Angst (Book 4) (6 page)

He turned back to the fire. The snake-like tendrils had
fanned out from the fire to seek their unsuspecting prey. Three of them had
already attached to Taro, but he had been prepared for it. The disorientation
he had felt the first time it happened was still there, but it wasn’t as
debilitating as it had been when he wasn’t expecting it. He even sensed that he
could control the vision somewhat, possibly direct it to what he wanted to see
instead of passively allowing it to take him where it wanted to go.

Some of the villagers screamed as the snakes began to strike
those nearest the fireplace. Those closest to the doors ran. The snakes let
them go and settled on those who remained. Then the vision came, and reality
faded into the background. The wizard stood in front of him, his dark blue eyes
intense, angry. The muscles along his jawline were taut, and his nostrils
flared out. His arms hung rigidly at his sides as he demanded, “Why have you
detained me?”

“King Tyr ordered it,” a voice from behind Taro said. Taro
tried to turn, but the image of the wizard stayed directly in front of him no
matter which way he faced. “I’m sorry Angus, but you cannot leave the city.
Your paraphernalia—I believe that’s what you wizards call it—will be
confiscated and placed in the care of the Grand Master.”

Angus? Is that his name?
The wizard’s black hair
swished as he shook his head. “You cannot keep me here against my will,” he
said.

“Now, Angus,” the voice said in a reasonable tone that made
it seem like he was patronizing him instead of offering consolation. “As long
as you are a member of Hobart’s Banner, you are subject to the king’s command.
You will abide by that command and stay in the city. If not, I have been given
orders to arrest you.”

Angus looked over Taro’s left shoulder and frowned. Several
seconds passed before he said, “That will not be necessary.”

“Good,” the mysterious man behind him said. “The king has
plans for you and your Banner, but he has not deigned to tell me what they are
yet. When I receive your orders, I will expect you to be ready to fulfill them
on short notice.” There was a pause, and then he asked, “Now, why don’t you
tell me what happened? Where are the other members of your Banner?”

Before Angus could reply, the vision began to fade and a new
one replaced it. There was a crossroads, and as he approached it, a metal clad
behemoth on a giant white horse turned to face him. Beside the warrior, cloaked
in the shadows at the edge of the vision, were three pale riders with bows and
a boy on a pony. But it was the warrior who mattered, and the other men held
back while he rode toward Taro and reined in his horse. “Well met, Old Man,”
the warrior said as he reached up to remove his helmet. A bright glare
reflected from his sweat-stained forehead that made it difficult for Taro to
see him clearly, but it didn’t matter. He knew he would recognize him if he saw
him again—
when
he saw him again.

“Well met, Hobart,” he heard himself saying.

10

After putting Iscara’s chair back in its proper place, King
Tyr finished his meal and sat in thought for a long time. There was only one
question that puzzled him: Why had Sardach helped Angus? Iscara was right:
Sardach should have killed Angus and taken the key. It was not like Sardach to
defy Argyle’s commands. He was still mulling the puzzle over when Phillip
returned.

“Sire,” Phillip said as he came to a stop. “The cleaning
wenches have nearly finished with Grayle’s room. Is there anything you need me
to do before I clean the tunnel you showed me?”

King Tyr glanced at Phillip and nodded. “Before you clean
the tunnel, I want you to go down the stair and see what is in the large
chamber at the other end. Do not go beyond that chamber for any reason. Be
surreptitious. It would be best if you were not seen while you are down there.”

“Yes, Sire,” he said. “Is there anything in particular that
I should be looking for?”

“Grayle, of course,” King Tyr said.

Phillip hesitated, bowed, and said, “Yes, Sire. Is there
anything else?”

“If you find her alive, return to me at once.” King Tyr
hesitated, grit his teeth, and added, “You do not need to bathe first.”

Phillip blinked and his eyes widened. Then, after the king
dismissed him with a wave, he bowed and hurriedly left.

“Is she alive?” King Tyr whispered. “Or did Angus kill her?
If he has….”

What could he do to Angus that wouldn’t create suspicion? It
was a delicate balance of duties, one that often left the king in a precarious
position. How could he maintain the separateness of his two lives? The King of
Tyr and the de facto head of the underworld in Tyr. At least he didn’t have to
host Argyle himself, like so many of his forebears had done. But how could he?
His responsibilities as king were too demanding for lengthy excursions into the
dungeons below the castle, and Argyle’s network had grown so much that it
needed far more attention than he could give it. He frowned. At least, it
had
grown; the past few years had weakened Argyle’s inner circle greatly, and now….

Angus. He had already ordered his movements to be restricted
when he checked in—
if
he checked in. He could have been killed during
his confrontation with Argyle. He shook his head. No. Something told him that
Angus had survived that encounter. Voltari’s training, perhaps? It didn’t
matter. He was a Banner man, and that made him subject to the king’s will. But
he couldn’t call up a Banner without having a good reason for doing so. It was
part of the charter agreements. If it was a mission that could be performed by
the regular army, the Banners were exempt from it, except in times of war. Were
they at war? The fishmen…

Angus again. He was woven through the puzzles confronting
the king, and that made him important—and dangerous. He could rely upon his
privilege as the king to bring the Banner before him. A feast in their honor? A
medal? No, there wasn’t sufficient cause for it, and they would know it. But if
he brought them to Tyrag in order to send them on a special mission…

Voltari. He scowled. The old wizard had been a cyst in the
kingdom’s backside for as long as anyone could remember. He had been idle for
so long that most thought he was dead. Foolish optimism, that. And there was
Angus again. He had to be a wizard of great skill to be Voltari’s
apprentice—Voltari would have seen to that—and he would see through any flimsy
excuse the King gave for bringing him to Tyrag. He needed a plausible reason
for doing it, something that would bear closer scrutiny than a claim of king’s
privilege. But Angus was a member of one of his Banners, and the king could use
those Banners for special missions. What kind of mission might that be? If
Grayle was dead, it would have to be one that would lead to Angus’s death…

Should he send them to the Lake of Scales to find out if the
fishmen are there? No, Commander Garrett was already doing that, and rightly
so. It wasn’t a task for the Banner. But what about sending them into The Death
Swamps? Those rumors about soldiers disappearing weren’t rumors at all, and
Captain Blanchard knew it. Something was stirring deep within that foul swamp’s
bowels, and he needed to know what it was. He could send them there, couldn’t
he? Yes. Captain Blanchard had said he had served in The Borderlands with
Hobart. It would make sense to send an old veteran like Hobart into the swamps
to see what was in there, and it was an ideal mission for a Banner. Too ideal.
They would probably survive, and he couldn’t have that. So, where could he send
them to die?

King Tyr shook his head. He didn’t have to make the decision
yet. Grayle could still be alive, and if she was, there would be no reason to
waste a Banner on a fool’s errand, no reason to have Angus killed…

11

“I thought you dead,” a woman gruffly said as she shook Taro’s
shoulders. Taro opened his eyes and looked at her. What was her name? Someone’s
wife, wasn’t she? Clarise? No. Clareth? Yes, she—

“That was a foul thing you did, Master Taro,” Humphrey
scolded him from his left. Taro tried to turn his head to look at Humphrey, but
his neck was too stiff for him to do it. Instead, he looked sidelong at his
former apprentice, who was sitting at the table with his hands wrapped
possessively, protectively around a large mug. The large man stared into that
mug as if he could discern the future by studying the remnants of his drink. It
was futile, of course, but try telling that to the villagers duped by diviners.
“A foul thing,” he repeated, slowly rotating the mug.

“No, Humphrey,” Taro said in his softest, most sympathetic
tone. “It was necessary.”

“Necessary!” Humphrey snapped as he fixed an angry glare on
Taro. “How can you say that? I would have helped you without it!”

Taro sat unruffled and dismissed Humphrey’s anger while
accepting his admonition. “I know,” he said, twisting his body around to look
at the common room. Villagers were everywhere. Some were sitting with their
heads lowered, much like Humphrey had done. Others were rousing those who
hadn’t recovered on their own yet. A few looked at him and quickly turned away.
Most ignored him and focused on what they were doing.

“Why did you do it, Master Taro?” Humphrey asked into his
mug.

Taro lifted his right leg and turned his chair away from the
fire so he could face his former apprentice. Humphrey was a large man—portly,
well-muscled, energetic—but he somehow looked small sitting hunched over his
mug like that. “It was inevitable,” Taro said. “It was part of my vision.”

Humphrey reluctantly glanced at him. The anger softened but
was still there, along with hints of pain and sorrow.
What have you seen?
Taro
wondered as Humphrey resumed studying his mug. Taro reached out his hand and
patted Humphrey’s bulky forearm. “Tell me,” he said. “What did you see?”

Humphrey shuddered and shook his head. “It was horrible,
Master Taro,” he said.

“Describe it to me,” Taro ordered. “I must know.”

Humphrey didn’t look at him as he said, “Fire. Screams.
Death.”

Taro waited for Humphrey to continue, but when he didn’t, he
asked, “Where will it happen?”

Humphrey sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“All I see are the flames.” He frowned and added, “And bodies.”

Taro frowned. “How many?” he asked.

Humphrey shrugged. “Too many.”

“Humphrey,” Taro said in his most patient tone. “Describe it
too me. I need to know the details.”

Humphrey didn’t look up as he answered, “Fire is everywhere.
They’re trying to get away from it. They’re too slow.”

“Who?” Taro prompted. “Where?”

“Their beards burn, Master Taro,” he added as he lifted his
head. There was a deep sorrow in his eyes as he finished. “They have nowhere to
run. Their tunnels are full of fire and smoke.”

Taro frowned. Beards? Tunnels? He hadn’t seen anything like
that, had he? The fires he saw were raging over the mountains, not underneath
them. But those mountains were volcanoes, and volcanoes belched forth fire and
ash and smoke, didn’t they?

“Those poor little men,” Humphrey muttered.

Little?
“Are they dwarves?” Taro asked.

“Dwarves?” Humphrey repeated, a hint of hopefulness in his
eyes as he met Taro’s stare. “Yes,” he said. “They are dwarves, aren’t they?
They aren’t men at all.”

Did the dwarves set the fire and get caught in it
themselves?
Taro wondered.
Or did the wizard set the fire to defeat
them?

“Their screams are horrible, Master Taro,” Humphrey said. “I
still hear them.”

Taro nodded. The echoes of his recent vision had lingered
for some time before fading out of his consciousness. All but the vision of the
wizard—
Angus?
—surrounded by the flames. It hovered at the edge of his
thoughts, reminding him of his purpose, his destination. “They will fade,” he
assured his young friend. He squeezed Humphrey’s forearm and smiled. “In time,
it will be but a memory.”

“Enough of this,” Clareth told her husband. “You must rest.”

“No,” Humphrey declared with sudden conviction. “There is no
time for rest. We must try to prevent this from happening.”

Taro shook his head. “I am sorry, Humphrey,” he said.
“Visions do not lie. What we see will happen. We cannot prevent it from
occurring.”
Is that true?
he wondered. “But we must try, anyway,” he
sadly added.

“No,” Clareth said in a firm tone. “He will not go with
you.”

“Clareth,” Humphrey began, and then fell silent. “You are
right,” he sighed, swallowing her hand in his huge paw. “I cannot leave you and
the children. But I also must help Master Taro on his quest.” He turned to
Master Taro and said, “I can go with you to the next village, but no further.”

Before Taro could say anything, a man nearly as old as
himself came up to their table and quietly dropped a few coins down in front of
Taro. His gaze lingered on the coins for a long moment before he quietly turned
away and walked out of the common room. By the time he was gone, a second
villager was approaching with his coin purse in hand.

The third offered him the use of an old mule cart and his second
son.

The fourth….

12

As Hobart secured the last of his gear to Leslie’s saddle,
he considered his options. His Banner days were at an end, and he hadn’t really
considered outliving them. Perhaps with the fishmen gone from the Death Swamps,
he could return to the army? His experience would be valuable, and if he wasn’t
stationed in The Borderlands, he wouldn’t have to deal with sneezing all the
time. Would the king want him back? With the fishmen gone, he might thin down
the army—or, more like, resume the expansion of the kingdom. He would need
capable men for that, and Hobart was more than capable. But did he want to join
another extended campaign? He wasn’t too old for it, but he also wasn’t
that
young. Maybe he could hire himself off as a trainer? The army always needed
trainers, and he had done it before. If he could finish out his tour, he could
retire with a manor and lands and—

“Don’t you think you’ve retied that strap enough times?” a
soft feminine voice asked from behind him. He turned quickly, but not abruptly,
and half-smiled at the diminutive little elf. She barely reached up to his
ribcage and couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds, but he had no desire to
face her in battle—especially with that staff in her hand. She had a heavy dark
blue cloak draped over her shoulders, and her violet eyes peered out at him
from beneath the shadows of her cowl.

“Dagremon,” Hobart acknowledged with a nod. “It’s unlike you
to see us off.”

“Indeed,” she replied. “I have a request of you.”

“If it is in my power,” Hobart said as he looked down at
her. “However, I have been ordered to return to Hellsbreath and report in; I
cannot dally long.”

“I wish to travel with you to Hellsbreath,” Dagremon
replied. “I will pay you well for your protection.”

He had never heard of Dagremon leaving her inn. Didn’t the
caravans bring her all the supplies she could sell? The first caravans would be
arriving from The Southlands soon, so what was she really up to? Hobart smiled
and shook his head. “You don’t need protection, Dagremon. Only a fool would
risk crossing you.”

“There are many fools in this world, Hobart,” she replied.

Hobart shrugged and turned back to the strap. It would take
longer to get to Hellsbreath with Dagremon with them, but he wasn’t in any
hurry to comply with Commander Garret’s summons—or to end his Banner. He
finished with the strap and turned back to face her. “You are more than welcome
to join us, Dagremon,” he said, “but there is no need for payment. Ortis and I
will be happy to have your company.”

“Thank you, Hobart,” Dagremon said, bowing slightly. Then
she turned and gave a sharp tweet, like a songbird’s chirp, and was answered
with a whinny from behind her inn. Hobart turned in that direction and saw a
beautiful chestnut pony prancing anxiously up to her. It was saddled, and
behind the saddle were a blanket bundle, a few jugs, and other odds and ends he
couldn’t make out. Strapped to the top of the bundle was a thin little sword
with a plain iron hilt tucked into a black leather scabbard studded with iron.
An
elf blade? Perhaps she will show it to me while we travel?
He raised his
eyes and looked once more at Dagremon, wondering what other surprises she might
have in store for him.

“Are you expecting mischief?” he asked her.

Her violet eyes flashed with humor as she turned away and
lithely leapt into her saddle. “It is best to do so, don’t you think?” she
asked.

“Prepare for the worst, eh?” Hobart chuckled. “And you’re
prepared for anything else that can happen.”

Her horse danced as if it sensed its rider’s good humor, and
then settled down to a quiet rest. “I do not think it possible to prepare for
the worst, Hobart,” she gravely admitted. “Nevertheless, it is wise to prepare
for what you can.”

Ortis rode up next to him and said, “We should make good
time while the weather holds.”

“It will be clear for at least five days,” Dagremon said
with certainty.

“Good,” Hobart said, wondering how she could be so sure of
herself. He had a decent weather sense, but Ortis was much better than he was—and
Ortis would never claim to know what the weather would be like even three or
four days in advance. He climbed into the saddle, the familiar shifting of the
metal plates of his armor bringing him alert. “Let’s be off, then.” He turned
to Ortis and added, “Dagremon is going with us to Hellsbreath.”

Ortis nodded and urged his horse to a quick walk. The rest
of them fell into place behind him.