Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  “Then we should hurry,” Abner said.

  “No,” Taro said. “We must wait for Hobart.”

  “Hobart?” Abner prompted.

  Taro waved his hand dismissively and closed his eyes. “I am weary, Abner. Let me sleep.”

  Once Abner had left his side, Taro tried to sleep through the raging firestorm tormenting his dreams—but he couldn’t sleep; he knew that firestorm was but a shadow of what was coming.

  18

  Giorge stared at the gleaming, clear crystal of the snake’s skull. There was something infernally sinister about it. The eye sockets were empty, but there seemed to be an afterimage of a pair of beady, glittering eyes reaching out for him. The mouth gaped like something should have been embedded between its gaping jaws. And where were its fangs? Snakes should have fangs, but this one…

  “There is one chance,” he began, his voice soft, “and only one.” The skull silently, expectantly stared back at him. “To lift this burden,” he continued, “and be undone.” He reached into one of his secret pockets and brought out the huge emerald he had found in Symptata’s first box. “When the Viper’s Breath,” he said, holding the Viper’s Breath next to the snake’s mouth. It was the right size, but he didn’t insert it. Instead, he set the Viper’s Breath on the log next to him and reached into another pocket. This time he held up two jade fangs, each as long as his mother’s poniards, and said, “The Viper’s Fangs.” They would fit perfectly in the toothless upper jaw. He set them on the log next to the Viper’s Breath. “And the Viper’s Eyes,” he added as he took them from his pocket and compared them to the empty sockets. They would be a perfect fit. “Are found again,” he said, setting them next to the others, “and once more merged with the Viper’s Skull.” He turned back to the box and reached in to lift the heavy skull from its resting place. “The curse will end,” he finished. “The quest fulfilled.” He set the skull next to the gems and shook his head.

  “Mother was wrong,” he said. “I was wrong. The curse isn’t over.” He sighed and ran his fingertips over the smooth crystal. “Will it end now if I put the gems into their sockets? Or will something worse happen?” He frowned and examined the box for secret compartments, scrolls, anything that might be helpful. He found nothing and sighed. “What should I do?” he whimpered, staring at the gems, at the skull. Any one of them would be worth a fortune—what price would all of them bring if they were together again?

  He lifted the skull and examined it. It was a simple block of crystal that had been expertly carved—so well done that there was no hint of a tool mark on its smooth surface. He ran his fingers over it, expecting something to happen, but nothing did. At length, he replaced it in the box and started to close the lid. He had it halfway closed when he paused and slowly lifted it again. He left it open and reached for one of the Viper’s Eyes. He held it up to his left eye, saw nothing, then switched to his right eye. The box still had no magic in it, but the crystal skull radiated what looked like a swarm of magical threads tightly bound together. What would happen if its magic was released?

  He slowly lowered the Viper’s Eye into the waiting socket. It fit neatly into place, and when he lifted it again, it came free without any difficulty. He let it slide into place again, and reached for the second Eye. The Fangs were next, and they seemed to graft into place when they touched the crystal, but settled on his palm with but a slight tug. He held onto the Viper’s Breath for a long time before he finally slid it into position—and nothing happened. Like the others, it was also easy to remove again. Is the skull just a fancy holder for the gems? he wondered as he stared at the completed skull.

  * * * * *

  Giorge blinked. It was dark, and what little moonlight there was did little more than free shadowy shapes from darker recesses. One of those shapes was staring at him, and he had to blink away the afterimage of the Viper’s Skull before he could see her clearly. “Momma?” He asked, glancing around the clearing. “I must have fallen asleep,” he suggested.

  “You didn’t look asleep,” she said. “You didn’t even notice my approach. If you were asleep, you would have. I made more than enough noise for that.”

  He frowned. She was right. He would have heard her approaching. She had trained him to do that before he was five. He didn’t feel rested, either. He felt—

  How did he feel? Numb? Empty? Drained? Something like that? What had happened to him?

  “Are you all right?” his mother asked as she put her hand to his forehead. “You look pale.”

  He half-smiled. Only she would say something like that in this darkness. “I’m fine,” he said, certain it was untrue and not wanting his mother to worry. What had happened to the afternoon? It had been near midday when he had sat down for a rest—and opened the box. Now it was night. “How long was I gone?” he asked. “I mean, how long have I been here?”

  “Hours,” she replied. “I waited as long as I dared, and then left camp shortly after dusk. It was not easy to track you.”

  “Well,” he said. “We should be getting back, then.” He tried to stand but couldn’t. He frowned and half-smiled. “At least my legs got some sleep.”

  His mother didn’t smile as she reluctantly lifted Symptata’s box and put it on the log beside them, where it perched as if it were as light as a feather.

  As he began massaging his thighs, she put her hands behind his ankles and flexed the knees. He fought the urge to whimper as the circulation returned, and when the tingle began to subside, he stood up and hobbled around.

  His mother didn’t look at him as she said, “I saw what was in the box.”

  He winced and didn’t look at her. “At least the curse is really over now.”

  His mother looked up and waited until he met her gaze before she said, “Are you sure?” She paused, stood up, and moved in front of him. She reached out and gripped his upper arms and said, “That thing did something to you. I saw it.”

  He tried to turn away, to keep walking, but she held him in place. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “You saw how pretty it was.”

  “I saw something,” she said. “It was as if a candle’s flame connected you to that thing.”

  Giorge shrugged. “It didn’t feel that way to me,” he said. It was true. He couldn’t remember anything about all those hours that had passed him by; to him, it was as if nothing had happened. He had sat down at midday and a blink of an eye later, it was midnight. Where had all those hours gone? Hours! How long would he have sat there staring at the Viper’s Skull if she hadn’t come looking for him? “What do you mean?” he asked, as much to avoid thinking about what had happened as it was to find out what had happened. “How was I connected to it?”

  Her brown eyes were dark, brooded as she studied him. “It was like a rainbow was flooding from it and into you,” she said. “I tried to rouse you, but you were oblivious to my presence—until I closed the box. What happened to you?”

  I don’t know! Giorge thought as he smiled. “Nothing,” he said. Magic? What did it do to me? “I’m fine.”

  “No you’re not,” his mother said, then glanced around them. “We’ll talk more of this later, after we get back to camp. You can walk now?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “but there isn’t anything else I can tell you. I don’t know what happened after I reassembled the skull.” He turned back to the log to retrieve Symptata’s chest, but his mother grabbed his arm.

  “Leave it,” she said. “The curse is over. Let it rest.”

  He thought about it for a long moment and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous to leave lying around like this.” He pulled free from her and retrieved the box. “Maybe Embril will know something about the curse,” he said. “She’s a librarian. I meant to ask her about it, but we were riding too hard to get here. Then she flew off with Lieutenant Jarhad before I had a chance to bring it up.” If it’s magic, he thought, she’ll see it, won’t she? She’ll be able to tell me what it is, won’t she? “M
aybe the Skull was taking the curse away?” he offered, not really believing it.

  His mother said nothing as she led him out of the clearing. They walked in silence, their footfalls barely noticeable behind them, but Giorge’s mind was raging. What had happened to him? Why couldn’t he remember it? Was the curse really over? Was it beginning again, in a completely different way? What would happen if he took the gems from the Skull again? Anything? Nothing? Could he take them back out again?

  He shook his head. If only Angus were here for him to talk to about it. But he was dead, wasn’t he? The curse had killed him, too.

  19

  The lead Ortis reined in his horse and held up his hand. As they approached him, the Ortis next to Hobart said, “There is an old man and boy in a mule cart at the crossroads. They have been sitting there for some time. It could be a trap.”

  “I don’t see how,” Hobart retorted. “Bandits would know better than to set up an ambush there. You can see it coming for a mile in every direction. They can’t hide between the crossroads and the caravan stop; it’s been stripped of trees. They can’t come up from the valley, either; the slope is too steep for climbing. They might come from the trees to the east, but they’re too thick and we’d hear them long before they reached us.”

  Dagremon lifted her staff and the orange gem glowed fiercely for a few seconds. When she lowered it again, she asserted with calm certainty, “They are alone.”

  “Why wait, then?” Ortis asked.

  “Is their mule cart damaged?” Hobart asked. “If it has broken down, we may be able to assist them.”

  Ortis’s eyes grew a bit distant for a few seconds as he talked to himself, and then he said, “I see nothing wrong with the cart or mule—unless the mule is being stubborn. Also, except for the old man’s staff, they do not appear to be armed.”

  “Not armed?” Hobart repeated, glancing at Dagremon’s staff. “Who would travel through these lands without some means of defending themselves?”

  “The old man could be a wizard,” Ortis suggested, “or a holy man. He may not need other weapons.”

  “No sense in tarrying any longer, then,” Hobart said as he urged Leslie to a quick walk. There was no sense in putting off the encounter. If the old man meant them harm, they were as ready for it as they could be. If not, there was no reason to delay. They had to pass the crossroads on their way to Hellsbreath, and he wasn’t going to hide in the bushes to avoid an old man and boy.

  Two Ortis fell in behind him, and Hobart quickly passed the third, who joined his other selves. Dagremon lingered a few horse lengths behind them, as if she were the rear guard instead of a traveler under their protection.

  Hobart approached the crossroads as if it were his own and only tugged on the reins when he was a few yards from it. Ortis was right about the old man; he was muttering to himself like one touched by the gods. The young boy—almost a man, really—pointed at Hobart. The old man reached up and pushed his oversized cloak’s hood back, and a tangle of long gray hair puffed out on the wind. There were age spots on his gnarled hands, and he sat with his right leg thrust out straight. Bum knee, Hobart thought, like Old Yaggith. Watch the staff—and the young man.

  He rode up to the front of the mule cart and reached up to take off his helmet. He squinted against the brightness of the sun and said, “Well met, Old Man.” It was foolish to let them catch him with the sun in his eyes, but there was no avoiding it now. The best he could do was to turn Leslie to help reduce the glare.

  “Well met, Hobart,” the old man said, just before he screeched like an old crone and fell forward. He might have fallen out of the mule cart altogether if it weren’t for the boy catching hold of his cloak and holding him in his seat. Hobart urged Leslie up beside them, where the sun was to his side, and gave what little help he could while staying in the saddle. If this were a ruse, he wanted to be ready to ride out of it if need be.

  The old man turned to face him, and his eyes were wide open, staring blankly up at him—through him. His mouth hung slack, and he was panting like a dog—but instead of yapping, he was snapping off disconnected words, “—sea—tomb—fire—water—air—death—SYMPTATAAAA.” The last morphed into a scream, and then the old man fell slack in the boy’s arms, shuddered, and grew still.

  Dagremon rode quietly up to him and leapt gracefully from her pony to the mule cart. Her hands were swift as they examined him, and then she shook her head and leapt back to her pony. “He will recover,” she said, mostly for the boy’s benefit. “Has he had many visions?”

  “He is Master Taro, the Great Elder of The Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight,” the boy said, as if it were an answer to her question. He turned to Hobart and added, “He has been waiting for you, Hobart.”

  Hobart frowned. What business could this Great Elder have with him? For that matter, what was this Sacred Order of Prophetic Sight? In all his travels—which were wide and quite diverse—he had never heard of such an order, so how could he have crossed them? And what were these visions that Dagremon mentioned? Were they like the spells diviners cast? If they were, they were pretty much a waste of time, weren’t they? “What business does he have with me?” Hobart asked.

  “I do not know,” the boy said as he looked down at the old man leaning limply against him. “I only know that he has been waiting for you to arrive.” He looked up hopefully and asked, “Do you not know?”

  Hobart shook his head. He didn’t put much stock in diviners. They didn’t know enough about the future to make it make sense, and he preferred to be in the dark about such things, anyway. He was a firm believer of the old adage that a man who believes he is about to die will find a way to make it happen. He’d seen it too many times in The Borderlands to dismiss it. He had even seen men fight through a battle only to choke on a bone or drink themselves to death afterward. No, there was no room in his life for seers. He shook his head and looked to the north. “We should be on our way,” he said to the others.

  “We should stay,” Dagremon responded without looking at him. “I fear he has much to tell us that we need to hear.”

  Hobart turned to stare at her. “Why?” he demanded. “What good are diviner’s spells, anyway?”

  Dagremon met his stare with one of her own and said, “He is no diviner. He is a Seer, one of old, and his presence bespeaks the change that has come upon us.”

  “What change?” Hobart demanded. “You’re speaking in riddles.”

  “No,” Dagremon answered. “It is you who hears them.” She dismissed Hobart and turned back to the boy. “What is your name, young one?”

  “I am called Abner,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter as he cradled the old man’s head on his lap.

  “Well met, Abner,” Dagremon said with a slight bow. “What can you tell me of this Taro?”

  Abner shrugged. “He came to our village a month past and spoke of doom and destruction. I was not there to listen, but what he said sorely touched those who heard him, my father among them. I was sent to aid him on his quest.” He faced north and added, “He said we needed to reach Hellsbreath quickly, but we have tarried here for three days.” He turned his attention to Hobart. “He has been waiting for you, Hobart. He saw you in a vision.”

  “Tell me, Abner,” Dagremon continued before Hobart could respond. “What awaits you in Hellsbreath?”

  Abner shrugged. “I was not one he gifted with the visions,” he said. “Perhaps it is for the best? Those who were act like they are running from demons. I only know what he has told me, and that has been little. He seeks a wizard there. Whether that wizard is the source of the upheaval he dreads or the end of it, he does not know.”

  Upheaval? Wizard? What is this nonsense? Hobart wondered.

  “Indeed,” Dagremon replied. “Such is the nature of visions, is it not?”

  Abner smiled sheepishly and said, “He curses them no end, let me tell you. I have never heard such language from one of his years.”

  “This wizard,” Dagremo
n asked, “did Taro mention his name?”

  “Oh, yes,” Abner said, nodding vigorously. “He speaks it often, especially when he dreams. His name is Angus, and he wears a black robe. Flames are all around him, but he doesn’t know why.”

  Angus! Hobart thought. What does Angus have to do with his visions? “All right,” he said. “We will stay with you until he rouses. Then he will tell us what he knows.” Everything he knows, Hobart vowed to himself. Whether he wishes to do so or not.

  20

  Grayle was tempted to take another bath—her sixth in two days—but restrained herself. Instead, she walked around her old rooms sorting through her things to make sure they were all there. Some of it—a comb, a brush, her favorite gown and shoes—were missing, but she was too thrilled to be rid of Argyle to be worried about them—for now. There would be time for punishing the thieves later.

  She smiled at her bedding. It was a rich, plush fabric whose surface felt like caterpillars rubbing against her skin. And the pillows! Argyle had slept on rock, and these pillows were soft. She used to love those pillows, but now she found herself sleeping on the cold floor beside her bed. It was a dreadful thing, really. Her back didn’t take it very well at all, and it had taken Phillip—her only visitor so far—nearly half an hour to work out the kinks. But that was going to change, soon. Her uncle was coming to visit her, and she would be dancing tonight! She smiled, a mischievous little smile that showed only a little teeth as she dipped her chin forward to make her look even tinier than she was. She would be doing more than just dancing….

  Her uncle had ordered her to remain in her chambers until they had talked, and that would be today. What did they have to talk about, anyway? She was back, and she was going to resume her life like she always had when Argyle went away. And she wasn’t going to be Argyle ever again! She would tell her uncle that she had spent three years as Argyle without a break, and now it was someone else’s turn. She had done her service to the king, and she was finished. If he didn’t do what she told him, he would regret it! Even kings had weaknesses, and she knew what his were. All of them.