Authors: Robert P. Hansen
15
Still the mind
, Angus thought as he sat fuming at the
table in his cozy little room in the Wizards’ School. He should have reached
the plateau by now, maybe even caught up with Embril.
Still the body
.
But that fool Garret wouldn’t let him go, and now The Tiger’s Eye had been
taken.
Still the mind
. “The king has a task for you,” he kept saying, as
if anything the king might have wanted him to do was more important than
preventing the theft of The Tiger’s Eye.
Still the body
. He pushed away
the urge to scratch his new foot. The itchiness had started not long after he
had talked with Grand Master Fredrick.
Still the mind
. At least his robe
recognized that he had a foot again, and that was an improvement. Now, if it
would only identify it as his own!
Still the body
.
He looked at the things on his table. Teffles book still had
spells in it that he didn’t understand, and he should be studying them.
Still
the mind
. What if one of them was the key to his survival—
if
he was
allowed to do what he must do?
Still the body
. His own scrolls were
incomplete. That cold-hearted bastard Voltari had kept some of them for
himself.
Still the mind
. They were
his
creations, not Voltari’s!
He had no right to them!
Still the body
. He had no right to steal my
memory, either. Or to merge me with Typhus.
Still the mind
. But what of
it? The past was done, and he needed to focus on the future. He needed to
prepare for the hazards he would face.
Still the body
. If they let him
do it. The volcanoes…. He shuddered at the thought of walking into one.
Still
the mind
. If only they would let him get on with it!
Still the body
.
At least his robe would help him deal with the heat.
Still
the mind
. He glanced down at his itchy foot. If it worked properly.
Still
the body
. And his spells were mostly flame-based ones that shouldn’t be
hampered when he approached the ruptured nexus. They would be even more
powerful.
Still the mind
. Strange that Voltari had taught him those,
wasn’t it?
Still the body
. But what good was fire against a volcano? For
that matter—
There was a light tapping on his door.
Still the mind
.
He slowly turned his head toward it.
Still the body
. There was another
series of light taps, as if the person outside didn’t want to disturb him but
felt it was important to do so.
Perhaps word has come from Commander Garret?
he thought.
Still the mind
. He rose slowly from the chair and made his
way to the door.
Still the body
. He opened it carefully, slowly,
reluctantly. It was Ortis.
“Angus,” Ortis smiled as he said it.
Still the mind
.
Angus stared for nearly two seconds before he calmly nodded
and said, “Ortis.” It was another second before he stepped aside to let Ortis
into his room.
Ortis looked him over and his eyebrows rose. “You still have
the foot?”
Angus almost said yes, but that wasn’t quite true, was it?
It wasn’t the same foot. “No,” he said, tilting his head to the left and
half-smiling. “It is a new one.” He went to his bed, lifted his robe over his
knees, and sat down. Then he removed his boot and sock to show his new foot to
Ortis. “See?” he said. “It isn’t quite done growing. It should be back to
normal in few days.”
Ortis stared at it and shook his head. “The scribe said that
you were healed, but I would not have thought it possible to avoid losing the
limb.” He lifted his eyes to Angus’s right shoulder and asked, “The arm?”
Angus moved his right arm in a complete circle to show him
there was no reduction in his range of motion.
“This Iscara must be an exceptional healer,” Ortis said. “I
am glad of it.”
Angus shook his head. “Not her,” he corrected. “Her mother.”
He paused and added, “I trust you are well? All of you?”
Ortis nodded. “And Hobart,” he said. “But we lost some of
the horses.”
“Gretchen?” Angus asked in a calm voice.
“No,” he said. “Millie, Sam, and some of the pack beasts.
The path down the cliff was treacherous.”
“Where is Hobart?” Angus asked as he reached down to put his
sock and boot back on. It was a new boot. When Ungred had learned of what had
happened to his foot because his boot was too small, he had insisted on making
him a new pair. The right one fit wonderfully, but this one was still a bit
loose. He would grow into it soon, though.
“He is meeting with Commander Garret to find out what the
king has in mind for the Banner,” Ortis said.
Angus scowled and felt his muscles tensing.
Still the
body
. he thought, trying to push away the resurgent anger and frustration.
He nodded. “I am not pleased with the king,” he said. “I should have left
Hellsbreath days ago, but the king….” He shook his head. “No, it is not the
king’s fault; it is Commander Garret’s. He will not let me leave until he
receives orders from the king, and by the time they get here, it will probably
be too late to save Hellsbreath. What can the king possibly want us to do that
is more important than that?”
Ortis shrugged. “We will know soon enough,” he said. “Rather,
you will. I have decided to leave the Banner.”
Still the mind
, Angus thought as he studied Ortis. “I
see,” he said.
Ortis nodded. “It is time I sought out my people,” he said.
“With the fishmen gone from the Death Swamps, I may be able to find them.” He
paused, and when he continued, his tone was gentle, “With Giorge dead, Hobart
planned to disband the Banner when we arrived here. The king’s orders prevented
him from doing so.” He shook his head. “Hobart was not happy about that, so I
offered to remain a part of the Banner until this mission is over. But
Hobart….” He shrugged. “Perhaps Commander Garret will tell him what the king
wants of us. The message he left with the scribe sounded urgent.”
Angus stared at Ortis and then slowly rose to his feet. “Why
don’t we find out?” he said as he walked to the door.
“No need,” Ortis said from where he sat. “I’ll know when he
leaves the barracks. He’s been in there some time already.”
Angus paused at the door and asked, “Are you coming?”
Ortis shrugged and followed him out the door.
Angus quickly led Ortis through the tower complex, bringing
the magic into focus as he went. A few of the strands of flame had minor
anomalies, but there were no major disruptions yet. It was only a matter of
time before there would be.
Instead of turning to the main exit, Angus led Ortis to the
spire stair, and once inside, he paused and turned to him. “Do you trust me,
Ortis?” he asked.
Ortis hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
“Good,” Angus said as he selected a few strands of air and
wove together a modified, more complicated version of the Flying spell. He had
not tried it before, but he was confident it would work. If not, at least they
would not fall far. He wrapped the spell around Ortis as if he were tucking a
net-like blanket around him, and then anchored it to himself. “Stay close to
me.”
Ortis reached out for his arm, but Angus shook it off. “You
won’t need to hang on to me,” he told him. “But if you drift too far away, it
will make it difficult to for us to maneuver. Where I fly, you will also go.”
“I’ll fly?” Ortis asked, a hint of alarm in his tone.
Angus half-smiled and twisted the strands to lift himself a
few feet above the ground. Ortis rose with him, and threw his hands out as if
he were trying to grab for something. “Don’t,” Angus said, reaching out to grab
Ortis before he tumbled away from him. “Keep your arms close to your body and
your legs relaxed. I will guide both of us.” He waited until Ortis had his arms
rigidly crossed in front of him, and then asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Ortis said through clenched teeth.
Angus looked above them and played with the strands of air.
They rose rapidly to the top of the spire, and slowed to a hover. Angus turned
sideways, and Ortis pivoted in the air until he was hovering over the middle of
the spire. His bloodless fingertips clenched his elbows, but he didn’t move.
Angus walked sideways through the door, towing Ortis with him. Once they were
both outside, he jumped off the ledge. Ortis involuntarily followed at his
side, and Angus tweaked the strands to guide them as straight as he could to
the barracks on the southwest corner of Hellsbreath’s wall.
When they landed, Ortis shuddered and his knees wobbled as
he tried to stagger forward, away from the edge of the wall. He stumbled in
place, but he didn’t fall down.
“Easy,” Angus said. “You need to stand still so I can
release the spell.”
Ortis glared at him, and his legs stopped moving. “Don’t do
that to me again,” Ortis said as Angus released the spell and stepped forward.
“Carry me next time.” He turned abruptly away from Angus and walked quickly up
to his other selves. They were standing just outside the barracks door, waiting
for Hobart, but Angus walked past them and into the barracks. He paused before
the men standing guard and said, “I believe Hobart is with Commander Garret,”
he said. “They have need of me.”
One of the guards looked as if he were about to refuse, but
the other nonchalantly waved him through. “Go on, then, Angus. It wouldn’t do
to have the Commander waiting at this time of night.”
“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 still
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.