The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “If the wizard retreats, can we reform in the valley and pursue?” Gaemock asked.

  “Yes, of course, but the wizard must know this. He will have prepared a surprise for us, I am sure.”

  “I am, also, Jiskko. Just a thought, not an order. Continue. Let the wizard divide our forces. But also alert each band to the chance to drive the swine’s troops back into the valley. We do hold the high ground.”

  Gaemock’s eyes turned toward the castle. It pained him to put away the siege until another day, but survival demanded this course. Duke Freow could not maintain his flimsy grip on Porotane forever. If Gaemock failed to dislodge the regent today, then autumn would see another attack. Let that fail, and another could be mounted in a year’s time. Eventually the defenders had to tire and relent.

  “They attack, Lord!” cried Jiskko.

  “So I see.” Gaemock watched as a thready line of his troops began falling back under the uphill charge on the far side of the valley. The range proved too much for the archers arrayed around him, but those on the other hill took a fearsome toll on the enemy.

  “They waste lives with their attack. Their commander throws troops against the strongest parts of our line,’ Jiskko shook his head.

  “They die, yes,” said Gaemock, “but they have diverted us from Porotane’s castle. No matter the outcome this day, Duke Freow has won a small victory.”

  “And Lady Ionia,” Jiskko said bitterly.

  “And lovely Ionia,” agreed Gaemock. He settled down on his haunches to watch the progress of the battle. When the wizard’s troops reached a spot two-thirds of the way up the hill, the boy Gaemock had sent as messenger came back, breathless from the long run.

  “Quick, boy. Did you find her?”

  “Yes!” The boy’s eyes opened wider than saucers. “It was as you said. I had no trouble locating the old woman. I gave her your orders — ”

  “My suggestions.” corrected Gaemock. “I do not order one such as she.” He had not wanted to use the witch at all, but now he was obligated to her. So be it.

  “Aye, that I found, Lord Dews.” The boy swallowed hard. “In spite of my error, she has agreed.”

  “Good!” Gaemock rose and motioned. The signaller to his right passed the message across the field. The distant troops mounted a savage counterattack that drove the wizard’s fighters back toward the valley floor. In concert, Gaemock ordered those arrayed around him to plunge downward, down into the valley, down to attack the enemy’s rear.

  The response from the enemy’s line, although expected, still stunned Gaemock and sent him reeling. The wizard had placed more than a simple ward spell along the bottom of the valley. Huge sheets of flame rose more than a hundred feet into the air to cut off any possible attack.

  “We can’t fight this!” cried Jiskko.

  “We won’t have to,” said Gaemock, recovering. The heat boiling up from below made him think he stared into the opened gate of hell. “The wizard is not powerful enough to maintain this spell for more than a few seconds.” Even as he spoke, Gaemock worried. The flames continued to rage long past the point where a sorcerer should have collapsed in exhaustion. A well-trained warrior might march all day and fight for an hour before tiring to the point of insensibility. Gaemock had never encountered a wizard able to maintain a potent spell for more than a minute.

  But still the flames clawed upward, preventing him from reinforcing his troops on the other hillside.

  “Lord,” said the boy suddenly. “Mayhap we face more than one sorcerer.”

  “The boy speaks the truth,” said Jiskko. “We need more information about who oppose us.”

  “The only possibility is that Duke Freow has formed an alliance with several wandering wizards. I do not believe this is possible. We would have heard of the duke’s intent to recruit. No, we face only one wizard. He will tire.”

  Gaemock smiled when he saw the outer fringes of the flame wall begin to cool. The sheets of fire flickered, died, and soon only charred land remained — land and more than a few skeletons of those unfortunate enough to be caught in the blaze.

  “Are those ours or the wizard’s?” asked Gaemock of his adviser.

  Jiskko said, “Evenly divided, I fear, Lord. We took as good as we gave.”,

  “Signal the assault on the other hill,” said Gaemock. The sight of the burned bones of valiant soldiers sickened him. Damn all wizards!

  “Should I also order your personal troops to retreat?”

  “Yes. Do it now. The enemy will remain in confusion for a few minutes due to the wizard’s spell. He did not warn them before casting. I can see the signs of their disarray.”

  Dews Gaemock watched as his tactic unfolded. The soldiers who had borne the brunt of conflict thus far responded well, driving the wizard’s troops back to the valley floor. Only when the enemy began retreating up the valley did Gaemock signal for full attack. His two halves met, then pursued.

  “Jiskko!” called Gaemock after they had gone less than a hundred paces after the fleeing enemy. “To the high ground. Both sides of the valley. Signal it now. Break off pursuit and run for the high ground!”

  “But Lord, why?”

  “Do it, damn your miserable hide!”

  Jiskko ordered the signallers, but the formation proved too drawn out for effective communication. Two trumpeters came to the fore, their mournful blasts producing instant obedience by Gaemock’s troops. None had the heart for this battle. They all sought the downfall of Duke Freow, not some wandering wizard intent on looting and random destruction.

  The soldiers racing for the high ground brought a change in the enemy troops. They wheeled and attacked.

  The pounding of their horses’ hooves, the triumphant shouts of their pikemen and bowmen drowned out the deep, resonant sounds from high up the valley.

  “Keep the trumpeters a-blowing,” ordered Gaemock. “Get the troops to even higher ground.”

  “The sound, Lord,” murmured the boy. “It…it’s a flood!”

  Before the words had blossomed from his lips, the ten-foot-high wall of water swept through the valley, caught up horses and soldiers and rocks and trees, and carried them away. The roar of the watery battering ram silenced the trumpets, and a sheet of spray blasted into the air higher than the flame wall the wizard had constructed.

  Gaemock leaned against a tree, his arms circling it. He watched the carnage below. The old woman might be a minor sorceress, scorned by those more powerful, but she controlled the dikes along the River Ty with her petty spells. A simple pass of her hand had opened flood gates and washed away all challenge to Gaemock’s army.

  And now he owed her. Damn!

  “Get the semaphores working, Jiskko. Signal the far side of the valley. Rendezvous in one week at our training site.”

  “We abandon the siege of the castle?”

  “For now Duke Freow and Porotane are safe from us. But only for the moment,” said Gaemock. “I will not stop until the kingdom is wrested from him.” With that Dews Gaemock spun and stalked off. The attack had been blunted by that meddling wizard, but his forces remained intact. For that, he gave thanks.

  But so many deaths this day. And for what? The only thing sadder than not knowing the name of the wizard he had slain this day was not caring.

  CHAPTER II

  The black cloak whispered softly around the man’s small, wiry frame as he pulled it closer about his shoulders. With the cloak in place, he vanished from sight in deep shadows. Softer than the shadows he mimicked, he drifted down the castle’s main corridors, found secondary routes, stopped to look to see if anyone followed, then reached out and tugged at a rocky protrusion high on the wall. Silently, a section of wall slid back. The ebony-cloaked man entered. The door closed behind and plunged the secret passage into utter darkness save for seven tiny pinpoints of light in the distance.

  On feet quieter than velvet moving over velvet, he went to the first spyhole and peered into the room beyond. Nothing. The next afforded a si
ght hardly more interesting. Two serving wenches sat about gossiping. Their wild rumours and obscene comments about the lords in the castle of Porotane might have interested him at another time. Not now. He drifted on, choosing the fifth spyhole.

  Eye pressed hard against the hole, he looked into lavishly appointed sleeping chambers. Tiny moans of pleasure came to his straining ears. He turned until he saw the large bed piled with silks and furs. Atop the bed lay a nude couple, their bodies intricately intertwined in the passion of lovemaking.

  He held down his own excitement as he watched the act proceed as surely as any play in the castle’s yearly drama pageant. Licking dried lips, he moved away, then placed his other eye to the spyhole. His right had become blurred from the tension of the position.

  If he had designed these secret ways, the spyholes would have been placed lower to better accommodate one of his stature.

  “Oh, Johanna,” came the soft cries from the room. The watching man smiled. This confirmed all he had heard. Lady Johanna and the lieutenant of the night guard. For this dalliance the guard could be put to death. His post was along the castle battlements watching for rebel attacks, not locked in the passionate arms of a noble lady.

  “Seen enough, Baron?” came a low voice. The dark-clad figure sprang from the spyhole, his hand flashing to a dagger sheathed at his belt. He blinked rapidly, trying to readjust his eyes from the light of the sleeping chamber and the amorously locked pair to the inky darkness of the passageway.

  “Who’s there?” Baron Theoll demanded. “Speak or I’ll slice your tongue from your head!”

  “It is a sin to spy on others,” came the disembodied voice. Although Theoll could not see his accuser, he recognized the voice now.

  “Archbishop Nosto, you startled me. I only spied on those disloyal to the throne.”

  “You get strange pleasure from this act of ‘patriotism,’ Baron. It is not natural. Is the scrying power granted by the Demon Crown the reason you desire it so?”

  “Do not think to anger me, Nosto,” snapped Theoll. He sheathed his dagger. His eyes had found the dim figure of the prelate. The floppy headgear, the tight-fitting red suit of a cleric, the tall, thin body, all these identified Archbishop Nosto.

  The Archbishop brushed past Theoll and peered through the spyhole, then pulled away. Theoll saw the cleric shaking his head in bewilderment. What did a cleric know of intelligence gathering? The entire castle ran rampant with plots, allegiances forming and disintegrating hour to hour, second to second. Without such current information, how was Theoll to survive?

  How was he to ever find the accursed Demon Crown? And don it?

  “Let us adjourn to my chambers, Archbishop. It is quieter there.” The crescendo of sobs and moans from Lady Johanna’s chambers emphasized the baron’s words.

  They walked down the secret passageway and out into a main castle corridor. At this late hour, no one stirred in these halls. Baron Theoll made an impatient gesture to the cleric and strode off, his short legs trying and failing to outdistance the taller man’s. Theoll stopped in front of the door leading to his quarters, glanced along the corridor in both directions, and then entered.

  “Always so suspicious, Baron. You should learn to trust those within the castle. We all oppose the rebel forces.”

  “That is true,” said Theoll, “but it does not mean that we do not also oppose each other. Enemy of my enemy does not make my friend.”

  Archbishop Nosto settled onto a simple footstool and looked up at the baron. The man’s quick movements betrayed nervousness. Or excitement?

  Had he been so stimulated by spying on the Lady Johanna? Nosto shook his head sadly. For all the instruction he had given Theoll, this seemed one lesson that had been ignored. Privacy meant nothing to the Baron of Brandon — except his own, which he guarded with a jealousy approaching fanaticism.

  “The Demon Crown is once more within the castle walls,” Theoll said. “That fool Freow has sent for it. I must obtain it! I must!”

  “What is the source of this information?” asked Archbishop Nosto. “No one has come forward and told me.”

  “You mean you haven’t been able to torture the information from anyone,” Theoll said, sneering. “You prattle on about me peering through a spyhole at traitors while you break bones and burn out eyes in the name of the Inquisition. Which method obtains the better intelligence?”

  “I do not enjoy my work as Inquisitor,” said the cleric. He sighed. “But sinfulness is everywhere. So many stray from the True Path.” He straightened on the stool, his face almost glowing with his righteousness. “The tortures are not to squeeze out information but to instil godliness in the miscreants.”

  “It’s fortuitous that your heretics and my enemies happen to be in league,” said Baron Theoll.

  “Who can say where a lamb blunders when it leaves the True Path?”

  Theoll laughed harshly. “This lamb will never stray, will it, Nosto? I see that it won’t.” Theoll settled into the heavily padded chair on a dais. From this vantage, he towered over anyone who sought an audience with him. Theoll had long since stopped noticing that the Archbishop always sat on this footstool to maintain a “proper” elevation. They needed one another, the baron and archbishop, and neither fully admitted it.

  “You have sought the Demon Crown since King Lamost died. Why do you think the duke has become so careless to reveal it to you now? Although he is gravely ill, Freow retains much of his former cunning.”

  Theoll smirked. Direct assassination had proven impossible with the regent, unlike the unlamented King Lamost. Duke Freow had deftly avoided every attempt. Even the judicious use of wizardry had proven ineffective. But Theoll had found the way through Freow’s defences. For over a year he had been slowly poisoning the duke with a potion prepared by a sorcerer sequestered in the upper reaches of the Yorral Mountains. Not magical in nature, the potion worked by accumulation over the years. Theoll often waited weeks or even months before adding new doses of the potion to the duke’s food. Even a taster with a sensitive palate could not detect the poison in such small amounts.

  “Now that the duke lies near death, he has summoned the keeper of the Demon Crown.”

  “Have you learned who this mysterious keeper is?” asked Archbishop Nosto. “I have heard only rumours.”

  “We thrive on rumours in Porotane,” said Theoll. “I know the keeper.” He paused to build the proper amount of anticipation in the cleric. Nosto enjoyed these revelations and Theoll delivered the words dramatically and well. “It is the Glass Warrior.”

  Archbishop Nosto made a rude noise and waved his hand, as if dismissing the baron. “Do not waste my time, Theoll. She is legend and nothing more. The Glass Warrior.” He snorted and pushed to his feet. Even with Theoll’s raised chair, Nosto stared directly into the baron’s cold eyes.

  “I do not jest,” snapped Theoll. “She exists. She has been entrusted with the Demon Crown until the twins are found.”

  “Does that search progress any better than your other schemes?”

  “Duke Freow has not pressed the search; he has enjoyed rule in Porotane for too long.”

  “And you seek out Lokenna and Lorens to slay them, to establish yourself as heir to the throne.”

  “Would such an occurrence displease my lord archbishop?”

  “The twins have been missing for too long. What would they know of ruling a kingdom the size of Porotane? I feel you are a better choice, Baron. You know that.”

  “They would certainly never honour the leading cleric in the realm as I would, I who know your true merit,” taunted Theoll.

  “If you seize the Demon Crown from this mythical warrior woman, what would you do with it first?”

  Theoll studied the tall, thin man intently. The question seemed innocuous. Theoll knew otherwise. “There are two problems of paramount importance to unifying Porotane,” he replied. “The Inquisition must be brought to an end by the elimination of the heretics, and the rebels must be routed
. Dews Gaemock and his ruffians must not continue to rob and pillage as the duke has allowed for too long.” Theoll saw the fervour return to Archbishop Nosto’s face. The death of all heretics lay near to the cleric’s heart. For all his protests, Nosto enjoyed the sight of tortured bodies as much as Theoll enjoyed the stolen sight of women with their lovers.

  “After these matters are resolved,” Theoll continued, “I would don the Demon Crown and seek out Lokenna and Lorens.”

  “They are of the blood. They are the true heirs,” pointed out Nosto.

  “I would take care in how I eliminated them.” Theoll smiled wickedly. “Perhaps the sight granted by the Demon Crown would show that the children have become heretics.”

  This line of thinking appealed to Archbishop Nosto. He nodded. “They have been gone from the grace of my services for almost twenty years.”

  “They were stolen away the year following King Lamost’s death.”

  “Nineteen years then,” mused Nosto. “A time long enough to be seduced from the True Path.”

  “They would be of twenty-four summers now,” said Theoll.

  “If they live.”

  Baron Theoll said nothing. As he had learned that the Glass Warrior had been entrusted with the Demon Crown, so had he learned that both twins survived. All that he needed was to locate the pair.

  Locate and kill the offspring of Lamost — and take the Demon Crown for his own. Success that had stretched out of reach for years now dropped into his lap.

  The jester shook his head and sent his lank dark hair flying in wild disarray around his face, turning him into something less than human. Harhar bounced up and down on legs that seemed to have steel springs instead of flesh and blood muscle, then he slipped and fell heavily to the floor.

  *

  Sheepishly, the jester looked up and smiled weakly. He rubbed himself where he had fallen. Those he tried to entertain ignored him. Their full attention focused on Duke Freow, lying pale and emaciated on his bed.

  “Has she come yet? I must see her,” the ancient duke said.