Angst Box Set 1

by David Pedersen

  “I liked the kissing better than the crazy,” Angst replied in exhaustion.

  “More armor, Angst,” Nicadilia demanded. “Now, or your friends will be punished.”

  48

  There was a loud thud, and Nicadilia’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. She dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

  “Consider that an act of war!” Victoria said angrily to the crumpled body.

  Angst stared at his friend, first with gratitude then worry and, finally, shock. She had done it. Victoria was the only one free, but it had cost her. An ugly red welt spread across her right cheekbone. Dried blood covered the side of her face along her jaw where blows had cut her skin. Angst felt guilt for not being there and pride that she’d battled her way to him.

  He took in the rest of her and completely forgot about the emptiness consuming him. The chainmail top she wore presented her breasts as if on a platter. Victoria’s thin midriff was bare, and her waist barely covered by a chainmail skirt that reflected the light from nearby torches. Angst didn’t know what to say—it was almost better than seeing her naked. She chuckled at his thought then winced from the bruising.

  “Your jaw seems to have become unhinged,” she said quietly.

  Angst closed his mouth, swallowed back the dryness, and let his eyes shut. They wouldn’t open, but that was okay. He still saw Victoria in that little bit of chainmail armor. She looked so pretty, and he was so tired; it was perfect fodder for dreamtime. He drifted off.

  “No, Angst!” Tori yelled, dropping to a knee and shaking him.

  Angst hung from the shackles, unmoving, his body dead weight against the chains. She placed a hand on his cheek and felt nothing. Almost nothing. She frantically looked around the room, desperate for help. Victoria started to cry helplessly.

  “Not now,” she wailed. “We were so close!”

  “What’s going on?” Hector grumbled from a nearby cell.

  “He’s... I think he’s dead,” she blurted.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tarness said from another cell. “Get us out of here so we can bring him to the sword.”

  Victoria didn’t want to leave him, she felt so helpless. She shook his hand and patted his face. He had to wake up; she didn’t want him to die angry at her. There were so many things left unsaid. If only she could will him to live...but that was impossible. This wasn’t what she had wanted for their future.

  “Now, Princess!” Hector commanded. “While there’s still time!”

  Victoria reluctantly pulled herself away from Angst. Numbness overtook her as she fumbled with keys she had taken from a guard killed on the dungeon stairway. She walked into one of the prison cells and released Tarness from his blue-black shackles. He completely ignored Victoria’s attire, pulled her quickly into his giant arms then took the keys.

  “Go to Angst,” he said in a low voice.

  She nodded and ran back to Angst, tears streaming down her cheeks. Tarness released Hector and Dallow, and they followed him to Angst’s cell. Nicadilia lay on the dungeon floor in a sprawl. Angst hung limply from the shackles, Victoria’s wet cheeks pressed against his. Hector glanced at the princess’s garb and shook his head as he rushed to Angst. Dallow leaned against Tarness, who waited at the entrance, watching the hallway.

  “How is he?” Tarness yelled over his shoulder.

  “Dead,” Hector stated in a monotone voice, his hand against Angst’s chest.

  Victoria let out a bawling cry.

  “Victoria...” Hector said politely, hoping she would contain her grief.

  She continued crying loudly.

  “Your Majesty!” Hector screamed.

  “What?” she screamed back.

  “You take Dallow. Now!” Hector commanded. “Tarness, help me bring Angst to the sword room.”

  Tarness looked almost as upset as Victoria. Helping Dallow along, he seemed on the verge of tears, or breaking something. Victoria was reluctant to move until Tarness practically shoved her out of the way to unlock Angst’s shackles. He lifted Angst’s body like it was made of air, and followed Hector out of the room. Victoria placed Dallow’s hand over her shoulder and joined them.

  “What are you wearing?” Dallow asked, jerking his hand back.

  “Not much,” she said, returning his hand and patting it reassuringly.

  They stood in front of the door to Dulgirgraut’s cell impatiently as Hector analyzed the locks. He rubbed a finger along the scar on his jaw as he sifted through memories of lock picking from his younger years. Victoria walked up to Angst with Dallow close behind. She reached out and held his lifeless hand. It was cold and clammy, and Victoria shuddered helplessly. Dallow patted her shoulder consolingly.

  “Dallow,” Hector said, “We’re in front of a door that has about a dozen different types of locks.”

  “Describe them to me,” Dallow said, his eyes already glowing as he sifted through the volumes of information in his mind. “Quickly!”

  Tarness looked at Angst’s hand in Victoria’s then looked at the princess, longing for his friend to be alive. She looked at him helplessly and shook her head no, confirming that Angst was indeed dead. Every muscle in Tarness’s body clenched with anger.

  “Well, the first lock looks traditional,” Hector said. “I see a circle on top of a tri—”

  “No!” Tarness yelled so loudly they all looked up. “I said no!”

  Tarness shoved Angst’s body to Hector, who struggled to keep him aloft. With a deep breath, Tarness launched his hands forward, burying his fingers deep into the steel of the door. He grunted as he kept pushing them inward until the steel gave way. With an angry roar, he gripped hard and pulled back, wrenching the enormous door and hinges from the limestone frame. Rubble fell to the ground. Hector and Victoria pulled Angst’s body safely away, in wide-eyed shock as Tarness threw the round door down the hallway. It crashed and rolled noisily until embedding so deep into a distant wall, it would rest there forever.

  Dulgirgraut lay on the floor in a pile of dust. At one time, it might have rested on a marble pedestal in the center of the small circular chamber. The pedestal appeared to be made by the same people who had created the monument that held Chryslaenor. Victoria entered the room, followed by Dallow and Hector. They circled the small round chamber as Tarness came in, carrying Angst. He gently laid Angst’s body beside the giant blade. Nothing happened. The large man placed Angst’s hand on the hilt. They watched breathlessly, and still nothing happened.

  “This is your job, Tori,” Tarness said.

  “What?” Victoria said quietly.

  “Angst doesn’t ever seem to completely die,” Tarness explained. “If this sword doesn’t wake him, you have to.”

  Victoria rubbed her hands together and pressed them to her chin. She looked at Hector and Dallow, who were both nodding in confirmation. She approached Tarness and Angst.

  “All those things you wish you’d said before he died,” Tarness said so quietly only Victoria could hear. “Everything you wish could happen but never will...every truth you hide from Angst, and from yourself. Tell him now, or we lose everything.”

  Victoria looked at Tarness in tearful panic, pleading with her eyes for a way out that he couldn’t give.

  “More than anything, Angst wants to be a hero,” Tarness said. “Angst needs to know that he’s your hero, and more.”

  Her Majesty, the royal Princess Victoria, dropped to her knees and gripped Angst’s hand in desperation. She hated this with every fiber of her body. Sharing her feelings, telling the truth about them, even to a dead body, even to someone she loved, was more than she could bear. Holding Angst’s hand did not help. Victoria frantically searched the room for a way to avoid all this.

  “What are you afraid of?” Tarness said.

  “I...it’s just that I...” Victoria said helplessly.

  “I love Angst,” Tarness said sincerely.

  “As do I,” Hector said unabashed.

  “So do I,” Dallow
agreed. “He’s my best friend. I’ve always loved Angst.”

  Victoria’s heart raced in panic, snatching her breath. Beating on bad guys was so much easier than this, but Angst was dead and she couldn’t even feel him. She leaned forward and whispered.

  “What’s she doing?” Dallow whispered.

  “She’s bringing him back to life,” Tarness said quietly, his large eyes filled with hope and desperation.

  Victoria continued to whisper in Angst’s ear. Nothing happened. She fell across his chest and cried, her mail skirt rustling as she shifted her body. She pulled herself up, took a deep breath, whispered in his ear one more time. Gripping Angst’s chin, Victoria turned his face toward her and kissed him firmly on the lips.

  49

  Isabelle’s white hair was so tall it towered over a pale green collar that rose from her shoulders and framed her head from ear to ear. Several well-placed curls dangled over her jewel-adorned ears, barely held back by her ruby-encrusted crown. The queen’s face was painted thickly enough to almost hide the scarring around her fake right eye. She breathed deep, fighting against her restrictive corset. Pale green stitching appeared chiseled into the white brocade of her bodice. She peered over the crowd with every ounce of regality she could call forth.

  The makeshift throne room was nothing more than a too-large hallway, which now barely contained the assembly of noblemen and women, foreign dignitaries, watchful guards, and a certain pensive bewilderment. Unsel had long expected that Victoria would one day become queen—an assumption blindsided by this jarring coronation of a virtual newcomer. Royalty and wannabes had scrambled through weather to squeeze into this small space for a glimpse of who would potentially hold their future.

  The hall was split into three almost-distinct corridors separated by smartly placed marble columns. To Isabelle’s left sat foreign nobility, ambassadors, and honored guests from outside Unsel. On her right, were nobles of the local variety. Lords and ladies who all fell under the queen’s rule.

  The center was mostly clear, making a path for the princess-to-be. She wore white on this day—a long flowing gown of silk and satin, a demure shield that hid everything Alloria. She hated it. The dress wasn’t bold, or shocking, or exciting, and she felt squeezed into being something she wasn’t. She’d worn it not by choice but by command. Isabelle wanted everyone to see this moment as a new beginning, a clean slate for Unsel. Nothing could be cleaner than this dress.

  A brass quintet played quietly as she took slow, meaningful steps down the long aisle. Rays of cold light shot in through the windows, reflecting off her dress harshly, making her radiance appear forced. She looked from the left aisle to the right, smiling graciously as she sought accepting eyes.

  Instead, she found cool courtesy, polite smiles, and reserved concern. There wasn’t a single source of uncontrolled excitement anywhere in the room. Even Vars... Ivan’s father stood at attention, his hands behind his back. He nodded once, urging her to continue as expected, but offered no further sign of enthusiasm.

  She was so desperate for love and acceptance that her heart began to race. Her feet faltered, and her breath hitched in her chest. Her eyes sought the throne. The queen was stoic, unmoving, as she waited. Alloria finally found Tyrell, who gave her a warm smile. The old man didn’t hate her. In spite of his concerns, he was the one person to offer an ounce of acceptance. His smile was enough that she could swallow her panic, catch her breath, and continue the long slow walk to the throne. Alloria looked at Tyrell once more and hoped he didn’t see the guilt in her eyes.

  It had been, perhaps, one of the saddest moments Janda had experienced. She had walked in with a small plate of carved meat for Scar and set it down. In spite of the lab’s illness, he always somehow found the energy to eat, yet this time...he remained still. Janda kneeled to wake him, gently rubbing the dog behind his ears. The lab pup didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Janda had shot Heather a panicked look, unable to speak for the catch in her throat. That was hours ago.

  Heather held Scar in her arms, rocking back and forth with tears streaming down her cheeks. The dark, furry body—even its curious eyebrows, or the tail that was always good for a wag or two—was still. Heather wiped the tears away with her free hand while aggressively petting the dead animal. Janda stood with her arms behind her back, at a total loss for what to do. Heather’s ability to affect the emotions of those around her made Janda cry as well, and Janda hated crying.

  Eventually, she forced herself to leave the room, and then the house. Anything to get far enough away that tears didn’t overwhelm her. The onslaught of raw emotion was taking its toll, and she found herself unable to find consoling words.

  She paced back and forth along a twenty-foot length of Angst-carved path, letting the cold air seep in and cleanse her thoughts. Snowflakes gently tickled her arms, the crystalline shapes resting on her pale skin for an instant before melting away—their uniqueness gone forever. Janda was grateful for the moment of clarity, to finally feel free of Heather’s influence.

  Heather was convinced Scar and Angst were linked, since he had healed the pup with the magical sword. She was also convinced they had shared the same fate; now that Scar was dead, so was Angst. The burgeoning despair was so great Janda could feel the edge of it twenty feet away from their house. She had to convince Heather that Angst could still be alive, before the sadness swallowed Heather whole.

  Janda took one last breath of sharp, cold air and walked back inside, bracing herself for the wave of mourning. She began sniffing the moment she entered the house, and by the time she arrived at the main room, tears filled her eyes.

  “Maybe,” Janda choked. “Maybe this doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

  “He’s dead,” Heather said quietly. “Scar is dead, and Angst is dead as well. I don’t know what I’ll do without him, Janda.”

  Janda collapsed beside Heather. Putting an arm around her friend’s shoulder, she wept uncontrollably.

  Panic was the only thing keeping Rose awake. She was cold and wet, certain that a thin layer of ice now coated her very bones. The long ride on the back of this terrible monster through the stormy ocean was beyond nightmare. While the creature was a continent, large enough to ignore the constant onslaught of twenty-foot waves, Rose was not.

  Another wave crashed into Rose, her legs flew out from under her, and she clutched Chryslaenor with both hands. Desperate for air, Rose breathed in salt water yet again. Choking to the point of gagging, she knew she would drown this time. She longed for a break from the madness, but didn’t want to die. Rose only wished for one brief moment to catch her breath.

  The waves passed, but instead of relaxing, her heart raced, painfully beating against her chest in a bid for freedom. She collapsed, gripping her chest with her free hand, desperate to keep her heart in place. Chryslaenor wiggled, and her bleary eyes grew wide as ooze poured from the wound.

  A long, thin tentacle, no wider than her leg, slapped nearby, seeking the parasite. Several more shot out of the ocean, forcing Rose to scramble behind the great blade to avoid their touch. The tentacles lashed randomly across its back, like a horsetail swatting flies.

  Moments passed and they finally pulled away, mercifully retreating to the dark choppy waters. Rose kneeled carefully to keep from moving the sword. She covered her eyes with one hand and sobbed, while the other remained glued to the hilt of Chryslaenor.

  In spite of the storm and the waves, she could hear crashing water. When the noise became almost unbearable, the creature stopped moving. Rose wanted to weep, but decided she was too exhausted. Could things possibly get worse?

  Rose stood on thin, shaky legs, and turned to face the noise. The view was surreal. A hole in the ocean. Water poured into it from every direction. An enormous, round waterfall into nothing. It didn’t even make sense. As Rose inched forward for a better look, Chryslaenor fell.

  Blood gushed from the wound. A dozen tentacles shot out of the water, hungrily seeking the source of injury.
They flailed recklessly, relentlessly. Rose tried to run, pulling Chryslaenor with her cold-numbed arm. The foci allowed Rose to drag it closer to the waterfall, leaving behind a scar of oozing blood.

  50

  “What are you doing?” Tarness asked.

  Victoria pulled back, while Angst remained unmoving. She looked at him with furrowed brow, surprised her kiss hadn’t woken him. “I thought you said—”

  “I said to wake him,” Tarness said with wide eyes, “not make out with him.”

  “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about,” Hector ranted. “Nothing they’ve been doing is appropriate. She’s royalty, and he’s married!”

  “It’s not like that,” Victoria said in frustration. “I just thought—”

  “I’m sure she just misunderstood, Hector, and now isn’t the time for your bitching,” Dallow said, ignoring her. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “What they seem?” Hector asked, pointing. “What did that seem like to you?”

  They kept arguing, Hector upset about how inappropriate her relationship with Angst was. Dallow convinced Hector just mistook their friendship for something else. Tarness wanted both his friends to leave Angst and Victoria alone. Victoria glared at Angst, embarrassed that she had kissed him, furious that the kiss wasn’t enough, and now upset at what the others were saying. She was so angry, she shook.

  Victoria stood and stared down at her best friend. “Wake up!” she yelled as loudly as she could. The arguing stopped, everyone quieting instantly. She lifted her foot high and stomped hard next to Angst’s head. “Now!”

  His eyes opened, staring up at her like a newborn. Angst tried to sit up and found he could only do so with her assistance. He looked down at his hand resting on the giant sword then up into Victoria’s eyes, and smiled.

  “Thank you for saving me,” he said in a scratchy voice. “I love you too.”