Angst (Book 4) (3 page)

5

Taro lifted his cheek off the cold stone floor and winced as
a sharp pain shot out from his neck, stabbed into his right shoulder, and made
it all the way to the elbow before stopping. He eased onto his back and
repositioned his head until the pain eased to a dull throb, and then lay still
and stared at what was left of the ceiling. But he didn’t see the ceiling; he
saw a young man in black robes. They were nice robes—silk?—and he wore them
like a second skin. No, that didn’t make any sense; wizard’s robes didn’t fit
that snugly. They billowed out in winds and hung loose about them when it was
calm. And yet, there was something about the way the robes flowed around him as
he walked into the fire that made it look like they were clinging to him. Why
was he walking into the fire, anyway? That was a stupid thing to do. Taro would
have hobbled away from it as fast as he could. But this wizard—

Who is he?
Taro wondered, studying the man’s profile.
It was a remarkably clear profile, considering how bad his eyes were getting.
The wizard—there was no doubt of that now—lifted his thin arms and fiddled with
things Taro couldn’t see. He was a bit on the tall side and quite thin, almost
gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten in some time. His shaggy black hair fluttered
behind him as if it had been caught in a gust of heat, but he ignored it. Why
didn’t it catch on fire? His scruffy black beard was desperate for attention,
and beneath it, his jawline was tight and his lips were pressed together. There
was a distant, intense cast to his dark blue eyes, as if he were squinting at
something obscured by the flames. His hands whirled around each other at a
remarkable speed, the fingers entwining and parting with knuckles bent and
twisted, his fingertips flicking as if he were playing a tricky tune on a lute.
No, two lutes at once.
Magic
, Taro thought, scowling at the remnants of
the ceiling as the vision began to fade.

Don’t go!
Taro pleaded, trying to memorize the rest
of the scene—too late. He had spent so long focusing on the wizard that he had
neglected the mountains. How was he supposed to know where the wizard was
without that clue? He tried to force the image back into his awareness, but it
refused to comply. He sighed. At least he would recognize the wizard when he
saw him—
if
he saw him. It had taken thirty years for his first vision to
be fulfilled, and he didn’t have another thirty years left in him. Even five
was stretching it quite a bit. So where—

Taro cringed as another image flashed to life as if it was
being painted on the ceiling. He was high above a city and looking down into
its bowels. It was a compact city, with the houses tightly packed and the
streets forming a perfect grid pattern. At its center was a tall tower—

A Wizards’ School!
Taro thought, sucking in a sharp
breath.
The wizard has to be there! But which school is it?
He blinked
and took a deep breath. All the Wizards’ Schools were in cities, and there
weren’t very many of them.
The walls!
he thought, excitedly. They were
high walls with ramps and stairs leading down into the city. They were much
higher than any he had ever seen, so that ruled out all of the cities in the
Western Kingdoms. And beyond the wall in front of him was the silhouette of a
mountain, and that ruled out most of the others. The grid pattern was
meticulous, and that meant it was in Tyr.

“Hellsbreath!” he chortled. “That has to be Hellsbreath!” He
blinked, trying to get a sense of the layout of the city, but the vision drew
his attention back to the Wizards’ School’s spire as if he were running up to
it. The top of the spire was encircled by a walkway, and the vision zoomed in
on it at a dizzying speed. A wizard—not the one he sought—was staring up at the
sky as if it were the most beautiful woman in all the Western Kingdoms. Taro
watched him watching the sky for a long time, growing more and more bored as
the seconds of stillness turned into minutes of stillness. By the time the
wizard moved—a sudden, sharp jerk of his head—Taro was feeling drowsy. Then the
wizard pointed and shouted something the vision didn’t capture. Even if it had,
it would have been drowned out by the deafening squeal of a dying pig. At
least, that’s the closest sound he could think of to match the infernal noise
that erupted in his head and pushed away his drowsiness.

His vision expanded, and he saw doors opening on the spire.
Other wizards flowed out of the doors like soldier ants defending an anthill
under attack. In less than a minute, the walkway was crowded with wizards
staring and pointing into the distance. A few of them were flying. They must
have been talking excitedly, based on how they were waving their arms about,
but Taro couldn’t hear what they were saying because it was taking too long for
the pig to die. He wasn’t sure it would matter, anyway. Then a wizard in black
robes stepped out of the spire, and Taro focused his attention on him.
It’s him!
he thought, dismissing the other wizards from his awareness. He wasn’t gaunt in
this vision—
Before?
he wondered.
After?
—and his beard and hair
were immaculately trimmed. It was a stark contrast to the afterimage of the
other vision, and that troubled him. So did the ashen expression that settled
onto his face as he stared at what the other wizards were staring at but Taro
couldn’t see.

I wonder what’s troubling him?
Taro thought as the
vision dissolved into the stones of the ceiling. Then the ceiling began to glow
orange-red, slowly melting into rivulets of molten rock tracing the cracks
along its length. Bits of ash and stone began to shoot out from those, and Taro
desperately rolled onto his side and lifted his arm to cover his head. Even the
sharp, unrelenting pain in his neck and arm didn’t stop him as he scrambled to
his hands and knees and crawled away from the melting ceiling. The molten rock
followed him, and he winced as it spattered on the ground next to him. Then he
was huddled up against the wall with his arms protecting his face. His eyes
were closed, and still he saw the lava burbling out of the ground around him.
The mountains were exploding!

Mountains?
Taro thought through his terror.
There
aren’t any mountains along this coast.
He opened his eyes a slit. The
rivers of lava were still there, but there wasn’t any heat emanating from them.
He lowered his arms, but he couldn’t see the room he was in; all around him was
an immense field of lava bubbling up from the ground.
Another vision!
he
realized, drawing up his good left knee and hugging it.
But what does it
mean?

Then he saw it. Someone was flying over the lava as if he
were a bird skimming across the ocean looking for fish. His back was to him,
but there was no mistaking that black robe and tall, thin figure.
What is he
doing there?
Taro wondered, glancing around.
Where is it, anyway?
He
shook his head. There was no way for him to know. Yet.
Damned visions!
he
thought in frustration.
Why couldn’t they make sense
before
what they
depict has happened?

Taro huddled against the wall, shuddering as image after
image passed through his mind, each one was more perplexing than the last. He
didn’t understand any of them, but he did his best to memorize what details he
could of them while the images were still clear. By the time the last image
faded away, he was certain of only two things: He needed to find that wizard
before it was too late, and the place to look for him was Hellsbreath. But how would
he get there?

6

“Captain Blanchard has arrived, Sire,” Phillip said as he
entered the king’s bathing chamber.

“Good,” King Tyr said as he picked up the third towel. The
first towel had been for his hair, and the second for his left arm. This one
was for his right arm, and when he finished rubbing it five times, he refolded
the towel and stacked it neatly on the growing pile to his left. As he reached
to the right for the fourth towel, he said, “Fetch my dinner robe.”

While Phillip hurried to comply, the king used the last five
towels to dry off each leg, his back, his front, and his hair for a second
time. By the time he had finished, Phillip had the gown ready and the king
backed into its arms and let Phillip drape it over his shoulders. As he tied
the sash with an exacting, firm knot, he said, “Bring Captain Blanchard into my
study. Have him check the registry for a Banner wizard named Angus. I will join
him shortly.” He needed to put his hair in order before he could focus on the
business at hand.

Twenty minutes later he strode into his study and frowned at
Captain Blanchard. The chair he was sitting on was slightly askew, and he had
moved the lamp. He was hunched over a book and, judging by his scrunched up
eyes and the movements of his lips, was reading it. By the time he realized the
king had arrived, King Tyr was already starting to sit down.

“Sire!” Captain Blanchard said as he leapt to his feet,
knocking over his chair. In his hurry to pick it up, he bumped up against the
table and dislodged it from its proper place. The lamp shook and tilted, but it
had a wide, weighted base that kept it from falling over. King Tyr reached out
to steady it anyway, and then slowly rose to his feet.

“Captain,” King Tyr said as he adjusted the position of the
table. “Do be careful.” By the time he was satisfied with the table, Captain
Blanchard had the chair held out in front of him, as if it were an offering of
some sort. King Tyr closed his eyes and frowned. “Set it down, Captain.”

“Sire,” Captain Blanchard said, gently replacing the chair
on his side of the table. It was a bit off in its position, but that always
happened when he had guests. He had even grown somewhat accustomed to waiting
until his guests had left before he corrected it. It was difficult, but
normally his guests had something important to tell him, and he would focus on
that as best he could. But it was easier when someone was sitting in the chair,
so he gestured for Captain Blanchard to sit. “Thank you, Sire,” Captain
Blanchard said as he pulled the chair out and maneuvered himself into position.

Captain Blanchard had been fully trained, of course, but
even so, he was a quarter inch off-center, but the king nudged him over with a
finger until he was
almost
in the precise spot for a proper dialogue.
Then the king looked down at the Banner Registry and recoiled back into his
seat, almost knocking it over in his effort to put distance between himself and
the filthy, disordered tome. Splotches of ink had been dribbled on the page.
The handwriting was horrendously inconsistent. The ink had faded with age near
the top of the page and was strikingly bold and fresh at the bottom. It had no
uniformity at all! “What is this?” he demanded, fighting to keep from standing.
“I asked for the Banner Registry.”

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “This is it. I
collected it from the gate, myself, not more than an hour ago.”

King Tyr’s lips pressed together and he felt his eyebrows
lower like they always did when he was peeved. “I had intended for you to bring
my
copy,” he said through thinly parted lips. His copy was a much more
precise version of the daily entries, which were collected at the end of the
week and transcribed by a meticulous hand whose exacting penmanship was almost
a form of art in its own right.

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “I had intended to do
so but remembered hearing about a Banner wizard named Angus only yesterday. One
of my men had reported that such a wizard had arrived at the city’s western
gates but two nights ago. He was near death, and demanded that they take him to
a healer named Iscara. Since you wished for me to have this same healer brought
to you, I thought it best to bring the Banner registry from the gate. Your copy
will not be updated for three more days and did not include the relevant
entry.”

“I see,” King Tyr said, trying to force the tenseness from
his shoulders. “And what are they using in its stead?” he asked.

Captain Blanchard’s mouth opened and closed, once, before he
replied, “I had not thought to ask, Sire. Surely they have something for when
this is taken to be copied by your scribe?”

King Tyr frowned and
tried
to set it aside, but the
glaring scrawl screamed at him. It
must
be cleaned up, but if he acted
on that impulse, the entry could be lost entirely! Instead, he lowered his
hands to his lap and clenched them tightly together. “What does it say?” he
asked, fixing his eyes on Captain Blanchard’s neatly trimmed hair. The symmetry
and precision was comforting, but it did little to ease the clenching of his
hands.

Captain Blanchard pointed at the page and said, “This fellow
Angus is the wizard for The Banner of the Wounded Hand. That’s Hobart’s Banner.
I served with him in The Borderlands for a time. He’s a giant of a man, and as
capable with a sword as any I’ve ever seen. But he sneezes a lot. Having him at
your side is worth a dozen other soldiers at your back. He—”

“Yes, yes. He’s a marvelous fighter. What of the wizard?”

Captain Blanchard gulped and nodded. “Of course, Sire,” he
apologized. “The wizard Angus joined his Banner last autumn after Teffles had
been killed by wolves. Teffles was only with the Banner for a short time, as a
replacement for old Ribaldo when he died. Ribaldo was a fine old wizard who
could drink with the best of them. You know, it’s a bit funny that Hobart
didn’t kick Angus out of his Banner after he put that hole in Hellsbreath’s
wall. I would have. It must have cost the Banner dearly to get him out of the
dungeon, and the injunction was pretty severe. He must be a very powerful
wizard, indeed, but you’d expect that from someone trained by Voltari.”

King Tyr’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he heard
this, but he didn’t interrupt Captain Blanchard. The man didn’t know about the
mysterious hole suddenly appearing in Argyle’s warren, and he wasn’t about to
tell him. And
Voltari!
He almost shook his head as he recalled his
grandfather’s stories about that foul wizard, stories Captain Blanchard did not
need to know.

“Now,” Captain Blanchard continued, “the description of
Angus recorded at the time he joined the Banner is somewhat different from the
description recorded here two nights ago, but his injuries could account for
some of the discrepancies and the bad lighting for the rest. It is difficult to
determine a man’s height in torchlight when he’s lying on a stretcher—that sort
of thing. The eye color, though, is another matter. How a man can go from
having light blue, almost silver-gray eyes to dark blue eyes is beyond me, but
it could just be how the scribes saw the same thing differently. I have a man
in my unit who can’t see the difference between red and green, and—”

“The wizard?” King Tyr interrupted.

Captain Blanchard nodded again. “Yes, Sire, but this is
important. The men at the gate weren’t sure about him being the wizard
described in the Registry. He was a little different in size and shape, his
hair and eye color seemed a bit off—that kind of thing. Since there weren’t any
others from his Banner with him, they weren’t sure what to do. But then Angus
collapsed and the Lieutenant in charge decided it was better to risk being
wrong about who he was than to treat him as if he wasn’t who he was. So he
brought this Angus into the city and took him to Iscara for healing, even
though it was a strange request. We have plenty of our own healers, and Banner
men are entitled to their assistance, as you well know, but he insisted on
being taken to her. It was only after my man had agreed to it that this Angus
fellow used an old pass phrase about the fishmen being nearby. Hobart’s Banner
had encountered a small group of them in the mountains west of Hellsbreath just
before winter, and Angus thinks they were headed to the Lake of Scales. I’ve
already sent word to Commander Garrett in Hellsbreath to check that out.”

King Tyr felt his face begin to flush at the mention of
fishmen, but he clamped down his teeth to keep from interrupting again. Captain
Blanchard was right: this was becoming a very interesting distraction.

“Now,” Captain Blanchard continued. “My man took him to
Iscara’s and stayed there while she and a few other healers worked on him. He’s
a good soldier, and he kept an eye on everything they were doing. He didn’t
know at the time what Angus meant about the fishmen, and he thought it might be
a more immediate threat. You know how those rumors about The Borderlands are
circulating. Men going missing and all. Well, he stuck around to find out what
he knew—which wasn’t much, by the way. He hadn’t
seen
the fishmen; he
had only overheard something that led him to think they were at the Lake of
Scales. But it does make sense—if you don’t think overmuch about how they might
have gotten there without being seen by our patrols.” He paused for a moment
and then shook his head.

“Well, this Angus should have had his leg cut off—that’s
what our healers would have done—but Iscara and the other healers
grew him a
new one
. That’s what my man said they did, and I believe him. He’s not the
sort of man who would make something like that up. He hasn’t the imagination
for it. Now, Angus was unconscious for a long time while they healed him, and
afterward, but something odd happened. Iscara had another patient—at least, she
said
he was a patient—who was skulking about her shop that made my man
uneasy. He was all wrapped up with bandages that covered his face and hands,
and he walked as softly as a ghost and moved like a cat. That bothered my man,
but as long as this other fellow didn’t do more than raise his hackles, he had
more important things to do. It’s too bad that he didn’t know about the patrol
that had fought with a man wrapped in bandages like that, or he would have
dealt with him differently. But that particular incident hadn’t been circulated
through the ranks, yet. I only just put the two together myself, and if it is
your desire, I can ask Iscara about it.”

A man wrapped in bandages hiding at Iscara’s? One that
walks as softly as a ghost? There’s only one man it could be: Typhus.
“No,
Captain,” the king said. “You need not trouble yourself with the matter. I will
discuss it with her myself this evening.”

Captain Blanchard nodded. “Of course, Sire,” he said. “The
man in bandages seemed to know Angus—at least,
something
happened
between them that made the man in bandages scream in horror and collapse into
unconsciousness. Iscara
said
the disease that afflicted the man gave him
fainting spells, but my man didn’t believe her. He didn’t pursue it, though; he
hadn’t talked to Angus yet.”

King Tyr waited for Captain Blanchard to continue, but when
it was clear he wasn’t going to, he asked, “And when your man talked to Angus,
what did he find out?”

“Oh,” Captain Blanchard replied. “Aside from his suspicions
about where the fishmen are, not much. It was enough at the time for him to
know that it was just another rumor, and Angus agreed to talk to him at length
once he had had a chance to recover. Based on the injuries they saw, he thought
it would take a few days, even with the healing.”

“Very well,” King Tyr said, keeping his eyes fixed on the
symmetry of Captain Blanchard’s brow. “Return the Banner Registry to the gate
and track down this Angus. He may have spent last night in Willowby’s Inn.
Start there. I would like very much to talk with him about these fishmen. We
have made little headway on locating them, and if he knows something more about
where they may be, I want to hear it from him.” He stood up, and Captain
Blanchard gathered up the Banner Registry, bowed, and turned away.

King Tyr moved to reposition the chairs, and just before
Captain Blanchard reached the study door, he stopped him. “Oh, and Captain,” he
said, “send word throughout the kingdom. If Angus, wizard of the Banner of the
Wounded Hand, arrives in any outpost or city, he is to be restricted to that
location and I am to be told at once of his arrival. Since he is a wizard of
some note, his spells are to be temporarily confiscated, and if it becomes
necessary to arrest him, they have leave to do so. Also, call up the Banner of
the Wounded Hand for special duty. I may have use of them in the near future.”

“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied. “What orders shall I
give them?”

King Tyr frowned. He didn’t know what he was going to do
with them yet. But if Angus was responsible for what happened beneath the
castle, if he had done something to Grayle…. “Have them wait for further
instruction,” he said. “That is all.”
Pug is dead
, he thought.
Is
Grayle? I may not be able to act openly to avenge what has happened to her, but
surely there is some task I could assign to them that would lead to Angus’s
death? A jaunt into The Borderlands, perhaps? The missing soldiers aren’t just
a rumor; something
is
happening there, and I want to know what it is. If
only it was just the fishmen!

He sighed and moved to the ewer he kept next to the door for
visitors to use to wash their hands. There were towels next to it, and he
dipped the corner of one into the ewer. Then he turned to his table. It needed
a good scrubbing….