Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  Angst

  Book 4 of Angus the Mage Series

  By Robert P. Hansen

  Copyright 2015 by Robert P. Hansen

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Ronda Swolley, of Mystic Memories Copy Editing, for the copy edit, and Linda Foegen of American Book Design for the cover art and Voltari’s Map.

  Connect With Me

  For reviews, updates on my writing, excerpts from my novels, samples of my poetry, and links to my work online, visit my blog at: http://www.rphansenauthorpoet.wordpress.com/.

  Although I seldom use it, you can also follow me on twitter (http://twitter.com/frummery).

  Visit my Amazon author page at: http://www.amazon.com/author/rphansen

  Table of Contents

  Connect With Me

  Table of Contents

  Voltari’s Map

  Prelude

  The Hunt Begins

  Symptata

  An End of Things

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Additional Titles

  Voltari’s Map

  Prelude

  1

  The early morning air was brisk and salty as it wormed its way under Taro’s threadbare cloak, but he didn’t mind the intrusion; it was more like a kiss from a dear friend than distant kin who wouldn’t go away. The weatherworn path up the steep little cliff was another matter. He had loved it when he was young and vigorous, but with each passing year it had become steeper and more rugged, and the walking stick wasn’t helping nearly as much as it once had. But he was familiar with the exertion, and his task was vitally important. At least that’s what he told himself each morning as he made his daily journey up the steep cliff before the disappointment of another day without a vision.

  He paused in the gray shadow of the cliff and gazed west. The glimmer of light on the sea whispered of the night’s passing and hinted of morning’s birth, and he quickly turned away. He was still a hundred steps from the top, and it would be past dawn by the time he reached the shrine. Not that it mattered; there was no sentinel waiting to be relieved, not since Humphrey had abandoned him. He didn’t blame Humphrey, though; the poor boy had tried for ten years to have a vision before he had finally given up. He shook his head and shuffled slowly forward.

  A part of him envied Humphrey’s loss of faith and wanted to join him, but he couldn’t. He had had a vision. It had happened when he was a young man, and he hadn’t understood the flashing images at all until after the events they depicted had begun to take place. One by one the images had come true, all but the last one. It was that last image that kept him climbing up the cliff each dawn—that and the hope that he would have another vision. There were so few Seers left who had had visions—real visions, not those daft divination spells the wizards used. Take away their spells, and they were as blind to the future as everyone else. But not him! He was an Elder of the Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight! He lifted his head with pride and set his jaw as he plodded up the slope at a slightly faster pace. Then some of the energy fled from him. He was almost upon the most difficult part of his daily climb: the stair. Long ago, someone had chiseled a dozen steep steps into the cliff face to connect two natural ledges. The steps were smooth, and on mornings like this, the dew made them treacherous. So did his bum knee.

  He came to the first step and paused for breath. It was only a foot high, and he used to spring lightly up onto it in his youth. But that was long ago, and now he almost had to sit down and scoot up the stairs backwards like a toddler. Almost. “Return to that from which we came,” he muttered as he shifted his walking stick to his left hand. He positioned it for leverage and moved as close to the step as he could get. Then he hunched over and reached down with his right hand to wrap his bony, arthritic fingers behind the back of his right knee. He leaned against his walking stick and lifted. It was a precarious perch. The staff shook in his uncertain, painful grip and he teetered on his left leg as he dragged the toes of his right foot up the front of the step until they reached the top. Then he slid his foot forward and let go. He used both hands to steady himself with the walking stick while he levered his left foot onto the step. It was time-consuming. It was painful. But it worked—for now. Another year? Another month? He shook his head and positioned himself for the next laborious step.

  By the time he mounted the twelfth—and final—step, his breath was coming in short, raspy gasps. Sweat clung to his neck despite the chilly sea breeze, but he didn’t pause for long. The last bit of the ledge was an easy incline that widened out and bent inland, and the morning was already snapping free of the darkness. He needed to reach the top before the sun rose above the shrine if he was going to see if his vision had been fulfilled. If it hadn’t, he could rest in the shrine until he felt up to going back down the path. If it had come true…

  Well, Taro wasn’t sure what would happen if his vision came true—when it came true. Each of the other parts of his vision had led him to the next one. But this was the last part of his vision, and it would come true here. He had to believe that. But when? He had thought it would happen quickly, but half a lifetime had passed him by while he was waiting for it, and if it didn’t come true soon, the rest of that lifetime would trickle away! Even so, he still remembered the lofty, youthful ambitions he’d had when he had started out on his quest so long ago. But as the passing days grew into weeks and months and years, those ambitions had faded. So had his hair and muscle tone. Now, all he could hope for was to live long enough to see his vision fulfilled, and whatever happened afterward didn’t really matter anymore. It was ironic, really: he was a Seer who couldn’t see past the vision that had held him in place at the shrine for so long. It was as if time had frozen in that future moment that had yet to come and it wouldn’t thaw out again until that moment got here.

  Seer, Taro scoffed as his walking stick tapped out a rhythmic tune. Only because I had a vision—one vision. He shook his head as the familiar sadness descended upon him. One more vision than anyone else has had. The Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight used to be something in Weji’s day, but after centuries of dwindling numbers and dwindling visions, there were almost no real Seers left. Oh, they still tried to have visions, but it just didn’t work anymore. It was as if the gods had gone to sleep and the Seers were floundering in the darkness they had left behind. He scowled and the clacking of his walking stick became more urgent as he cursed his blasphemous doubts and redoubled his determination to have another vision before he died. It had better hurry up.

  When he reached the point where the path leveled off, he finally slowed to catch his breath. The sun was above the eastern horizon, still half-hidden behind the shrine. It gave the decrepit building a quaint aura that made the crumbling walls and collapsing roof look rather serene, as if the sun itself was blessing it. The overgrowth of trees and vines only made it seem more idyllic, as if nature itself was gently cradling the shrine in its palms. Then he noticed that part of the north wall had collapsed inward during the night, and he stopped. A slow smile eased onto his lips and he took in a sharp, excited breath. At last! he thought. The vision is complete! The collapsed wall, the radiant sunbeams—they were what he had been waiting for ever since he had discovered the old shrine! It was exactly like the image of his vision! Exactly. It didn’t even have the blurry distortion of his deteriorating eyesight. His hands began to shake, and the tip of his walking stick rattled on the hard-packed trail.

  Now what?

  He hesitated for a long moment before plunging down the path through the overgrowth, easily sidestepping the fallen log and familiar tangle of nettles. The wind was softer, warmer up here, but it still whistled through the new opening in th
e north wall. That sound! he thought, feeling as giddy as he had the day he had become a Seer. I know that sound!

  He hurried into the inner chamber. The whistling wind was shrill, as if it was being forced through a broken flute. Rubble tapered from the north and stretched halfway across the first room, and he had to scamper around melon-sized stones to reach the room where he had tried to bring a vision to life each day for decades—without success. But today would be different! He was certain of it! His vision had long ago shown him the sign, and now that sign was here! He pushed aside the tattered, dirty cloth he had hung up where a door had once stood, and suddenly stopped. When the north wall collapsed, it had knocked down part of the back wall of the inner chamber, and there was another room behind it, a room he had never found during those first few months of frantic searching. How could he have missed it?

  He moved closer, tapping the pile of rubble with his walking stick as he approached the fallen inner wall. Some of the stones were loose and shifted position, and he poked at them more firmly. When they had settled more firmly into place, he clambered cautiously onto them, scraping his knees and shins against their sharp edges. It didn’t matter, though; this was what he had been waiting for, and a little more pain, a little more blood was not going to stop him from reaching his goal! It was his destiny to find out what was in that room! He was certain of it!

  When he reached the top of the rubble, he gasped and sagged down onto the stones. The room was a vision chamber—a real vision chamber, not the makeshift one he had been using for all these years. The brazier—a brass one with ornate handles and runes on its sides—seemed to grow out of the floor, and the floor itself was tiled with an ornate mosaic that depicted what could only be Weji’s vision of the Bindergraff! A joyous tear dropped from his eye as he slid forward over the rough slope and came to rest on the floor inside the vision room.

  Blood flowed from his palms as he pushed himself up to his feet and looked through the dust-filled air. Where is it? he wondered, his heart beating more fiercely in his chest than it had in a very long time. He quickly scanned the room and saw a flimsy gray cloth hanging in a narrow opening. The incense chamber! His hands were shaking as he hobbled toward it, a smeared trail of blood spatters following in the wake of his tattered cloak.

  He stopped before the cloth and closed his eyes. He took a deep, calming breath and whispered a brief, reverent prayer to any gods who might be listening, and then he nudged the cloth barrier aside. It was ancient and crumbled at his touch. Chunks of it fell to the floor with a muffled puff of dust. He opened his eyes, and they grew wide with excitement. A strangled gasp caught in his throat as he saw the shelves of incense jars nestled in the alcove. He reached out for the nearest jar and lifted it. It was heavy, and the seal was still intact! He brought it to his chest and cradled it in his arms as if it were a newborn babe. It’s full! he thought, sagging to his knees and ignoring the agony in his right leg. He bent his head over the jar and rocked back and forth. “It’s full,” he sobbed. “It’s full.”

  2

  King Tyr vigorously scrubbed his left hand, silently counting each stroke of the sudsy brush until he reached twenty, and then he moved up to his wrist and worked the brush back and forth in little jerky motions all the way around the wrist until he had made twenty complete revolutions. The forearm was next, and this time he used long, flowing motions, repeating each swath twenty times before moving on to the next one. He was about to scrub his elbow when Captain Blanchard burst into his bath chamber. His hand paused in the middle of the eighteenth swath, and his fingers tightened convulsively around the brush until his knuckles were as white as the lather surrounding them. He scowled at Captain Blanchard—the fool knew better than to interrupt his bath!—and waited.

  Captain Blanchard’s eyes stared over the king’s head and his arms were held stiffly at his sides as he stopped and assumed a perfect military stance. He removed his cap, folded it crisply, and held it lightly in his right hand. His uniform was almost immaculate, but there was a slight blemish on the third button and he had scuffed the tip of his right boot. King Tyr glared at the offending scuffmark and demanded, “What is it?”

  “Sire,” Captain Blanchard said, bowing his head and dropping to one knee. “I beg forgiveness for this intrusion but a matter of some import demands your attention. There has been a—” he paused for a moment “—disturbance beneath the castle.”

  King Tyr’s scowl softened somewhat. Disturbances beneath the castle were not really his concern. They happened on occasion, of course, but—

  His eyes narrowed and he lifted them to study Captain Blanchard’s face. It was a lovely face, perfectly symmetrical with the cheeks angling down to a sharp nub of a dimpled chin. His moustache was trimmed with precision, as were his eyebrows. There was no hint of stubble on his chin, as if he had just shaved (perhaps he had?), and his wavy black hair framed his head like a cowl. His attention to such details was one of the reasons the king had promoted him to the position of Captain of the castle guard, where appearance was of utmost import. “What sort of disturbance,” he asked, his tone soft and deceptively steady as he turned his attention back to his forearm and restarted the swath at one.

  “A loud one, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said without looking up. “It shook the foundations of the castle and echoed through the lower chambers. The servants in the affected section are refusing to return to their stations. They think a dragon is down there.”

  A dragon! King Tyr thought, half-smiling to himself. What would the servants do if they knew there was a dragon down there? Not the kind of dragon they had in mind, of course, but one just as deadly—more deadly, perhaps, since its claws stretched to the far ends of the kingdom and beyond. It didn’t roar, though; the death it brought was as silent as a shadow’s kiss. His smile blossomed as he thought of that shadow and how it had helped maintain order in his land for centuries. He finished washing his forearm before he glanced back at Captain Blanchard, who was still standing at attention with his eyes staring at the wall above him. “You have investigated?” he asked.

  Captain Blanchard nodded. “Yes, Sire,” he said. “I searched the chambers where the disturbance occurred and interrogated the servants at length, but all I have been able to determine with any measure of certainty is that a deafening roar issued up through the floor. The roar was accompanied by a violent jolt that was strong enough to knock dust from the ceilings and walls.”

  King Tyr grimaced as he scrubbed at an imaginary spot of dirt inside the crease where his elbow folded up. “Have the servants clean up the dust at once,” he ordered. “We must not have an untidy castle.”

  Captain Blanchard lowered his gaze to the floor and shuffled from one foot to the other. “They will not, Sire,” he said. “They are afraid the dragon beneath the castle will eat them. I have threatened punishment, but they refuse to go back there until the guard has investigated what lies beneath us.”

  “I have ordered it,” King Tyr said, his tone offhandedly dismissive. “They must obey.”

  Captain Blanchard nodded slowly, but he didn’t leave. While he stood there, King Tyr finished cleansing his elbow and started the long swaths that would wash his upper arm. He waited until he had finished with it and switched the brush to his other hand before he turned to face Captain Blanchard. The man’s lips were pressed tightly together in a most unseemly manner, and there was an unappealing runnel in his forehead that ruined the perfect symmetry of his face. “What is it, Captain?” he demanded.

  Captain Blanchard gulped before he answered, “They are right, Sire. We need to investigate it. There may be old, forgotten tunnels down there.”

  King Tyr turned away and said, “No.”

  “Sire—”

  “I will tend to it myself,” King Tyr interrupted.

  “But Sire—”

  “Captain,” King Tyr said with the sharp tone of an order. “If there is nothing else, please tell Phillip that I require his services.”

&nbs
p; Captain Blanchard looked as if he wanted to continue his protest—that runnel did not sit well on his face!—but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded sharply, bowed slightly, donned his little cap with a crisp, efficient move, twisted on his heel, and strode purposefully toward the door.

  “And Captain,” King Tyr said as he reached the door. “Give the servants my assurance that it is perfectly safe for them to resume their duties. I expect the area to be spotless when I visit it later this afternoon.”

  “Of course, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “Will that be all?”

  “Rest easy, Captain,” the king replied in his most reassuring tone. “There is no need for you to be concerned about this disturbance. I am well aware of what lies beneath the castle, and there is nothing there that need concern you or the servants.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said as he walked briskly out the door. When he was gone, King Tyr felt his own brow furrow and wondered how it affected his own symmetry. He almost rose from the tub to check the mirror, but if he expected to finish his bath on schedule, he couldn’t afford another distraction. He bent to the task of scrubbing his right arm and had reached the elbow when Phillip, his faithful new manservant, entered.

  “Sire?” the young man asked. He was a prim little fellow, this son of Felix—who had served his father and himself for nearly forty years before growing too forgetful to be trusted. It was such an unfortunate task, and he regretted it as much as he regretted anything, but he couldn’t have Felix’s senile tongue chattering away the secrets he knew, could he? Besides, the old man had already groomed his son to take over for him.

  “I have a task for you,” King Tyr said without looking up. “Send word to Rascal that I need to know what happened beneath the castle. He will know what I mean. When he arrives, notify me without delay. Wake me if necessary.”