The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “Let’s both row,” said Santon. “You take that side, I’ll take this. And match my rhythm. I can’t handle the oar with one hand as well as you can with two.”

  “Anything,” Vered said, “if I don’t have to look down into the lake.” The thought of vanishing beneath the magical waves, then having his body transformed into a fish’s, upset him more than words could tell.

  They rowed across the lake. As they went, they both commented on the changes being wrought around them. Birds flew overhead, their dark forms visible in the dim light of the rising moon. Fish swam in the lake, occasionally breaking the surface in pursuit of a succulent bug. And from the shore toward which they rowed came the normal sounds of swamp creatures snuffling and screeching and hunting and dying.

  “Do we ride on?” asked Vered, once they beached the boat. He started when he felt Santon’s strong hand gripping his arm. Silently, they watched the boat dissolve like salt poured into water.

  “What happened to it?” whispered Vered after several seconds, hardly daring to speak.

  “Sorcery,” said Santon. “The boat was part of the spell.”

  “Whose spell, Patrin’s or the Wizard of Storms’?”

  Santon didn’t answer. He turned to Alarice, who worked to pull her bedroll from the saddle and spread it on the ground. She prepared for the night. The way she chose her sleeping site told Santon that she intended to sleep alone this night. She had been worrying deeply over something since leaving the island.

  “Could this Patrin upset her so?” he asked Vered. “She has vanquished a giant, a wizard, the man responsible for the death of a king and the kidnapping of the twins. She can conquer anyone, warrior or wizard.”

  “She doesn’t think so. See how she sits?” Vered prepared a small cooking fire and fixed a meal, though neither of them had much appetite. Alarice refused to even look in their direction.

  The men spoke quietly after eating, then stretched out in their blankets. Vered lay flat on his back, staring at the stars and trying to work out the constellations. As always, he failed to find the patterns officially sanctioned by the royal astronomers, but he found constellations of his own making. Each was more lewd than the last.

  He amused himself with the Negligent Whore and the Obedient Dog, invented a few more combinations, and finally sat up, tired of the pastime. Santon snored heavily, long since fast asleep. Vered turned to Alarice. The Glass Warrior sat tailor fashion, her grey eyes glinting with reflected starlight.

  Before her on the ground rested the Demon Crown. It glowed a pale green, as if it had rested on the brow of royalty. She reached out; the glow intensified. As if succumbing to a fever, Alarice shivered and worked the crown into its crystalline box without touching it. She put the Demon Crown back into the velvet bag and leaned back, her arms circling the knapsack.

  Vered wondered what thoughts coursed through her head. Did she desire the power the Demon Crown offered to the right person? Or did she desire only surcease, an end to this search for the heirs?

  Vered turned over and lay down, momentarily worrying about snakes and insects crawling beneath the blankets with him. Better a willing woman. But such was not to be had. He drifted off to a sleep troubled by giant wizards and fish with men’s faces.

  *

  Vered awoke with a start, not sure what disturbed him. He lay back, unmoving and straining to hear. It took several seconds for him to realize that he heard nothing — and this was what awoke him. He reached out and gently shook Santon. The man rumbled deep in his throat, stirred and tried to pull away.

  “Santon, trouble. The animals have fallen silent.”

  “Spell,” Birtle Santon mumbled, more asleep than awake. “The spell keeps them away.”

  “The spell died with Tahir.”

  Santon came to a sitting position in a movement so abrupt that Vered drew back, hand going to his worthless dagger. The man’s eyes took on an inner light as he stared at Vered, then cocked his head to one side, listening intently.

  Santon began buckling his shield onto his limp right arm. Vered reached for his glass short sword and opened his mouth to alert Alarice. The blow to the back of his head doubled him over. Vered rolled to the side, pain blasting through his entire body. The glass sword fell from his numbed fingers. An infinity away he heard Santon bellowing incoherently.

  “Alarice, to the attack!” yelled Santon.

  Vered struggled to hang onto the frayed thread of consciousness. The Glass Warrior did not respond. He tried to rise to aid his friend. His legs weighed like lead; his arms twitched feebly; the pain centred in his head blotted out the world and left only a red curtain.

  Through the battle in his head came sounds of the battle without. Vered rolled onto his back. His blurry eyes caught glimpses of moving figures. The flash of light off a round shield might have been Santon. Vered blinked and cleared his vision. He could not let his friend down. To lie helpless on the ground spelled both their deaths.

  But who dealt that fate? Vered did not know or care. The attack might come from ruffians roving the countryside, Dews Gaemock’s band of rebels, even remnants of the wizard’s soldiers they had left unslain on their way to this miserable swamp.

  Vered sucked in a lungful of air and gave voice to his battle cry. When he realized it came out as a kitten’s mewling, anger forced away the last of the pain he felt. Vered came to his hands and knees, only to be knocked down again by a glancing blow. He rolled and used the momentum to get to his feet.

  Somehow, he still clutched the glass short sword in his hand. His motion more falling forward than lunging, Vered thrust at the nearest moving shadow. A mortal man’s cry of pain told of a direct hit. Vered fell to one knee but felt stronger from his minor triumph. He parried a thrust, disengaged, and rammed the tip of his blade into his opponent’s armpit. From the spastic jerk he felt, he knew that their foes numbered one less.

  Vered swung his sword and took the legs out from under another. Strength flowed into him like rainwater into a cistern. He drew his dagger and used it to parry. For stabbing it proved worthless. Repeatedly, he met solid armour. These were no starving farmers banded together to rob careless travellers. They fought with military precision and skill and their accoutrements were of the finest quality.

  “Santon,” he gasped out. “What happened to Alarice?”

  “Don’t know,” came the reply. “Don’t see her. But we need her. I count three in front of me.”

  “Another three here,” said Vered. He rolled his blade around his opponent’s and carried it out and away, to splash in the lake. “Go fish,” he called after his retreating foe. Vered hoped the man immersed himself totally in the lake. Perhaps the spell lingered.

  The remaining two forced Vered back until he fought with his spine pressing into a cypress. They separated and engaged him from each side, one attacking until he responded, then the other trying to hamstring him.

  “Santon, can’t hold off these two much longer.” Vered riposted, missed, and nearly lost his head when the enemy behind swung his sword two-handed in a powerful cut. “Santon? Santon!”

  No response. Vered’s heart missed a beat when he saw that he no longer faced a pair of swordsmen. Three more joined the battle. Santon had fought his last.

  “Aieee!” he shrieked, hoping to shock his foes into temporary immobility. Vered tried to fight his way through the ring of steel. A powerful blow sent him tumbling face forward into the ground. Dirt entered his mouth and nose, choking him. A second knobbed hilt smashed into the base of his skull.

  Blackness settled over him like an old, familiar blanket.

  Vered awoke to pain. Not since he had been lost and starving after his village had been burned had he felt this lost and miserable. His eyes fluttered open. A slow smile crossed his lips.

  “Truly, I have died and am in the arms of the saints.”

  “He’s all right,” said Alarice. She dropped his head from her lap. He winced at the sudden pain. “I had feared the blow
might have addled his wits permanently, but his skull is too thick for that.”

  “Being partially of royal blood helps,” Vered said. He touched the back of his head. Alarice had bandaged him expertly once again.

  “A sorry trio we are,” the Glass Warrior said. “Not even posting a guard, being taken unawares, the theft.” The bitterness in her voice hurt Vered worse than the wounds to his head.

  “What theft?” he asked. He looked past the Glass Warrior to Birtle Santon. The man stood behind her, his expression baleful.

  “The Demon Crown,” said Santon. “The ruffians took it from her.”

  “That’s all they wanted? Just the crown? How did they know we had it?”

  “I fear that these are assassins sent by Baron Theoll. A squad followed me from the castle after Duke Freow entrusted this mission to me. I thought I had eluded them, sending them along a false trail to the Uvain Plateau.”

  “Assassins?” Vered tried to think. The effort hurt too much. “Why did they not kill us instead of taking only the crown?”

  Alarice snorted derisively. “You are not the only one able to fight. When you woke Santon, I had already drawn my sword. You two did well, but I did better. At least, I drove them off.”

  “I accounted for two,” said Santon. “And you, Vered, you killed one and wounded two others.”

  “I remember being backed into a tree. Santon, your attackers finished you and came for me!”

  “Nothing of the sort. Where those extra ruffians came from, I’ll never know. I fought well, but it was Alarice who drove them away.”

  “With the Demon Crown,” she said in a tone lacking any emotion. “More important than finding the twins is recovering the crown. With it Theoll can rule Porotane.”

  “He is of royal blood, isn’t he?” Vered tried to stand. Alarice had to help him remain on his feet.

  “Just shows that some bastards can be legitimate.”

  Vered saw the bodies at the edge of their camp. Either Alarice or Santon had stacked them neatly. The cloud of insects on them caused Vered’s nose to wrinkle in distaste. Death could be so messy.

  “Which direction?” he asked. “They cannot have ridden far, not in this sucking swamp.”

  “It’s that very swamp that makes it difficult to find them,” observed Santon. “I’ve circled about, trying to find spoor. I can only guess that they head in that direction.” He pointed north.

  “They take the Demon Crown to Theoll.” Vered stretched and tried to get some feeling that wasn’t entirely pain back into his body. “We should start out immediately. No time to lose.” Vered looked from Alarice to Santon and back, hoping one of them would argue. When neither did, he vented a huge sigh and went to saddle his horse. The white agony in his skull had died down to a dull throb. He had felt better; he had also felt worse. To regain the crown — to keep it out of Theoll’s grasping fingers — he could endure anything.

  Ten minutes later, the three rode slowly north. Alarice had tried scrying with her gut string and crystal and found the results inconclusive. The residual magic from Patrin’s binding spell muddled her responses.

  “Is there another spell to home in on the crown?” asked Santon. “Such a powerful magical ornament must radiate energy.”

  “There might be,” said Alarice. “I know nothing of it, though. I am a sorceress with little power. What spells I cast are elementary. Anyone with a modicum of ability can duplicate all I do.”

  “I doubt that,” said Santon. His green eyes locked with her grey ones. A shadow of a smile crossed his lips. Then he spurred his horse and rode ahead to find Vered.

  “What from the rear echelons?” asked Vered when his friend pulled up next to him.

  “No hope of tracing the crown magically,” Santon reported. “Have you found their trail yet? You’re the best tracker in Porotane.”

  “Go on, make it difficult for me. Make me feel guilty if I can’t locate it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We ride less than an hour after them.”

  “What? You did find their spoor!” cried Santon.

  “Of course. Hasn’t it been said, even recently, that I am the best tracker in the kingdom?” Vered grinned broadly. It hadn’t been easy finding the assassins’ trail in the quagmire, but he had. A thread caught on a shrub. A bit of bark missing from a tree trunk. A stone with a fresh nick on it. Those were the clues that only a master hunter could observe.

  Santon thrust out his shield and motioned Vered to silence. Ahead in a small, swampy clearing stood a horse. The animal tried to crop at a patch of grass but its tether proved too short.

  “What do you make of that?” asked Santon.

  “One thing only,” said Vered. He turned in the saddle and motioned to Alarice.

  “I fear you are right.” Santon paused, then in concert with Vered, rode into the clearing, alert for danger.

  They dismounted and went to the horse. Bloodstains on the saddle showed where the rider had been injured.

  Neither man paid attention to the moans coming from behind a fallen tree trunk. They turned, backs together, and readied glass blade and battle axe.

  “The trap is sprung,” said Vered.

  From three sides came armed soldiers. They advanced, anger shrouding their faces like dark storm clouds. They had expected Vered and Santon to fall completely into their trap.

  “What would we have found by the trunk?” called out Santon.

  The answer came from the man Santon had already guessed to be the leader. “Poisoned needles in the fallen man’s clothing. But you insist on making our task difficult.”

  “Seems as if a few of you are shirking your duty,” observed Vered. “Shouldn’t there be a solid ring about us? Why let us have an escape path?”

  The leader turned and looked over his line. His eyes widened. “By all the saints and demons, where are — ” He never finished. Alarice had ridden around the perimeter, seeking out the ambushers. She had slain three and rode down hard on another. Her glass blade flashed. An assassin’s throat exploded in a bloody welter as the tip drew along a line below his chin.

  The leader feinted, then waited, hoping to draw out Vered or Santon. Both men stood their ground. As long as a friend remained at his back, the other knew a modicum of security.

  “Get them!” cried the enemy leader. Those were his last words before Alarice’s clever sword found a berth in the man’s mouth. His sword fell from lifeless fingers. He tried to bat away the sword thrust down his gullet and failed, already being dead. The officer sagged away from Alarice, the sword pulling free.

  The remaining five men tried to flee. Vered and Santon took quick steps forward. Santon’s blade killed one man; Vered’s short sword ended another’s flight. Alarice engaged a third, making short work of him.

  “The last two run,” shouted Vered. He sprinted after one, diving and tackling the man before he could vanish into the tangled undergrowth around the clearing.

  Vered struck the man twice, both blows landing squarely in the centre of the man’s face. He threw up his hands to prevent Vered from making further attacks.

  “The Demon Crown,” came Alarice’s cold voice. “Where is it?” She shoved the point of her sword into the hollow at the captive’s throat.

  The soldier looked from Vered to Alarice and saw no mercy in either’s face.

  “Speak or die!”

  “He…Vork…our leader. He has it. Had it!”

  From across the clearing, Birtle Santon called, “I have it. It’s untouched. Still in the velvet bag.”

  “Vered, check it,” she said. Her steely grey eyes never left the man trembling under the point of her glass sword.

  Vered rose and went to verify the crown. He place his hand on the crystalline box. The answering green glow showed that it responded to the royal blood sluggishly flowing through his veins. “It’s no decoy,” he told Alarice.

  A strangled cry answered him. Both men were halfway across the clearing when Alarice emerged
. She thrust her blade into the soft dirt to cleanse it.

  “They were assassins. They deserved worse than a quick death, but that’s all I could give them. It will do.” She took the Demon Crown from Santon and stared at it. Her face became an unreadable mask. Vered wondered what thoughts fluttered through her mind. Did she see paradise or perdition in that crown fashioned by a demon’s hand?

  Vered shrugged it off. They had recovered the crown. He turned and surveyed the clearing, counting the dead bodies. He stopped, frowned, and counted again.

  “There’s one missing,” he told Santon.

  Santon counted. The two men cursed. To Alarice, Santon said, “One of the killers is missing. Vered caught one of two remaining after your attack. We must track down the last one or he will return to Theoll for reinforcements.”

  “Let him,” she said, her bloodlust momentarily sated. “It is more important to find Lokenna and Lorens. We must seek out Patrin and the City of Stolen Dreams.”

  Vered shivered at the Glass Warrior’s words. She made their goal sound like a death sentence.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Birtle Santon hitched the shield higher on his withered right arm. All day the arm had been hurting. The hot sun and the dry wind did nothing to soothe the pain building in his body. Nor did Alarice seem willing to slow their breakneck pace. They had left the swamps where Tahir had died and found firmer footing on rolling lands that pleased Santon. He had grown up in farmland much like this, and seeing it once again caused cherished memories to bubble to the surface of his mind. But the grassy lands had given way to more barren stretches within a week.

  And still Alarice plunged on, driven by her quest. Santon tried not to stare at the woman as they rode. To do so would be intolerably rude, but she attracted him strangely. Pretty in a wild way, yes, but the Glass Warrior offered more than simple physical beauty. He smiled. The way the hot, dry wind whipped her white hair back into a never-resting banner highlighted the firm jaw and softened the sharp, hard lines of her cheekbones. But nothing softened her determination or the steel-grey hardness of those eyes.