Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  She smiled broadly as she looked at his resting face and said quietly, “I will stay awhile.”

  Selchia was still as beautiful as the day he’d found her. Her hair was the same length and the same deep blue without a single gray showing. Her pale skin smooth and soft. She seemed to maintain the same level of energy, strength and inner power typically boasted by younger women.

  Johnis, on the other hand, carried those thirty years of labor and life within each wrinkle of his weatherworn face. His few remaining hairs fringed the edges of his head and made small white clouds over his ears. At sixty-three, he was still strong—stronger than he had any right to be. Most of his acquaintances had passed, but something kept his heart beating, and his mind sharp.

  He never questioned, out loud, their incredible luck at sea. Every day they would fish and return with a winning catch. It was a hard, well-earned life that was often rewarding and fulfilling. He didn’t even think to question Selchia’s apparent youth, he was grateful for it. Johnis did not regret that they hadn’t bore children. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, and it was more time with his love that he didn’t have to share.

  They returned from fishing on the last day of summer to find a young man waiting by their front door. The youth gawked at Selchia with slack-jawed awe. She smiled coolly and took the message he held.

  “Thank you, son.” Johnis rolled his eyes and handed the youth a copper.

  The young man stared at the copper then back at Selchia. “Sir, your daughter, is she...may I...?”

  Johnis coughed to cover his curse, and Selchia smiled slyly. “You will stop gawking at my wife and be gone before I give you the front side of my boot!”

  This shocked the younger man from his stupor and he began to stutter. “Your...your wife. Sir...ma’am, my apologies. Your wife? Yes, I’ll be off.” And with a final glance at the beautiful blue-haired woman, he sprinted down the road.

  “Just lucky that I married such a beautiful woman.” Johnis grunted, rubbing the back of his bald head.

  “What does the note say, dear?” Selchia asked affectionately.

  “Oh, yes,” Johnis replied, having been distracted from the true purpose of the young man’s visit. He mumbled as he read then squeezed his eyes shut to fight back tears. “It’s my brother, Cahleb. He’s dying.”

  Their eyes met meaningfully, and Johnis nodded in acknowledgment at her knowing look.

  “We haven’t been close since...well, in years, but he is family.” He looked at her with concern. “I must pay my respects.”

  “I know, but I can’t...if you are away I won’t be able to keep you...” She chewed her lip.

  “You don’t have to explain. You never have to explain,” he replied without a hint of question in his voice. “I know your...love for the sea keeps you close to the shore. I will go by myself and be back in a matter of days.”

  “No, I don’t think that is wise.” Selchia sighed deeply and rubbed her hands together with fret. “I will accompany you, but you must know that travel fatigues me greatly.”

  “I will gladly take care of you as you have always taken care of me,” he replied, kissing her thoughtfully on the cheek. “I’ve been wanting to show you my birth home for years. It will be nice to have the opportunity.”

  She nodded but worry darkened her heart. Johnis had never understood, and never asked why she would not go inland. He had never seen her go further than several miles before turning back. Even those trips required a swim in the ocean or lingering walks along the beach upon return, which he never seemed to mind.

  She smiled at the kiss, but concern still clouded her face.

  The trip was two day’s ride by horse and carriage. The road was easy, the weather was fair, but Selchia showed signs of weakness mere hours into the journey. By the second day, her eyes seemed sunken, her blue hair, normally wavy and wild, rested heavy on her drooping shoulders, and she struggled to breathe.

  “Selchia, let me take you home. I can come back alone,” Johnis offered in a panic.

  It was not his first offer, and the answer was always the same. A shake of the head followed by a firm, “No.”

  Eventually Johnis spied a tired farmstead and smiled, memories of his youth assailing him.

  “I remember,” he said, turning to face Selchia.

  A pained smile lifted her cheek, and Johnis felt a great need to hurry.

  “I remember much, and look forward to sharing it when we return home,” he said with an apologetic smile.

  They hastily made their way past Johnis’s relatives and friends who waited with patience and impatience. They all despised him for not visiting, which made it easier to rush past them with Selchia’s hand in his.

  He broached his brother’s sickbed and, leaning forward, whispered something in his ear. They made eye contact, firmly gripped hands and nodded. Apparently nothing more needed to be said.

  Cahleb looked at Selchia fondly and reached for her hand. He whispered, and she leaned forward to listen to words meant only for her. “Thank you for being my brother’s life, lady of the sea.”

  Selchia was surprised for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears she wiped away with a finger. She touched the wet finger to his forehead.

  “May your passing be peaceful, Cahleb.”

  The room trembled, causing everyone to look about in concern. Cahleb’s hat fell off the nearby nightstand, landing on the dusty floor as the quake became violent.

  Selchia sucked in a deep breath and looked at Johnis in panic. “No!” she cried. “Johnis, run!”

  They rushed out of the cabin and across the yard toward the horses. A whining noise, accompanied by sickening crunching sounds, became louder as the seconds sprinted by.

  Johnis slowed to look in the direction of the odd noises. “Selchia, what is that sound?”

  “Johnis, please! Just run!” Selchia begged.

  The wall of trees standing before them blinked out of existence, consumed by a large beam of black light that reached up to the sky. Black lightning snapped around the edges, biting at the ground. Like a tornadic nightmare, everything behind it was laid waste.

  Selchia pulled and tugged at her stunned husband. “Please, oh please! No!” she begged.

  Johnis turned to his wife, his face longing and desperate. “Selchia, I love—”

  And he was gone.

  The beam slowed momentarily, as though mocking her, then sped through Cahleb’s house and beyond.

  She was too angry to weep, too stunned to scream. Who would do this? Who would let Magic free to run wild through the world? The beast that had been trapped for thousands of years was now able to run rampant across Ehrde. This would change all the rules. Who would be foolish enough to set Magic free of its host? Who was to blame for the death of her beloved husband?

  Then she saw. Following close behind the raging pillar of black light, a short man raced by on a steel swifen. The enormous foci, Chryslaenor, rose high over his shoulder. In spite of his speed, he caught sight of the woman with blue hair and their eyes met. She saw remorse, and pity, and worry.

  Selchia shook with anger, and reached out with her mind. Grasping for the man, for the foci, for some clue as to why this had happened. Every ounce of her yearned to destroy him for what he had taken away, but this far from the sea she was too weak.

  She tried one final time to learn something about her husband’s killer and found it. More loudly than humanly possible, she screamed, “Angst!”

  Then her body formed into a tall swirling waterspout that rose into the clouds and disappeared.

  1

  Angst was frustrated. He paced the empty throne room, circling Chryslaenor. He paused for long moments to stare at the giant sword, his giant sword, which appeared to be dying. Thorny forks of black lighting cascaded across the flat of the blade, sputtering down the long edge, dripping to the floor, and disappearing on contact with the bright marble, like rain evaporating on parched earth.

  He wanted to reach for the
sword, bring it back to life, and bring himself back to life. The song from Chryslaenor was now so distant, he had to squint and concentrate to hear it. But he could just make out the firm warning that Angst should not even attempt to touch it. The sword that had so quickly made all he wanted come true was no longer his. The foci now entrapped the living element of Magic within. Angst had sacrificed his bond with the sword to save the two people he loved most, but the cost to himself was great.

  He was no longer Al’eyrn, no longer able to do amazing heroics. Angst was left with nothing but greener grass, deep sighs, and a fleeting sense of accomplishment that he had done the good he’d always known he was capable of. Removing the bond with Chryslaenor had left behind an empty place that often ached and throbbed with pain. He’d heard stories of people losing hands but occasionally feeling as if the hand remained. Though two months had passed, he sometimes felt the bond with Chryslaenor was still there, but he couldn’t “wiggle those fingers.” He sighed and turned away.

  The throne room was still a mess. Cold and snow fell from the open ceiling to mark the wide path magic had sundered. The giant marble pillars surrounding the room reflected brief sparks of the dark and silver lighting that danced across the long blade of Chryslaenor. Work that should have already begun was lost to the continuous bickering of the queen and her staff, who were unsure whether to rebuild around Chryslaenor or move to safer grounds.

  “Whad are you doing in here?” asked a thick shadow with a thick voice.

  Angst blinked in surprise, unable to make out the intruder’s identity. A tall, obese man entered the room followed closely by a smaller man. They stepped over and around scarred floor and fallen ceiling as they cautiously moved closer.

  “Just assessing the damage,” Angst lied.

  The two men stopped mere feet away before Angst could recognize one—the co-assistant guild-whatever who’d been so rude to him in the file room. Angst inadvertently tensed as the man’s fat greasy lip curled into a jowl.

  “No one is supposed to be in here, we gots work to do,” the big man said with a grunt, jerking his meaty thumb toward the door.

  The smell from the man struck Angst, and he took a step back, closer to the sword. He shook his head in disbelief—the beast didn’t know who Angst was, nor did he seem to remember their last encounter.

  “It’s not safe in here. You need to leave,” proclaimed the co-assistant guild-whatever, with a thick air of self-importance and partial sobriety.

  “Yes, you heard him. This place is tainted with magics.” The thinner, balding man, who was even shorter than Angst’s five-foot-eight, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the entrance. “No one is allowed in here, so get out.”

  Angst focused on the annoying weasel. “No need to be rude. I have permission from Princess Victo—”

  He was cut off by the finger conductor. The assistant guild leader stepped directly in front of him and pointed his favorite weapon right in front of Angst’s nose. The menacing odor forced Angst back another step.

  He wanted to ask if the man bathed in mead, but instead attempted to negotiate one last time. “Look, we don’t have to go about it like this—”

  “The queen has commanded that this room be emptied for ex...excavat...for cleaning.”

  Angst lifted his chin defiantly and raised his voice. “Then you go get Isabelle, and she can command me to leave!”

  The scruffy little guy that followed the guild co-leader like a puppy snorted through his nose, and the bigger man coughed and stood back. Both appeared shocked and upset at Angst’s casual use of the queen’s first name.

  “Did you not hear what Giff had to say?” The little man’s eyes were wide, and he looked up to Giff. “Maybe he didn’t hear you?”

  As though he were suddenly ingratiated to the crown and personally offended, Giff’s face grew red. He pounded on Angst’s chest with his thick finger. “You get out of here or I’ll drag you out of here.”

  Angst’s hands glowed. “You may not remember our last meeting, Giff, but we’ve already gone over this. I suggest you leave now—”

  The room shook and both men facing Angst stepped back. Bits of loose ceiling fell about them. The earthquake began as a gentle rumble, like any number Angst had mistakenly started before gaining control of his abilities. He hadn’t caused a quake in years, but the glowing hands made him appear the criminal. The guildies panicked, grabbing at each other’s arms and gripping tight. Ignoring them, Angst closed his eyes and concentrated. Using his ability to manipulate stone and minerals, he searched for the source. This earthquake came from something other than him. He held his hands out, urging the angry ground beneath them to calm. Just as the room stopped shaking, he felt something else.

  Angst tilted his head to one side and glanced up as a large portion of marble ceiling cracked. Before he could shift his focus to anchor the stone and keep it attached to the rest of the roof, it pulled away.

  “Giff, watch out!” the smaller man yelled. They pushed and jerked at each other in panic but otherwise remained in place.

  The sky was falling. An enormous chunk of marble roof dropped quickly toward them. Without the foci, it required all of Angst’s concentration to keep it from flattening the three of them. He held his glowing hands high and the loose piece of ceiling stopped abruptly, hanging mere inches overhead.

  The two men were crouched in front of him, holding their hands over their heads as though that would save them from sudden death. Angst breathed in deep to renew his strength and smelled iron. A trickle of blood dripped from his nose as he drew in all his willpower and pushed the giant floating rock away. It crashed loudly, landing safely nearby—no longer able to squish helpless people.

  “Giff, he tried to kill you!” the weasel said.

  This perceived threat brought the large man to action. Giff’s head whipped up. His drunken beady eyes narrowed warily at Angst. Weary from saving them, Angst took a slow step back. The larger man, who typically used a finger to warn Angst of his wrongdoings, balled up a beefy fist and swung it wildly. The power behind the strike knocked Angst back. He tripped over a piece of fallen ceiling and collided hard with Chryslaenor.

  Light and sound disappeared. The room blinked as if time had hiccupped. Black and blue lightning shot from the enormous blade, tearing violently through the air. A fierce battle between Magic and Chryslaenor ensued as the foci struggled to maintain its hold on the element. Strands of lightning burst from the blade, reaching, grasping for something. Anything. They found Angst. For a moment, he was surrounded by the angry dark light. He writhed and roared in pain until he managed to roll away. Blue lightning pulled at the black, as though ripping out briars deeply embedded in skin. The lightning reluctantly left his body, returning to Chryslaenor.

  His head throbbed painfully and, as the world began to fade, he watched the two guildies sprint out of the room in fear. It would’ve been laughable if Angst hadn’t felt as though he’d done something terribly wrong.

  2

  Angst awoke at the precipice of madness. His body was covered in numbness or burning, a deep ache penetrating his muscles. Angst rolled to one side slowly then pushed himself up to rest on an elbow. He could only see out of his left eye and blood dripped freely from his nose. None of that mattered. His mind reeled from the vision before him.

  He rested on the edge of a cliff, thousands of feet above an enormous chasm that didn’t exist in Ehrde. A blurry pan of the horizon showed what had to be nightmare. It was miles across and thousands of feet deep, reminding him of a thousandfold Vex’kvette. A deep orange glow carved through its center, no doubt wreaking havoc with everything that made contact. Unnaturally warm, the air wafted with burning ashes and gaseous vapors that burned his lungs. Geysers of water shot into the sky along the canyon edges. The elements were going mad.

  Angst took in a heavy breath and looked at the dark, starry sky. In the distance, enormous winged creatures floated through the air. A half-dozen of the beasts
hung in the moonlight, patrolling the long orange path of the Vex’kvette. One passed a stone’s throw away and the whoosh of wings on air almost pushed him over. A stream of flame poured from its open mouth. Was that a dragon?

  “Hold still, Angst,” said an old companion in a melodic, calming whisper.

  He didn’t listen. Rolling to his back, Angst looked up to see a woman his own age. Her skin was tan, she had a cute pug nose with a little mole on the end, and her long hair flowed about her shoulders like a mane. Aerella was alive.

  “What have you done?” she asked in a husky voice. She shook her head, and tears streamed from her pretty eyes as she surveyed the madness surrounding them. Aerella floated several feet above the precipice, a beautiful specter, transparent against the night sky.

  This couldn’t be right. As Angst rolled to his hands and knees, he remembered just how much everything hurt. He stood, slowly, shakily, and took a deep breath of the heavy, sickeningly sweet air. Something was poking him in the arm and leg. Angst looked down to find his armor in shreds. One piece dug roughly into his bleeding thigh. Sharp metal bent outward from his chest piece and his arm bled freely.

  The shock was beginning to wear off, and his stomach reeled from the pain. He collapsed to his right knee and winced, grunting noisily. Then Aerella was there, her touch like the gentlest of feathers. An uncomfortable tickle filled Angst with warmth.

  “I’m not able to heal all of your wounds while I’m in this state, but this will keep you alive,” she said.

  He coughed up phlegm and blood, wiped his mouth, and peered at her. “Aerella, I don’t understand any of this. I thought... I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be cruel, but I thought you were dead?” Angst had barely gotten to know Aerella. She had escaped the curse of Gressmore Towers only to be killed by Ivan. Aerella didn’t reply and Angst looked around. “Where am I? What is this place?”