Angst (Book 4)

by Robert P. Hansen

  Then Embril flew up from underneath them like a fletching landing in its aerie. She pointed at the green blur—it had to be Giorge or someone very like him—and it slammed into the mountainside. He thought that was the end of it when the writhing orange beam leapt in for the kill, but the green blur recovered quickly. It thrust the killing stroke aside as if it were but a flesh wound and resumed its attack. Hobart clenched his jaw shut and fervently wished to be closer, to be able to actually see and hear what was happening, to give aid to the side that deserved it.

  Angus knows what he’s doing doesn’t he? He wondered as he watched Angus fluttering around with whip-like flames snapping from his hands to strike out at the green blur. Or has The Tween claimed another victim?

  A small shadow ran toward Embril, and she turned to it. It had to be the woman that had ridden with Giorge; it was too small to be anyone else. They huddled together for several seconds, and then Embril turned and flew at Angus. Is she attacking him? Hobart thought with concern for the man he wasn’t sure was his friend. She was the one Angus was after, wasn’t she? What would he do when he saw her? He found out a moment later: the flaming whips fizzled out.

  They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Angus swooped in close to her and cast his Lamplight spell. That helped Hobart survey the scene, but they were still too far away for him to note the details. Still, if he thought of them as toy soldiers, it helped him assess the tactical situation. Only their strategy wasn’t making any sense. Angus had quit harassing his foe to engage Embril, but then he didn’t attack her. Instead, they seemed to be working together to do something that had nothing to do with the battle at all. Why would they fly off to the side like that and leave Dagremon so vulnerable? He would never have done that unless it was a subterfuge, an attempt to lure the assailant away from his ally by pretending to be vulnerable to an attack—unless he was vulnerable. But this didn’t look like a ploy; it looked like Angus had completely dismissed—

  Hobart’s eyes widened as he watched Angus wave his hand and point it at the mountain. A moment later, thunder burst from the mountain and Angus fell backward. But he didn’t fall far; Embril swooped down to catch him. Strange way for an enemy to act; he would have let Angus fall.

  The green blur was gone. The orange one remained, pinning the little toy soldier against the mountainside. It held him there for several seconds before retreating back to the staff. Is it over? Hobart wondered. It was never easy to tell with wizards, but nothing seemed to be happening. Embril and Angus were huddled together, probably talking strategy, and Dagremon was stepping up to the man who had been green. The patrol was staying well away, but the little woman was hurrying over to help Dagremon—no, she was helping Giorge. The gods take them! Hobart grumbled to himself. What in the nether hells is going on up there?

  His puzzlement grew as he saw Angus separate himself from Embril, jump off the ledge, and fly directly into the flames of the forest fire. Suicide? he thought, trying to dismiss it. Angus wouldn’t do that! Then he sobered as he realized that The Tween Effect had caused more than one man to throw himself off a cliff. Was it doing that to Angus, too? He watched him for as long as he could, hoping he would turn around, but he didn’t. Then he turned back to the battle—which wasn’t much of one anymore. Dagremon and the little woman were hovering over their fallen foe as if to protect him from Embril. Why would they do that? They should be slitting his throat to make sure he doesn’t get back up and cause more mischief. That’s what he would do if it was a fishman and they didn’t need information from him. If he didn’t do it, the fishman would try to find a way to end him. That’s what Giorge—if it was Giorge—would do to them if he had a chance. It would be better to slit his throat and be done with it, Giorge or no. He had already died once, anyway.

  Embril moved over to them and the little woman stepped between her and the fallen enemy, as if she were about to ward off a killing thrust—or take it in his stead. Who is she? he wondered. Why does she care so much about what happens to him? He squinted—was there a candle in Embril’s hand? A flame of some sort? Is that why the woman is intervening? To keep Embril from torturing Giorge? He frowned. He had never been fond of torturing, but sometimes it was necessary—at least with fishmen. Torturing another person was something else entirely, and it would take a great deal of convincing for him to do it. Maybe that’s what the woman is demanding? Strong reasons for torturing him before she would allow it to be done?

  Now what in the world is Dagremon doing? She should be watching over their foe; he could be faking his infirmity and attack her from behind! Unless he’s dead, but if he was dead, Embril wouldn’t be threatening to torture him. Dagremon’s staff started glowing again, as if she were preparing to send that orange beam at Embril. Is Embril attacking them? If she were a threat, wouldn’t Angus have attacked her? But he hadn’t done that, had he? No, just before he flew off, it looked like he was holding her up—or she was holding him up. Had she done something to him that made him fly into the fire like a moth to a candle’s flame? She was a wizard, and they could do many strange and horrifying things—why not that? It would be a good tactical maneuver, wouldn’t it? Rid herself of a potentially lethal opponent without even lifting her sword. It would tip the scales of the battle in her favor; all she would have to do was defeat Dagremon—and the patrol.

  He glanced away, trying to find the patrol. Most of them were about a mile away from the battle, bathed in the eerie orange glow from the burning forest. They looked almost pretty. They were riding slowly, cautiously forward, but it would take time for them to get there at that speed—and they’d have to cross the rut Angus had made with his wand. No, Embril didn’t have to worry about them, did she? She had plenty of time to deal with Dagremon.

  Hobart frowned and looked at the plateau again. Taro saw Angus in a fire like that in one of his visions. He said it was midday, and Angus was standing there fiddling with things he couldn’t see. But Angus was alive! Maybe he wasn’t committing suicide, after all? Maybe he was going after another enemy? He frowned. The king ordered us to find what was taken and return it. Angus said the king meant for them to find The Tiger’s Eye, and it belonged in the Angst temple. Could he have found it? Did he know where to find it? Is he—

  A burst of flame snatched Hobart’s attention back to Embril and Dagremon. Other bursts followed, like when a cluster of casks of burning oil were lofted from a catapult at night and they shattered on the ground close together. He thought it was the first volley in a renewed battle, but nothing more happened. Dagremon and Embril just looked at each other—perhaps they were negotiating a truce?—and the little woman edged back toward Giorge. He continued to watch them for some time, but nothing interesting seemed to be happening. Then Ortis strode up next to him.

  “Hobart,” he said. “You should come into the tunnel before you succumb to The Tween Effect.”

  Hobart shook his head and lifted the damp, sooty cloth up to cover his nose and mouth. “It isn’t over yet,” he said.

  Ortis looked at the fire to the west and said, “It is for Angus.”

  Hobart turned to him and said, “Maybe not. Remember what Taro said? Angus was surrounded by fire, but he was still alive.”

  “For how long?” Ortis asked. Then he turned back and added, “You should get some rest. There isn’t anything we can do from here, and if we are to meet up with the patrol tomorrow, we will need to leave early.”

  Hobart nodded. “Not yet,” he said.

  Ortis looked up, turned away, and headed into the tunnel.

  Hobart waited until Embril turned away from Dagremon and walked back toward the patrol before he finally went into the tunnel. Even inside its protective walls, he felt like someone—Embril, perhaps?—was watching him, and he wasn’t sure if it was just The Tween Effect….

  6

  Taro snorted himself awake and blinked into the twilight of false dawn. It was tinged orange and black by the fire raging across the plateau and the smoke
billowing up from it. He stretched and smacked his lips.

  “I don’t like this, Master Taro,” Abner said. His voice was strained and he squirmed around on the mule cart’s seat. “We’re vulnerable up here on this road. Anyone can see us.”

  Taro felt just as vulnerable, but he wasn’t worried about it. “Let them see us,” he said.

  “Who?” Abner said in alarm as he stood up and looked behind them. “Where are they?”

  Taro shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How can you say that, Master Taro?” Abner demanded. “We don’t even have a sword to protect us!”

  Taro shrugged again. “What do we have that’s worth taking?” he countered in a pleasant tone. His senses were sharp—at least as sharp as his bad vision and poor hearing could be—and he liked the feeling. It was almost the same as when he had first smelled the incense that brought him his visions. He didn’t even mind that people were watching them, since he knew—with a certainty that overrode his uneasiness—that they had nothing to worry about.

  Abner glared at him—he glared at him—and said, “Some would kill without seeking such gain.”

  Taro laughed. “Abner,” he said, “you have nothing to fear here.”

  Abner’s glare lingered for a long moment, and then softened somewhat. “How do you know that, Master Taro?” he demanded.

  He looked sidelong at Abner before answering. The young man was clutching the reins so tightly that he thought they might be squeezed in two. He needed reassurance, and Taro could give it to him. “You know I have had a vision about Angus that I have told no one.” After Abner nodded, he said, “He is not the one in the vision. I am.”

  “You are?” Abner repeated in alarm. Then a spark of hope returned to his voice as he asked, “What happens in it, Master Taro?”

  “It is not for you,” he said. “But rest assured, Abner, we will not be assailed on this road, for I am in the vision. If I were dead, I would not be.”

  Abner’s fists unclenched and he shook his fingers. His relief lasted only a few seconds, however, and then he turned back to Taro and asked with a trembling voice, “Am I in your vision, too, Master Taro?”

  Master Taro squinted at him and thought about lying, but he decided not to do it. Somehow, he was certain that Abner would know it was a lie. “No,” he admitted.

  Abner’s knuckles tightened on the reins again, and his eyes darted over the landscape around them.

  Taro sighed. They had only just made it around the mountain; what would Abner be like when they finally reached the tunnel with all the masked men in it? That was where he was in his vision, and he was certain it was close by.

  7

  King Tyr woke slowly. He felt refreshed and well-rested, as if the kingdom was calm and there were no problems demanding his attention. He stretched, yawned, and sat up. He sniffed and thought, I need a bath, and then crawled out of the expansive bed. Then he made his way to his private bathing chamber—and frowned. Phillip hadn’t prepared his bath yet, and the sun gleaming through his window suggested it was near midday. That was unforgiveable. Phillip should not have let him sleep so long when he had so much to do.

  “Phillip!” he called out in his most commanding tone. He was proud of that tone; it projected well and carried an air of authority with it that usually brought his subjects running. But his manservant didn’t appear. He frowned and returned to his bedroom. He had had a strange dream. He was showing the Grand Master the Gem of Transformation, and—

  He walked reluctantly over to the door of his study and opened it. It hadn’t been a dream. His study was a mess—a disorderly mess. “Argyle,” he muttered, stepping through the door. Half of the ceiling had collapsed. His table was smashed. The books he had set on it were in tatters. There were blood stains splattered on the wall and floor. He stepped carefully through it, occasionally nudging a bit of debris aside with his bare foot because he thought it looked better a few inches to the left or right. But mostly he restrained himself and fought to contain the nausea threatening to add to the disorder in the room. Where is the box? he wondered after finishing a cursory inspection of the debris.

  “Phillip!” he called again, even louder than before. If someone had taken it, Phillip would know who it was, wouldn’t he?

  There was a soft knock on the study door leading to his private meeting chamber, and he turned toward it. It couldn’t be Phillip; his presence was always expected, so he wouldn’t have knocked. He glanced down at his nakedness and backtracked into his bedroom to get a robe. It wasn’t his most comfortable one—that had been ripped apart when he had become Argyle, and its ragged tatters were in his study. Still, the one he picked up fit him nearly as well, even though it was a bit tight around the shoulders, and he wrapped himself up and left his bedroom through the door that led to his private meeting chamber. There was a tiny waif of a young girl standing at the door to his study, and he frowned at her. Who is this?

  “Yes?” he asked.

  She hastily turned toward him and crouched—then quickly recovered by turning the crouch into a sloppy curtsey that had no form at all. “Sire,” she said. “I was told you wished to see me.”

  King Tyr didn’t recognize her at all. She was little more than a child, and if it weren’t for the little bumps on her chest and the long, straight blonde hair, she could easily be mistaken for a boy. “You are?” he asked.

  “Billie, Sire,” she said. “They call me Little Billie.”

  Ah, King Tyr thought. “Yes,” he said. “I do wish to speak with you, but it will have to wait. I have not yet had my morning bath.” It was a reasonable excuse—his fastidiousness was well-known—and he didn’t want to tell her the truth. Not yet, at least; he needed to know what had happened to Argyle and the Gem—and to Phillip.

  “Yes, Sire,” she said, turning crisply and scooting like a kitten toward the door that his more unsavory guests used when it required discretion.

  “A moment,” he said before she could reach it. She stopped, turned, and looked at him. Her eyes were a remarkable shade of blue, like topaz mixed with flecks of darker and lighter shades. He frowned. Didn’t Phillip tell her she was not supposed to look upon him that way? “Who showed you the way in?”

  She licked her lips and turned slightly, as if she wanted to run through the door instead of telling him who it was. “Rascal, Sire,” she said.

  King Tyr raised his eyebrows. “Is he still there?” he asked. If Rascal was spilling secrets, it could prove to be devastating.

  “No, Sire,” she answered.

  King Tyr frowned. Phillip should have met her at the entryway. Why hadn’t he? “You did not see Phillip?”

  “No, Sire,” she answered.

  “I see,” he muttered. Where is he? King Tyr wondered again. It was becoming more than just an inconvenience; it was becoming a puzzle, and puzzles tended to become problems. He had too many problems already, and he didn’t wish to have any more of them. But what to do with Little Billie? He had intended to send her to Argyle to find out what was happening, but then decided to send Iscara instead. Rascal was supposed to have gone, too, but he hadn’t returned to give his report and had scampered away like a rat instead of introducing Little Billie to him. He would not have done so if he had talked to Argyle; he would have come for his payment. What has Rascal told you? he wondered. But he didn’t have time to pursue the question at the moment. He needed to deal with more urgent matters, like his bath. “Return here shortly after dark. I will speak to you then.”

  Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared, and then she mewled, “Yes, Sire.” She wobbled from one foot to the other, as if she didn’t know whether or not she should leave.

  “You may go,” he said, dismissing her with a grandiose wave.

  She gratefully scampered away, and once she was gone, King Tyr walked to the main door and opened it. The corridor outside was quiet—too quiet. There should have been someone scrubbing a floor somewhere, someone t
alking, the clang of a guardsman’s footsteps, the opening of a door….

  He frowned and tightened the sash of his robe. Then he strode out into the hall, determined to find Phillip and find out what was going on. He strode down one corridor after another, and finally found himself at Grayle’s chamber. He rapped on her door, but no one answered. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked more loudly and called out, “Grayle?” No answer. He frowned. It was another puzzle, one that threatened to become a serious problem.

  Where is everyone? he wondered. He turned abruptly and walked briskly toward the great hall. If anyone was in the castle, they would be there—or in the kitchens. As he approached, he heard voices. He sighed, relieved that he had finally found someone to ask what was going on. He hurried forward, checked the sash of his robe again, rolled his shoulders in a pointless effort to make the robe more comfortable, and strode through the doors.

  It looked as if half the castle guard were gathered in the hall, and at the center, sitting in his throne, was Grayle.

  One of the guards turned and snapped to attention. “Sire!” he called. A ripple of responses funneled outward from him as the men turned toward him. Some stood at attention, but most did not. Grayle smiled down at him from his thrown, his crown sitting lopsidedly on her strawberry blonde curls.

  “Uncle,” she said. “I am glad you have recovered. We are in need of your counsel.”

  King Tyr scowled at her and demanded, “What is the meaning of this, Grayle?”

  “Why Uncle,” she said, leaning forward on his throne. Her eyes gleamed as she said, “They have seen the truth! You cannot hide from it now. Why not show them your true self? That hideous beast that has haunted our kingdom for centuries? Come now, we all know you are Argyle—and everyone knows what he has done!” She stepped down from the throne and approached him. “They know what you have done to me, Uncle. How you imprisoned me in my rooms for these past three years and how you had that poor servant girl killed to cover it up.” She smiled and her eyes sparkled. “But I will not seek vengeance upon you for it.” She winked at him. “Your crown is enough.” She whirled around and skipped back to the throne and sat down.