A Symphony of Storms (Demon Crown Book 3)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  Efran did not share his brother’s confidence in either the soldiers’ cowardice or the death of their king. Lorens’ power was immense when he wore the Demon Crown. Efran had seen this too many times to lightly dismiss the demented wizard’s apprentice-turned-king.

  “The crown. Where is it?”

  “The officer we caught and interrogated,” said Dews. “He said that Lorens had lost it and sought those two you mentioned. What were their names?”

  “The ones who installed Lorens on the throne. The ones recruited by the Glass Warrior.” Efran frowned and began to pace in the snow, as much to keep warm as from nervous energy. Where did those two brigands figure into the power structure? They had aided Alarice and she had been a minion of Freow. But they had not supported Lorens, although they had returned with the young king and watched him mount the throne.

  “They are petty thieves. You said so yourself. Come, brother. We have much to do. The kingdom is in disarray and awaits our tender touch to put it in order.”

  “There is still much to do here,” said Efran. “Vered and Santon their names are. They might have recovered the Demon Crown.”

  “So? Neither can use it. Neither is of the blood royal.”

  Efran continued his aimless pacing, his mind turning over endless possibilities. In one thing Dews was right. The two could not put the Demon Crown to use. Efran had seen what happened when one not of the blood attempted to wear the crown. Lorens had amused himself too often by putting the crown on hapless prisoners. The agony etched on their faces before they died told of awful demonic worlds. No, Santon and Vered could not use the crown.

  But they had found Lorens after fourteen years when all thought King Lamost’s offspring had died. What other miracle were those two likely to perform?

  “There is more that bothers me,” said Efran.

  “Brother, you try my patience now. We must ride for the castle. The defenders will throw open the gates and welcome us with garlands of flowers for our victory. Claymore Pass had been the scene of terrible slaughter in the past. It is now the site of our victory!”

  Efran Gaemock shuddered at this. The phantoms drifting in and out of his peripheral vision appeared to be part of the swirling snow kicked up by gusty winds, but he knew better. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, had died in Claymore Pass and still roamed begging for their bodies to be properly buried. Efran sometimes could not tell the difference between the howls of the wind and the eternal pain of the undead phantoms.

  To escape this he would gratefully leave the Yorral Mountains and Claymore Pass. But the feeling of duty undone gnawed at his guts. “I want Lorens’ head as an icon of our victory,” he declared. “The head that wore the Demon Crown must now rest on a pike outside the castle walls for all to see.”

  “In this weather you expect to find a corpse?” Dews Gaemock’s arm swept in a wide circle indicating the white curtains of blowing snow around them. “Not till spring thaw are we likely to find Lorens — or what remains of him.”

  “His phantom, then,” said Efran. “His phantom will suffice.”

  “Who can capture a phantom and bend it to his will? Oh, a wizard of some power might. It was even said that the Glass Warrior controlled such a spell, but you would know that better than I.”

  “I knew little of her.” Efran’s eyes turned to the distant peak where the Wizard of Storms led his reclusive existence. He strained to see the fabled Castle of the Winds and failed. The snowstorm had worsened and threatened them with frostbite if they remained in this sparse bivouac any longer.

  “We ride,” Efran said. “I do not like leaving Lorens — or his body — behind. Remember that advice when it comes back to haunt us both.”

  Dews shook his head at such nonsense. They had routed Lorens’ personal guard. The best Castle Porotane had to offer had run before them. What did it matter that the Demon Crown was again lost?

  They mounted their horses and rode slowly down the winding path, the wind at their backs. Within a league they had re-formed. Of the hundred rebel soldiers who had entered Claymore Pass Efran noted only forty left. The toll had been great. His head sagged when he considered how few of those fallen had received consecration of their graves.

  New phantoms to roam the rocky ways of the Yorral Mountains. So it had always been. Efran Gaemock wondered if this would ever change. He doubted it.

  He rode, more asleep than awake, until a sharp noise brought him upright in the saddle.

  “What is it, Dews?” he demanded. He blinked sleep and snow from his pale eyes and squinted. The banks of the River Ty stretched southward toward the castle and wended northward into their Yorral Mountain headwaters. What held his attention was a banner fluttering over a barge landing.

  “I’ve never seen the likes of that before. No lord flies a gold-and-blue war flag.” Dews motioned to a lieutenant, who nodded curtly and put the spurs to his horse. He galloped ahead, as much as emissary as a spy.

  “Damn,” cried Efran when he saw a single arrow arcing upward. The deadly missile found their lieutenant. From the boneless way the man fell from horseback, Efran knew he had died instantly.

  “That was an unprovoked attack!” cried Dews. “How dare this lord of gold and blue!”

  “Gold and blue,” mused Efran. “That is familiar. A western province. A coastal city-state?”

  Dews settled down in his saddle, his face turning stony. “Dalziel Sef hails from the westerlands. He calls the port city of Lih his home.”

  “Yes, Lih. Could he have mistaken our rider for one of Lorens’ accursed soldiers?” Even as he asked the question, Efran knew the answer.

  “Hardly. This can only mean that Sef has decided that, with Lorens gone and the castle defences lacking a leader, the time is ripe for treachery.”

  “Sef was never noted for loyalty,” Efran said sourly.

  “I needed his troops. If we had continued to fight one another as well as Lorens’ soldiers, we — ”

  “Brother, please. I know your reasons. They were good ones. We have this new problem to solve.”

  “No,” said Dews Gaemock, his face turning even colder. “We are not the ones with a problem. It is Dalziel Sef. He must face us. And all the demons who once roamed this land will seem feeble when that treacherous son of a pig tastes my vengeance!”

  Efran Gaemock nodded, his agile mind already working out the proper approach to the barge landing. Even with their handful of troops, seizing it would not be difficult against Sef’s defenders.

  And then? Efran would worry about that later. They had a skirmish to fight and win. He began ordering the rebel troops into position, again in his element.

  CHAPTER V

  Birtle Santon struggled to roll to his left but he had become too tangled up with Vered for that. His eyes grew round as he saw death rising above him. The brigand-turned-rebel-soldier could crush a skull with a single swipe of his massive spiked club.

  “Lokenna, wait, no!” came the cry from the inn. Santon recognized the voice as Bane Pandasso’s. But that mattered naught. Not with death poised above.

  A flash of lambent green caught Santon’s attention. His eyes followed the arc of the Demon Crown as it came down over the blunt head of the raised club. The circlet spun about its new axis and descended. The rebel screeched in agony when the innocuous-looking crown touched the fingers gripping the club.

  The brigand dropped his weapon and tried to back away. The Demon Crown stuck to his flesh as if it had grown there.

  Santon shoved Vered aside and sat upright in the snow and mud, watching in helpless fascination. The soldier fought to pull the crown free. The more he struggled, the deeper the crown sank into his wrist. The green colour of rotted flesh began to spread up his arm. The man’s cries of terror were choked off when the rising tide of gangrene reached his neck and mouth. Putrescence destroyed further struggles. The bulky man sank to the snow and melted away.

  “Never have I seen the like,” muttered Vered. “And to think I put the cro
wn on my own brow.”

  “Be thankful you’ve that drop of royal blood,” said Santon. Lorens had tortured his prisoners using the Demon Crown, or so Santon had heard it rumoured about the castle, but no one had described such a horrific action. He turned to the doorway of the inn. Lokenna stood there, face pale and hands shaking. Behind her Santon saw Pandasso, even more distraught.

  “What d-did you do?” stammered Pandasso. “He melted away!”

  Lokenna put a hand to her mouth and shook her head. Santon saw resolve filling her and colour coming back to pale cheeks. “I couldn’t let him kill those men.”

  “What did you do to him?” asked Pandasso, his voice firming now. A cunning look replaced the fear. “This is a skill that can make us a great deal of money.”

  “It’s not for making money,” Vered said briskly. He brushed himself off and frowned at the new dirt and tears in his clothing. “The Demon Crown gives power.”

  “Power,” muttered Pandasso, as if this thought was totally alien to him. Santon snorted and got to his feet. Any thought might be lonely in that brutish head.

  “We must return to Porotane immediately,” Santon said. “These brigands carried orders from Dalziel Sef. With the crown in your hands, all will seek you.”

  “You are saying that this Sef wishes me harm?” asked Lokenna. “Because I have this crown?” She lifted the emerald-glowing crown and ran her fingers along its unadorned golden sides. “We know little of politics in Fron.”

  “My queen, politics comes to you,” said Vered. “The brigands might have stumbled upon us by accident, but Lorens’ soldiers still roam Claymore Pass. They would slay you instantly.”

  “Lorens?”

  “Your twin brother,” said Santon. He watched her reaction carefully. She did not believe him. “You and he were kidnapped when you were only children.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I was kidnapped. I remember escaping from an evil man who wanted to take me into a swamp.”

  “Tahir,” said Santon. “He was a wizard of no real power and did Patrin’s bidding. Patrin exiled Tahir when you escaped and took your brother as his own apprentice.”

  Lokenna shook her head. “This is all too confusing for me. I must begin supper. Not many in Fron patronize our inn, but they are the more important for their loyalty.”

  “Queen Lokenna, please,” pleaded Vered.

  “You are no longer a scullery maid. You are a monarch and must assume those duties.”

  “She knows nothing of being a queen,” said Pandasso. “She is my wife and is needed here.”

  “With power comes money,” Santon said. A foul taste rested in his mouth when he saw the avarice flare once again on Pandasso’s face. “To reign supreme in Porotane means more money than you could count in a lifetime.”

  “With such power also comes…them.” Lokenna pointed at the dead brigands. “Fron is isolated and peaceful because of that. I do not wish to change my life. I like it here. With my husband,” she added, as if it had been an afterthought.

  “With the Demon Crown comes duty. You are no longer your own person, Majesty,” said Vered. “You can deny it, but others will continue to seek you out because of the crown.”

  “They cannot wear it, or so goes the legend. Why do they want it?”

  “To prevent those in the royal house from using it,” cut in Santon. “Nobles not of the royal blood hunger for power.”

  “Then let them take it. And you can take this, too.” She tossed the Demon Crown toward Santon. Santon recoiled — but Vered moved faster. The young man dived and caught the crown before it touched his friend. The hue of green changed subtly.

  For a moment, Vered stood juggling it. His face went slack when the crown’s power began to insinuate itself into his brain.

  “Vered!” snapped Santon. “Put the crown down. Now! Do it now!”

  Vered reluctantly obeyed. He grinned sheepishly. “It was so nice to know real power again,” he said. “I saw into Porotane. The castle is in turmoil. Baron Theoll and another I do not know vie for power.”

  “My bet is on the baron. He is a shrewd and ruthless man,” said Santon.

  “Wait,” said Lokenna. “You, Vered, you can use the crown.”

  “I am of the royal line, but distantly. I use the crown — or it uses me. That is a better way of putting it.”

  “It uses him,” agreed Santon, “even as it destroys him.”

  “Then it would destroy me, too,” said Lokenna with loathing.

  “No. You are linked together, you and the crown. See how its colour changes when you are near it? You control it, not the other way around.”

  “It seems that way. I have no sense of it taking me over when I wear it.” Lokenna lifted the crown and placed it on her head. The glow turned to a brilliance that dazzled the eye.

  “We must go, Majesty. Dalziel Sef or others even worse will seek you out.” Santon looked into the gathering blizzard and regretted the need to travel.

  “She is not leaving Fron — or me.” Bane Pandasso’s words cut like a knife. “She belongs here and it’s here she stays.”

  Santon motioned Vered back. The younger man would have driven his blade into Pandasso’s fat belly to quell such opposition. Pandasso never realized how close to death he had come, but Lokenna did.

  “My husband is right. I belong here.” Even as she spoke, her eyes glazed over as if she focused on events far distant. Lokenna shook her head, as if denying what she saw.

  “What is it, Majesty? What do you see?” asked Vered.

  “Sef. Does he have cracked yellow teeth and a smile so evil that your blood turns to ice?”

  Santon and Vered exchanged glances. They had no idea what Sef looked like. Their acquaintance with him came through rumours and stories told to frighten children.

  “He is in the pass between Fron and the Lesser Ty.” Lokenna turned toward the lower elevations. Santon and Vered followed her movement but saw only white curtains of blowing snow.

  “How large a band does he command?” asked Vered. “We might be able to slip past in the storm and get to the Ty. A barge downstream will see us at the castle gates within a week.”

  “He moves well,” she said. “His rebels allow no one past. They sweep upward. They travel quickly in the storm and will be here within the hour.”

  “We must leave,” said Santon. “Sef will use the crown as a bargaining lever.”

  “There is more,” said Pandasso. “You hold back. What?”

  “He will try to capture Lokenna and force her to his will.”

  “She can slay with that magical thing,” said Pandasso, shuddering as he glanced toward the fallen brigand. The flesh had stopped peeling from the man’s bones, but the moaning of his newly released phantom rivalled that of the storm wind.

  “If he puts her in a cell and magically binds the door, he might be able to coerce her,” said Vered. “Who knows what his plans are?”

  “He wants to imprison me,” Lokenna said. “Just as you said, he wants to use me — no, not me. He knows Lorens no longer has the crown. He wants whoever can use it.”

  “How do you know this?” demanded Pandasso. “Look at me when I speak to you!” He shook his wife harshly, the Demon Crown tipping at an angle on her head. He stopped when he felt the sharp bite of Vered’s knife.

  “She is queen,” he said softly. “We have sworn to protect her.”

  “As you protected her twin?” Pandasso edged away, glowering.

  “Bickering accomplishes nothing,” said Birtle Santon. “Sef will be here within the hour, if Lokenna is correct.”

  “The crown sees with crystal clarity,” Vered assured him.

  “The Lesser Ty affords us no escape. We must go back into Claymore Pass.”

  “But Lorens’ troops will be between us and the Upper Ty!” protested Vered. “What does that gain us, other than the chance to freeze to death?”

  “Yes, other rebels are there,” said Lokenna. “Dews Gaemock fights a
rebel band dockside on the Ty.”

  “Wait. Gaemock fights a rebel band? But he leads the rebels!” Santon held his head. The old wound throbbed mightily. He could not keep the elements in this battle from jumbling together and confusing him. The alliances shifted constantly — and all because of desire for the Demon Crown.

  “Gaemock and his soldiers go south to the castle, but Sef’s army will hinder them,” said Lokenna. “There are others in the Yorral Mountains. Other soldiers. Uniformed officers work to re-form their ranks.”

  “Lorens’ men,” sighed Vered. “Everywhere we look, new armies pop up to oppose us. How will we ever get back to the castle?”

  “The tunnel,” said Lokenna. “I see it. North by northeast to Claymore Pass, then to the mountain tunnel. It emerges on the Upper Ty.”

  Santon groaned. “That tunnel is maintained by Ionia.”

  “And she and Dalziel Sef have formed an alliance,” finished Vered. “Damn. What are we to do?”

  “My brother. We must go to my brother. I want to see him face-to-face.” Lokenna gestured vaguely toward Claymore Pass. “He is there.”

  “He’ll kill you for the crown. We don’t want him on the throne. He’s mad!”

  Vered’s pleading did nothing to convince the woman.

  “This is all so much pissing into the wind,” spoke up Pandasso. “My wife’s not going anywhere. She belongs here with me.”

  The rattle of metal on metal echoed up from the direction of the lower meadows. Dalziel Sef neared Fron.

  “What you want is of no consequence,” Santon said. “The war has come to you.” He raced for the stables to see if there were more horses he could use. Two other animals looked at him curiously. When Vered joined him, he pointed. “Saddle them, too.”

  “Both?”

  “Lokenna’s not likely to leave her husband behind — and he’ll be following when we ride out.”

  “I have no desire to again face Lorens.”