“Gross,” Tarness teased. “I’m going to collect firewood.”
“Still, that just isn’t right,” Hector said, shaking his head. “I’ll see what I can find to eat.”
When Victoria finally pulled away, Angst nodded gratefully. He avoided eye contact while unfolding their tent.
“Some hero,” he said in a small voice.
“You’re doing great,” she answered sincerely. “You’re my hero, Angst.”
“Yeah?” he asked, standing up a little straighter.
“Of course you are, silly,” Victoria said, almost rolling her eyes.
“Your Majesty?” Dallow asked. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting, Dallow,” Victoria replied. “You want to know about your eyes.”
“Yes,” Dallow said hungrily.
“I kept trying to see in Melkier.” Victoria walked over and held his hand. “In spite of Hector’s confidence, I don’t completely understand.
Dallow licked his lips in anticipation, his breathing irregular as he concentrated, trying to control it.
“I don’t know what will happen with your eyes,” Victoria said finally.
“Oh,” Dallow replied, sounding distraught.
“But somehow you will see again!” Victoria said hopefully. “Of that, I’m sure.”
“How?” Dallow’s grin was wide, and he gripped her hand tight. “When?”
“I don’t know how, Dallow,” she answered. “But I think it could happen tomorrow.”
61
Unsel
Tyrell entered the infirmary with the help of a guard. The smell was normally enough to keep him away, even when ill or injured. The pungent odor of medicines overlaid with a thick scent of sickness and decay was poorly masked by a potpourri dish that only made things worse. The room seemed deafeningly silent after the recent battle, and Tyrell all but collapsed against a nearby table. He refused to lie down in front of the soldier, hating the weakness he’d already displayed.
“Go get the physician,” Tyrell muttered around a thick tongue, pushing the man away. “She’s probably tending to wounded in the hall. Tell her it’s poison.”
“Right away, Captain Guard,” he said, his face concerned.
The soldier rushed from the room. Within seconds, there was a crash in the hallway followed by a grunt. Undoubtedly the guard or physician tripping over one of the surgery pans. He wished she would be careful, and hurry. He rarely fell ill, and the kingdom faced far too many unknowns for him to be confined to bed rest. Whatever poisons were slowing him, the physician would have a cure. Tyrell sluggishly turned his head to greet her, gripping his stomach to keep his insides inside.
Vars stood at the entrance, his blade dripping fresh blood, his lip twitching as a malevolent grin spread across his long face. Tyrell sighed helplessly, too weak to even wield his sword, too close to death to speak.
“The physician won’t be coming,” Vars said. “But I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.”
Melkier
King Gaarder took a long draw of warm thickwine. He felt cold, and weak. His old hands shook as he emptied the last of the bottle into his goblet. Gaarder’s tongue was dry and heavy from drink, and his heart weak from the death and destruction under his rule. Half his city was gone; the devastation wrought by dragons and magic had literally reached his doorstep. All Gaarder could see from the entrance of Melkier Castle was wasteland, and crater. When they’d shut the castle doors, shadows of guards were burned into them.
He had lost his tears and succumbed to a sort of emotional exhaustion. Gaarder’s heart wrenched painfully with every breath, and each drink numbed his pain so barely. Crloc had been right about the dangers of magic, but even he couldn’t have foreseen such raw power. How could they possibly defend themselves now? At this point, there was nothing left—no kingdom, no hope, only survival.
Nicadilia floated into the room, closing the door behind her. She smiled at her father before nervously inspecting their surroundings. They were alone.
“My daughter,” Gaarder slurred weakly. He waved her over. “Join me for a drink.”
Nicadilia walked to her father and glanced at the bottle. “The wine is gone, father,” she said. “There’s nothing left.”
Gaarder burst into tears. Dropping his goblet to the floor, he covered his eyes in shame. The goblet dented on impact, and the last of the thickwine ran onto the tile floor.
“I was a fool,” Gaarder sobbed. “Crloc was right, but so was Angst. Princess Victoria came as an ally, and now we either go to war with Unsel, or we surrender.”
“No!” Nicadilia yelled. “We cannot surrender!”
“It’s time we set aside our pride, Nici,” Gaarder said. “While our kingdom still remains at all intact.”
Nicadilia swallowed hard and reluctantly leaned forward to give the king an awkward hug around his neck. Her ears buzzed loudly, and the ruby ring on her finger glowed. It urged her to squeeze harder and tighter.
“What is this?” Gaarder asked, looking down at the ring.
“I can’t,” Nicadilia said aloud to the ring, hyperventilating from panic. “He’s my father.”
There was a dark whisper in her ear. “He was.”
Nicadilia tried pulling away from the embrace, but her hand thrust forward to his chest like a talon. It gripped through the king’s soft tunic hard enough to pull at the flabby skin beneath. Black sparks from the ring dove into the king’s heart. Gaarder writhed in his chair, grasping at her hand but unable to move it. The queen regent pulled at the gripping hand with her other, desperate to stop the attack. A bright red hue surrounded the ring, and the king’s heart raced faster and faster under her fingertips. The old man pushed at her arm and his feet flailed helplessly, until he stopped moving entirely.
Rohjek
Five Unsel soldiers waited at the Rohjek border with a Fulk’han prisoner in tow. A gag was tied tight around the Fulk’han’s mouth, and heavy rope bound his hands behind his back. He looked angry and leaned to one side as though favoring a wound.
Three Rohjek knights of the Red Brigade approached fast, the hardened red leather of their chest armor easily visible. They stopped barely across the border and saluted politely, their hands flaring upward over their right eyebrows.
“We received your message but hours ago,” a Red Brigade knight stated. “This is your prisoner?”
“Yes, Guldrich here needs an escort to Fulk’han,” the Unsel soldier replied. “He carries a message for their leader, from Princess Alloria.”
The soldier from Unsel dismounted and handed the reins of Guldrich’s horse to the Red Brigade knight. The knight nodded politely as he stared down the prisoner.
“Is there anything else we need to know?” the knight questioned.
“Ah, well, his tongue’s been removed,” the soldier said. “And he’s been stabbed between his ribs. Honestly, I’m surprised he lives.”
The Fulk’han struggled in his ropes, yelling loud enough that dark, bloody spittle drooled down his gray chin.
“These Fulk’han are formidable,” the knight remarked. “How fares Unsel?”
“Unsel remains steadfast,” the soldier stated proudly. “As always, we appreciate the support and assistance of Rohjek.”
Each side saluted before the small band of soldiers from Unsel rode off at a gallop. The Fulk’han waited until they were out of sight before yelling at the brigade knights and struggling against his restraints. The leader of the knights dismounted and untied him.
“Is it true, that you are without a tongue?” he asked.
“I wath,” the Fulk’han said with a wince. “Itsh almotht grown back.”
“Unsel is lost to us then?”
“For now,” the Fulk’han stated bitterly.
Guldrich rode his horse around the Red Brigade soldiers, like an animal set free. Drool and blood from his mouth made him appear ravenous as he stared after the Unsel guards who had delivered him. Guldri
ch spat on Unsel ground before crossing the Rohjek border and galloping off to Fulk’han.
Nordruaut
Niihlu stood before the wall of a large glacier. He stared down at the long handle of an enormous axe sticking out from the wall unnaturally. The great, curved blade could be seen deep within the frozen confines of the wall. Niihlu braced himself for the cold as he removed his furs and leathers. Powerful young muscles contracted in the sub-zero conditions of northern Nordruaut.
“How did you know this would be here?” King Rasaol of Nordruaut asked the tall, thin man beside him. “No one hunts this far north.”
“I know things, Your Majesty,” the man replied.
The man looked oddly out of place among the accompanying Nordruaut horde on their wooly bookeen mounts. He wasn’t quite as tall as the Nordruaut, but stood just shy of seven feet. The man could have been a hundred, or no age at all, with his bald head and hairless face. He was garbed in long brown robes, which flailed about wildly in the northern winds.
“Niihlu has defeated many to wield this foci,” Rasaol said. “He is a mighty hunter. Will he live?”
“Eh.” The man shrugged. When he saw the king displeased at this response, he embellished. “He was not born to wielding a foci, but I have conditioned him to do so. It will be damaging, but he is my test.”
“We cannot be weak before our enemies,” the king said thoughtfully. He looked at Niihlu and nodded.
Niihlu shivered, naked in the icy grip of winds and winter. He gripped the long handle of the foci, it sang to him shouting its name Ghorfjend The Blitz. Its power flowed through his veins like streams of ice.
“The foci is mine!” he yelled victoriously then paused. “Wait, what is this?”
Shards of ice formed over Niihlu’s hand, crawling up his arm and across his chest. He instinctively pulled his head back as a sheet of ice covered his neck.
“This is why he had to be naked,” the old man said calmly.
Niihlu screamed for a moment as an icy shell formed around his mouth and over his head. It enveloped his body, and Niihlu remained unmoving, a frozen statue.
“He is dead?” the king asked, astonished by the sight.
“Maybe,” the old man replied. “This is where it gets interesting.”
A crack like thunder made the otherwise sedate wooly mounts shuffle nervously. Several more followed, and bits of ice chipped away from Niihlu. The wall split down the center, large shards breaking away, each landing with a noisy thud in the deep snow. The split grew wider until the giant axe could be pulled free. The ice around Niihlu shattered, shooting in every direction.
“That’s why we aren’t standing next to him,” the old man stated, brushing away chips of ice.
Niihlu turned to face the other Nordruaut and held the weapon high in triumph. They cheered and yelled at his success. Niihlu approached the king, who gasped as thin sheets of ice formed about the Nordruaut’s naked body and fell to the ground like frozen sweat. The blade of the great battle axe hissed and smoked with cold demeanor. A white light surrounded it, far brighter than the snow. All watching Nordruaut winced at the blinding weapon.
“This doesn’t feel right!” Niihlu grimaced.
“You weren’t meant to wield it,” the old man replied.
“I’m so cold,” Niihlu yelled. “It hurts.”
“And it always will.” The old man smiled. He waved his hand dismissively and a dark vortex appeared. He stepped into it and was gone.
Vex’steppe
Maudusta was one hundred and seventy three. An old man by any measurement in Ehrde, and as Iroquia of the eight tribes, he was the eldest to reign over the tribes of Vex’steppe. In spite of the tight, curly white crown of hair surrounding his bald black head, the wrinkled dark skin on his face and hands, and his thin bare arms, there was a deep and powerful energy he contained that none would challenge.
The night brought cold in the desert, and he stood like a young man, naked save his waist wrappings. He breathed deep of the dry, dusty air. He longed for his wife, the beautiful Driandra, former Iroquia of the Berfemmian female tribes who had provided him so many sons and daughters before she passed. He dug his bare toes into the still warm sand and sighed deeply, staring into the brazen starry skies that covered his desert end to end.
All was silent. There wasn’t a single whisper in the quiet sands to alert him, but experience had taught him to know the air, and it moved wrong. Maudusta gripped his stadauf tight—the twin-bladed staff crunching loudly as he placed it firmly in the sand. He squeezed the staff harder, feeling the carvings in the white decorated handle. Maudusta lowered his head and concentrated.
“I won’t be killed by you, or your daggers, ANduaut,” he said.
“I know your weakness, old man.” ANduaut’s voice echoed in the sands from everywhere and nowhere. “You will die by my hand, and as your son I shall become Iroquia.”
“My son was lost weeks ago to the great battle of sea and wyrms,” Maudusta said sadly. “You who came back are not the same person with your red ring. You are no longer my son.”
Maudusta ducked as a dagger flashed where his head had been. He struck out with his stadauf, only to split the open air. He listened, and felt, waiting for ANduaut’s next movement.
“I’m still your son and it is time for you to pass,” ANduaut’s voice surrounded him. “Now!”
A blade bit Maudusta’s side, and blood trickled down his waist. There was pain in his abdomen when he reared back to avoid another strike. Maudusta stood erect, his stadauf perfectly vertical to Ehrde, and listened. He heard the gentle whoosh of steel and lifted the staff to block.
“Impossible,” ANduaut said.
Maudusta swung at the source, striking deep into a second attacker. His son had not come alone. He lifted up with all his strength, ignoring the sloshy sounds of tearing skin and gut.
“It is only impossible that you are here, my son,” Maudusta said calmly. “You and your friend died, and you must die again to be at peace.”
The end of Maudusta’s weapon dropped to the sand. A great darkness formed around his son’s companion, now visible in the brightness of the moon. The man looked hopeless, and desperate. He dropped his dagger and reached out to Maudusta.
“It’s so cold,” he pleaded. “Please don’t let the Dark Vivek take me.”
“Your choice is made and is not mine,” Maudusta stated. “The darkness you represent is just the beginning.”
The second attacker disappeared into a dark smoky vortex, gone forever into a ruby ring that shattered to dust. Twin daggers thrust deep between Maudusta’s ribs, and he arched his back in pain, refusing to scream.
“I’m sorry, father, but this is our way,” ANduaut said, ripping the daggers free. “It is time for you to pass, and the tribes to war.”
62
“What is this? What’s going on?” Angst asked.
They floated over the Vex’steppe desert, looking down at the half-naked body of an old, dead man.
“Niihlu has a foci? Gaarder is dead?” Angst continued.
“We’re dreaming again,” Victoria said.
“But this isn’t a foci dream.”
“No, Angst, I don’t think it ever was,” Victoria said.
“These are your dreams, Tori?” Angst asked. “This whole time we’ve been sharing in your dreams?”
“Yes, Angst,” she said apologetically. “This is why I didn’t want to share a tent. I have no confidence in what I can do, and I wasn’t sure my dreams would work. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed,” Angst said. “I don’t understand why we didn’t go into a foci dream, but if all we’ve seen is true—”
“I believe it is,” Victoria said.
“Can you bring us to Rose?” Angst asked. “We need to find her.”
“I’ve never been able to control where, or when, I’m taken in my dreams,” Victoria explained. “It just happens...oooh, like now.”
The desert faded away.
The home of Angst and Heather
Heather and Janda hid behind nearby trees, watching, and waiting for a sign from Scar. After shrinking to puppy size again, he lay unmoving in the destroyed doorway of the cottage. Heather took cautious steps around the tree, poised to leap to safety in spite of her pregnancy.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Janda asked.
“I have to know,” Heather said.
Pulling her shawl tight around her arms, Heather cautiously approached Scar. When she saw the lab breathing, she rushed to his side and dropped to her knees. The red welt from his namesake looked irritated—the scar appeared fresh from belly to back along the pup’s ribs. Heather patted his head gently, and Scar’s tail wagged. She looked back to smile at Janda and noticed flames hovering over one of the woman’s hands.
“Just being careful,” Janda said guiltily.
“Thank you, dear,” Heather said with a smile. “But if Scar grew to full size, I don’t think even your fire could help.”
“Right,” Janda said, letting the flame extinguish.
Scar lolled his head from side to side groggily before coming to. He stood on wobbly legs, sneezed, and shook as though covered in water. Heather looked at Janda and shrugged as the lab pup regained composure. Scar turned around and sniffed Heather, his tail wagging wildly—once again a happy puppy. Heather patted him on the head then stood with Janda’s help.
“Such a relief,” Heather said gratefully.
“I’m sorry about your house, Heather,” Janda said.
“It won’t take long for Angst to fix,” Heather said. “I’m just so glad Scar’s alive.”
“I guess that’s good news,” Janda said hopefully. “That means Angst is alive too, right?”
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