Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  “Thank you,” Angus said, nodding to him as he hurried by. He frowned as he went unchallenged up the stairs and through the corridors. He had visited Commander Garret every day since arriving back at Hellsbreath, hoping to find the king’s orders waiting for him. Every day but this one. The Tiger’s Eye had been taken two days ago, and there was no point in checking, anymore. It was already too late.

  He strode up to Commander Garret’s closed door and turned to the guard standing to the left, “Is Hobart still with him, Lindon?” He was a tall young man with a clean-shaven face and short-cropped yellow hair. His eyes were such a dark brown—bistre?—that it was difficult to separate the irises from the pupil, and his chin was shaped like the rounded tip of an anvil. His uniform was crisp, and his muscles bulged beneath it. He would not be one to trifle with.

  “Yes, Angus,” Lindon replied. “They have been talking for some time.”

  “Good,” Angus said. “Would you ask Commander Garret if I may join them?”

  Lindon frowned and glanced at his companion. “They are likely talking about the orders that came through this morning,” he said. “Perhaps you should wait until they have finished?”

  “Those orders are for Hobart’s Banner,” Angus said. “I am a member of that Banner. Therefore, they are also my orders, and I should be a part of that discussion.”

  Lindon’s frown dipped a bit lower, but his companion—Angus had not met him before, but he looked like most of Commander Garret’s men, average build and dressed in the brown garb of a recruit—nodded and rapped lightly on the door. A moment later, Commander Garret’s muffled voice asked, “What is it?”

  The guard opened the door, but before he could say anything, Commander Garret caught sight of Angus and said, “Ah, Angus. Won’t you join us?”

  Angus was almost through the door before the guard had backed out of the way, and as soon as the door closed, he demanded in a scornful tone, “Have the orders arrived?”

  “Now, Angus,” Commander Garret said. “There’s no point in being surly about it. I know you have been—”

  “Commander,” Angus interrupted. “You do not understand, and I am tired of explaining it to you. Are the orders in or not?”

  Commander Garret glared at him, but before he could respond, Hobart stood up and turned to face him. “That is no way for you to speak to one of his rank, Angus,” he said. “He’s been following orders—”

  “And those orders will lead to Hellsbreath’s destruction,” Angus snapped at him. “You understand the situation even less than he does.” He turned back to the Commander and demanded, “Well?”

  Commander Garret glared at him for a long moment, and then reached down for a slip of paper. It crumpled between his fingers as he stood up. “Yes,” he said, stepping around Hobart and up to Angus. “And I would like to know what they mean.” He held out the paper. “They arrived this morning, by the way. I would have sent word, but I expected you to show up at your normal time.”

  “You should have sent for me anyway,” Angus said through clenched teeth as he accepted the note. It was a simple message personally directed at him—in the name of the Banner

  The Banner of the Wounded Hand is hereby ordered into The Tween to retrieve what has been taken. Once it is found, it is to be returned to its rightful place.

  He began to laugh.

  16

  King Tyr stopped at the bottom of the stair to brace himself for what was about to happen. He had not been in Argyle’s chamber since he was a young man, and the memory of the experience nauseated him. Garish clothing had been strewn haphazardly about, most of it drenched in stains and grime; the furniture had been in such disorder that he was amazed Argyle could navigate through it; the sheer size of the place had unnerved him in a way that the expansive castle hall could never do; and the smell had permeated so deeply into his memory that he almost gagged in anticipation of it as he pushed open the door. “Wait here, Phillip,” he said as he stepped inside—and smiled in relief. Phillip had done a marvelous job of tidying it up!

  The furniture was arranged in a passable way, the clothing had been given a thorough washing and was neatly piled on the stone slab Argyle used as a bed, and the floor and lower half of the walls were nearly—nearly—spotless. The ceiling and upper half of the walls were still covered in soot stains, dirt, and dust, and he quickly turned his attention away from them. If he focused on how much tidier it was than what he remembered, it was tolerable, but how much cleaner might it have been if he had given Phillip more time and more help? No matter; he had a task to do, and there was precious little time available for him to do it.

  He carried the box over to Grayle’s bureau—it looked like a tiny misfit against the humongous shelves, stone slab, table, and chair, but it was the only thing in the room that was properly sized for him. If only the proportions were right! He narrowed his attention to the top of the bureau and set the box down on top of it, shifting it slightly several times before it was in the precise center. Then he took out the little gold key that had caused Grayle—and him!—so much grief. He stared at it for a few seconds, wondering how many of his ancestors had held it in their hands, clenching their teeth so they could do what he was about to do. What if one of them had lost the key as Grayle had done? What if he lost the key now? How would the court explain away his disappearance? Could they explain it away? He frowned. It was a risk he had to take. Argyle had to make an appearance—no matter how brief it may be—and issue orders to have those who had betrayed him brought before him. Since Grayle refused to do it, it was left up to him. In a perverse way, he was glad of the opportunity. What could be more enticing than to experience life as someone else experiences it? How strange and wonderful would it be? At the very least, it would give him insight into Grayle’s reluctance to resume her role as Argyle’s host.

  He inserted the key into its lock, turned it, and the lid of the box sprang open. The Golden Key—a yellow diamond nearly as large as his palm—was nestled in its padded base. It was a beautiful stone worth a fortune, but he would never sell it. Could never sell it. How could he? It contained the most dangerous adversary in his whole kingdom. If Argyle ever revolted, what he knew would completely undermine King Tyr’s authority. But Argyle couldn’t revolt, could he? He was bound to the Golden Key and even though the host usually was only an observer and advisor, Argyle generally couldn’t act without the host’s consent. So, as long as the host behaved, there was little the king had to worry about from Argyle. If the host didn’t behave…. It was the only reason he hadn’t forced Grayle to host Argyle: there was no telling what her resentment would have driven her to do. It was safer—for now—for King Tyr to play the role of host, even if he had to bathe for hours afterward to rid himself of Argyle’s rancid touch. He slowly removed his robes, folded them, and set them neatly, precisely on the bureau. Then he reached for the Golden Key, and as soon as it was in his hands, he felt the world begin to change.

  A gold shimmer enveloped King Tyr, and the world seemed to shrink before him. Grayle had warned him of this, but she couldn’t prepare him for the disorientation that came from the expansion of his body, the shifting proportions of his awareness, the popping of joints and muscles. The change only took a few seconds, but the shimmer lingered like a yellow-green blur masking his vision. It wasn’t supposed to do that, was it? Grayle had said that as soon as his body finished its transformation into Argyle, he would sense Argyle’s thoughts as if someone else was living in his head with him. He would be able to communicate with Argyle, to impress his will over him when needed, and together they would make the decisions that ran their organization—his organization.

  Argyle? He tried to thrust the thought outward. Grayle had told him to expect an immediate response, as if he were thinking to himself, but nothing happened. Where was the connection? Argyle? he tried again. What was wrong? Grayle had said they would begin communicating as soon as the transformation was complete—but the shimmering green aura was s
till there. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Grayle had described being Argyle like looking through the doll house she had had as a child: everything was smaller and easy to manipulate. It wasn’t green. Had something gone wrong with the transformation?

  Something tickled at the edge of his mind. It felt like it did when he eavesdropped on one of his rival’s conversations when they visited his castle. The words—thoughts—were muffled, indistinguishable, and he tried to move closer. Argyle’s body stepped forward, and he stumbled into the bureau. He fell forward, thrusting out his arms to brace himself. Wood splintered beneath his weight, and the Golden Key scooted from his hand and skittered along the stone floor to the wall.

  Who is there? The tone was cold, hostile. Was it Argyle? King Tyr focused on it, trying to bring it closer to his mind.

  Arg—

  Where is Grayle? a thunderous thought boomed over both of them.

  She—

  Silence! bellowed the cold, hostile tone.

  King Tyr—Argyle—glowered as he thought, How dare you address your king—

  My king? Chilling laughter echoed through his mind.

  King Tyr—Argyle—clenched his fists and thought, Argyle, I am your king, and you will obey me.

  The laughter continued as the booming thought blasted through him, NO!

  The laughter subsided long enough for the chilling one to think, Yes, Argyle. I have returned.

  Argyle screeched through his mind and smashed his fist painfully into the stone floor. Chips of stone went flying, and he whirled around to face the shelving.

  King Tyr tried to assert his control over his body, but it was new to him. The first shelf flew through the room before he was able to stop Argyle, even though that beast’s rampage continued to run through his mind.

  Symptata! the booming thought growled. You will not—

  I already have, the amused thought resonated through them.

  What? King Tyr demanded, trying to think through the hatred, the vile images, the disorienting wave of thoughts that were hurled at him.

  More laughter.

  King Tyr looked around through the green haze of Argyle’s eyes, passing them along the floor until he saw the tiny yellow diamond. He stepped toward it—and stopped.

  No, the thought was cold, fierce as it ripped the control of Argyle from him.

  They glared at nothing in particular, and then Argyle’s booming thought resonated through him. Help me! His hands quivered and his body shuddered as if he were fighting against something he couldn’t overcome.

  King Tyr drew upon his ability to focus so intently on a single thing that it became all that existed in his world, and aimed that attention to accomplishing one goal: moving Argyle toward the Golden Key. They—Argyle and King Tyr—took a shaky, sweaty step forward.

  Symptata—if that was who it was—fought for control, making the second step much more difficult. Fortunately, Argyle’s steps were long, and it brought them close enough for him to drop down and pick up the Golden Key.

  Nothing happened.

  The box, Argyle’s thought was raspy, as if he was struggling to make it. Hurry!

  They twisted, moving around on their knees until King Tyr saw the box. Somehow, it had avoided being smashed when Argyle had fallen on the bureau. They reached for it, fighting against the powerful urge to pull their hand away, and dropped the Golden Key into it. They flipped the lid closed.

  Nothing happened.

  The key, Argyle’s thought was weak, as if he were losing consciousness.

  Where is it? King Tyr thought, scanning the floor near the box.

  Argyle’s massive paw pushed away part of the debris from the bureau, and they tried to ignore the sudden pain as several splinters gouged into his fingers. “Phillip!” King Tyr’s bellow sounded like stones grating against each other. He pushed another handful of debris away, but still no key.

  “Sire?” Phillip called out with concern as he neatly avoided the flying debris.

  “The key!” King Tyr snapped as another handful of the bureau flew away. “Find it!”

  This is pointless, the cold one said. Argyle is mine and always will be mine.

  Phillip scurried around, trying to find the tiny little piece of gold.

  Argyle and the king thrust the last of the bureau away from them.

  “There!” Phillip said, stepping carefully through the scattered bits of wood, cloth, and sundries. He reached down to pick up a small piece of gold and held it out to him. “Is this it?”

  King Tyr desperately snatched it away from him before Symptata could stop him, and turned to the box. Their hand shook as he tried to insert it into the lock. Laughter mocked them, and they dropped the key. Argyle leaned back and howled in rage.

  “I’ll do it,” Phillip said, sidestepping Argyle and reaching down for the key. He picked it up quickly and put it in the lock—but couldn’t turn it.

  Argyle’s arm lowered and swung fiercely out before him, batting Phillip away. Phillip struck the wall hard and slid down to the floor. Argyle ignored him—

  King Tyr tried to ignore him.

  Symptata laughed.

  —and turned the key.

  Nothing happened. Open it! Argyle thought fiercely, and together, he and the king overthrew Symptata’s resistance long enough to turn the key again. The lid opened, and he—King Tyr—grabbed at the Golden Key. As soon as his fingers touched the gem, the world began to grow as King Tyr resumed his normal form.

  Laughter filled his thoughts, but it dwindled into the background as he stumbled forward and fell to the cold stone floor. He thrust out his hands, and winced as splinters of wood dug more deeply into his wounds. He rolled over and looked up.

  Argyle hovered over him, a hideous malformed shape wrapped in a green aura whose naked ugliness brought bile to his lips and seasoned the sudden burst of fear that overwhelmed him. Argyle blinked and looked around—and then began to laugh.

  It was a cold, hostile laugh.

  17

  It was late afternoon when Giorge finally roused himself enough to look around. They were riding at a fast walk, and the man behind him was much larger than himself. That wasn’t saying much, though; most men were a lot larger than he was. He stretched his back, and then shook his arms and wiggled his fingers. He would have done the same with his legs, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver in the saddle.

  “So,” Lieutenant Jarhad’s voice boomed over his head, “you are awake.”

  Giorge yawned and said, “Somewhat.”

  “Good,” Lieutenant Jarhad replied. “Then you can tell me what happened.”

  Giorge almost said that he had taken The Tiger’s Eye, but he didn’t. “All right,” he said. “But I need something to drink, first.”

  Lieutenant Jarhad handed him a waterskin.

  After Giorge had rinsed his mouth and swallowed a few gulps, he handed the waterskin back to the Lieutenant and shook his head. “You know how we left in a hurry,” he began. “Embril was so anxious about catching up with Darby that we galloped through the night. It isn’t easy to talk when you’re galloping, so I didn’t know any more than you did about what was going on. But I knew it was important or she wouldn’t have acted that way.”

  Giorge paused to let Lieutenant Jarhad say something, but when he didn’t, he continued. “When we reached the temple ruins, Darby was already inside them. We went in after him. There’s a secret passage in one of the rooms, and it leads down into the bowels of the place. That was where Embril wanted me to take her because that’s where the nexus is.”

  “What’s a nexus?” Lieutenant Jarhad asked. “Embril mentioned it, but she wasn’t making any sense.”

  “Neither did Angus when he found it,” Giorge said. “It terrified him. He tried to explain it to us, but I think you have to be a wizard to understand it. It’s sort of like the hub of a wagon wheel, I suppose. The spokes shoot out from it in all directions. The magic does the same thing at a nexus.” He paused for a mom
ent. He couldn’t let Lieutenant Jarhad know that he had actually seen the nexus, or he would become suspicious of him—more suspicious of him. “That’s not really what’s happening, of course, but that was what I thought about when Angus described it to me.”

  “Go on,” Lieutenant Jarhad prompted as Giorge let the silence grow.

  “Well, to get to the nexus, we had to go under the temple. Deep under the temple. There’s a stairwell that goes down deeper than any I’ve ever seen, and at the bottom of it is another secret passage. I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, though; you have to be a wizard to find the way inside, and there’s a pretty nasty trap protecting it. The stairs collapse and the floor slides out from under you, and if you fall down—” He shuddered, remembering the way Darby’s wide, dead eyes had looked up at him “—you’ll be skewered. We were lucky Angus was with us when we got there the first time. If he hadn’t been…” He shook his head. The Tiger’s Eye would still be where it should be.

  “I remembered where the secret door was, but I couldn’t see it. Neither could Embril. That frightened me. Then she got that far-off look wizards get when they look at magic, and said, ‘He’s been here.’ That was it. ‘He’s been here.’” Giorge shook his head as if the story should have ended there. “We could hear the stairs collapsing above us, and the floor started to retract into the wall. It’s a really ingenious, complicated trap. Lots of moving parts that all have to function properly for it to work. Whoever designed it—” He paused and smiled to himself. “Well, let’s just say the dwarves couldn’t have done it better.”

  “Obviously you survived,” Lieutenant Jarhad dryly said.

  “Oh, yes,” Giorge agreed, nodding happily. “Embril made sure of that. She waved her hands the way wizards do when they weave spells together—” he paused and half-turned. “Did you know that all spells are just knots tied together using magic string that we can’t see?”