Angst (Book 4)
Authors: 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.
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.
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/
.
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twitter (
http://twitter.com/frummery
).
Visit my Amazon author page at:
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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 the 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.”
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.”
“At once, Sire,” Phillip said as he bowed and turned away.
A dragon in the cellars!
King Tyr thought as he
lifted his left leg and began working the brush over his thigh.
If they only
knew
….