A Symphony of Storms (Demon Crown Book 3)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  As if being sucked aloft, cloud warrior and Efran Gaemock vanished into the storm.

  “Gaemock will arrive shortly,” said the wizard. He slumped into a comfortable chair, exhausted by his effort. Santon saw in this another reason the wizard had not sent his vaporous legions against Lorens. The strain of maintaining his magic must be immense.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Lokenna.

  “Ah, the old habits die hard, don’t they?” said the Wizard of Storms, smiling gently. Santon thought he looked like any other weary traveller in that instant, seeing a pretty barmaid.

  Lokenna grinned sheepishly. “They do.”

  “I am Kaga’kalb,” the Wizard of Storms said unexpectedly.

  Santon stared at the wizard. For a sorcerer to reveal his personal name meant that a large measure of control had been relinquished. The best and most effective spells were those naming the victim. Some wizards such as Patrin boasted that they were too powerful to worry about such secrecy, but Santon knew that inwardly they feared this personal revelation. When Alarice had revealed her name, Santon had known the complete trust this involved.

  Of those in the room, only Pandasso did not seem to know the import of Kaga’kalb’s revelation.

  “We can share some food. It is not much, but these days I have little appetite. Lorens upsets my work too much.” Kaga’kalb made a pass with his hand and mumbled a spell. Small storms appeared above glasses. The rain pelting down proved to be red. Santon sampled his filled glass and discovered the cloud had brought wine. Meat and cheese arrived in a more conventional manner; wind blew open doors and a wheeled cart laden with the food skidded across the room.

  “Excuse my little displays of magic. I seldom have anyone to show off for,” Kaga’kalb said. “I content myself with the beauty of the elements. The white of snow is such a lovely medium to work with, but I must admit I prefer the greens of spring. But then, each season carries its own secrets and beauties, doesn’t it?”

  A clap of thunder drowned out Santon’s reply. Following the peal came loud cursing and a clattering on steps leading from the turret roof.

  “Gaemock has arrived,” said Kaga’kalb.

  The rebel leader stumbled into the room. For a heart-stopping instant Santon feared that the man had died and only his phantom had come. Efran Gaemock was coated from head to toe in frosty white.

  “He’s frozen!” exclaimed Lokenna. She rushed to the man and threw her crude blanket-cloak around his shoulders.

  “My, I forgot how cold it gets within a cloud. Do accept my abject apologies, Efran,” said the Wizard of Storms.

  “What is this place? Have I died?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Lokenna assured him. “Rest for a while, and then we can talk. We are offering an alliance against my brother.”

  “Your brother? Lorens?” The rebel leader wiped melting ice from his eyebrows and studied her closely. “I see a resemblance. You…you’re his twin! The one the Glass Warrior sent the two adventurers after!”

  “And I recognize you as the jester Harhar,” spoke up Santon.

  “A disguise that proved of little use, it seems. How did you fare after you escaped the castle?”

  “There’ll be time enough for such gossip later,” Lokenna said sternly. “You must get out of those frozen clothes and rest.” She looked over her shoulder at Kaga’kalb. The wizard gestured toward a staircase leading down.

  “Choose any room,” he said. “I never have guests, so none are in use.” He spread his hands out in front of him and made a motion encompassing the turret room. “This is my primary residence.”

  “You’re the leader of the rebel army?” asked Bane Pandasso.

  “What there is left of it.”

  “You didn’t destroy Fron, did you?” Pandasso glared at Efran, as if challenging him to admit that he had.

  “Dalziel Sef was responsible for many misadventures my brother and I never authorized. He has paid the final price for his indiscretions.”

  “You mean he’s dead?”

  Efran nodded.

  “I’ll help him down,” the innkeeper offered. “You two make what plans you need with the wizard.”

  Efran looked at Kaga’kalb, who said, “He is right. A few hours will not matter. I apologize for not realizing that you would be in such a sorry condition as a result of my cloudy transportation.”

  “You’re the Wizard of Storms.”

  “Kaga’kalb,” supplied Pandasso.

  Santon was pleased to see that this naming impressed Efran Gaemock, too. The rebel leader he had known as Harhar the court jester understood the trust involved.

  “Help me to my quarters. We can talk soon.” Efran cocked his head to one side and looked from Kaga’kalb to Lokenna as he added, “Alliance?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Pandasso put his arm around Efran’s waist and helped him down the steps. Santon watched them depart, wondering at the innkeeper’s sudden helpfulness. He turned back to the old wizard, but Kaga’kalb had summoned a new storm cloud and sat with his head wreathed by its miniature turbulence.

  He silently ate of the meat and cheese and enjoyed the wine. No matter how he drank, the rain cloud kept it filled. This innovation would have appealed greatly to Vered, he thought.

  To Vered.

  Birtle Santon’s mood turned morose once more. What had happened to his friend? Even Kaga’kalb’s sorcery could not reveal that fate as long as Lorens wore the crown.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The wizard-king clapped his hands over his ears to shut out the shrieks of pain. It didn’t help. Lorens hesitantly opened his closed eyes and saw — nothing. His audience chamber was empty.

  The moans and sobs of pain grew louder.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he tried to lift the Demon Crown from his head. It weighed a ton. Fire burned his fingers. It had somehow become fastened to his head. Millions of excuses flashed through his mind. Even as Lorens knew that all were lies, he stopped his attempt to remove the crown.

  He sagged as he listened to the tormented souls crying out for surcease. Lorens blinked when the peculiar red-lit world of black rock and dancing figures again appeared in front of him. This time he felt intense heat radiating from the world as sluggish lava flows attacked the floor in front of his dais.

  You are the chosen one, came the rasping voice he had grown to fear.

  “Who are you?” Lorens cried aloud. The voice had not come from his chamber; it still echoed in the dusty corners of his mind.

  Laughter mocked him. You ask the wrong question, my king. What am I is the true question!

  “Stop,” Lorens pleaded. A gust of hot wind seared his face and ripped at the flesh on the backs of his hands. He looked up and saw…damnation.

  You only now get an inkling, my king? How strange. Even Waellkin, fool that he was, understood better what my purpose was in giving you mortals the Demon Crown.

  “You’re Kalob!”

  I am Kalob and Prebeal and Septhion and Tabros and none of them. I am all, I am none.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Oh, my king, you do understand. The laughter threatened to drive Lorens totally mad.

  He jumped to his feet and tottered on the edge of the platform. The sea of molten rock threatened him with instant and fiery death. Lorens hesitated, then jumped. He cried bitter tears when he landed squarely in the centre of his audience chamber. Only cold stone lay under him. No lava burned away his flesh to rid him of the voices. Life continued in his tormented body, even if the door into the strangely terrifying world had shut.

  “Majesty, are you hurt?” came a worried voice.

  “Curse you!” Lorens shrieked. “Bring me the spies. The prisoners. Get them here at once!”

  “Which ones, Majesty?”

  “The spies in the barracks. The ones who tried to desert to the accursed rebels!”

  “Oh, those.” The squire swallowed hard and backed from the chambe
r. Lorens sat on the cold stone floor, fingers hesitantly probing in a vain effort to locate the sea of melted rock he had seen. In the distance he heard the squire’s footsteps disappearing, then the clank of armed men returning.

  Lorens picked himself up and dusted off his clothing the best he could. He had not changed his tunic in a week and his breeches had become stuck to his body with filth. He hardly noticed as he turned to study himself in a full-length polished metal mirror.

  The image in the mirror wavered. Lorens saw a tall, handsome, well-groomed man worthy of being king. No fear showed on the face. Even as he began to smile, knowing that he was in command, that his destiny was to rule Porotane, the image changed and was replaced by that of a leering demon.

  Lorens spun, hand going to a sheathed dagger. No one stood behind him. He was still alone in the audience chamber — but the ghastly laughter again rattled about inside his head, for only him to hear.

  A sudden noise from his right caused him to swing around, dagger drawn. The guardsmen he had summoned herded the four prisoners to a spot in front of his throne.

  “You are traitors,” he snarled. “You are all traitors. You sought to abandon me and tell my secrets to Gaemock. Don’t deny it! I see everything. With this” — he tapped the green-glowing

  Demon Crown on his head — “I know everything. You will be executed!”

  “Majesty, we have done nothing except serve you. There was talk of revolt in our ranks. We put down the mass desertion! We should be commended, not condemned.”

  “Liar. You think I cannot see what goes on in my own castle. I can see and hear anywhere in the kingdom!”

  Lorens flopped bonelessly to the floor and let his senses cast forth like a hunting cat. He raced over the rolling hills of lower Porotane, to the up-thrusting ochre cliffs that marked the beginning of the Uvain Plateau and onto the flatness of that grape-growing country.

  The wizard-king cried in frustration when the storms began to form around his far-reaching magical senses. In seconds rain obscured his vision and thunder deafened him.

  Your enemies do this to you, came the voice he loathed and feared. You cannot allow the Wizard of Storms to block your magic. These soldiers are his spies. Slay them now!

  “Y-you are spies for the Wizard of Storms,” Lorens gasped out. Half his mind still rolled along the ochre buttes. He had increasing difficulty collecting his wits after each of the magically thwarted outings. “You work for the Wizard of Storms.”

  “We know nothing of…aieee!” The leader who had started to protest bent double and clutched at his belly. The audience chamber turned suddenly silent. Then tiny popping and sizzling sounds echoed throughout. The soldier dropped to his knees, hands still at his belly. His lips moved but only pink froth came out.

  He toppled to his side, his stomach gone and the cavity turned to smoking charcoal.

  “I…I punish my enemies,” said Lorens. Sweat ran down his face. He had done this. He had executed the traitor — but how? He did not know the spell. It had just…happened.

  “Mercy. Have mercy on us, Majesty!” pleaded another.

  Lorens lifted a shaking hand and pointed it at the man. “I do not like cowards who beg for their lives.”

  The soldier’s head exploded in a bloody shower that caused the battle-hardened guardsmen to flinch.

  Lorens stared at his magical handiwork in shocked silence. Deep within his skull came the soothing words, You do well. Your skills as a wizards grow daily. There is much to be proud of.

  “There is?” he asked aloud.

  “Majesty? What did you say?” asked the boldest of the guardsmen.

  Do not let the other traitors escape your vengeance. Make examples of them so that others will know your wrath!

  “Th-these two are to be…executed.” Lorens stood up and touched the Demon Crown. Reassuring warmth flooded through him. Confidence returned and the voices in his head fell silent. “They are to be publicly executed. Everyone in the castle will watch or know my wrath!”

  “Majesty, at once! We will get the executioner!”

  Lorens motioned the guardsmen from the chamber. He took some delight in seeing that they were as fearful as the two condemned prisoners.

  He would maintain discipline in the ranks if he had to kill them all!

  “I don’t need them. I am more powerful than any rebel army. Let the Wizard of Storms come down from his mountain. He cannot stop me. I am Lorens, King of Porotane!”

  In the courtyard he heard the trumpets sound the call for all to assemble. The crowd noises rose, then fell as the two traitors were executed. Lorens did not go to the window to watch. He had no need of mere eyes.

  He used the Demon Crown.

  Faint laughter welled up deep within his mind, laughter that had been denied release for three hundred years.

  CHAPTER XXII

  “How long can he stay like this?” Santon asked nervously. He wanted to shake Kaga’kalb and see if he could rouse the wizard from his deep trance, yet he feared the consequences. The clouds that orbited his head produced no rain, but the lightning was intense for such small puffs of mist.

  “I am no wizard. I cannot say, but he does not seem to be in any danger,” said Lokenna. Her eyes kept straying to the staircase leading down to Efran Gaemock’s quarters. Santon wondered at her interest in the rebel. While he and Vered had been in Lorens’ good graces after giving him the Demon Crown and installing him on the throne, he had come to like the court jester — Efran. He had seen more in the comically wild gyrations and reckless talk than any of those who schemed and killed within the castle walls.

  “Why does the storm cloud stay over his head?” Santon asked, pulling his attention away from idle speculation and back to the matters at hand. His mind turned over the possibilities. “If the storms along the walls allow him to see at great distances, mayhap this storm is for scrying closer at hand.”

  Santon fell silent, realizing that he put words to his own private thoughts. His curiosity would not be assuaged until he learned what business Bane Pandasso had with the rebel lord. That Pandasso had something important to say had been apparent from his attitude. The innkeeper would not last a single day in the machinations of a royal court; his every emotion played on his brutish face.

  “He’s had time enough to rest from his trip,” said Lokenna. “I’ll see how Lord Efran fares.”

  “There is no need,” spoke up Kaga’kalb. “I hear his boots on the steps now.”

  Santon wondered at this. It took his keen ears several long seconds before he heard Efran and Pandasso returning. The rebel had donned dry clothing and a fur-lined cape to ward off the worst of Kaga’kalb’s elemental masterpieces raging outside.

  “Do you agree to an alliance, Efran?” asked Kaga’kalb.

  “What are we each to gain from this? You are a wizard. If we join forces and defeat Lorens — Lokenna’s brother” — he bowed in the woman’s direction and received a bright smile in return — “how do the oppressed people of Porotane benefit? Are we exchanging one wizard’s rule for another’s?”

  “Kaga’kalb cannot wear the Demon Crown,” said Santon. “Only Lokenna can.”

  “Then there is a new element introduced. Are we substituting one tyrant for another?”

  “You’re talking about my wife!” protested Pandasso.

  “You know my part in getting Lorens onto the throne,” said Santon, feeling the weight of forging the alliance resting heavily on him. He was no diplomat but knew he had to convince all parties that defeating Lorens was in their best interests now and later.

  Then he had to convince himself. He had seen how the crown had changed Lorens. Lokenna had worn it and not been perverted, but what would a year of exposure do to her?

  “Aye, that I do. You’re responsible for the condition of our proud kingdom.”

  “That’s a bit harsh on Birtle,” defended Lokenna.

  “But true, my queen,” Santon said before Efran could argue. “Kaga’kalb h
as no desire to leave his Castle of the Winds. He wants only to work his magic and create his natural art with the storms. Is that not so?”

  The Wizard of Storms nodded.

  “And,” Santon rushed on, “you want peace. Lokenna can give it by uniting the warring factions. Those royalists who have fought so long will follow no one but a monarch wearing the crown.”

  “I want only what is best for Porotane,” said Efran.

  “This can work,” insisted Santon. “Kaga’kalb is left alone — and leaves the ruling of Porotane to Lokenna.”

  “She is of the royal blood,” said Efran, rubbing his chin. “I entered the castle as jester two years ago in hope of installing a member of the family on the throne. That is where I parted company with my brother Dews.”

  “He is sorely wounded,” said Kaga’kalb. “You are the one who must decide for the rebel army.”

  Efran snorted. “There is no army. Not much, at any rate after Lorens was finished with us.”

  “Dalziel Sef betrayed you,” said Lokenna, softening the sting of the self-criticism Efran had administered.

  “We all gain — if we defeat Lorens,” said Santon.

  “What of you?” asked Pandasso. “You argue well, but what do you gain from this?”

  “Aye, you have the look of a thief about you. Even after I learned of your alliance with the Glass Warrior, I wondered how you became embroiled in this.”

  “Politics is usually the farthest thing from my mind,” said Santon, “but Lorens holds my friend in his dungeons. I want him freed.”

  Santon was acutely aware of the look that went around the room between Lokenna, Efran, and Kaga’kalb. They knew he had scant chance of seeing his friend alive again, but he had to believe. Alarice had told him that Vered lived. Her phantom would not lie to him. Ever.

  Even if she had not come to him, hope would have stirred within him.

  “We all stand to gain what we hold dearest.” Efran glared at Pandasso in a manner that startled Santon. What had happened between the two men? Before he could speak, Efran went on. “Then we should prepare for the assault on Castle Porotane as soon as possible. If you can return me to my camp, I can begin assembling my army. By spring we can — ”