The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  He stood by impatiently as the trio donned their uniforms and settled their sword belts around their waists.

  The baron spun and hurried from the barracks room, the three following close behind. He hastened to the battlements and studied the stars above. The constellations twisted in preparation for sliding below the curtain of blue that drew across when the dawn broke. The Box of Gems had closed for the night and the Thief’s grasping hand had almost vanished, too. There would be enough time for his soldiers to pursue the Glass Warrior, Theoll decided. The darkness would hinder her.

  “Scan the countryside for a lone rider,” he ordered. These three had the sharpest night vision of any in his small platoon. “Be alert for any glint of light off a glass weapon.”

  “Glass?” asked one. “The only one carrying a glass sword is — ”

  “Look!” snapped Theoll. “You need not make comments.”

  The trio began their scrutiny of shadows and movement across the broad fields surrounding the castle of Porotane’s ruler. Theoll paced along the battlements, hands clasped behind his back, a dark scowl marring his regular features. As he walked, he thought hard of what must be done. The duke’s condition worsened daily. It was only a matter of time — perhaps hours — before the potion worked its fatal duty and left Porotane without a ruler.

  Duke Freow was only regent for the twins, or so went the thread of law. Freow had ruled in their stead, but the children were children no longer, if they lived. The Glass Warrior had been sent to locate Lokenna and Lorens. It took only one twin to don the Demon Crown and become undisputed ruler of Porotane.

  The baron growled deep in his throat. A soldier looked fearfully at him, then turned back to his duty of searching for traces of the Glass Warrior. Possession of the Demon Crown was pivotal to ruling Porotane. With it on his head, Theoll could project his image anywhere in the realm. His phantom image might spy on enemies in their most secret councils, no matter how near or distant. Theoll’s fists closed so tightly that his fingernails cut into his flesh. How he needed the Demon Crown now with everyone possessing even a drop of royal blood in their veins conspiring to succeed Freow!

  The Demon Crown would allow him to root out Dews Gaemock and the other rebel bands. No one would dare stand against him within the castle walls — or without. He would rule with an iron hand because he would know his enemies’ cleverest schemes!

  The baron pondered Freow’s failure to use the Demon Crown. It had to be for a reason other than the fiction that the Demon Crown rested only on the brow of Porotane’s rightful ruler. Theoll knew Freow had not pursued the search for the twins. Why had the duke not used the Demon Crown to cement his power over the years? That failure had plunged the kingdom into civil war. A wise man, even one truly acting only as regent for one awaiting majority to assume the throne, would have used the Demon Crown to quell the rebellious factions.

  Theoll knew that the Demon Crown tried to possess the wearer, but the knowing of its evil kept the wearer pure. Theoll did not foresee any possibility of being seduced by the power of that crown.

  Why had Duke Freow chosen not to wear it during his two decades of rule?

  The secret lay with the Glass Warrior. Theoll’s curiosity on this point was great, but not as great as the need to possess the Demon Crown for his own.

  “There, Baron, there. See?” The soldier who had gone to the north side of the castle battlements called. Theoll raced to his side. “Beyond the line of trees. A spot of darkness against darkness.”

  Starlight flashed against a glass sword, or so Theoll imagined.

  “Yes!” he cried. “She rides north to the Uvain Plateau!” Theoll rested his hands against the cold stone walls. But why? How did the Glass Warrior know where the twins would be, if they still lived? The Uvain Plateau seemed a poor choice, too.

  “She might turn to the east, Baron,” said the sharp-eyed soldier. “The River Ty affords access to many points in the kingdom to the northeast.”

  “She might think to confuse pursuit,” said another.

  “Mark that spot,” ordered Theoll. “Mark it well. You will lead the others after her at first light.”

  “Do we follow only or should we slay, Baron Theoll?” asked the third soldier, just arriving from his position along the western castle wall.

  Theoll considered. All twelve would ride after the Glass Warrior. She had bested three hidden assassins. How would she fare against a dozen making no secret of their pursuit?

  He came to a decision quickly. For all the information carried within the warrior woman’s head, he desired above all else what she carried in trust for Duke Freow. “Kill her. And bring me everything in her possession.”

  “The Demon Crown?”

  Theoll sucked in his breath. Secrets were difficult to keep in Porotane. Everyone bartered information for gain. “For a commoner to don the crown means instant death,” he said. “Do not think to gain advantage for yourself or any of the others with you. Only through me can you prosper.”

  “That is why you chose our platoon so carefully,” said the guardsman.

  Theoll laughed harshly. “I know your pedigrees and talents better than you know them yourself. You are all of the basest peasant stock. Nary a drop of royal blood flows through your scurvy veins. Touch the Demon Crown and you will have visited upon you the full wrath of the last demon to walk this world.”

  “Only nobles of royal blood can wear the Demon Crown,” muttered one.

  “Aye, only nobles. Such as the Baron of Brandon.” Theoll executed a mocking bow. “Bring me the Demon Crown and each of you will be rewarded beyond your wildest imaginings.” Theoll let their avarice run unchecked. He smiled sardonically. He had chosen them well, and trained them well, too. They would not betray him.

  They would not dare.

  “Off with you. Rouse the others, mount, and ride after the Glass Warrior.” They rushed to obey.

  Baron Theoll leaned against the wall and peered into the false dawn beginning to turn the night sky into a glowing pearl. What information drove the Glass Warrior toward the Uvain Plateau? Or did she seek passage on the River Ty? Theoll had been careful in his quest for supreme power in Porotane, but a nagging thought returned to bother him. Should he have pursued the search for the twins when it became apparent so many years ago that Duke Freow had not?

  To know they were dead would let him rest easier.

  Theoll had been engaged in constant intrigue to maintain his position in Porotane. He had done all he could. The time to act was now.

  Resolution surging through him, the small man straightened and turned. The barely audible scrape of boot leather against stone gave him scant warning. Thoughts flashed through his head. His men had left. They would not return until they had the Demon Crown. The guard officer posted on the walls this night had been locked in the Lady Johanna’s arms. His sentries had no doubt drifted off to sleep in some warm corner. Who walked the battlements?

  Theoll threw himself forward as a small missile sang a deadly song and smashed into the wall. The stone’s passage had ripped a piece of scalp and hair from his head. Theoll landed heavily, rolled and came to his knees, dagger in hand.

  A second stone whistled through the gathering light of dawn, catching him in the upper arm. He yelped in pain. His dagger fell from a numbed hand. Theoll fought to get to his feet. He opened his mouth to cry out, to alert the sleeping guard, to get his personal guardsmen to return.

  A heavy stone caught him squarely in the centre of the chest. He felt himself lifted up and thrown backward over the battlement. Dazed, he lay on his back, staring up at the stars fading in the new light of day.

  Strong hands grabbed his ankles and heaved. Theoll threw out his arms as he fell through the air, his cape trailing like the broken wings of a bat. He tried to scream but the stone’s impact had driven the air from his lungs.

  The baron plunged toward the ground from the highest point of the castle’s battlements.

  CHAPTER IV
r />   Baron Theoll gasped for air as he turned slowly in mid-air. For a brief instant, his head spun about so that he could see where he fell. He saw only death rushing up at him, but the stone had driven the wind from his lungs and he could not scream in fear.

  He crashed into the ground — hard. The pink and grey blossoms of dawn vanished in a blackness filled with pain.

  Theoll groaned when he felt hands on his shoulders, lifting, shaking, bruising his already battered body. His eyes popped open and a cry of surprise escaped his lips.

  “I still live!” He fought to get free of the clutching hands and look around.

  “Quiet, Baron. You are sorely injured.”

  “I’m still alive, damn your eyes! What happened?”

  “You fell from the battlements.”

  “I know that, fool. What saved me?” Theoll forced his head up and got a chance to look around. He had crashed through the thatched roof of a chicken coop. The slender poles supporting the roof had taken the force from his fall; landing in the soft muck on the floor had also cushioned his landing. Everywhere he looked he saw frightened chickens, feathers suspended in the air, and a uniform grime of chicken shit. Theoll tried to pull entirely free of the hands supporting him.

  He failed. To his horror, he found that his legs refused to obey his wishes. He tried to reach down and lift them. His right hand twitched weakly. His left gave only throbbing pain.

  “Baron, you are severely injured. I have called the court physician, but he can only tell you what I already have. Both your legs are broken, as is your left arm. If you have no other injuries, count yourself as fortunate. Few survive such clumsiness.”

  “Clumsy!” Theoll bellowed. The air came smoothly to his lungs now. His legs and arms might be fractured but he felt nothing but power within his chest and loins.

  For an instant, he wondered at this. Death had been close and now he felt…aroused.

  “How else could you fall from behind such tall battlements?” demanded his benefactor.

  “I was thrown over the wall!”

  No answer came. The man dressed in the dingy, tattered clothing was obviously a peasant. Equally as obvious was his disbelief that such a thing might happen in Porotane. In his tiny world only carelessness produced such unfortunate results.

  In Theoll’s world, the carelessness lay in not completing an assassination. Someone had foolishly allowed him to live. He would discover the villain’s identity — and he would not be as inept with his swift, killing blade.

  Pain began to mount within his small frame, driving knives of agony into his brain from all quarters. He allowed the shock to take him to a land unvisited by the red-hot pain.

  “Tour personal saint watches over you well, Baron,” said Archbishop Nosto. The tall man stood over Theoll’s bed, staring down at him. Theoll tried to guess at the thoughts within the cleric’s mind. He failed. Theoll saw no hint that Nosto had been the one trying to kill him, although the idea had certain merit.

  “For that I give thanks,” said Theoll. “My legs were unbroken, for all the damage they sustained.”

  “But your left arm is definitely broken.” Nosto stared openly at it, his face curious. “It does not appear that you will have the use of it again.”

  “The physician claims it will not heal properly. Although it might be bent permanently, I will have some use of it.” Theoll flexed his right hand. The only damage he had sustained to his right side had been the stone striking the fleshy portion of his upper arm. The large bruise remained tender to the touch, but Theoll was in no condition to be stroking it.

  “The saints are bountiful indeed. You are beloved by all, Baron,” intoned Archbishop Nosto.

  “All save one of this world,” Theoll said bitterly. “I will find the person responsible for throwing me over the wall, Archbishop. And when I do…” Theoll’s right hand gripped down so hard on the edge of the bed that mattress stuffing escaped through the rents he opened.

  “I have made discreet inquiries but have found no one willing to accept blame for this.”

  “Had they killed me, no one would,” said the baron. “They manoeuvre into position, waiting for Duke Freow to die. They all realize I am the leading contender for the throne when he dies. Remove me before his death and it does not appear to be a self-serving assassination.”

  “Your mind walks curious paths,” said Archbishop Nosto.

  “I sinned, Nosto. I had the sin of pride thinking none would harm me because of my power in Porotane. I see the error of such pride. They would harm me because of that power.”

  “This is the reason for the armed guards outside your chambers?”

  “It is. While I lie abed, my agents circulate throughout the castle hunting those responsible. If they tried to kill me, they might be bold enough to injure the duke — or even you, my dear Archbishop.” The expression on the cleric’s face told Theoll nothing. Nosto appeared startled at this notion of being harmed for some abstract, secular gain, yet Theoll knew that the cleric played the power game as well as anyone in Porotane.

  “You should forgive the person responsible, and apply your energies toward the betterment of Porotane. The civil war rages on.”

  “You refer to Gaemock’s attempted siege?”

  “Only a wandering wizard more interested in booty saved the castle from this siege,” said Archbishop Nosto. “Gaemock had to decide between holding position or retreating in the face of this new menace. He retreated.”

  “For the time, yes,” said Theoll. His mind raced. Could Dews Gaemock have sent the assassin to remove the true power within the castle? Theoll decided that Gaemock had worries other than assassination. Also, it behooved a lord bringing a castle to siege to allow the leaders to surrender.

  Assassination created turmoil, not opportunity from without.

  “Only from within,” Theoll said aloud.

  “How is this, Baron?”

  “Nothing, Archbishop. I require your cooperation in finding the assassin.”

  “But, Baron, I have told you that my inquiries have proven fruitless. There is nothing more that I can do.”

  “I need the power of the Inquisition to — ”

  “No!” The answer came sharp and emphatic. “The Inquisition is not a political tool. It is a religious quest to find and remove heretics from our midst.”

  Theoll saw no difference. Any opposing him had to be a heretic. But Archbishop Nosto saw his holy tortures in a different light. Theoll shifted in bed and raised himself slightly on his good arm. The time had come to firm the tenuous alliance with the archbishop.

  “Nosto, I must move against those opposing me.”

  “Do so,” the archbishop said primly. “But do not think your affairs are those of a cleric.”

  “Our interests cross. The heretics are responsible for my condition.”

  Archbishop Nosto’s scepticism did not have to be put into words. His thin face radiated doubt and even contempt that Theoll stooped so low in his accusations.

  “I have not spoken of this before. I am compelled to do so now.”

  “Of what?”

  “I trust you, Nosto. You will not reveal what I say to anyone, will you?” He peered at the tall man and read only confusion on the cleric’s face.

  “I cannot make such a promise, Theoll. If this matter is of importance to the Inquisition, it is my sworn duty to reveal it.”

  The baron nodded solemnly. “I understand this. I leave it to you to decide if this is truly a matter for Church investigation.”

  “Speak.”

  Theoll forced away the grin of triumph. The archbishop had taken the bait and now found himself trapped with a cage of words. Not until Theoll had finished would Nosto be released.

  “There are those in the castle who summon a demon for counsel.”

  “Impossible!”

  “So I thought, but with my own eyes I have witnessed such a meeting of supernatural with…those of this world.”

  “Who? I demand t
hat you reveal their names. Such obscene and blasphemous congress is forbidden!”

  Archbishop Nosto calmed himself and continued in a quieter voice. “There can be no such congress. The Demon Crown is proof of that. Kalob, the last demon to walk this world, made reparation for the misery it had caused. The crown given to Porotane’s ruler signified total demonic surrender.”

  “So I thought. Perhaps the Demon Crown remains as a gateway for the demons’ return,” said Theoll, playing on a theme that unnerved Nosto. “Or perhaps there is more to the pact than we have been told. So much of the gift of the Demon Crown is shrouded in mystery.”

  “There has been no demon in the land for over three hundred years.”

  “Yet the Inquisition finds traces of demonic influence,” said Theoll. “Why else seek those who have strayed from the True Path?”

  “You make light of the testing,” accused Archbishop Nosto.

  “No! Not I!” protested Theoll. The baron pulled himself to a sitting position. “I tell you that I have witnessed a meeting between a guard officer and a demon.”

  “Before the Inquisition you would swear to this?”

  “Archbishop, I am sorely wounded. Better that a cleric — such as yourself — also witness it and assess the truth or falsity of my claim. You are trained in such matters. I might have been an unwilling dupe, though I doubt it. On my soul and the blessing of my personal saint, I so swear.”

  “I can witness a meeting of mortal and demon? When? Where?”

  The baron could not hold back the smile twisting the corners of his lips. How the cleric believed!

  “This very night. Do you know the unused pantry behind the castle kitchens? You do? If you enter through the kitchen and hide behind the furniture stored there, you will see a meeting such as I have described.”

  “Who is the heretic?”

  “Archbishop Nosto,” Theoll said seriously. “I may have erred. See for yourself if this guard lieutenant is not also a traitor and heretic.”