“Please,” said the court physician. “Rest. Do not speak, my duke. You are too weak.”
“Let me tell a joke. Let me make him better.” Harhar bounced up and perched on the end of the duke’s bed. “O Mighty Duke, once there was a sweet young lass of sixteen summers who — ” Harhar crashed to the floor when the physician cuffed him. “Leave us, fool. The duke requires rest, not your madness.”
“No, wait,” said Freow, a skeletal hand clutching at the physician’s sleeve. “Let Harhar stay. He…he amuses me.”
With ill grace, the physician nodded. The jester moved to a corner of the room and stood quietly, ebony eyes darting around, seeking out any opportunity to amuse the failing monarch.
“I must see the Glass Warrior,” said Freow. “Bring her to me at once.”
“Sire, she was summoned. She travels as she pleases. The messenger told her that you…that the matter was of utmost urgency.”
“I have been so selfish,” moaned Duke Freow. “So selfish. I thought to rule Porotane.”
“You tire yourself, Duke,” said the physician.
“You have done what you thought best for the kingdom. None fault you for that.”
The old man made a gesture. The physician said nothing. The duke was dying by slow inches and he had been unable to discover the reason. The best wizards had checked for ensorcellments and found naught. Physically, the duke seemed healthy. But he died, slowly, painfully. The physician guessed at a slow poison, but had been unable to detect it.
The physician cursed his own failure to discover the reason for the infirmity even as he secretly considered the potential of the poison. To possess this for his own use would enhance his power in the court a hundredfold!
“Leave me for the moment,” ordered Freow. “No, Harhar can stay. He still amuses me.”
The physician left the jester to do what he could to brighten the old man’s flagging spirits. It seemed little enough for a man who might not see another sunrise.
The castle walls rose into the darkness of the night until they blocked even the stars. The snow-white-haired woman walked her steed at the base of those walls until the postern gate appeared behind a tall, leafy shrub of indeterminate variety. The Glass Warrior drew her strangely shining blade and slowly pushed away the bush. No trip wires had been attached since last she entered the castle of Porotane.
Careful examination of the door lock betrayed no bright, recent scratches. She drew a key of glass from a pouch and inserted it in the lock. A quick twist and the narrow, low door opened. She hurried down the long, dark passageway between the walls and emerged to glance about the deserted courtyard beyond, then ducked back to tie her horse to the bush.
“I’ll return before dawn,” she said, patting the animal on its powerful neck. The mare nickered and tried to pull away. The Glass Warrior stayed until the horse quieted. Only then did she slip back into the castle and make her way through silent passages to the uppermost levels of the castle where Duke Freow lay dying.
Tall, confident, she walked along the deserted halls of power. Only when she reached the branching, empty corridor leading to Duke Freow’s bed chambers did she pause. A frown marred the perfection of her ageless face. She took off her cape and wrapped it around her left arm. A guard always stood at this juncture.
The lack of a guard meant danger.
She sucked in a deep breath, settled herself, and drew her sword. The faint light from candles along the corridor caught the glass blade and reflected rainbows. Along the back side of the blade gleamed a thin tube of purplish liquid. The Glass Warrior adjusted the tube in such a fashion that it would not break if she slashed or thrust with the blade. Only then did she advance.
Her quick grey eyes darted back and forth, studying every entryway. But only her quick reflexes saved her from the attack from above. A dark clad assassin dropped from a niche in the roof.
He shrieked in pain and death as she took a quick step away and dropped to brace the sword hilt against the floor. The falling killer impaled himself on her blade. She rolled him over and carefully drew the now-bloody blade from his chest. His open eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling from which he had jumped.
She spun in time to meet the silent, vicious attack of another. Her glass blade deflected shining steel. A quick whipping motion brought her cape around and tangled the man’s feet. The Glass Warrior jerked hard, sending him to his back. He hit hard, rolled, and tried to escape her vengeance. She lunged, the tip of the long glass sword driving through his back and penetrating his heart.
She swung about and faced a third assassin. The Glass Warrior deflected the first thrust with her cape. She flicked her sword wrist in a curious fashion. The action forced the thin-walled tube of liquid along the back blood gutter and to the tip of her sword. She danced away from the wall, parried, backed, then riposted. The tube broke and liquid sprayed forth.
The soul-tearing scream torn from the assassin as the burning acid melted his face died when she lunged and drove the tip of her blade into his throat. Coughs, gurgles, thwarted shrieks of pain, then silence. The final assassin lay at her feet.
The Glass Warrior flicked her wrist once more, sending the now-empty tube to the floor. She drew another tube of the purplish acid from the hilt of her sword and fitted it carefully onto the tip of her blade. If three had ventured out to kill her this night, more might await her.
Armed and ready for any new ambush, she went to the door of the duke’s chamber and pressed her ear against the heavy wood panels. From inside came muffled words and a weak chuckle. She opened the door a fraction and peered in. She smiled. Harhar entertained his dying master.
“Duke?” she called softly. “I have come, as you commanded.”
The jester swung about, eyes narrowed, hand clutching his rattle as if it were a weapon.
“Harhar, no!” cried the duke. “She is a friend.”
The Glass Warrior bowed deeply. “And I will always remain a friend to whoever attempts to restore King Lamost’s line to the throne of Porotane.”
She stiffened when she saw tears forming in the old man’s eyes. How he had aged in the four years since last she had seen him. It might have been a hundred passing for all the ravages time had brought to him.
“I am unworthy of such loyal followers,” the old man sobbed.
“You have done well, my duke.”
“No!” he protested. He reached out his bony hand and clutched at her cape, drawing her closer. “I have not. I have betrayed the trust placed in me by Lamost.”
“How is this? Have you not sought out Lokenna and Lorens? Have you not given into my protection the birthright of the Porotane rulers?” His stricken look put her on guard.
He shook his head and cried openly now. “I have made no such attempt to find Lamost’s kidnapped children. I have done nothing! I sought only to rule Porotane myself. The power, oh, how I loved the power!”
“But, my duke, you could not love only power. Why entrust me with the Demon Crown when wearing it would allow you the ultimate power in the kingdom? No place would be closed to you, no action hidden, no thought too well guarded.”
“You know of the crown’s power,” Freow said, his voice faltering. Both the Glass Warrior and Harhar moved closer. She reached out and squeezed the jester’s arm to reassure him.
“I do,” she said.
“Then you know that, when the last demon bestowed it as tribute and reparation on the rulers of Porotane, a condition went with it.”
“Yes, only those of the blood royal may wear it. But Freow, you are a duke. You are Lamost’s brother.”
The wizened old man shook his head. The tears pouring from his eyes soaked the bedclothes. “I am a pretender, a fraud. Harhar is more a duke than I.”
“You are a changeling? But Lamost — ”
“Lamost never knew. The true Duke Freow ruled the lands along the sea. None in the castle had seen him in many years.”
“There had been some dispute between
Lamost and you.”
“Between Lamost and his true brother. When the king was assassinated, Freow began a solitary journey of penitence and mourning. I…I slew him on the road and assumed his role.”
“You are not of the royal line,” said the Glass Warrior. “You cannot wear the Demon Crown!”
“Nor could I relinquish the power I found following the king’s death. I was weak. Never had I seen such wealth, such riches. Freow was a cruel lord. I considered this a way of regaining what had been taken from me.”
Harhar moved about nervously, looking from the frail old man to the Glass Warrior.
“You also killed the duchess when she came to Porotane,” accused the woman.
“I did. She would have exposed me. I was so weak, so weak.” The man’s voice told of weakness beyond that of morality.
“You have ruled well, however,” the Glass Warrior said. “And you did entrust the Demon Crown to me when others might have destroyed it.”
“Again, weakness. I sought only to keep it from those with true claim to the throne. But now I am dying.”
The Glass Warrior stared at him. Her emotions raged. She had believed Freow — the man posing as Duke Freow — to be honourable and honest. Now she discovered his venality overshadowed even that of Baron Theoll. Did this erase all the good he had done? She needed time to consider.
“Please, I wish to repent my sins. You have the Demon Crown?”
Silently, the Glass Warrior pushed back her cape and pulled forth a small backpack of the purest midnight velvet. She opened it. Within rode a crystalline box. Within the box rested a plain circlet of gold. A few runes crossed the brow. Other than this, the crown lacked ornamentation of any kind.
“So simple-looking, yet so powerful a tool for good or evil,” Freow said.
“You wish to don it?” She thrust the glass box toward the man. He recoiled.
“No! I wished only to gaze upon what can never be mine.”
“Why did you summon me?” The Glass Warrior wondered if Freow had sent the assassins after her. She doubted it. Whatever troubled the old man, it was not her caretaking of the Demon Crown. He had only to ask for it without baring his soul.
“I want you to perform the task I should have carried out nineteen years ago. After Lamost died, I was appointed regent for the twins.”
“Did you have them kidnapped?” demanded the woman. Dying or not, he would suffer the dire consequences if he had made craven war on young children.
“No, not I. A wizard. Never have I learned his name.”
“How will I locate the heirs?” she asked.
“Never have I revealed this to another. The wizard responsible for Lamost’s death is Tahir d’mar. Seek him out. He knows what has become of Lorens and Lokenna. He must!”
The Glass Warrior frowned. Tahir had vanished long ago. She had never suspected him of complicity in King Lamost’s death, but then she avoided political intrigues and idle speculation on them.
“Tahir acted on orders from another. Who, I have never learned. Baron Theoll of-Brandon perhaps. Almost certainly,” the old man said. “But he is both cautious and powerful, and I have never openly challenged him.”
The Glass Warrior wondered how many assassination attempts had been made. This man who posed as Duke Freow might be of common birth but he possessed a royal’s knack for court machinations.
“Go, find the children, restore one to the throne — it matters little which one. Let one wear the Demon Crown and end the war wracking Porotane. I want the kingdom to find the peace I so ardently seek for myself.”
Harhar tugged on the woman’s cape. “He fades quickly.”
“Yes, he does, but within is a core of steel. Duke Freow might recover enough to maintain order until I have completed the mission he has given me.”
“But he isn’t — ” The Glass Warrior’s hand covered the jester’s mouth and silenced him.
“You are not to repeat this to anyone. Do you understand?” He bobbed his head in assent. “Good. Look after him as if he were the true duke. Keep his spirits up with your antics.”
“And you’ll return with a new king or queen?” The jester’s eagerness amused her.
“I will try. Finding Tahir after so many years will be difficult. He might have had nothing to do with the kidnapping.” She abruptly cut off her flow of words.
“I will find the true heirs and give them their heritage.”
The Glass Warrior held the crystalline box containing the Demon Crown at arm’s length, as if it contained only death and destruction.
CHAPTER III
Baron Theoll drifted along the castle corridors like a phantom, his dark cape making the only sound as he moved. He stood stock still when he saw the first assassin laying face down in the hall. Burning eyes lifted and found the second killer. Theoll knew that the third assassin had also been slain. Although the trio had not been his best, they represented a new school of mercenaries in whom he had placed great trust.
They had not proven adequate for the task of slaying a lone woman.
Theoll experienced a polar chill racing up his back at the thought of the Glass Warrior. For so many years he had tried to kill her. Each attempt had been thwarted. Theoll had no evidence that he had done more than irritate her. Never had even one of his carefully trained assassins seriously wounded her. Theoll worried that she had not even been bloodied.
He paid no heed to the corpses. He rushed to a panel in the hall and ran his nimble fingers along the horns of a ram trapped forever in the ornately carved hunting scene. The secret door swung inward. Theoll paused for a moment before entering. He controlled so little in this portion of the castle. High risk meant more than mere discovery. If Duke Freow caught him, no amount of influence-bartering would save him from the castle executioner.
Theoll closed the secret panel and moved quickly along the narrow passageway, climbed a short flight of stone steps, and then crawled on his belly for another fifty feet. The spyhole into the duke’s chambers had been drilled at the juncture between ceiling and wall. The view was obstructed by furniture in the room and overhearing what transpired within proved impossible. But any knowledge gained might mean his salvation.
Theoll squinted and scooted closer, his eye hurting as he strained to see through solid furniture and the gauzy curtains veiling the duke’s deathbed.
He saw only the duke’s feeble hand — and the Demon Crown beside the duke on the bed.
Theoll caught his breath and held it. The Glass Warrior had brought the Demon Crown to Freow!
The baron almost turned and wiggled back to summon a full platoon of his guards. Seizing the Demon Crown now might allow him to assume the throne. Then reason settled and he continued his uneasy vigil.
The Glass Warrior might be capable of fighting even a brigade of his best soldiers. She was rumoured to be a sorceress, a fighter second to none, a phantom returned to the world, a goddess. The first might be possible, the second had proven true on many occasions, and the other two rumours Theoll doubted. But capable of defending Freow she was — at least long enough for those still loyal to the failing duke to aid him.
“…entrust you with this mission,” Theoll heard Duke Freow say. Moving about, almost injuring his eye, Theoll spotted the Glass Warrior. She stood quietly beside the bed, hand resting on the hilt of her glass sword.
The woman’s words rang clearer than the dying duke’s. “You may depend on me, Duke.”
Theoll saw the Demon Crown vanish from the bed. A sharp click as of a latch closing echoed through the silent chamber. Two quick, hollow bootsteps and the sound of the door closing.
The Glass Warrior had departed!
Theoll knew he could never get back to the corridor in time to stop her. The coldness he had experienced on realizing that she had slain three of his better assassins poured like cold water over him once more. His fighting prowess on a good day equalled that of many in Porotane. But those that he could consistently best were few. To at
tempt to stop the Glass Warrior alone would be suicidal.
He watched as the jester cavorted about, uttering silly noises, trying to make the dying duke’s last minutes less painful. Theoll wished that he could poison both duke and jester. Harhar always made him the butt of his cruel jokes, but who could discipline a lowly jester? To do so would show weakness that others vying for power in the castle might exploit.
When he became king of Porotane the jester’s ugly head would grace a pike outside the gates.
Theoll worked his way backward in the tight crawl space and descended the stairs. He pressed his ear against the secret panel leading into the corridor, listening intently for a hint that the Glass Warrior lay in wait for him. Theoll finally opened the panel a fraction of an inch and peered out. He saw only one corpse. Slipping out, he glanced back and forth.
As he had thought, the woman had not lingered. Freow had given her a mission, and the baron had a good idea what it might be. For almost twenty years Duke Freow had told the council of nobles that he sought the heirs to the throne of Porotane. Theoll knew that he lied. No emissaries visited neighbouring lands to inquire of the missing twins. No soldiers scoured the countryside, save to do war against the rebel bands. No wizards cast scrying spells. The duke ruled and did not want to find the children.
Until now. Until he felt the life holding him to this world slipping from weak, poisoned fingers. He had dispatched the Glass Warrior, with the Demon Crown, to find Lokenna or Lorens.
The baron threw caution to the winds as he raced along the deserted corridors. His heavy bootsteps echoed until the sound threatened to deafen him. He skidded on the slick floor and spun about to enter a tiny dormitory on the level below his own quarters.
A dozen men slept on pallets. His entry brought them awake, daggers in hand. Theoll paused to smile at their alertness. They would need that and all the training he had lavished on them for the past two years to equal the Glass Warrior.
And equal her — best her! — they must.
“You, you, you,” Baron Theoll barked, pointing out the soldiers he wanted. “Come with me immediately. The rest of you, prepare to ride at the first light of dawn.”
The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1) Page 3