A SYMPHONY OF STORMS
Robert E. Vardeman
BOOK III OF
THE DEMON CROWN
TRILOGY
© Robert E. Vardeman 1990
Robert E. Vardeman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1990 by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
This edition published in 2017 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER I
Birtle Santon rubbed his withered left arm with his good hand and then drew his cloak around his body. The cold wintery winds whipping through the passes of the Yorral Mountains and sneaking into the pub where he sat sucked the warmth from him and made his joints ache. He was getting too old for this kind of adventuring.
The sight of the young woman across the room warmed him more than the cloak or the feeble fire guttering in the fireplace. She glowed with a beauty that made his heart pound fiercely. Her every movement was draped in grace and doe-like litheness. Most of all she held the Demon Crown in her long-fingered hands and caused the diabolical device to shine with an emerald green that invigorated rather than enervated.
“A lovely sight, isn’t it?” asked Santon’s young friend, Vered. The man’s light brown hair had been blown into disarray, giving him a wild and dangerous look. The reflected gleam of the Demon Crown in his brown eyes caused Santon to sit a little straighter on the hard wooden bench and worry that much more.
“What is lovely?” he asked softly. “The woman or the crown?”
“Both,” came Vered’s answer. He laughed and slapped Santon on his good right shoulder. “Fear naught, dear friend. The crown is not seducing me. Oh, yes, I wish I could wear it. Damn the drop of royal blood flowing in my veins!”
“You miss its power.”
“Aye, that I do,” admitted Vered. “But the crown has found its rightful owner. She is Lokenna, daughter of King Lamost and heir to the throne of Porotane. There can be no question of that.” Santon did not miss the wistfulness in Vered’s voice. He did want the crown for his own.
“Titles mean nothing when dealing with magic of this order. You were unable to keep the crown from twisting you about. Can she prevent it or will she fall prey to its insidious call?” Santon knew this was no simple question. Lokenna had proven royal blood flowed in her veins; any commoner touching the Demon Crown died instantly. Santon considered this merciful. A member of the royal family wearing the crown became the focus of imponderable magic, power beyond belief, a weight too great to bear if the wearer showed any weakness.
Lokenna’s twin, Lorens, had donned the crown and been broken by it. Would sister prove stronger than brother? Santon did not know. On that answer lay the destiny of the kingdom.
“What is all this madness about?” bellowed Bane Pandasso. “These two freebooters come dancing in here sweet as you please and give you this geegaw. Return it to them and get back to work.” The burly man reached out to touch the Demon Crown. A sizzling spark of the purest green arched over to his fingertips. He yelped and backed off, sticking thick fingers in his mouth to soothe the burn.
“Do not attempt to touch the crown,” Santon called. “It cannot be taken from your…wife.” The word caught in his throat. Seeing such a lovely young woman married to a brute with heavy eyebrows wiggling like woolly caterpillars on bony ridges, a nose that had been broken too many times, pig eyes, a perpetual scowl, and a disposition to match his facial ugliness offended Santon. From the nervous stirrings of his friend, Santon knew that Vered’s thoughts wandered down a similar path.
“He is good to me,” Lokenna said, as if reading their minds. She sat between them, cradling the glowing crown in her hands. The ancient magical relic radiated a pure light unlike anything they had seen before. On Lorens’ brow, it had produced a green the colour of corroded copper. A mere glance had convinced anyone with sensibility that evil was afoot.
No longer. Santon relaxed in the light bathing him and knew that the Demon Crown could be turned to benefit rather than destruction. With the young woman he felt more at peace than he had at any other time since…Alarice had died.
Birtle Santon’s thoughts turned to the Glass Warrior, the woman with hair of spun moonbeams, a beauty without peer. Tears beaded at the comers of his green eyes. He moved quickly to dab at the betraying droplets, but no one had seen this momentary weakness. Through the years of wandering Porotane he had found few women who affected him as strongly as Alarice.
She had been a warrior, a redoubtable wizard, a woman whose concern for the citizens of Porotane had led to her death. For almost two decades she had been entrusted with the Demon Crown. When Duke Freow lay dying, he had summoned her and sent her on a mission that would never be finished in the usurping noble’s lifetime. Freow had been interred before Alarice had reached the Desert of Sazan to seek out the true heir to the throne.
Santon remembered her fighting the master wizard Patrin for Lorens’ freedom. What a waste! Santon spat at the memory of Lorens. Lovely, courageous Alarice had died to place the youngling’s worthless arse upon the throne of Porotane. He had misused the Demon Crown and plunged the kingdom into a civil war so intense that it beggared description.
“Do not mourn me, dear Birtle,” came the whisper from outside. “I died so that the kingdom might prosper.”
Santon jerked around, his withered left arm knocking the glass shield that Alarice had given him to the floor. The noise alerted Vered, whose hand shot to his dagger hilt.
“What’s wrong?” Vered demanded.
Santon peered through the dirty pane of glass set into the wall. Outside a new winter storm raged, whipping up snow pellets and dirty rain.
“Nothing. Just the wind.”
“There’s more,” pressed Vered. He moved closer to his friend. “Did you see her again? Alarice?”
“I…I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Does she approve of Lokenna?”
“It might have been a trick of the wind. Yes, a gust coming through the walls. Pandasso is not a good carpenter. Can you feel the draft, too?”
“Aye, that I can.” Vered looked closely at Santon, then moved back to where he could talk quietly with Lokenna. Santon cast one last lingering look outside. Alarice’s phantom had appeared to him several times before, but not now. Not this time.
He was not certain if that was good. He wanted to see her again, even if it was only her tortured phantom. The magics unleashed by Patrin in the battle of spells had prevented him and Vered from properly burying her. The Glass Warrior’s body lay in the sand, her phantom roaming endlessly, seeking surcease and not finding it.
Selfishly, he wanted her to remain beside him, but his love — and pain — was greater. She had helped them find Lokenna. He would return to the Desert of Sazan, find her corpse, and give it the proper
burial. It was the least he could do for a true heroine.
“I told you to get this pigsty cleaned up, woman!” Bane Pandasso stormed about, knocking over pewter goblets, breaking ceramic plates, spilling ale, and making twice the mess that had been this sorry inn’s legacy when Santon and Vered had entered.
Santon motioned Vered to silence. The younger man’s temper knew few bounds. Santon cleared his throat and said loud enough to be heard over the whine of the wind. “That is past. Lokenna must return immediately to the castle.”
“What for?” Pandasso lumbered over, his long arms swinging like an arboreal animal’s limbs. “She’s my wife. She does what I say.”
“She is Queen of Porotane.”
“Please, I’ll clean up. Bane is right. There is work to do.” Lokenna gingerly placed the crown on the table. Its vibrant glow faded slightly but remained at a higher level than either of the adventurers had seen before.
Santon shook his head sadly. Things would change. He knew it by the way Lokenna touched the crown — and the way it responded favourably to her. Beside him, Vered heaved a deep sigh. He, too, understood what had yet to occur to Lokenna and her brutish husband.
“We should tend to the horses,” said Santon. “The winds blow colder by the minute.”
“I’ve had my fill of weather. How can anyone survive in this miserable place, much less prosper?” Vered looked around the shabby inn and added, “If this can be called prospering.”
“The village of Fron is not the place one expects to find a queen,” agreed Santon. “Only this isolation has kept her away from the madness gripping Porotane.”
“We should ask how she eluded the wizard who kidnapped her. Lorens ended up the wizard’s apprentice. What of Lokenna?”
“Is that to say you find this place less appealing than the City of Stolen Dreams?” Santon could not hold back a shudder of dread at the mention of Patrin’s city and the horrors magically stored within its boundaries. Alarice had died there — and only her sacrifice had allowed him and Vered to continue their miserable lives.
“Fron has a certain charm. The war has left the village unscathed. There is no hint of starvation. Remember the coast?” Santon immediately regretted this riposte. Vered’s handsome face turned to stone and a small muscle at the corner of his mouth began to twitch. The ebb and flow of the civil war had taken Vered’s family — and had given him life, if Santon’s suppositions were accurate. The drop of royal blood flowing in Vered’s veins that allowed him to briefly touch the Demon Crown had not come from a common fisherman. Santon thought that a conquering noble had taken his pleasure with Vered’s mother and left behind a bastard son.
“Lorens’ soldiers might still haunt these passes,” Vered said abruptly. “We should backtrack to be sure we have not been followed.”
“We have left them behind. All that roam these mountains tonight are phantoms.”
Santon stared out the filthy window once more in the wan hope of seeing Alarice’s phantom fluttering past. He saw only swirls of white snow and a deepening storm.
He heaved himself to his feet and settled the glass shield on his withered arm before pulling the cloak tightly around him. He motioned to Vered and left the inn without a backward glance. Lokenna and her husband stood nose to nose in the kitchen arguing. It did not take a wizard of any ability to know what caused this disagreement. The woman had touched the Demon Crown. For her there could be no turning back.
Santon dropped chin to chest to keep out the cold fingers of winter trying to strangle him. His exposed skin rippled with gooseflesh, and the strong wind coming from the high peaks ripped at his cloak and made it seem inconsequential against the cold.
“There,” came Vered’s voice. “There are the horses. They’ve come loose from the hitching rail. Stupid animals should know better than to wander off in this storm.”
Santon held out the shield and restrained the impetuous Vered. He had survived many years of conflict and treachery by listening to his inner voice. That voice now rose to a scream.
A deft flick of his wrist brought a heavy war axe swinging about on its thong. Vered bobbed his head in agreement. He drew the glass short sword Alarice had given him and slipped into the storm’s white shroud. Santon waited a moment, then moved in the opposite direction. Lorens’ soldiers had fought bitterly trying to regain the crown for their king. Lorens himself had arrived and shown startling magical ability. And what of others? Santon guessed that the bands of brigands preying on travellers in the Yorral Mountains came and went through Fron unhindered by the fearful locals.
Worst of all might be the rebels led by the likes of Dews Gaemock and Dalziel Sef. Although Santon’s sentiments rode with Gaemock more than with Lorens, on a battlefield it was difficult to tell friend from foe — and with the Demon Crown as prize, betrayal would come all too easily.
Santon tossed his head and got his thinning hair out of his eyes. The snow pellets melted on his forehead and plastered down the hair where it lay. He ignored this. His every sense reached out. The crunch of heavy boots on the icy crust of snow alerted him to another’s presence.
Crouching low, he moved with no more sound that a snowflake falling into a soft wet drift. Santon had barely recovered from an infected cut to his forehead and every joint in his body ached from the cold and travel. All that misery vanished and he became once more the deadly fighter of yore.
He came upon the man lying in ambush. Santon judged the distance, noted that he was attacking from behind, and, giving the man no chance to respond, then swung his axe in a short, vicious arc. The heavy, battle-nicked blade met the would-be ambusher’s neck at the shoulder. He grunted, tried to stand and turn. Only then did he feel the full impact of the deadly cleaver. He turned slowly and sank into the snow. The hot blood gushing from the cut sizzled as it heated the frozen crust of the snowbank. Santon paid the fallen man no attention. One enemy lay dead.
He had no idea how many more would die before he could again rest easily.
A shout alerted him that Vered had found a worthy opponent. Santon hesitated, worrying about his impetuous friend. He shrugged it off. Let the youngling have his day. He had proven himself a staunch fighter over and over. Santon doubted they would find any in the Yorral Mountains who could stand against their skill and daring.
He circled, his clear green eyes roving, ever-watchful for attack. Even with such alertness, his ears gave warning before his eyes. He dropped to one knee, shoved out the glass shield, and deflected a sword slash from the rear. He pivoted on his knee, grinding it into the frozen ground as he brought his heavy axe around in a circle parallel to the ground and knee-high.
He grunted when the blade struck an armoured thigh. Then the air was filled with screeches of pain as his adversary realized that his left leg had been cut to the bone. Santon gave the man no time to regain his wits. Lowering his shield, he shoved hard and bowled over the swordsman. The axe handle rose and fell, smashing the man’s skull.
“Two,” Santon said softly, panting, his breath turning to silvery plumes in the frigid air. “How many more?”
He continued his hunt and found three slain foe. He dropped the axe and let it dangle from its thong when he saw Vered sitting cross-legged on the hitching rail and daintily cleaning his glass sword.
“I do not understand the magic spells Alarice used to fashion this blade,” Vered said, “but it has served me well this day.”
“Three?” asked Santon.
“And two for you,” answered Vered. “I have taken the liberty of examining the pouches of those I felled.”
“And? What did you find besides a few paltry coins?” Santon joined his friend in cleaning his weapon. Now that the battle had ended, a heavy weight descended on his shoulders, turning him once more into a man pushed beyond his limits.
Vered looked at him in concern but said nothing about Santon’s paleness. “A few gold coins among the lot, true,” the brown-haired man said, “but also a strange document that auth
orizes these brigands to call themselves friend with Dalziel Sef’s rebels.”
Santon took the torn and heavily creased parchment and slowly read it. “A letter of marque granted by Sef,” he said in astonishment. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“A license to steal, and to do it in the name of the rebels,” said Vered. He pointed with the tip of his sword. “Actually, they are allowed to steal in the name of the future monarch of Porotane, good king Dalziel.”
“He flatters himself.”
Vered shrugged. “Who can say what happens in the land? Lorens’ power is broken. We stole away the Demon Crown and robbed him of the only link he had to the throne. The pretender Duke Freow is dead. Between Dalziel Sef and Gaemock might lie bad blood. If they fight for the throne, who’s to name the victor?”
“The true queen is there.” Santon indicated the dilapidated inn with the edge of his shield.
“If unrest in the land extends even to pitiful Fron, we had better convince Lokenna to return quickly. Porotane cannot stand more of this vicious civil strife. What has raged for so long has almost broken the people’s will to live.”
A chilly blast of frigid wind blew down the pass and whipped Santon’s cape like a garrison banner. He stared through the vee-notch of the pass and fancied he saw all the way to the Wizard of Storms’ castle hidden away above the Uvain Plateau.
They found brigands and rebels with steel and glass. What weapons did a wizard use to conquer Porotane?
“Aye, let’s see if Lokenna has convinced that pig of a husband that she belongs on a throne and not in a scullery.”
Santon threaded his way through the rapidly cooling corpses and caught the reins of their horses. The animals shied and tried to bolt, but the brigands had securely fastened the reins to a post hidden under the snow. Santon fumbled using his single good hand until Vered assisted him. They led the horses back to the inn and around to a small stable where they tended to grooming until their hands threatened to turn to ice.
A Symphony of Storms (Demon Crown Book 3) Page 1