The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “Always the sceptic, eh, Warrior?” The man held out his hand. A tiny sun appeared. Vered held up his own hands to shield his eyes from the intense glare. So bright did the miniature sun grow that Vered saw the bones within his hand as the light passed through his flesh. Then the burning orb winked out of existence, as if it had never been.

  “Your dreams are common,” said Patrin. “Hardly worth my time.” The wizard sighed deeply. “So few have uncommon dreams these days. Do you have any idea why this is so, Glass Warrior?”

  “You rob humanity of its best, Patrin.”

  “Hardly, my dear. I find your dreams of interest, but they are not out of the ordinary. In fact, they fall into a category that perplexes me. You do not seek personal gain or glory on this quest of yours.”

  “You were always able to discern truth in motive,” said Alarice.

  “I do more than detect it, I collect it,” he said. Patrin turned to Santon. “Your dreams are painfully mundane. You seek her love.” Before Santon could protest, the wizard pointed to Vered. “And yours. You have a different set of ambitions. You talk of baronies and titles. Those are not what you really seek. You dream of unending friendship. Fear of loneliness drives you more than attaining any other goal.”

  To this Vered said nothing.

  “You begin to bore me, Patrin. You know why I have come.”

  “Ah, yes, the royal twins. I know that you’ve spoken with that fool Tahir.”

  “Your spell killed him.”

  “Hardly possible. I turned him into an immortal creature so hideous that he would cringe whenever he saw his own reflection. What other fate could I give to a wizard who thought so highly of his good looks? What held him in the swamp, that’s another matter and one not of my doing.”

  “He died.”

  Patrin peered at Alarice, as if believing her a liar. Slowly, the expression turned neutral. “You speak the truth. Tahir is dead. You countered my spell? I had no idea you controlled such power, Warrior.”

  “Another wizard’s spell chained him to the swamp?” asked Vered. “The Wizard of Storms?”

  Vered saw a flash of fear cross Patrin’s face. He hid it so quickly that Vered began to doubt he had seen any emotion.

  For the first time since entering the City of Stolen Dreams, Vered felt that success might be possible. Alarice had made Patrin out to be incredibly powerful. That he might be, but there were others he feared. This Wizard of Storms produced definite anxiety. And what of Alarice? She had protested for so long that she possessed only tiny powers. What magical spells were hers to command? Vered had the feeling that she had told them very little about her true abilities.

  “You must be tired after your travels,” Patrin said, suavely moving from a topic that disturbed him. “Enjoy the hospitality of my city. The entire city. Sample the dreams I have placed about it. See what can be yours.”

  Patrin whirled and vanished through the doorway of the simple hut. Vered took two quick paces and followed. He peered into the hut; it was empty.

  “He vanished,” Vered reported.

  “Patrin always had a flair for dramatic entrances and exits,” said Alarice. She looked from one man to the other. “Thank you for not mentioning my name aloud. He may try to trick this knowledge from you. As you value your life, so should you value my name. None of us will leave the City of Stolen Dreams alive if Patrin learns it.”

  “But you know his name. Can’t you use it against him?” asked Santon.

  The expression on Alarice’s face told them more than they desired to know. Vered felt the coldness in his belly spread until icy fingers clutched at his heart. Alarice had been using this against Patrin, in spells so subtle that they had not detected them. Without these magics, Patrin would have slain them instantly.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I am your only defence against him.”

  “Can you overwhelm him?” asked Vered. “With either spell or sword?”

  “It must be with magic. While he remains within the boundaries of this city, Patrin is invincible against physical force.”

  Vered frowned, a disturbing thought occurring to him. “If this is so, why did he leave to imprison Tahir?”

  “Patrin’s reasons must have been more important than life itself to him.”

  “Power,” said Santon. “Only more power would draw a wizard from such a fortress.” He looked around the empty, haunted streets.

  “And it has to do with the Demon Crown,” concluded Vered. “Can Patrin wear it?”

  “No more than I,” said Alarice.

  “There is more to this than a sage can unravel,” declared Santon. “Certainly more than I can consider on an empty belly. Is Patrin’s offer of hospitality to be taken as truth?”

  Alarice’s face had become pinched and drained of blood. She nodded slowly. “He can do nothing to us.”

  “Your spells?” Santon moved closer. His good hand rested on her shoulder.

  “Yes.” She leaned heavily on him. Vered led the way into the heart of the City of Stolen Dreams, letting Santon and Alarice follow at their own pace. He marvelled at the richness of the place — and worried at the souls lost to afford Patrin this luxury.

  “This seems a good spot to spend a few hours,” he said. A magnificent structure rose in the architectural style of Lubraenian palaces. Fili-greed arches rose over curtains beaded with precious gemstones. Buttresses lifted and met the soaring walls, supporting and adding an element of grace and delicate beauty. Vered went inside. There lay the true attraction for him.

  “Nothing is lacking,” he said. “Except a few servants.”

  The curtains rattled as a plainly dressed man pushed through. Vered smiled and motioned to the servant.

  “We need food and drink. Some white wine. From the Uvain Plateau, of course.” Vered hesitated when he saw the look of anger cross the servant’s face. “You are a servant?” Vered demanded.

  “I am ordered to serve you,” the young man said with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. “I am Lord Patrin’s apprentice.”

  “A wizard’s apprentice serving me. I like the idea.”

  Santon and Alarice had finally followed him inside. Alarice stopped and stared at the apprentice wizard. She said, “Well, Vered, you like the notion of a young sorcerer serving you, eh?”

  “I do,” Vered declared. But something in the woman’s tone put him on guard.

  “Then you must love the idea of a prince serving you.” Alarice bowed deeply. “Prince Lorens, we have come to take you back to Porotane to assume the throne.”

  Vered’s mouth opened and closed. No words came out. He stared at the apprentice wizard — and king of Porotane.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Vered struggled to find words. Nothing came out.

  “Prince Lorens,” said Alarice. “We have come in search of you.”

  “I am not a prince. I am Lord Patrin’s apprentice.” He stiffened and took a step away from the Glass Warrior. “He warned me of your lies. I am a commoner, not of royal blood. He told me you would try to drive a wedge between us.”

  “No lies,” said Alarice. She examined the young man carefully. Fully twenty-four summers, he resembled dead King Lamost enough to dispel any doubt about his paternity. “Your uncle, Duke Freow, has ruled as regent until you were found. The duke is dying. It is time for a true heir to regain the throne and put an end to the wars raging in Porotane.”

  “This is my home.” The sullen expression on the young man’s face angered Vered.

  “Porotane is your home. You and your sister were kidnapped.”

  “Yes,” cut in Santon. “What of Lokenna? Is she also in this dead city?”

  “My sister?” Lorens almost spat out the name, as if it left an acid taste on his tongue. “She has gained what she sought. May the demons take her!”

  Vered and Santon exchanged glances. There seemed little need in pursuing this line of questioning. Lorens had been found; Alarice was convinced of his blood. Why seek o
ut the sister?

  “You cannot turn your back on Porotane. Your people need you.”

  “My lord needs me. No one else.” Lorens glared at her. “If you speak the truth, why has it taken so long for someone to locate me? I have not hidden. Why has the duke not summoned me previously? My lord does not prevent travellers from entering our city.”

  “You do not believe,” said Alarice. “You must be convinced.”

  “That is not possible.” Lorens crossed his arms and glowered.

  Without another word, Alarice pulled out the black velvet bag cradling the Demon Crown. She tugged at the fabric and withdrew the crystalline box holding the crown. Inside, the demonic circlet glowed more brightly than when Vered had donned it.

  “The Demon Crown,” Lorens said. His arms dropped to his sides and he moved forward to stare at the crown. “I have read about the demon Kalob’s gift in my lord’s grimoires. I always doubted.” Eager hands took the box and lifted it. Vered squinted to keep from being blinded by the green-glowing crown.

  “Put it on,” urged Alarice. “Wear the Demon Crown and know the truth. Patrin has lied to you. You, Lorens, are the true heir to the throne of Porotane.”

  Lorens opened the clear crystal lid and lightly touched the crown. The blaze of glory did not strike the young man dead. Instead, the green deepened in hue, became less eye-searing. Lorens lifted the crown and placed it gingerly on his brow.

  “I see!” he cried. “‘Beyond the city, I can see!”

  “You are the rightful king of Porotane. This is your father’s legacy. You must return with us and take your place in history.”

  Lorens spun around and around, his face contorted with insane rapture.

  “Santon, Vered,” the Glass Warrior said urgently. “Take the crown from him. He is like one drunk.”

  “Drunk with power,” said Vered. Knowing that only he could touch the Demon Crown, he motioned for Santon to attack low. When the one-armed man hit Lorens behind the knees and sent him toppling, Vered snared the crown before it struck the floor. He recoiled in shock as the magic flowed through him, even in this brief contact. He saw again — and the lure of such power proved almost more than he could bear. If it had not been for Alarice lightly touching his arm and drawing him back, he would have followed the images blasting into his brain wherever they took him.

  “Here, Vered,” she said softly. Alarice held out the opened crystalline case. He dropped the Demon Crown into its receptacle. The instant it left his hand, he sagged to the floor, drained.

  Vered blinked and saw that Lorens had experienced much the same enervation. But the royal heir recovered quicker.

  “The Demon Crown,” crowed Lorens. “Such a treasure! It surpasses any of the dreams my lord has hidden away in the city.”

  “It will be yours — when you ascend the throne.” Alarice stashed the box back in the velvet bag.

  “Mine. It’s mine! I want it now!” Only Santon’s powerful left arm circling Lorens’ neck kept the young wizard from ripping it out of Alarice’s grasp.

  “He’s king of Porotane,” protested Vered. “Leave him be, Santon.”

  “He thinks he’s a demon-damned commoner. I think he is — ”

  “Santon!” The Glass Warrior’s sharp command silenced the man. He released Lorens, who returned to his sullen glaring and surly manner. The apprentice spun and stalked from the room.

  “And he never did bring me food or the fine Uvain Plateau white wine,” said Vered.

  “He is Patrin’s pawn. The wizard has moulded Lorens to his will over the years.” Alarice looked worried. “And what of his sister? What became of Lokenna?”

  “What’ll become of us?” demanded Santon. “He’ll tell Patrin that we have the Demon Crown. Do you think the wizard will let us go free without leaving it behind?”

  “A moment,” said Vered. “If Patrin is so powerful, why did he not sense the presence of the crown? It is a potent artifact. Surely, a sorcerer of his acumen must be able to sense such power.”

  Alarice smiled faintly. “I am not without my own spells. But I am sure that Patrin knows that we carry the Demon Crown. I worry more about Lorens. He is heir to the throne, but he must want to rule. He has had no training, other than that given him by Patrin.”

  “We install Lorens as king and Patrin will become the true power, no matter what the youngling king does with the Demon Crown,” Santon settled into a chair and rested his chin on his hand. “Was that the wizard’s plan?”

  “Patrin is powerful within the City of Stolen Dreams,” said Alarice. “Controlling Lorens and the crown would make him even more of a force to be reckoned with. But it cannot be the full scope of his plan.”

  “This Wizard of Storms,” said Vered. “Patrin is terrified of him. Could he use Lorens and the Demon Crown against him?”

  “Ah,” said Alarice. “There is more than a hint of truth to what you say, Vered. The crown might give Patrin the power to upset a delicate magical balance between two foes.”

  “Then Porotane means nothing to Patrin?” asked Santon.

  Vered shook himself and rubbed circulation back into arms and legs. The effects of his fleeting contact with the Demon Crown passed. He left Alarice and Santon to their weighty discussion of Patrin’s motives and their future plans. His belly grumbled and he could not spit because of the dryness in his mouth. More than reason, he required food and wine.

  The pair chattered away while Vered explored the room. He had picked well. The furnishings outshone anything he had seen in Porotane. A single gold-legged couch or a finely wrought chair would fetch a pile of coins big enough to keep him happy for months. Years!

  He circled the room, half-listening to his friends. Vered stopped and looked at a small stoppered vase placed carefully in a wall niche. The vase had the look of a storage vessel. Thinking it might contain dried fruit or grain, Vered took it from its shelf. He turned it over in his hands, studying the patterns on its ceramic surface. Vered shrugged. The patterns meant nothing. He preferred his art to represent something.

  With a flick of his thumb, he broke the wax seal.

  Vered shrieked, dropped the vase, and grabbed his groin. He felt himself growing to monstrous proportions. Pain shot into his gonads and then turned to a pleasure even more intense. Women moved around him to stroke, to touch, to lewdly expose themselves.

  He cried out again, whether in pain or joy he could not tell. Scores of women, beautiful creatures all, pawed him, begged him for his attention, pleaded for him to take them. He doubled over, sobbing.

  A cool hand touched his forehead. He jerked away. A rougher, more forceful grip shook him.

  “Please, no, I can’t,” he moaned. “I hurt! I cannot!”

  “Vered.” The hand on his collar lifted until his feet left the floor. Then waves of relief laved away the confusing sensations in his loins. He became aware of Santon straining to hold him aloft and of Alarice’s soothing voice. Her words took form in his ears; he recognized a tranquilizing spell and gratefully succumbed to it.

  Birtle Santon dropped him and stepped back, grumbling. “What foolish thing did you do this time?”

  “Nothing. I was hungry. The jar. I opened it.” Vered’s recollections became jumbled after this. His eyes went wide when he remembered segments of all that had happened. “I grew. Oh, by the saints, how I grew!”

  “You stayed the same size.” Santon snorted derisively.

  “No, not all of me. Just a part.” Vered looked guiltily to his groin. “There. To proportions more than — ”

  “Enough,” interrupted Alarice. “You have opened one of the dream traps.”

  Vered did not understand.

  “Why do they call this the City of Stolen Dreams?” she asked. “Patrin strips away the dreams, the longings, the ambitions of those who venture into the city.”

  “Someone wanted to — ” Vered blanched.

  “You know now why Patrin considered your dreams to be paltry in comparison.”

/>   “But to — ”

  “Enough,” Alarice insisted. “Do not open any more of the dream traps, unless you wish to experience the bizarre fantasies Patrin has stolen for his own amusement.”

  “I could have satisfied every whore in Porotane and still had enough energy left for all the ladies of the court,” marvelled Vered.

  “Why do you need a jar for that kind of daydream?” asked Santon. “Haven’t I listened enough times to such maunderings from you? How you’ll — ” Santon cut off his diatribe when Alarice pulled back from the pair of bickering men.

  “What is it?” Vered asked of the woman.

  “Patrin. Lorens must have reported to him. He comes for the Demon Crown.”

  “How?”

  “He’ll use Lorens as a pawn,” she said. “We dare not harm the prince. Our quest would turn to dust, if we did. But we cannot allow him to seize the crown and use it for Patrin’s gain either.”

  “A pity we didn’t leave the crown hidden in the Iron Range, then lured Lorens out. That would keep the crown free of Patrin,” said Vered.

  “What keeps the wizard away from it is Alarice’s spell,” snapped Santon.

  For an instant, it was as if time stopped. Birtle Santon knew instantly what he had said. The mocking laughter told that Patrin had been spying and had overheard.

  “So?” came the wizard’s voice. “The lovely white-haired lady’s name is Alarice. My spells now carry your name, Alarice, and are magnified in their power tenfold. More!”

  “I know your name, too, Patrin,” she said, but the stricken look told that she had lost much of her leverage. Repeatedly, the Glass Warrior had said that Patrin was the superior sorcerer. She had held him at bay only through knowing his name — and his ignorance of hers. That advantage had vanished in an instant’s carelessness.

  “I am sorry,” Santon said. “I did not think.”

  “No,” mocked Patrin. “You did not. But I applaud you for the slip. In fact, should you give me the Demon Crown without further struggle, I will allow you and your friend to leave the City of Stolen Dreams unharmed.”

  “And the Glass Warrior?”