Angst rested Dulgirgraut on its tip and dropped to inspect the unmoving figure. A mess of light blue hair matted her face and was buried in the sand. A shadow of a memory niggled at him. Hadn’t he seen blue hair when he was chasing Magic through Unsel? That felt like years ago, and he shook away the memory, focusing on the body before him. He gently pushed her hair back, carefully freeing it from its sandy blanket. Her skin was also a light, unexpected shade of blue. Her head was partially sunken into the sand, but the visible side of her face was stunning. She had high cheekbones, very full lips, and a smallish nose. He touched her face, which was cold as death, and ran his fingers down to thin cuts along her neck.
“Wait, those can’t be cuts, there’s no blood.” He frowned. “What are you?”
He placed a hand on her shoulder and jumped back when an eye blinked. She weakly coughed wet sand from her mouth and rolled to her back, lifting her buried arm from the sand. An ugly mess of barbed metal and thin steel nails rose from her sandy bed; her arm was caught in a trap. The clutch was attached to a chain that stretched to a large stone outcrop. The barbs dug wincingly deep into her hand and arms. She didn’t scream, but her face contorted in agony. She looked drained, too exhausted to pull away.
Angst reached for the trap. She shook her head vehemently in warning.
“It’s okay. I’m amazing, I can do anything,” he said, hoping humor would make it a little better.
She barely lifted her head. Even in this weak state, the blue woman was gorgeous, and he couldn’t help but be dramatic. He snapped his fingers, and a bright blue aura surrounded his hands. Her large, dark eye became wider, and she sucked in her lips.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised.
Carefully, Angst touched the tip of a rusty spike. The metal melted away, falling into a heap of brown and copper sand. He stopped changing the trap when all that remained were barbs so he could pull the teeth out manually, figuring it would be better than leaving the nasty dust in her arm. The woman tried pushing away and winced as she fell back on her face. The cuts on her neck now opened and closed rapidly, desperately.
“What do you need?” Angst pleaded. “What can I do?”
There was a loud splash, and Angst looked down at a long fin flapping in the breaking waves. Fin? He hadn’t bothered to inspect her body beyond her hair and face. He saw now that everything below her waist was a silvery shimmer of scale.
“You’re a fish?” he said in amazement.
She stopped struggling, her head snapping up. Thick, dark blue eyebrows frowned over a dangerous glare. “Mermaid!” he heard loudly in his mind. “Can’t breathe!” She grasped at the cuts on her neck. He was such an idiot! They weren’t cuts, they were gills!
“You need water!” Angst dug his hands into the sand under her torso. He wrenched her from her sandy confine and rolled her over to reveal an amazingly muscular stomach and firm breasts. He shook the distraction from his head, looking up at the helpless fish-woman. She smiled weakly.
“Ocean?” he asked.
She nodded. Barely nodded.
With a deep breath, Angst lifted her from the sand. Her body was cold, and limp, and heavy. The mermaid’s head lolled with every rushed step he took. Cold water soaked into his leather riding pants, sapping strength from his legs and stiffening each step. He wanted to stop, but when he looked down, her eyes were shut, her body hanging listlessly.
“No dying!” Angst yelled. An eye cracked open. “I’m not taking a freezing bath with a beautiful...woman, just to have her die in my arms!”
He adjusted her body awkwardly, shifting his arms and fingers so he wouldn’t drop her while trying not to grope anything he shouldn’t. How could she live in this water? It was beyond freezing, even colder than she was. His breath quickened and his heart raced. Everything below his waist was becoming numb and waterlogged. His legs struggled against the water as his feet sought sand. Unsure if she would live through submersion, he slowly lowered her into the water. Like a fish set loose from a hook, her tail flapped violently, freeing her from his hold and knocking him down. He gasped as the water engulfed him.
Angst kicked back against the sandy floor to keep his head above the waves. He spat and coughed, swimming backward toward shore as he struggled to find footing. When his butt finally touched the beach, Angst pushed himself upright. He sat, his teeth chattering, and shuddered violently. The mermaid was nowhere to be seen.
“You’re welcome,” he called out.
A hundred yards away, the silvery silhouette of a large fish with breasts flew out of the ocean only to dive back in. It was the flawless pirouette of a dancer freed from all restraint.
“I guess that counts as a thank you.” He smiled to himself. “Wow, was she something.”
Angst attempted to stand, his knees creaking from the cold, which had seeped into his bones. Submersed to his thighs, he turned toward the beach and took a labored step forward. It was so cold, his stiffness felt stiff. Something grabbed his ankle, pulling him back. It was gentle but firm, at first, then more violent, yanking him hard enough that he fell forward.
“Wait, I—” His face met water and sand as he was dragged out to sea.
Angst gasped for air, flailing his arms as he skimmed over the surface of the ocean. He stopped suddenly, and the woman swam around him twice as he attempted to tread water with his quickly cramping legs.
“Are you okay?” he asked around a mouthful of water. “Why am I out here?”
“You trapped me!” she said in his mind.
“What?” he said. “I freed you!”
She dove under water, and he struggled to shore, which seemed forever away. He had barely moved when she gripped his ankle. Again. He kicked and gasped desperately before being dragged beneath the waves.
12
Unsel
Maarja paced for several steps, which was all the space the hall provided for her long legs. The Nordruaut, who stood taller than the tallest man in Unsel, twice taller than Angst, fit this room like a toddler in last year’s clothes. A white fur loincloth cinched by light leather ties, swayed with every movement. She straightened the white and soft gray fur that barely covered her chest and shoulders, leaving her reddish tanned midriff exposed. Her legs and arms were bare, save for leather arm and leg straps holding ceremonial stone daggers. Her short fur boots, which were meant to be worn outside, slapped the tile floor noisily. Wearing all of this indoors made her feel more confined than the smallness of the room. Her pacing only stopped on the rare occasion when the unnatural shaking seized the room beneath her feet.
Maarja didn’t just pause in her march, she froze as if the very source of the quakes had held her legs to the floor. Her heart raced to break free, and she forced her breathing to remain calm before it was noticed. She’d faced monsters twice her size, killed a wild bookeen mount with her bare hands, and chased down herds of creatures in the hunt without breaking a sweat—but the quakes were unseen, out of her control, and filled her entire being with fear.
She looked at her small friend, Jintorich, who sat calmly on a squat wooden table. His tiny legs were crossed and his staff rested on them. The little man ignored the quakes, and something about that was a comfort. He was an anomaly she barely grasped. A warrior who would’ve fit in her pocket, brimming with bravery and, lately, advice. He had fought fiercely to protect Unsel from the Fulk’han incursion and seemed unalarmed by much of anything, in spite of his size. Maarja had never before seen a Meldusian, but had heard they were all petite in stature. She had yet to hear his story, of how the Vex’kvette had changed his people, but his appearance was striking.
Jintorich’s plume of dark eyebrows slouched like his tall thin ears. Wispy brown hair flowed over his bulbous forehead like a waterfall. His protruding eyes were shut, and he breathed slowly, as if in deep sleep or deeper meditation. Occasionally, a heavy sigh would blow long eyebrow hair over his sizeable toes, which peeked out from under his thick, white robes—the apparent tickle w
ould make him jerk to attention before falling back into his trance.
It was no surprise she was so fond of him. He battled like a tiny warrior but was patient in every way she wasn’t. It was as if he were the most powerful person in the castle, hidden in the most unassuming package.
“I’m jealous of your reserve,” she said.
“And I of your energy,” he squeaked in his tiny voice. “You look ready to break through the wall.”
“I’ve considered it,” she confided, dropping to the floor and crossing her legs. “This room is too small.”
“That’s a matter of perspective,” he said with a wink, his thin ears raising high over his head.
“Heh.” Her chuckle wasn’t really that polite. “I just hate being made to wait.”
“Did you expect something different when you agreed to be Ambassador?” Jintorich asked.
“I expected...”
“Tarness,” he finished.
She’d told him about the large black man, more than once. Tarness was always on her mind, and the distraction frustrated her to no end. He wasn’t Nordruaut, merely an oversized human. She didn’t even know how well he could hunt! But he’d looked at her like no other, and she chided herself for not taking him on the spot.
“Yes,” she said, looking up, brushing fine platinum hair from her face. “That’s the reason I agreed to come.”
“But not the reason you were asked?” Jintorich stood.
She looked into his little black eyes. “Jarle, my skadii, is worried about civil war or worse. He fears Eastern Nordruaut would attack the smaller nations.”
“So you come to enlist the help of Unsel?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“Of Angst,” she admitted. “And his weapon. Jarle believes there could be another weapon of power, and worries that Eastern Nordruaut would march if there was a wielder.”
“I always thought the Nordruaut were hunters, not warmongers.” Jintorich scratched his jutting chin with a thick fingernail.
“There is a story, but this is not the time to tell it,” she said with regret. “We used to be warriors, thousands of years ago. A great leader taught us that war only leads to destruction and death. That war was nothing more than longing for things we already possessed. We gave up the march of war for the glory of the hunt. Twenty years ago, something happened, and there was a split of East and West. There’s been no civil war because both sides are evenly matched.”
“If they have a wielder of foci,” Jintorich continued for her. “Jarle hopes that Angst will be on his side to keep the balance, to avoid war.”
“Yes.” Maarja bit her lip and stood again to pace. She was done with this conversation. “Aren’t you also here to see Angst?”
“Indeed,” Jintorich stated. “And his foci. My people need to understand—”
“My people need him first,” she snapped, almost in a panic. The words had come before she thought, and she instinctively covered her mouth, but did not apologize.
“There is no concern, my friend,” Jintorich stated with a winsome smile. “I am very patient.”
Before he could explain further, the door opened.
Vars entered the room with an oily smile that made Maarja want to start the hunt now. Despite his advanced years, she could tell he would be a formidable opponent for a minute. Maybe two. Tall, for a human, with shoulders strong enough to carry the thick old steel armor covered in gold leaf. His piercing eyes studied the room like a veteran before a sneer of disgust took over his entire face. He showed no fear or concern at her size, and she reassessed—it might take three whole minutes to break him. Maybe.
“My sincere apologies, Ambassadors,” he said with the barest of nods. “The queen was called away on other duties.”
“Queen?” Maarja said in surprise. “She was crowned? Why were we not invited?”
Vars’s eyes grew and his gray cheeks seemed to suck inward. “Of course, you are correct,” he said through a set jaw. “She has yet to be crowned. It is a title of courtesy.”
“How long must we wait?” Maarja asked.
“There is much preparation for Queen Isabelle’s funeral.” Vars sighed impatiently.
“Any word on Angst?” Jintorich asked as he stood. “Or his companions?”
“Just that they live,” Vars acknowledged with a chill in his voice.
“Then, by Her Majesty’s command,” Jintorich bowed, “we will continue to patiently wait.”
“We will wait,” Maarja agreed with less conviction.
Vars looked from the small man to the enormous woman and raised a curious eyebrow before nodding once and departing.
“They don’t know what to do with us,” Jintorich said, staring at the door. “But they won’t ask us to leave.”
“I want to leave,” she admitted. “I feel like I should return to my people.”
“We are where we need to be, for now.” He sat down and placed his staff in his lap.
“Don’t you worry about your people?” she asked.
“I have no concern. We are one. One of many,” he said with finality. “I would like to know more about Angst and his foci. Would you tell me that story?”
Maarja smiled. With a grateful sigh, she removed several furs to reveal tight leather undergarments. She’d been dying to share this story, having practiced it many times in her head. She raised her hands and held out her fingers.
“We heard them through the woods a hundred leagues off, like they were a legion of soldiers,” she began in a whisper. “We pushed through the trees to take them off guard, and you wouldn’t believe their faces. You could taste their fear...”
Wilfred the Short had somehow miscalculated. He drummed his thick fingers on a pile of dry parchment as he pondered. He’d been sitting right by Angst the night his friend had lifted that giant sword, and immediately knew the man was meant for something more than filing papers. In spite of being a wielder, Angst had trained and befriended many soldiers. He was close friends with Isabelle’s daughter, and was, maybe, smart enough to understand his potential.
At Victoria’s prompting, Wilfred had advised the queen to send Angst on a quest. He’d known it would be dangerous but also realized that if Angst was successful, they would both advance. Angst would finally become the hero he longed to be, and Wilfred would be recognized, once again, as a prominent advisor.
He coughed, and wondered if he wasn’t allergic to the paper dust in the filing room. Instead of being rewarded for his exceptional counsel, the queen had punished him with Angst’s job. It was such a waste. Wilfred was still well-connected. His network reached throughout the castle like a spider web that stretched far beyond these walls. All nations knew his name despite never having met him. His goal had always been intelligence for the greater good. He knew how to get it, and how to make sense of it. He breathed in bureaucracy and exhaled knowledge, but down here he only exhaled boredom. Where once he’d said, ‘Poor Angst,’ he now said ‘Poor Wilfred,’ and wondered if he would be found decades later in a pile of parchment and dust.
How could he have let this happen? The princess herself had encouraged him. But noise and rumor had it she’d also asked the queen to send him here. Even after months of bitterly being wedged between the cellar and the real world, he had a hard time believing Victoria was evil. But, why else would she hide him away for so long? Did he deserve this punishment?
The door creaked loudly as it rushed open, letting in such bright light that he winced and held up a hand against its brash entrance. The candle nearest the door went out, and several pieces of parchment flew off a nearby table, rocking in the air until they landed on the dusty floor. Hours of sorting slowly drifted to the ground.
A figure entered the room, and he could barely greet it with a grunt.
“Please, only by appointment.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Or make your request with the clerk and your document will be available in seventy-two hours, hopefully.”
The figure cont
inued its approach, dragging a stool directly across from him and plopping onto it. Alloria was dressed in a teal corset and black leggings. Her face was painted to match her attire. A single strand of honey-brown hair curled over her eye, and the rest of her hair was hidden by an old crown. While her clothing was slightly mismatched, the queen regent stunned, and Wilfred gasped at her beauty and importance.
He stood quickly from his own stool, papers on his lap falling to the ground, and knelt then realized he was behind a table. She chuckled as he knocked over laws and declarations to make his way around and kneel properly before her.
“Your Majesty,” he said with his head lowered, his thin, unkempt brown hair tickling his forehead.
“Wilfred, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Highness.” He couldn’t help but look up.
Her full lips broadened to a smile that melted every ounce of bitterness in his heart. This was his moment.
“You’re a friend of Angst.” She twirled her free lock of hair. “He’s spoken well of you.”
“He has?” Wilfred asked in surprise. He’d assumed Angst was upset and had the princess relocate him as punishment.
“Indeed.” She smiled, urging him to rise. “He said you’re one of the smartest, most competent men in Unsel.”
“He did?” Wilfred asked. He stood as tall as possible. “Well, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Now more than ever, Unsel needs you.” She leaned forward, her cleavage pressing up and together. “I need you.”
The room shook for a second as the ground quaked. The princess yelped and lurched forward. Wilfred caught her by the armpits, holding her upright but at arm’s length.
She pulled back and brushed dust from her bodice. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It’s coming, and we need you now.”
Wilfred frowned and nodded, otherwise ignoring the presentation before him. “Your Majesty, I will always serve Unsel, however you need me.”
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