“Here, Santon, you do the fire. I’ll get the rations.” He pushed past his friend and blocked the view into the wagon. He had forgotten to hide the pilfered circlet properly. Deft movements drew forth small portions of their food and hid the gold band where neither Santon nor the Glass Warrior was likely to see it without much searching.
“You hate to cook,” said Santon. “Why the change of heart?”
“There is no constant in the world but change. Perhaps I’ve tired of your flavourless, tough concoctions. Perhaps I seek a cook who washes his hands.”
“Perhaps I can get some peace,” grumbled Birtle Santon.
Vered worked quickly and well to fix breakfast. The trio ate in silence, cleaned their plates, and stared challengingly at one another, almost daring the other to speak first. Vered broke the deadlock.
“I’ll tend to the wagon. We can be on our way in an hour or less.”
“May I have a word with you, Birtle?” asked the Glass Warrior.
“Let’s walk,” Santon said. He heaved his bulk up and forward and got his feet under him. His immensely powerful left arm showed no strain when he helped Alarice to her feet. Together, they vanished into the dense undergrowth.
This suited Vered. He hastily packed their equipment, tended the swayback horse, and then climbed into the wagon, its rear door slightly ajar so that he could keep watch for the Glass Warrior’s return.
He reached under the sacks where he had hidden the gold circlet. He drew it forth and stared at it.
The electric tingle returned and set his heart racing faster. Hands trembling slightly, Vered lifted the Demon Crown and placed it upon his head.
Santon and Alarice found a small game trail and followed it until they came to the brook wending its way into larger waters. Santon paused and stared at the churning surface, then picked up a stone and dropped it into the stream. The rapid current robbed him of the pleasure of seeing ripples expand outward.
“Have you come to a conclusion, Birtle?” Alarice asked. “This is not something to be taken lightly. The fate of Porotane rests on your decision.”
“What can I do to help? Or Vered and me? We’re not soldiers. We’re certainly no heroes.”
“You are adept with a blade and, in spite of all you say, I see the goodness within you both. And courage. More than you think.”
He stared into her slate grey eyes and felt as if he fell a hundred miles. More stirred within this woman than he could guess. So like the stream she was! The surface carried one message, while others lurked beneath frothy waters. Santon felt as if he would step into her eyes and vanish forever into a world beyond his wildest imagining.
“We cannot. Despite all that you say, this isn’t our fight.”
“I understand,” she said. “But I had hoped for more from you. It was wrong of me to impose, even asking this of you. Duke Freow has given me the mission and no one else. I sought only to lighten my burden.”
“Alarice,” he began. He bit back words ill considered. Santon almost agreed to abandon Vered and travel with her.
“Friendships are precious,” she said, supplying him with an excuse.
“Vered and I have travelled far,” Santon said. “He’s saved my life well nigh as many times as I have saved his.” He smiled as he remembered. “We met on the coast. I had been mustered out of the King’s Guard over fifteen years when I came on this ruffian trying to steal from a sailor. The old salt had caught him and wanted to cut off Vered’s ears. The boy lacked a summer of being fifteen.”
“You rescued him?”
“Of course. I pretended to buy him from the sailor. I paid five gold pieces. Oh, that Vered’s quick on the uptake. He saw what I did. He had the sailor’s money pouch long before I grabbed him by the ear and led him from the tavern. He tried to rob me when we got free! After we settled that, we got along well. His skills are great.”
“As are yours,” Alarice said, her fingers moving along the sinews on Santon’s powerful arm. “I remember last night.”
“It’s been a long time,” he said, embarrassed.
“For me, too. Perhaps that made it the sweeter. I choose to think otherwise.”
“We can’t go with you. There’s too many on our trail,” Santon said, coming to a firm conclusion now. “We would only hold you back from wherever you go.”
“I seek the wizard Tahir d’mar.”
“A wizard, is it? That’s too risky for the likes of a pair of sneak thieves. Neither Vered nor I are adept at even simple fire spells.”
“I feel more in Vered,” she said. “Are you sure he is not hiding spell-casting abilities from you?”
“We’ve been together five years. He’s a sly one, but not even Vered could pretend for that length of time. He’s as lacking in magic skills as I.”
Santon stared at her and said, “I wish it could be otherwise, Alarice. If for nothing more than to guard your back.”
“Companions can mean life or death.” She saw the conflict still raging within his mind, but Birtle Santon had decided. The Glass Warrior would not ask him to recant. “Let’s return to camp. I…I have an uneasy feeling.”
“Theoll’s men?” he asked.
“No, something…more.”
Alarice spun and started back to camp at a pace Santon worked hard to equal.
Vered lowered the crown, then jerked back when biting sparks exploded from the circlet and burned his scalp. But the Demon Crown remained on his head — and he saw.
He had always thought his vision good and his hearing acute. Vered knew the truth now. He had been as one aged and infirm, seeing half the world and hearing nothing. But no longer! The world sharpened and brightened and the sounds blasted into his ears.
He saw the songbird in the tree a mile distant, heard the faint quavers in its mating call, understood all, and found the golden bird’s mate four miles away. Vered listened to her answer, saw her take wing and fly directly toward the tree branch.
A shiver possessed him. His sight extended farther along the road he and Santon had travelled. His hand flashed for his sword when he saw the rebel band stalking the four local constables. Vered did not know which side he should support with his fighting prowess.
He had no love for the constables; they insisted on foolishly enforcing laws that Vered chose to break or ignore. But the rebels! These were of a band led by a minor wizard. How Vered knew this, he could not say.
He knew. He knew!
The rebels ambushed the four constables, killing two instantly. The two survivors stood back to back to defend themselves. Vered chose. He rushed forward to aid them against the rebels. Politics meant nothing to him. Helping those against whom the odds fell appealed to him. For all his life, he had been the longshot, the poor bet, the one no one expected to survive.
Vered rushed forward, sword swinging. The blade drove down on a carelessly exposed wrist…and passed through.
He gasped and stared in disbelief at his blade. Every detail of the blade was his to examine minutely. The tiny nicks he thought he had honed out, the imperfections in the metal, small islands of carbon in the steel, Vered saw all this and more.
“Die, swine!” cried a rebel. The man’s sword rose and fell. Blood spattered from the constable’s wound. A second slash ended the man’s life. The remaining constable proved easy prey for the rebel band. The six who survived the ambush stood over the bodies, gloating openly. Again Vered tried to attack and again his blade passed through his target as if traveling through smoke.
Vered jumped back to reassess his actions. The rebels paid him no heed. It was as if he did not exist for them. But he saw and heard so clearly!
Movement behind drew him around. He faced the leader of this small group. He felt power exuding from this man.
The wizard halted and cocked his head to one side. He yelled, “Search the area! There is another lurking nearby. Another wizard!”
Vered spun and used his sight to look for this other wizard. He saw no one. It took sev
eral seconds for him to realize that this sorcerer did not mean another. He meant Vered.
The thief blinked and moved away from the wizard. The speed of retreat took away his breath. Never in his life had he run this fast. Vered looked beyond the rebel wizard and saw other men and women, in a village, beyond the village, beyond the River Ty, all the way to Porotane’s castle.
And within the strong stone walls stirred hundreds of people. Vered found it increasingly easy to follow an individual. Freow lay dying. The court jester, called Harhar by a nobleman, cavorted and pranced and tried to cheer the duke.
Vered’s head spun. Dizziness assailed him. He saw even farther away than the castle, to the coast, to a swamp, to the Yorral Mountains, across the Uvain Plateau. The world swung in wide circles, twisting him around, turning him inside out, forcing sensations on him he could not put into words.
Vered cried out for Santon to help him, but no words formed. He spun and gyrated and tumbled and surged endlessly. Trapped. Unable to right himself. Trapped and helpless. Helpless. Helpless!
CHAPTER VII
Vered tried to cry out in panic. The words clogged in his throat — but he heard them. He heard everything. The pounding of his own heart, the sweat breaking out from his skin, the creaking as his hair grew, the rush of blood through his veins, everything.
He heard!
He gagged when a heavy fist drove into his gut. Vered tried to double over and vomit. The Demon Crown held him in thrall. The more he struggled, the worse became his disorientation. Spinning colours filled his eyes. He saw too much. His eyes refused to separate the details, the riot of hues, the lightning-intense blasts that seared his brain.
Again came the blow. He tried to reach out to defend himself. He failed. No matter what course of action he tried, he failed. The blows increased in severity until he thought a giant wielding a sledgehammer was breaking his bones.
Vered felt himself rising up, even as the kaleidoscope around him robbed his senses of direction. The impact as he struck the ground stunned him — and the senses-wrecking assault stopped.
Gasping for breath, unable to move, he stared up from the ground at Birtle Santon. The man towered over him, his single arm bulging from the exertion of lifting his friend into the air and then flinging him down.
“You?” asked Vered, the air painful in his lungs. He choked. A gentler hand slapped him on the back to help him regain control. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Glass Warrior, concern etched on her fine face.
“Who else would save you from yourself, you stupid lout.” grumbled Santon.
“What happened? I…I remember what I experienced, but what was it? I mean, my head, oh, it feels like some vile forge and a smithy is banging away at his anvil — my head!”
“You are adept at thievery,” said Alarice. “I never noticed that you had stolen the crown.”
“Crown? Ah, the gold circlet, that paltry bauble of insignificant value. There it is.” Vered reached out to recapture the fallen crown. He yelped in pain. The Glass Warrior’s boot crushed his hand into the dirt, preventing him from again touching the Demon Crown.
“It will kill if you touch it again.”
“That?” Vered’s amazement was echoed by Birtle Santon.
“What manner of magical device is this?” Santon asked, peering at the fallen crown. “It seems no different than any other crown for a minor noble.”
Alarice said, “You forget the legend. How Kalob gave over the Demon Crown as a token of restitution, how only those of royal blood can wear the crown.”
“That’s the Demon Crown?” asked Vered, his eyes widening.
“What of your parents?” Alarice asked. “What can you tell me of them?”
“Nothing. I am an orphan. The unrest after King Lamost died caused many such as me. My entire village died as rebels pillaged and burned. Or so I was led to believe.”
“Royal blood runs in your veins,” Alarice said. “To touch the Demon Crown without that blood means instant death.”
“I felt as if I had died. But not at first. On fitting the crown to my head — ouch!” Vered had touched his brow. A charred band of flesh circled his skull. He touched the burn gingerly. “The Demon Crown did that?”
“And more, unless they have lied to me about its effects,” said the Glass Warrior. “Your vision became perfect, and not only for things within normal sight. You saw events at a great distance, as if you stood nearby.”
“I did,” Vered said, his fingers still probing the extent of his physical injuries.
“All your senses became heightened. You saw, you heard, you felt — ”
“Wait! No, I did not experience anything of the sort.” He sneezed. “And my sense of smell did not improve. I am still cursed with nose drip.”
“The blood in your veins is not pure enough,” said Alarice. “You have some touch of royal blood, but not enough, not enough.” She sighed. “If you had donned the crown and controlled it, there would have been no need to find Lorens or Lokenna.”
“You would have installed Vered as ruler of Porotane?” Santon made a rude noise.
“Why not? As it turns out, he is not pure enough of the blood. My guess is that his mother might have been raped by a soldier carrying as much as one-eighth royalty in his veins. Many pretenders to the throne existed at the beginning of the war. Time and intentional extermination have eliminated most over the past years.”
“That makes me one-sixteenth noble,” said Vered. He made a face. “I do not like the idea. I wish to be nothing more than a mongrel. Like Santon.”
“You’ve had your taste of power, Vered. How did you like it?” Alarice asked.
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “Can you tend my wound? It is beginning to burn.”
“First, a favour of you,” said the Glass Warrior. “Pick up the crown and replace it in the crystal box. No, it won’t kill you if your fingers move swiftly enough.”
Vered moved the Demon Crown from where it had fallen back into the glass box Alarice carried inside the velvet bag.
“See how the metal glows a dull green?” she asked. “The crown would have blazed with blinding light had he been of pure blood.”
“My blood’s pure, as is my heart,” said Vered. “It’s just not pure royal blood.”
“The crown’s back in place,” said Santon. “What do you need to tend his wound?”
“Very little. The wound, although magical in origin, is only physical. There might be a scar but it does not extend down into his brain.” The Glass Warrior began working on the deep burn on the man’s scalp.
“What happened to me?” asked Vered. “I wore the crown and found myself spinning out of control. How did I chance to again return to this fine world?”
“Santon’s doing,” said Alarice. “I ordered him to get the Demon Crown from your brow without touching it. He hit you in the belly several times. Now there will be a bruise, on the soft part of your stomach.”
“Soft part!” protested Vered.
“Birtle forced you to bend over. The crown fell from your head and the spell it cast on you was broken. For either Birtle or me to have removed the crown in any other way would have meant both our deaths.”
“But you’re a sorceress. Surely, a spell or — ”
“Only in this way. Kalob’s coronet possesses a magic far beyond my control.” Alarice finished doctoring Vered and stepped back to survey her handiwork. The bulky white bandages made him appear to carry a cloud for a hat.
“What was it like?” asked Santon. “To be a king, if only for a few minutes?”
“Santon, you can’t believe what I saw. How I saw! Every detail of my blade, of a songbird miles distant, of a quartet of constables ambushed by a rebel band led by a wizard. I saw it all. No, I saw it. Description of the experience is beyond my powers.”
“Speechless,” muttered Santon. “For the first time, he’s speechless. It must be magic.”
“A moment,” cut in Alarice. “A wizard? Wher
e? Did he sense your presence?”
“He ordered his troops to seek out another wizard, but I saw no one else in the area.” Vered’s face went slack with shock. “He meant me!”
“He sensed the Demon Crown. We should leave immediately. The value of so much power to a wizard would be incalculable. Vered, direct us away from this wizard and his armed men.”
“Why, I saw them over…” Vered’s words trailed off as he stood and turned in a full circle. “I saw them, but I cannot say where. My head spun so that I’ve become confused. One instant I looked at the haze-purpled peaks of the Yorral Mountains, and the next I saw only the dusty flatness of Uvain Plateau.”
“We were proceeding to the south,” said Santon. “Let’s continue in that direction. We stand as good a chance of avoiding this marauding sorcerer by this tactic as by trying to scout him out.”
“I agree,” said Alarice. “Staying here only invites disaster.” She looked at Santon for a moment, then said, “May I accompany you? Our paths need not continue together, but for now it might be for the best.”
“Is Vered in any danger?”
Alarice laughed. “He’s in constant danger — from his thieving impulses. The crown has done all it can, unless he wears it once more. Are you willing to do this, Vered? To don the Demon Crown again?”
“No!”
“So I thought. There is no permanent harm. Even the burns will heal without scarring.”
“Let’s be on our way. We’ve let that worthless swayback nag of ours rest long enough. It’s time to be a-pulling, beast,” called out Santon. He hitched the balky horse to their wagon and climbed into the wagon box. Vered pulled himself up beside his friend and waved to the Glass Warrior.
“Ride,” she ordered. Alarice swung her mare about and trotted to the south, following the faint woodland trail. Two doughty fighters accompanied her, but she did not know for how long.
Long enough, she hoped, for long enough!
“It’s past midday and I’m starving,” protested Vered.
“You’re always hungry,” said Birtle Santon. “Either that or complaining about the sanitary inconvenience of living away from the big cities.”
The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1) Page 7