There was a gentle burst of burgundy glow from the sword.
“Was that a chuckle?” Angst asked hopefully. “I just want to understand. Why are you so reluctant to help?” He placed his hands on the base of the blade and reached up to each side of the hilt. He lowered his head reverently and pleaded, “Please tell me.”
“At least it’s a reaction,” Hector said from above.
Angst yelped, gripping the sword tightly to keep from falling back. “I hate it when you do that.”
Hector leaped from a tree branch fifteen feet overhead, his arms out and his body straight as he flipped in the air to land soundlessly on the ground. Angst had never completely understood Hector’s connection to magic, but was always amazed by it. Strong and agile, yet thin and wiry, the man could climb trees like a monkey, move silently as a cat, and fight like a cornered badger. Even watching him kill was beautiful, in a twisted sort of way. And all the weapons he could wield at a moment’s notice...what was that about?
His friend peered after the princess with his gray wolf-like eyes. He drew his thumb along a thin scar that ran the length of his chin. When she was out of sight, Hector placed both hands on his hips and arched his back until it popped noisily. He rocked his muscular arms back and forth then lifted one leg at a time as if warming up for a run.
“Tarness, Dallow, come on out!” Angst shouted with a hand cupped around his mouth.
“Why do you think Tarness and Dallow are here?” Hector looked around the nearby wood.
“I thought everyone was going to leave me alone, but so far I’ve seen Tori and now you,” Angst said. “I figured everyone else would follow.”
“I wasn’t expecting her to be here,” Hector admitted. “That’s why I hid in the tree. She’s bright, that one. I think she’d make a good queen.”
“Good, because I think she already is one,” Angst said, his heart heavy for his friend. “Wait, so you don’t hate her anymore?”
“I never hated her. Not in the least. I just didn’t think she’d be safe—and still don’t,” Hector said. “I also can’t tell if she’s good for you. You’re happier with her around, but conflicted. Like you’re a teenager with a crush.”
“So you came out here to give me girlfriend advice?” Angst was dumbfounded.
“Is that what she is now?” Hector crossed his arms.
“No.” Angst crossed his arms.
“Right.” Hector shook his head.
“If I can’t get some alone time, I’ll head back to camp.” Angst reached for Dulgirgraut. “I can figure this out later. Arguing isn’t going to help.”
Angst grabbed the handle and marched away, letting the foci drag behind him.
“Wait, Angst.” Hector caught up, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t come to argue.”
“That’s new,” Angst snapped. “What is it then?”
“Do you remember your sealtian?”
“I remember that you tried to teach me,” Angst said, chuckling at the memory. “You said I was better at dancing. I’m awful at dancing.”
“You’re right, you are a terrible dancer.” Hector cracked a smile, and Angst wondered if it hurt. “What do you remember?”
When he was younger, he used to watch Captain Guard Tyrell use sealtian to teach the queen’s guards how to fight with swords. They would spend hours practicing the choreographed moves with their blades, repeating the stances over and over until they blurred together in, well, a dance. Tyrell used to tell them they’d have to master all thirty if they ever wanted to beat him in a duel.
“I recall being embarrassed that I was so bad at it,” Angst said, his cheeks warming. “There seemed to be a lot of falling, and sword dropping.”
“That’s all you got out of three months of training?” Hector asked.
“I could probably do the first two,” Angst said, hesitant to admit it. “Maybe.”
“Want to do the first?” he asked, pulling his arms in awkward stretches over his head.
“Now?” Angst looked around, hoping Tori was back at camp. “You’re serious.”
Hector reached behind his back and pulled a longsword from neverwhere. He held it out, studying the edge before nodding in approval.
“How do you do that?” Angst asked. “Wielding weapons when you have none.”
“Deep back pocket.” Hector winked. “You never completely understood the purpose of the sealtian, how they taught you to make the sword another appendage, like an extension of your arm.”
“That’s how Chryslaenor felt,” Angst said, remembering how amazing it was.
“You’ve mentioned that these things might be alive. If that’s true, the princess is right. Slapping won’t help.” Hector ran his hand along the flat of his blade. “They seem to be more than weapons, Angst. Dulgirgraut and Chryslaenor are like companions. They need to be wooed like women and treated like friends. Taken care of like you take care of your own body. Well, maybe more like I take care of mine.”
“That sounds really odd,” Angst said hesitantly, ignoring the jab.
“The sealtian is the only way I know to make weapons a part of you,” Hector said, now facing Angst. He let his legs bow slightly and held his sword out, palm down and perfectly horizontal. “I try to do these every morning...when you’re still cuddling, of course.”
“Cuddling?” Angst raised an eyebrow.
“Er, sleeping.” Hector winked.
Angst smirked and shrugged. He lifted Dulgirgraut horizontally with one arm and balanced with the other, following his old mentor’s lead. A gentle red hue surrounded the blade. He could do this. He had to. Tori would keep him away, keep pushing him away until he did. She— The glow flickered out. Crap. Taking a deep breath, he tried to refocus, lifting the sword vertically over his head until both hands met. A red light surrounded the sword once again. It didn’t help that she kept yelling at him. Pushing him. She was starting to remind him of his wife. Heather... He missed her, he wanted to see how pregnant she was, and hold her in his arms without being yelled at. Angst shook his head and concentrated on the sword, reaching out to it with his mind as he lowered it in front of him until it was horizontal to the ground. This was useless. And a waste of time. They should’ve been rushing to Rose instead of doing calisthenics. He certainly hadn’t had to exercise with Chryslaenor; it had just worked. The top of the blade touched the ground, and Angst sighed deeply.
“It was a great idea, Hector,” Angst said apologetically. “I really appreciate it.”
Hector ignored Angst, lifting one arm over his head and curling the second to create a crescent shape. He bowed his legs and bent over fluidly, stepping onto the ball of his foot. Hector had made him follow these moves hundreds of times, but he was too distracted, and it just didn’t feel right.
“Thank you for trying,” Angst said. “But it can’t be this simple. I’m sorry, but I need to find my own way.”
Hector barely nodded in acknowledgment, and Angst knew his old friend wouldn’t stop his sealtian out of respect for old ways he didn’t completely understand. Angst headed in the direction Tori had run off, feeling guiltier now than when he’d arrived.
9
Azaktrha
More than anything, Rose wanted to sleep, but the cold, moist hand on her bare shoulder made her shiver. She moved to wave it away and screamed in pain. Her arm had to be broken; it felt far worse than a dislocation. Pulse racing, she tried to clear the fuzziness from her brain, tried to remember how she’d got here, or where here was.
One arm still seemed to work. Shakily, Rose struggled to push herself from her gritty stone bed. Heavy eyelids tried luring her back to slumber, but that annoying wet hand remained. Rolling over to escape it was a big mistake. Everything hurt, even her mouth, which wouldn’t close. Rose began to shiver, feeling feverish flashes of hot and cold.
“What ih goig ohn!” she said. She coughed, and orange splattered onto the ground.
Like a surprise tsunami, the hunger reached out from
her core and sought her next meal. Her body wanted to heal, and it was so overwhelming, she worried it would eat her alive. Rose whimpered, and an unfamiliar little voice in her head echoed the whimper. That echo frightened her far more than the pain she was just becoming aware of. She allowed a trickle of life force from the clammy hand to feed her. Cool darkness filled her core, fighting that pain. When the whimpers became a whisper, she stopped.
The hands tugged weakly, insistent without being rough. Still, the pain surged again, and she wanted to yell at them to stop, but her jaw had locked up and wouldn’t move. It had to be broken again. This was how it had felt when Vars struck her at Ivan’s funeral. Frustration and agony squeezed tears from her eyes. Rose reached up to her chin and set her jaw back into place with a muffled cry. The warmth of healing quickly numbed the pain, but it was using up her reserves. She knew her snack only teased of a full meal. After several minutes and more than a few tears, she could move her jaw.
“Get your hands off me. You’re not safe,” she said roughly to her unknown companion.
She repositioned to sit and heard a loud scrape, as a bone sticking out of her right thigh caught on the ground. Shock had hidden the pain, until now. It was so overwhelming she didn’t even scream. Her stomach wrenched, trying to vomit, but only more of that lovely orange goop came out. Why was everything orange? Her spine ached, and she was grateful she couldn’t see it, too.
What had happened to her? Memories flashed of her captor, a creature the size of an island, that had brought her to a hole, right into a hole in the middle of the ocean. She remembered jumping. How far had she fallen? Why was she not dead?
Slowly looking up, she saw a dark sky without end. The air was stale and smelled a little like fish. Their fall had created a small crater, and the big dumb sword was lying next to her in it. Rose wiggled her fingers and smiled—at least it wasn’t attached to her hand anymore.
“I hate you,” she said darkly. “I absolutely hate you. I wanted an adventure with friends. I never asked to be a hero, or whatever it is you’re trying to make me. You were supposed to be for Angst, and I really want you to leave me alone.”
Wet feet slapped the ground as her pesky companion hopped around to face her. She wanted to roll into a protective ball and go back to sleep, but even the slightest twitch brought more pain. Her hunger was growing—the snack had been like trying to appease a lion with a cracker, and her healing required so much more. In spite of this, somehow she was in control, though just barely. Enough to make eye contact without devouring it. And it was definitely an it. The creature looked sort of like a deflated gargoyle. Blue fish scales covered its entire body, save for a foot wide swath of pale skin that stretched from torso to chest. It had a humanoid face, with enormous black eyes and a sky blue circle on its forehead that looked like a birthmark. Its ears were tall fins that waved gently with every breath from the gills along its neck. Its inappropriately pawing wet fingers were webbed and seemed too long, with the ends thicker than the base. It was scrawny, weak after she’d stolen its strength, and didn’t appear threatening. Until it smiled.
“Stop smiling.” She shuddered. “Those teeth.”
It quickly clamped its lips over its teeth and looked down.
“I’m sure you can’t help it,” she said. “I just have a thing for gross teeth, and you have a lot of them.”
It nodded in agreement.
“You understand me, but you can’t talk?” she asked. “I wish you could tell me where I am.”
“Azaktrha,” she heard in her mind.
Its mouth hadn’t moved, and it pulled at her healthy arm.
“Was that you?” she asked. “Did you speak in my head?”
“Yes,” it replied.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” she screamed, making it scurry away in fear. “Ever!”
It inched forward, its large eyes looking sad. Up close, she noticed a blue, oblong circle on its forehead, as if someone had spilled a dollop of ink. It was careful not to touch her, but waved for her to follow.
She presented her destroyed leg and arm with her good hand, as if they weren’t obvious enough impediments. “I’m not going anywhere fast, not until I heal, which means eating.”
It jumped back.
“Not you. I think you’re even smaller than Angst. Obviously not enough of a snack for the mess I’m in.”
Over the creature’s shoulder, torchlight flickered against shiny buildings. Why were the buildings shiny? The creature now seeming unwilling to grab her hand but still urged her to follow with desperate waving movements.
“I know, you want me to come with you,” she said. “I can’t. I don’t even know if I’ll ever heal from this.”
As her eyes adjusted, she made out more buildings, a lot of them, as if they were in a city. Five smallish figures approached from a long street. Her companion hopped up and down as it waved its long, webbed fingers. She tried to move again, but the broken bone of her leg crunched and pressed outward.
“Ahhh,” she cried out and stopped moving.
It scurried away to hide behind a nearby building. Torchlight reflecting off its beady eyes.
“Very sneaky,” she called out. “I’m sure they’ll never find you!” She whispered to herself, “Creeper.”
The figures stopped to wield weapons.
“Maybe you guys can help me,” she said. “Where am I?”
They rushed toward her, scrambling on all fours, daggers and sticks with hooked ends clacking on the ground with every stride. She swallowed hard. Maybe staying had been a mistake. Not that she’d really had a choice. Five fish-men arrived, appearing healthier than the one who’d woken her, though not much larger. They wore an assortment of shells that shone like the sides of the buildings. The tallest one in the center leaned forward and inhaled deeply, his thin tongue flicking against her cheek.
“Great, you’re all creepers,” she groaned, pushing his face away from hers.
The creature chomped down on her good hand, and Rose screamed, pulling back. Her hand was gone. Orange blood sprayed from the stump, as if she were spewing Vex’kvette.
They leaped forward as she screamed, “You bastard!”
An arc of black lightning danced from Chryslaenor to her body. It poured from her eyes to cover both arms. Blessed numbness masked her pain as she rose into the air. The five fish-men jumped back in fear as the dark lightning lifted them with her. They hovered helplessly, their feet wheeling as if they still touched the ground, marionettes on strings of angry black light.
“I hope this hurts,” Rose cried out.
The creatures threw their heads back in silent screams, shrinking as if punctured. Rose’s back straightened with a frightening crack. They scratched and clawed at their throats as her hand grew back and arm reformed, slotting cleanly into its socket. Their legs flailed as her bones noisily mended. Rose licked her lips with the satisfaction of eating any seven-course meal while dusty remains sifted into tiny piles. She winced cautiously when her feet touched solid ground and was grateful to feel no pain. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, reviving breath.
“This place stinks,” she said to Chryslaenor. Flexing the fingers of her once-mangled hand, she added, “I guess I don’t completely hate you.”
She lifted the giant sword with her right hand and successfully transferred it to her left. Her heart skipped a beat; she was no longer tethered! She was finally in control! Rose swung the foci over her shoulder to set it on her back as she’d seen Angst do. Unwilling or unable to lock in place, the sword fell to the ground—crashing loudly as it dug up chunks of dirt.
“But I still hate Angst,” she grumbled.
Unsel
Alloria stretched lazily, arching her back and yawning like a cat. A nearby fire crackled loudly as it battled the cool morning air, catching her attention. She turned her head, staring into the fire and contemplating how the day would reward her cunning. The pieces in play fit so very well together, but she was clever enoug
h to realize that timing was everything. Keeping Vars occupied, without upsetting the wielders, while waiting for Angst to get here before the sinkhole attack and whatever disaster followed...it was a lot to keep track of.
She needed her hero to come fast. Vars was up to something, she knew it. But what if Angst didn’t make it? What if the wielders couldn’t protect her from Vars? She would need more people on her side. She lifted the covers and looked at her naked body with its full breasts, youthful curves, and fair skin. How could she not find support with all of this?
Anxiety crept into her heart, and its beat quickened. She sat bolt upright and blood rushed to her head, her scalp tingling and numb as if it had fallen asleep. She suddenly felt like she’d tackled several bottles of mead by herself, and smacked her lips to check for dry mouth. It wasn’t booze. Flopping back to the bed, she hoped it wasn’t illness—there just wasn’t time for that nonsense.
Alloria pressed on her temples with the palm of her hands, trying to relax. She brushed through strands of hair with her fingers and was surprised to feel skin. Her full mane of unkempt curls felt shockingly thin. She drew her hands back, and chunks of honey-brown hair stuck to her fingers as if glued.
Alloria’s heart raced once again. She gasped as she pulled hair from her scalp like freeing cobwebs from blades of grass. It kept coming, and she kicked off her blankets to roll out of bed and find a mirror. The cold air enveloped her nudity in a chilly cocoon, but she ignored it.
Alloria whimpered in panic, unable to catch her breath at the sight in the mirror. Patches of her glorious, beautiful hair were gone. She looked back to find piles on her pillow, her bed, and a trail on the floor leading to her feet. Her reflection confirmed that she had four distinct, grotesque bald patches, each showing an inch or more of scalp. Another handful of hair came out as if her scalp were disease-ridden. She stared at the fistful of hair in her hand and screamed.
Vars paced the length of the queen’s study, surprised he hadn’t worn a path in the floor. He’d been waiting for forty minutes, and had sent the page to check on Alloria twice. The youth was curtly dismissed, but reported that he’d heard sobbing, and there was a stampede of handmaidens frantically scurrying about the hallway. Vars smirked. She’d needed to be punished, and he longed to know the result. It would be worth the wait.
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