The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “So much for the notion that wizards live lavishly. Why does he hide in such a place, unless another pursues him? Could this have something to do with the twins?” asked Vered.

  “That direction,” Alarice said. “We ride to the centre of the swamp. I see a small island. Dry land. Tahir is there.”

  “How far?” Santon had increasing difficulty controlling his horse. The animal did not enjoy the sucking yellow mud around its hooves.

  “Distance means nothing. Time? Two days’, travel. Longer. I cannot say. There is more than swamp swimmers and catamounts.”

  “Catamounts!” Vered turned to Alarice. “The last of that species died before I was born. From all accounts, they fought fiercely and loathed humans.”

  “Many hundreds survive in the swamp,” she said. “Otherwise, you are correct. They will not like being disturbed by our passage through their breeding grounds.”

  “Santon,” Vered said in disgust. “Seldom will you hear this escape my lips. I have made a mistake. We should not have accompanied her. Not only will we be eaten alive by bugs, we disturb fornicating cats able to tear our guts out with the single swipe of a paw. And for what? So we can find a king-killer wizard who, in all probability, will be only too happy to slay us, also.”

  “True,” said Santon. “There is one thing you can say about this, however. It’s not dull.”

  Alarice put spurs to her mare and splashed off through the shallow swamp. Santon convinced his steed to follow. Vered coughed, wiped his nose, swatted two more marauding bloodsucker insects, then urged his horse after Santon’s. As he rode he stared down into the murky water for hint of swamp swimmers, whatever they were. He had never seen one and had no desire to see more than the eye that had watched him.

  “Take a care,” Santon called back. “The path is narrow. A step to either side will cast you into deeper water.”

  “To think, we could be enjoying ourselves in a brothel,” Vered grumbled. “Or lounging at the seaside, watching the beautiful blue waves crash against the shore. Or we could even be socializing with cannibals.” A sudden splashing caused Vered to jerk about. Except for the expanding rings of ripples, he saw nothing.

  Even dinner with cannibals seemed less objectionable.

  An hour’s ride brought them to drier land surrounded by stagnant ponds. Alarice dismounted and tended her mare. Santon heaved himself to the ground, too, but Vered remained in his saddle.

  “Aren’t you going to rest? This is the first solid ground we’ve found all day,” said Santon.

  “Solid? Does this muck look solid to you. See? You sink to your ankles in it.” He dropped to the ground and moved around, stomping in small puddles. “What are we doing? The Demon Crown must have addled my wits. This is no fit place for me.”

  Vered stopped. Neither Alarice nor Santon paid him any heed. He fumbled in his pack and found a brush to curry his horse. As he pulled the brush free from the pack, he stared over the horse’s back. The movement in tangled, low shrubs drew his attention. He stiffened, thinking this to be another “harmless” creature like the swamp swimmer.

  When he saw the powerful, hairy arms, the immense shoulders, the tiny furred head, and the savage yellow fangs, he knew otherwise.

  “Trouble!” he called, dropping the brush and drawing his sword. Vered slipped and fell to one knee in the mud. In the span of one frenzied heartbeat, the yowling creature had crossed the intervening distance and attacked.

  Vered looked up into tiny red eyes filled with hatred and a mouthful of teeth capable of ripping him apart. He had no time to properly thrust. Instead, he braced the hilt of his sword on the ground, aimed the point in the creature’s direction, and fell backward.

  The beast launched itself and came down on the sword point, impaling itself. Sizzling hot yellow blood erupted from the gash in its chest. A few drops spattered onto Vered’s boots and breeches; the acid blood burned through the clothing and into his flesh.

  He yelped in pain and began kicking against the yielding ground to get away. Only Birtle Santon’s quick reflexes saved Vered. The heavy battle-axe swung parallel to the ground and struck the beast’s collarbone. The sickening crunch of the collision echoed through the swamp.

  For an instant, the hairy monster stood and stared at the axe buried in it. Then the scream of agony drowned out all other sounds. The creature reached up and plucked the heavy axe from its body and cast it aside as if it were made of splinters.

  Vered avoided the shower of yellow blood and drew his dagger. Gripping the hilt firmly, he thrust upward, seeking the creature’s foul heart. The blade sizzled and hissed as the acid chewed away metal along the razor-sharp edge. Vered drove the blade up but found no secure berth. He pulled away and rolled, coming to his feet beside Santon.

  “You’ve lost your axe, old friend,” observed Vered.

  “You’ve lost your sword.”

  Alarice pushed past them, her glass sword extended en garde. “It does little good to attack with steel,” she told them. “Let me see how I fare with this beast.”

  The creature bellowed and beat its chest with heavy fists. Alarice did not let the challenge go unanswered. She stepped forward with a movement more like a dance step than a battle move and lunged.

  The glass sword tip drove directly into the hollow of the creature’s throat. It gurgled and choked on its own blood. The burning flow of acid blood had no effect on the Glass Warrior’s sword. She twisted it savagely, drew back, and lunged again.

  The thrust went straight to the creature’s heart. It groped at empty air with its paws, then fell forward, dead before it struck the ground. Alarice wiped off her blade on the beast’s matted fur back.

  The deadly blood burned a small band where her sword had touched, then quieted as it ate into the corpse.

  “What is that thing?” demanded Vered. He held up his dagger. The dull pits along the once-sharp edge made it almost worthless as a weapon. The acidic blood had eaten huge chunks from the metal.

  “Who can say?” answered Alarice. “The swamplands are filled with creatures real and magical. This is an example of the latter. Tahir might have set it to protect his little kingdom.”

  “Let him keep his saints-damned kingdom,” exclaimed Vered. “Why risk our lives against things like that? And look! I am filthy from rolling about on the ground.”

  “A true disgrace to your clan and your country,” Santon said sarcastically. He hefted his battle-axe and swung it. “Balance is off. The beast ruined the temper of the blade. Look!”

  “Forget the blade,” said Vered.

  “Vered, Alarice, look!”

  The burly man’s tone brought both of the others around to face a scaly monster wobbling up onto dry land from the pond. Scum clung to its back, giving it a curious colour in the fading sunlight. But Vered did not concentrate on colours or texture.

  “The teeth! Damn me if they all don’t have twice the number of teeth they should!”

  Eyes on the knee-high beast, he picked up his sword and tested the blade. It had suffered the same fate that his dagger had. He might be better off using it as a club. For slashing or stabbing the sword had outlived its usefulness.

  Vered and Santon worked together well as a team. They split, one making distracting noises while the other advanced. When the long-jawed monster turned to attack, the other began the noise. Back and forth they worked the dim-witted monster.

  But neither could make a clean kill. Vered’s blade glanced off a thick, armoured back. Santon’s battle-axe fared little better as he swung it down as hard as he could atop the flat head. Even attacking simultaneously, they failed to stop the monster’s advance.

  “This one is stronger than the both of us,” panted Santon. “Not for the first time do I wish I had the use of both arms.”

  “Let’s hope that wish is not for the last time,” muttered Vered.

  “Can you stop it with a spell?” Santon asked of Alarice. The Glass Warrior stood, staring off into the distance, as if
listening hard for sounds no human could hear. His question shook her from the reverie.

  “No, it’s natural. Unlike the ape-thing, no spell drives it.”

  “Let me guess,” said Vered as he dodged a savage snap of powerful jaws. “This is a swamp swimmer. The harmless animal you said not to worry over.”

  “It is.” Alarice avoided the closing jaws and moved behind the swamp creature. “Dealing with them is simple. They are protected too well for ordinary attack. No!” she called to Vered. “Don’t thrust into its mouth. It can break your blade.”

  Vered glowered at her and moved back.

  “You have to distract it,” Alarice continued, “then attack from the rear.” The beast moved sluggishly toward Santon. As it did so, Alarice grabbed its tail and grunted as she lifted. The swamp swimmer’s legs proved too weak to support it; it flipped over onto its back, exposing bone-white belly.

  “Do we gut it?” asked Vered, not daring to advance on it, even in this helpless condition.

  “No. It is formidable even now. As a hunter might try such a shot on a deer, so we must work on the swimmer.”

  Alarice’s glass sword drove down toward the beast’s anus. The swamp swimmer made a strangely soft noise as the glass blade vanished into its bowels. It kicked weakly, then slumped, head lolling to one side.

  “Now?” asked Vered.

  “It is dead,” the Glass Warrior said. “But our problems are only beginning.”

  “What?” Vered and Santon said as one. They moved to stand back to back, ready for still more dangers.

  “We are a long distance from Tahir. There is no way we can hope to fight through a legion of such creatures.”

  “You’re not giving up,” protested Santon.

  “You can’t! We’ve gotten dirty and bloody and gone hungry to get this far. We cannot surrender. We’ve yet to do battle with the murderer of our beloved King Lamost. And what of the twins?” Vered’s face gained colour as his indignation rose.

  Alarice did not answer. She had not expected them to come this far, yet they had and she appreciated their loyalty. But the Glass Warrior knew that the most dangerous part of the journey lay ahead. Could she ask even more of these two adventurers?

  CHAPTER IX

  Baron Theoll drew himself up to his full height and barely came to the guard lieutenant’s shoulder. He glared at Oprezzi and, when this disapproval went unnoticed, pushed his way past to stand unsteadily beside the duke’s bed.

  Freow’s eyelids fluttered and he stirred. Unfocused eyes opened and a parchment-like hand reached out. To whom Theoll couldn’t tell. Nor did it matter. Circling the bed were the powers in Porotane’s castle. The physician tending the failing duke mattered little to Theoll. The others, however, held his full attention.

  The Lady Johanna he considered something of an interloper. Almost a year ago, she had arrived from a distant province a few minutes ahead of Gaemock’s band of ruffians. The castle guard had fought off the rebels, and Dews Gaemock had retreated. Johanna had given proof of noble birth — she was the bastard child of Lamost’s youngest nephew. The way she had declared this dubious lineage rankled. Theoll did not call her a liar openly, but the scheming she had engaged in warned him that her ambitions knew the same bounds as his own: none.

  Johanna had begun bedding each of the guardsmen until she found Lieutenant Oprezzi. The man had the power Johanna sought and was willing to trade it for a few minutes of fornication. Theoll looked from Oprezzi to the cool, calm Johanna. Those were damned few minutes the guardsmen had had with her. He had watched often enough to know.

  He studied the woman closely. Her gown proved demure for someone with such well-known flamboyant tastes in clothing. Perhaps she thought it improper to come to a death bed in party clothing, yet the smile trying to force up the corners of her mouth showed her true feelings. Freow’s death meant opportunity for her.

  A castle coup? Theoll thought it possible. Oprezzi had the loyalty of more guardsmen than the captain of guards. The duke dies, Johanna ascends the throne and takes Oprezzi as consort. That seemed the most likely plot she would have held out to the young and ambitious lieutenant.

  Theoll pushed them from his mind. Others gathered about the duke like vultures waiting for their dinner to die. A few royal second cousins who had no chance for the throne nonetheless hoped for suitable recompense. A small estate. A castle. A lifetime stipend.

  A swift blade slid through the ribs and into their black hearts would be their reward, if Theoll triumphed.

  That would remove those of distant claim to the throne. Theoll followed this line of thinking and frowned. What of Freow’s family? His wife had been killed on her way to the castle after Lamost’s death. No children? Not even a bastard? Theoll wondered about Freow’s manhood, yet he had spied on the duke with numerous women, sometimes many at a time. Still, he thought it strange that the duke had no family in the distant province. He and his brother had not been close. Rumours of discord — even a blood feud — between him and Lamost had run the circle of Porotane society.

  But no family? Strange.

  “Excuse me, Baron.” Theoll stepped to one side and allowed Archbishop Nosto to stand beside Freow. The cleric took the old man’s hand in his and held it gently. Theoll wished he could see the archbishop’s eyes. Despite his sincere-sounding words and loving caresses, Nosto’s eyes held nothing but polar ice. The cleric had begun his Inquisition, and it now ruled him totally.

  Theoll could not decide if Archbishop Nosto used it as a means to gain the throne for himself, or only desired to choose the next ruler of Porotane. Either way, Theoll had to cultivate the cleric’s friendship and loyalty. The meeting with the “demon” had done much to convince Nosto of the existence of evil within the castle walls.

  It would soon be time for the Question to be put to Oprezzi. That would snap the backbone of Lady Johanna’s power, Theoll decided. She would have no chance to forge new bonds with another guard officer of sufficient standing in time to oppose him.

  Theoll winced at the pain in his legs as he stood on tiptoe and peered past Nosto’s shoulder at the duke. The amount of poison had been increased to accelerate the old man’s decline. It worked well. How he hung onto the thin strand of life that kept him from the Eternal Abyss, Theoll did not know. But soon, very soon Duke Freow would die, and he would replace the old regent as king.

  “Yeow!” Theoll cried. Someone had come up behind him and driven something hard and round into his posterior. He spun, hand on dagger. Harhar stood there, an idiotic grin on his face. The jester held up his rattle and shook it at Theoll. In other company, the fool would have died. Instead of driving his dagger into Harhar’s gut, Theoll grabbed him by the collar and sent him tumbling across the room.

  The jester hit and rolled and came to his feet, the rattle making odd sounds as he shook it vigorously.

  “Why so sad?” Harhar called. “Duke Freow is stronger than ever. He will live, if you permit a jest or two to brighten his outlook.”

  “Get him out of here,” Theoll ordered Oprezzi. To his surprise, the lieutenant glanced over at Johanna. He obeyed the tiny shake of her head and not Theoll’s command.

  “He harms nothing,” said the physician. “The duke responds well to him. Let him stay. For a time, at least.”

  To Theoll’s disgust, the jester’s cavortings and salacious japes did help Freow rally. Colour returned to the translucent cheeks and the eyes focused.

  “I would rest,” came a weak voice, but one lacking the edge of death that Theoll expected. The duke’s gaze went around those at his bedside. He looked like a death’s head when he smiled. “I am not dead yet, my dear friends. When I go, rejoice, for there will be a new ruler, a true ruler. I have sent for the royal twins.”

  “You know their location?” cried Johanna, obviously startled.

  “I do, I do.” Freow’s eyes closed and he drifted into sleep, his chest rising and dropping slightly the only indication that life remained within his with
ered frame.

  “All away, go, go,” ordered the physician. He pushed the expectant onlookers away. Theoll allowed the physician to start him for the door. To his considerable irritation, the physician did not treat Harhar equally. The jester stayed behind.

  In the corridor outside Duke Freow’s chambers, Theoll tugged at Archbishop Nosto’s sleeve with his good hand and pulled the man’s ear down where he could whisper without being overheard.

  “Oprezzi. See how he and Lady Johanna talk to one another?”

  The archbishop said nothing, but his thin frame stiffened and his hands clenched. Even more revealing for Theoll was the way Nosto’s jaw muscles tightened. The cleric had taken seriously the “demon’s” condemnation of Oprezzi.

  “He is a heretic, as you must know. He has strayed from the True Path.”

  “What?” Theoll cried, feigning astonishment. “I did not hear wrong then? I know that he and Johanna plot against Freow, but a heretic? That is a serious charge, Archbishop. I had hoped I was wrong. Your, uh, assignation proved fruitful?”

  “I have the proof.”

  “He must be put to the Question. The full extent of his treachery must be learned.” Theoll’s voice dropped even lower. “Or do you already know facts I do not?”

  “He has congress with demons.”

  “That is no way to speak of Johanna, although in bed she seems possessed,” Theoll allowed himself a chuckle.

  “Do not speak heresy, Theoll.” snapped Archbishop Nosto. “These are matters of the utmost gravity.”

  “I beg your forgiveness, Nosto. I meant no disrespect.”

  “No, of course not. How could anyone following the True Path know of this swine’s obscene behaviour?”

  “Tell me more,” Theoll said. “I need to know more. I cannot accuse Johanna of poisoning Freow, but the thought refuses to leave my brain. She has come from a distant province with the flimsiest of claims to the blood royal, and yet she is now a pretender to the throne. She might assume the throne, should her royal line be verified.”