nods and smiles were gone as people shuffled their feet and stared at the floor. An overwhelming sense of guilt had taken over, as though everyone had been pressured into helping a friend do something terribly wrong and now bore the weight of that secret. The sense of urgency had been replaced by a feeling of morose wrongness.

  Rook entered the large throne room and cautiously inspected the perimeter. Guards stood between the tall marble columns that outlined the room. The queen sat on her throne, lost in conversation with the new advisor, a tall man dressed in bright clothes, who reached into the air dramatically with his hands as he spoke. The man sat to her right, resting on the edge of the king’s throne. To the queen’s left stood the princess, openly glaring at the advisor as though she’d caught him stealing.

  Rook knelt before the queen and bowed his head. “I’m here to report, Your Majesty.”

  “Where is Tyrell?” Queen Isabelle asked tersely.

  “He has taken ill. It seems—”

  “Report, then,” the queen ordered curtly.

  “Every magic-wielding person we could find in the capital has been placed in the dungeon.” Rook swallowed hard, and his shoulders struggled to hold up his armor.

  “Excellent. How many of our soldiers were lost?” Isabelle asked, smoothing out her gold and crimson dress.

  “None, Your Majesty,” Rook answered.

  “None? Were the magic wielders that incompetent?” the odd-looking man questioned, sounding a bit disappointed.

  “I don’t know.” Rook paused, as he would’ve typically said ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘sir,’ but Aereon didn’t appear to have a title. “It’s, well, you see, they all came willingly.”

  “They what?” Aereon and Isabelle asked at the same time.

  “We had expected a battle, even planned on casualties, but there was nothing. We didn’t even have to bind them. They lined up to be taken.” Rook shook his head in confusion.

  “So...fine...then we are safe now. Right, Aereon?” the queen asked, seemingly hungry for her advisor’s approval.

  Rook coughed to clear his throat. “That’s not all, Your Majesty.”

  The queen sighed, obviously wanting to return to her conversation with Aereon. “What else, Rook?”

  “Something is wrong. They came willingly, but they refuse to speak and they won’t eat,” he said, trying not to shuffle his feet. “It’s as though they aren’t really there.”

  “You aren’t making any sense. You said they were all in the dungeon!” Isabelle fumed.

  “Yes, my queen. It’s taken over a week to round them up. To go that long without eating...at least one should need medical care by now.”

  “Are they using magic to escape at night while staying in the dungeon during the day?” Aereon asked as he stood, rising from the edge of the king’s throne.

  “I don’t know, but that’s what I would assume,” Rook said reluctantly, unwilling to share any information with this man.

  “Then kill them,” Aereon advised.

  “Sir, they aren’t even fighting us,” Rook shot back.

  “As the queen’s advisor, shouldn’t you investigate the situation yourself?” Princess Victoria interrupted.

  Aereon looked at the princess, his gaze lingering as he painted her with his eyes and licked his lips before accepting her challenge. “Take me to the dungeon, soldier.”

  Aereon followed Rook out of the room. As he departed, the queen became quiet and reserved, focusing on something far away.

  Victoria shivered in disgust as she watched Aereon leave. “Mother?”

  Isabelle didn’t respond. Victoria leaned forward to inspect the glass eye and found a maelstrom of dark angry clouds.

  “Mother, you have to stop this. There’s no reason to imprison the magic wielders. It’s madness. He wants to kill them!” Victoria proclaimed urgently, hoping to snap the queen from whatever held her attention.

  “It’s for the safety of Unsel. You’ll understand when you’re older, child,” Isabelle replied distractedly.

  Victoria stood in front of her mother and grabbed her shoulders, forcing the queen to face her. “How could you trust this stranger? How could you let him sit in Dad’s seat? You’ve threatened war for less.”

  Isabelle’s brow furrowed for a moment then she blinked rapidly as if coming out of a trance. She made brief eye contact with Victoria before gasping loudly. The queen cowered and winced, and light flashed in the glass eye. The flashes stopped, and Isabelle became distracted once more.

  “I’m finding Tyrell, and we’re going to fix this,” Victoria announced in disgust and stormed out of the throne room.

  When they arrived at the dungeon entrance, Rook was shocked it didn’t stink. The stench of torch oil and sweaty prisoners had always stolen Rook’s breath. But now it was as though someone had freshened it with spring air from a mountaintop. He led Aereon down several flights of stairs to the underbelly of the castle. The advisor had said nothing since leaving the queen, but appeared more and more wary as they descended.

  “Why do castle builders always have to bury dungeons so deep underground?” Aereon asked rhetorically.

  “Sir?” Rook glanced at the advisor. “I suppose to keep people from escaping.”

  Aereon grabbed the back of Rook’s armor and pulled the soldier to a stop. “I didn’t require a response from you. Now show me to the prisoners. I want to be in and out of this vermin-infested hole as quickly as possible.”

  Rook took a deep breath, barely restraining his desire to beat the man unconscious. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  They arrived at the bottom of the stairs to find a burly guard in dark leather armor sitting at a table. “You’ll need to sign in for him, too, Rook.”

  Rook signed a thick book to get access for himself and Aereon. The guard checked the signature, nodded, and stood to unlock a sturdy iron door. Aereon knocked on the door as they passed through, as though to verify its durability.

  In spite of torches every ten feet, the dungeon was dark, cold, and clammy. Unlike the castle, which had been built from various colored stones, the dungeon was more like a cave that had been carved out of the solid ground. They walked down a long stone tunnel with more iron doors on both sides. At the end of the hall was a door much larger than the rest.

  Rook stopped in front of it and faced Aereon. “This is where we’ve been keeping them. It’s the largest cell and typically reserved for groups of rioters.” He opened the door to show an enormous cavern-like room that held several hundred people. Everyone looked up at their arrival, but they remained oddly quiet.

  For the first time since leaving the queen, Aereon acknowledged Rook as though he were a person. “Thank you,” he said with a greasy grin. “Please allow me a few minutes to question some of the prisoners.”

  “Go ahead,” Rook offered, gesturing to the magic wielders with his hand.

  “I mean to say, I would like a few minutes alone with them.” Aereon’s grin wasn’t as friendly now, and he moved his arms about oddly as he spoke, as though painting a picture in the air with his hands.

  Rook smelled something strangely familiar, something distracting, like a perfume. Then he remembered it was the flowery scent his wife had often worn before she died. A sadness entered his soul, but then he shook his head to clear the memory. It took a minu
te before he could focus on Aereon. “I’ll need approval from the queen before I can leave you here alone. Unless I’m locking you up, of course.”

  Aereon smirked. “You’re an intelligent man with a strong will. I respect that. Let’s go back to the queen and ask for approval. She seems to be a patient woman with spare time for bureaucracy.”

  Rook considered this before finally relenting. “Five minutes. That’s it. If I hear anything I don’t like, I’m coming in,” he warned.

  Aereon smiled triumphantly, and Rook left, closing the door behind him. Most of the prisoners ignored Aereon, sleeping or pacing or scratching at the dirt. Two men sitting in the middle of the room looked up. One was old, his tan linen clothes well-worn and a gray beard covering most of his wrinkled face. The younger man’s light brown hair was matted with sweat. He stood and wiped his hands on his coarse homespun shirt.

  “What do you want?” the young man asked defiantly.

  Aereon looked away from the young man to observe the others. “There aren’t any prisoners in here, except for you two.”

  “Wait—”

  Aereon pointed three fingers at him, and the young man flew to the wall, slamming against it silently. He attempted to yell, but no sound escaped his mouth, and he struggled against a constant barrage of wind that held him in place. The other prisoners instantly blinked out of existence. The older man stood and waved his arms in circular motions. A pitch black hole opened beneath Aereon’s feet.

  “I see,” Aereon said as he hovered over the hole. “So he created the image of fake prisoners while you provided the real ones with the means to escape. I wonder where this portal would’ve sent me.” He casually moved aside to solid ground. With his other hand, Aereon pointed three fingers at the older man, lifting him into the air. The two magic-wielders clawed at their throats, gasping for breath. Aereon brought his fingers together, and the men silently slammed into each other face-first. Their bodies continued to smash together until their hands dropped from their throats and hung limply at their sides.