A Symphony of Storms (Demon Crown Book 3)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “You bring your storms to bedevil us,” protested Pandasso.

  The wizard glared at him. “I play with the elements. I enjoy fashioning works of kinetic art. Who else uses nature itself as a canvas? No one! Is there any soul in Porotane who claims to make music as potent as mine? Nowhere does anyone make such a false boast.”

  He threw back his sleeves and produced a crashing drumbeat of thunder punctuated by lightning and the boiling of clouds. “See? Hear? Feel? I produce art stimulating more than one sense. And now Lorens threatens my existence. I find this intolerable, just as I did when Waellkin donned that damnable crown.”

  “Why did you bring us here?” asked Pandasso.

  “I? I did not bring you here. You came of your own will. Did I force you to ride across Porotane, across the Uvain Plateau? No! You are intruders on my serenity and as such will be destroyed.” The Wizard of Storms pushed back his baggy sleeves again.

  “Save the boasts and lies for another,” cut in Lokenna.

  “You do not think I can destroy you with a pass of my hand?”

  “Of course you can — but you won’t. You allowed us to come, even if you did not bring us here. Your cloud warriors could have slain us rather than the brigands.”

  “You fought well against my magic,” admitted the Wizard of Storms.

  “We need one another,” the woman said.

  “What? I? I am the most powerful wizard in the world! What do I need of you?”

  “I can control the Demon Crown. My brother blots out your view. He ruins a masterpiece,” Lokenna said shrewdly. “I can control the crown. Kill Lorens and the crown will destroy the world.”

  “You know.” The Wizard of Storms sat down heavily and stared at her. “But you would. You wore the crown and saw what evil your brother has unwittingly unleashed.”

  “He is weak. I needed to know more about the danger, but he refused to tell me.”

  “What danger?” demanded Santon. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lorens has fallen into a trap set by the demon Kalob three centuries ago. He is narrowing the gap between our worlds. The demons will pour through if my brother does not work to stop it.”

  “He won’t,” said Santon.

  “He can’t,” corrected the Wizard of Storms. “He is untrained in the use of power. I warned Patrin about such things, but he’d never listen to me. Wilful child.”

  “Patrin was your son?”

  “Everyone is entitled to an indiscretion now and then,” said the Wizard of Storms, shrugging.

  “We need each other,” repeated Lokenna. “We can work together. We want the same thing — peace in Porotane.”

  “You will guarantee the Demon Crown is rendered impotent after the removal of your brother from the throne?”

  “No. I do guarantee that it will never interfere with your artistic creation.”

  “Impossible. The crown must be destroyed.”

  “It is a legacy of the realm. It cannot be.”

  Santon sat back in awe and listened to the argument. Lokenna pleaded their case well. He saw the Wizard of Storms weakening in his resolve to destroy the Demon Crown. As the wizard slowly came over to Lokenna’s side, the storm clouds around the room lightened to fluffy white.

  “It’s agreed. I want nothing to do with your petty rulings after this is resolved.”

  “A temporary alliance, then,” said Lokenna.

  Birtle Santon wondered which one lied. From their expressions, he guessed both were. This conflict of magic would not end with Lorens’ death.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Vered sat in the centre of the cell trying to knock off the largest pieces of dirt soiling his finery. His trip to his old quarters had given him fresh clothing, for all the good that had accomplished. The dungeon was a filthy place and not the environment for maintaining a decent appearance. As he rubbed the dirt from his tunic, his sharp ears pricked up for any sound of guards.

  He heard nothing. He continued brushing himself off and straightening the wrinkles in his tight vermilion and cobalt breeches. As he worked, his nimble fingers touched on the four daggers he had hidden before Ruvary’s guards caught him. All were in place.

  He went to the cell door and peered through the heavily barred grate. The dungeon was unnaturally devoid of activity. The guards had vanished and even the moans from tortured prisoners had died down. He shuddered. The other prisoners might have been put to death on Lorens’ order. The wizard-king had shown no mercy for those less fortunate — or any who opposed him.

  Vered touched the skin at his neck, wondering why the guardsmen hadn’t simply slit his throat.

  “They didn’t, and that’s my bit of luck.” He dropped to his knees and examined the lock on this cell. His heart sank. The keyhole controlling an intricate lock, such as had been on his prior cell, gaped wide open. He thrust his finger through the hole and wiggled it.

  The lock had been removed in favour of a heavy exterior locking bar.

  Vered scowled. The other lock had fallen easily to his skill. This was another matter. He pulled out the dagger with the thinnest, longest blade and tried working it between doorjamb and door. It refused to enter the cramped space. He had to reach the drop bar outside or he would never be able to escape.

  Vered thrust his arm out the small grate, winced as metal cut into his flesh, then tried to grasp the bar and lift it. His fingers curled just under the bar. Grunting with effort and pain, he got his fingertips securely under the heavy bar and heaved with all his strength.

  The bar didn’t budge.

  “Won’t do no good,” came a voice from the next cell. “They got a cotter pin shoved through it. Takes more’n you got to get it free. Takes two good hands — from the outside.”

  “Hello there,” called Vered, pressing close to the grate in a vain attempt to see his fellow prisoner. “How is your door locked?”

  “Got one of them fancy-ass locks on it. No way I can open it. Might as well have a bar like on yours, for all the good it does.”

  Vered cursed. If he had been in the other cell, he would be free in a flash. Sooner! The strongest lock made could not withstand his knowledgeable assault. And he was trapped in a cell with such a simple bar mechanism!

  “Is there any way you could lift the bar on my cell door?” he asked.

  “No way,” came the answer. “There’d be nothing in it for me, even if I could.”

  “Nonsense,” said Vered, wanting an ally, no matter who it might be. “We are in the dungeon together. That makes us comrades-in-arms.”

  “Comrades-in-prison is more like it,” the other man said sarcastically.

  Vered paced the cell, examining every corner. The wall around the door had been reinforced with a steel plate. Scraping through it would be impossible, even with his daggers. The back wall dripped cold water. When he pressed his ear to it he heard a loud rushing noise.

  “There’s water behind the back wall,” his fellow prisoner called, as if he knew what Vered considered. “Supplies the whole damn castle, it does. Comes off an underground channel from the River Ty. That’s why the rebels were never able to pry Freow loose with their sieges. The castle’s got all the water it can use.”

  Vered laughed. “The rebels had intended to damn up the river to prevent the castle from getting water. That wouldn’t have given them much of an edge, would it?”

  “Don’t reckon I can say. Been down here too long to know such things. That Dews Gaemock you’re talkin’ about?”

  Vered’s fingers probed the far wall. He used the handle of his dagger to tap the stone blocks. The solid sound worried him. To his fellow prisoner, he called out, “Am I in the end cell?”

  “Last in the block, aye. You might tunnel out in the far direction from my cell, but you’d have to move a powerful lot of dirt.”

  Vered instantly discarded such a notion. Even if the guards failed to see the hole and the growing pile of dirt that would accumulate, such a tunnelling operation would take co
nsiderable effort and would end up with him dirtier than a pig in a wallow.

  “I’m going to take out a block or two in the wall between us.”

  “You that anxious for company?” asked the other prisoner. “I been down here well-nigh two years. You haven’t been in your cell for two hours.”

  Vered began working at the crumbling mortar between the blocks, gouging it out. “I can open the lock on your door and we can both get out of here.”

  “What makes you think I want out? This might be my idea of cosy.”

  “If you like it so much, I’ll let myself out, then lock you in when I leave.”

  “No!” From the distress in the man’s voice, Vered knew that isolation had worked on him overlong. “I don’t want to stay here. I never meant to call Duke Freow a great fat cow. I’d apologize but one guard who talks to me on occasion says that the duke is dead.”

  “Baron Theoll poisoned him.”

  “I’ll apologize to the baron. I want out!”

  “Theoll’s dead. Lorens killed him.”

  “Who’s Lorens? Never mind. You can tell me when you get through the wall.”

  Vered worked steadily for hours, resting for a few minutes to get the cramps from his hands, then applying himself diligently to the task. One block slid through and crashed into the other cell. A grimy face with wild eyes and a thick, matted beard appeared.

  “You are human. You’re not a demon. I worried about that. Letting a demon into the cell might be my death.”

  “Help me get the next block free.” Vered started to offer the use of a second dagger but he could hear Birtle Santon’s voice warning him about his incautious ways. For the few minutes’ work it might save, it did not seem prudent putting a weapon in the other man’s hands.

  He continued scraping at the mortar until a second block fell free. A third followed quickly. Vered scrambled through the tiny opening and brushed himself off.

  “You’re a weird-looking duck, aren’t you?” the other said.

  “High fashion dictates such a colour match, though I am less partial to vermilion than I am to, say, a deeper, richer colour. A wine red, mayhaps.”

  “What?”

  “My clothes.” Vered snorted in disgust. “Never mind. Let me get that cell door open. Shouldn’t take long. I opened the last one with a lock in less than a minute.”

  Vered dropped to his knees and examined the sturdy lock. A slow smile crossed his lips. This lock was the twin of the other. He had already probed its depths and knew its secrets. Opening it with the tip of the dagger would be simple.

  He began digging about inside when the man crouched behind him hissed like a stepped-on snake and said, “Stop. Listen. A guard’s coming. You can’t be caught. They’ll put us both to death if they see you!”

  The man grabbed Vered from behind and shoved him forward against the door. Vered grunted, the hilt of the dagger buried into his belly. Vered struggled and turned. The other prisoner attempted to reach around and pull the dagger from the locking mechanism.

  Vered grabbed the other’s wrist to stop him. They struggled, Vered falling back when the man showed surprising strength for one who have been imprisoned for two years.

  The metallic tearing noise that resulted when the dagger broke off inside the lock hit Vered harder than the dagger hilt had. His stomach turned over.

  “You fool!” he shouted. “You broke it off!”

  “Silence. The guards!”

  Vered shoved his face against the cell door’s small grating and peered out. The dungeon remained as empty as before — but he did hear shouts and the clanking of arms and armour.

  “The soldiers are running about on the levels above the dungeon. There aren’t any guards stationed here.” He almost added “you fool” but knew it would do no good. The damage had been done.

  Vered dropped once more to his knees and looked into the keyhole. Not only had the turn-biers been ruined, but also the dagger’s point had lodged firmly in the cylinder.

  “What are you waiting for? Open the door!”

  “I can’t,” said Vered. “This door is sealed as surely as the one in the other cell — more. Not even a key can open this lock. The door is permanently sealed.”

  He sat down heavily, back against the cold metal door as he glared at his fellow prisoner. He still had three good daggers. One could be put to good use on this fool’s throat.

  CHAPTER XX

  “I hate him! How dare he do that to my most masterful creation!” The Wizard of Storms clapped his hands together and produced a tornado that danced and hopped and slowly made its way to the rain cloud on the southern wall of the turret. The scrying cloud had darkened and the lightning had faded from it while the wizard had spied on Castle Porotane. The tornado whirred about its axis and disrupted the rain cloud, sending filmy tendrils of fog in all directions.

  “Could he see us?” asked Lokenna.

  “No, of course not. Lorens lacks such power, but he blocked my scrying spell.”

  “Did he — or was it the Demon Crown?” Santon had seen too much magic to be awed by this new spell woven by the Wizard of Storms. The tornado continued to kick up dust and debris from the turret floor. The scrying cloud had not reappeared and Santon doubted that it would. The small window in the centre had shown the castle and the guardsmen walking their patrols along the battlements. The spell had carried them farther into the castle and then — words failed Santon.

  The edges of the storm had turned green. He shivered at the memory of that peculiar colour. The Demon Crown had glowed the same ugly hue when Lorens had worn it. He had become too accustomed to the softer, more cheerful green the crown emitted from Lokenna’s brow. Being reminded of the darker side of the magical device’s power chilled him.

  “My best scrying spell and he ruins it, just as he’s ruined so many of my finer pieces. Look,” demanded the Wizard of Storms. “Isn’t that the finest storm you have ever seen or heard?”

  Through the scrying cloud dripping rain on the floor at the north section of the room Santon saw layered clouds interchanging lightning bolts of varying colour. Purples and greens and vivid blue-whites dazzled the eye, but most beguiling was the sound.

  Rumbles of thunder came in bass and were countered by higher pitched echoes off canyon walls. The entire range of the Yorrals became the Wizard of Storms’ drum.

  Santon had to admit that the primal, gut-stirring roll of thunder produced strange emotions within him. Not anger, he decided. Perhaps sadness. Even as he tried to identify the emotion, the timbre of the sound changed and his spirits lifted. Blue sky shone through the clouds and a double rainbow formed. Santon choked back an exclamation of joy and tears welled in his eyes.

  “He ruins that,” complained the wizard. “He puts on the damnable crown and blackness oozes out like pus from some vile creature’s wound and destroys the spells I weave. I won’t stand for it!”

  “You cannot look into the castle?” asked Santon. “Not at all?”

  “No.” The curt answer told Santon far more than he wanted to know. For all his skill and power, the Wizard of Storms stood helpless before the Demon Crown.

  “We can do nothing against my brother,” said Lokenna. “Santon has tried. I have tried. The rebels have tried.”

  She paused. The Wizard of Storms picked up what had become a litany of failure. “And I have failed,” the wizard admitted glumly.

  “Separately we fail. Together we might succeed. Isn’t that why you allowed us here?” she asked.

  “A truce between us might prove helpful.” The wizard stroked over his white-stubbled chin with his gnarled fingers. He snapped the joints and nodded briskly. “I had been drifting along such a path. Your presence has confirmed my intuition.”

  “Efran Gaemock will be needed, too,” said Lokenna.

  Santon turned slowly and stared at the woman. Something about the tone she used told that her interest in Efran Gaemock transcended the military alliance against her brother. A certai
n breathlessness, Santon decided. He looked from the woman to her husband. Bane Pandasso had not noticed the excitement in his wife’s voice.

  “He is being summoned now,” said the wizard.

  “It will take a week or more for him to cross lower Porotane and even if you do not hinder him with your storms on the Uvain Plateau, the trip is a long one. Can we afford to wait?” asked Santon.

  The Wizard of Storms smirked. “Your dealings with those such as myself is limited. When a wizard desires something — or someone — it is easily obtained.” He pointed to the scrying cloud dripping on the floor to the southeast.

  “You’ve conjured a storm over the rebel camp,” said Pandasso. “You send your rain on his head?”

  “I send my cloud warriors for him. Look!”

  Santon swallowed hard when he saw the filmy tendrils dipping toward the ground, dragging along, and then breaking off to form ten-foot-high soldiers of fog and lightning. The consternation in the rebel camp spread. A few tried to fight the magical warriors. They were brushed aside. The cloud warriors strode across the campground, their footprints drowning fires and their lightest touch giving death.

  “Why not send them against Lorens? He cannot stand against such potent magic,” Pandasso said, gawking at the cloud warriors’ slow progress.

  “He finally says something of worth,” agreed Santon. “Why can’t you send your legions against Lorens?”

  The wizard’s concentration faltered for a moment and the cloud warriors ceased their hunt for Efran Gaemock. In that instant Santon knew the answer. The Wizard of Storms might control one or two of the mighty magical warriors, but he lacked the ability to command the hundreds — thousands! — that he conjured. The Wizard of Storms could order them to march and march they would, but individual combat for each of his myriad lay beyond his skill.

  “There,” came Lokenna’s excited voice. “There’s Efran.”

  “So it is.” The wizard made a small beckoning motion. A cloud warrior bent over and scooped up the struggling rebel leader. Efran fought against mist but was held by fingers stronger than steel bands. Another gesture from the wizard caused the cloud above to dip low.