r’s Eye
Book 1 of the Angus the Mage Series
By Robert P. Hansen
Copyright 2014 by Robert P. Hansen
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Connect With Me
For reviews, updates on my writing, excerpts from my novels, samples of my poetry, and links to my work online, visit my blog at: https://www.rphansenauthorpoet.wordpress.com/.
Follow me on Facebook at: fb.me/RobertPHansenAuthorPoet
Additional Titles
Fantasy Novels
The Drunken Wizard’s Playmates and Other Stories
Angus the Mage
Book 1: The Tiger’s Eye
Book 2: The Viper’s Fangs
Book 3: The Golden Key
Book 4: Angst
[Book 5 is the Aftermath series]
Aftermath
Book 1: Aftermath
Other Novels
Installments (mystery / literary)
Please Don’t Eat the Penguins (science fiction)
The Snodgrass Incident (science fiction)
Short Story Collections
Exploitation and Other Stories
Have You Seen My Cat? And Other Stories
Worms and Other Alien Encounters
Poetry Collections
2014: A Year of Poetry
2015: A Year of Poetry
2016: A Year of Poetry
A Bard Out of Time and Other Poems
A Field of Snow and Other Flights of Fancy
Last Rites . . . and Wrongs
Love & Annoyance
Of Muse and Pen
Potluck: What’s Left Over
Acknowledgments
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.
Dedication
For my brother Ken.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Connect With Me
Additional Titles
Voltari’s Map
Angus
Hellsbreath
The Banner of the Wounded Hand
Angst
Epilogue
About the Author
Voltari’s Map
Angus
1
“Angus?” The voice was distant, filtered through a dense smothering fog.
“Angus, wake up!” Sharp, cold, impatient. Was the man anxious? Angry? Maybe it was a gruff woman’s voice, a rotund barkeep rousting a wayward drunk. Was he a drunk? That would explain the sluggishness.
The voice struck him a ringing clout across his cheek and ear. His eyes flew open, fluttered, half-closed again.
“What?” he asked, trying to focus on the blurry shape hovering over him, weaving in and out of his spinning vision. It looked only vaguely human at first—an oval patch of paleness that gradually coalesced into a pair of intense, soul-crushing gray eyes full of mock compassion.
“Angus?” The stern voice flowed from the toothless mouth and consumed everything in its path.
“I’m awake,” he said, trying to blink into focus the uncertain image looming over him.
“Good,” the voice said, its tone decisive, confident. “You’re alive.” The voice lingered a bit longer before retreating as if it was no longer interested in him.
“I am?” he answered, rubbing his stinging cheek and squeezing his eyes shut again.
He was lying on a cold, hard, smooth surface. He rolled slowly over onto his left side, took a breath. Rock dust. Burnt rock dust. He braced himself, curled up, and pushed against the stone floor. “What happened?” he asked as he slid his legs under himself, his right side reluctant to comply. He managed to settle into a wobbly, lopsided sitting position and rubbed his eyes. No crusty rheum at the corners; he hadn’t slept long—if he had slept at all.
“Don’t you remember?” The voice was expectant, as if he were asking a pupil to answer a simple question, one that should have been learned long ago.
“No,” he said. “I—”
His brow furrowed as he turned his head and leveled his gaze at the old man’s midriff. “I can’t remember.” There were several dark brown pouches—What could be in them?—firmly attached to a broad leather belt of the same color. Difficult to steal. The old man’s airy robe was spun from fine black silk that concealed his hands in the deep folds of its sleeves and swallowed up his feet in the hem. The dainty fabric was a stark contrast to the ruggedness of the workmanlike leather belt. He looked up into the steely eyes of the bald old man, and his chest tightened, collapsing in on his breath. “I don’t remember anything!” he gasped, his hands fluttering as if he were trying to capture a wayward breeze.
The old man stroked his anvil-shaped chin, half-concealing the slight smile threatening to escape from his lips. “Interesting,” he said. There was no kindness in his dispassionate, inquisitive tone, only curiosity—and something else. Satisfaction? Pleasure? “You remember nothing? Nothing at all?”
An acrid taste blossomed at the back of his throat. His chest vibrated with the trembling of his heart, the hesitant urgency of his lungs. He shook his head. “No,” he gasped, trying to struggle to his feet. But his right leg was reluctant to support his weight, and he plopped back down, his tailbone tingling from the heavy impact on the stone floor.
“What happened to me?” he demanded, his voice harsh, frantic. He squirmed until he had his legs beneath him, and stood up in a swift, effortless, gliding motion. His eyes fixed firmly on the old man’s stoic expression. “Who are you?” he demanded, taking a step toward the robed figure. “Where am I?” he continued, ignoring the erratic fluctuations in his tone, the uncertainty of his gait. “What have you done to me?” he accused, his voice rising sharply, threatening to become an incoherent jumble of half-formed words erupting from his mouth. “Who am I?” He cried, grabbing at the old man’s arm. “What—”
The old man’s eyes tightened, dilating until they became a pair of unforgiving coal-black mirrors. A sudden jolt of energy poured from his arms and propelled his confused inquisitor backward, leaving him lying in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the wall.
The old man’s voice was calm, unyielding, eerily soft. “Under no circumstances,” he warned, “is an apprentice to touch his master without having been given leave to do so.”
He whimpered, thrust his singed fingers into his mouth, and began sucking on them. Tiny blisters were already sprouting. He blinked through a film of tears and drew mild comfort from the suckling sound he was making. Drool dribbled onto his chin, and tears streamed down his cheeks, but they did little to deter the intense pain shooting through his hand.
The old man’s eyes paled and settled on an implacable gray as he brushed away the tiny sparks still popping up along his sleeves. He waved away the smoke and said, his voice almost gracious, “Since your emotional comportment has been compromised by recent events, I will not pursue the matter further.” The old man paused and his gray stare pierced through the watery haze as he added, “This time.”
He huddled up against the wall like a chastised child for a long moment before a defiant streak hidden deep within him forced him to lift his head and drop his singed fingers
onto his lap. He stared back, gritted his teeth, and said nothing.
“As for your questions,” the old man continued, smoothing the front of his robe, “I am Voltari, Wizard of Blackhaven Tower. You are Angus, my halfwit apprentice. You have just failed a very simple spell with near-fatal consequences. Tomorrow, after you have recovered, we will begin remedial instruction in the use of the magical safeguards you should have mastered months ago. For now, return to your chambers and recuperate.”
Voltari reached out with a hooked finger, tugged on something that wasn’t there, and vanished.
“But,” Angus wailed into the vacuum left behind, “I don’t know where my chambers are.” He looked around the arched smoke-colored granite walls that tapered to a domed point above him. They were streaked with soot and pockmarked with divots, but there were no doors.
“Or how to get there,” he added.
He spent over an hour looking for an exit before he finally gave up and sat down against the wall, hoping that this Voltari fellow—his master?—would come back, and wondering who he was….
2
Angus stood before the smooth surface of the polished gray-white granite and stared at the distorted image staring back at him. Was he a stranger? A friend? The eyes were narrow—probably because he was squinting—and light-colored. Blue? Hazel? Gray? Brown? He couldn’t tell. It was a strange image, one that was both familiar to him but somehow completely alien. The hair was collar-length and dark. He knew it to be black from when he had trimmed it, but in the image looking back at him, it seemed to be dark brown.
There was a scar near his left ear, a thin crescent hidden beneath his hairline. Had he nicked himself shaving? Had it been a