The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “Your odour sends even the strong-stomached running. If my nose wasn’t clogged constantly, I couldn’t stand you either.”

  “Bathing gives me the vapours. I need all my strength.”

  “Not of smell, Santon, not of smell.” Vered made a gagging noise. The sound of a strong blow silenced his antics.

  “That’s better,” came Santon’s words. “Since our fellow traveller has seen fit to rush off, mayhap a quick examination is in order. Just to be sure that nothing untoward has happened, mind you.”

  “And you declare me to be a ruthless, impatient thief. Ha!” The wagon came to a clanking, creaking halt and the pair dismounted.

  From her hiding spot in the bushes, the Glass Warrior saw two tall men of good build separate and advance cautiously on the campfire from different directions. The one named Vered was young, hardly twenty summers, and carried himself with the assurance and arrogance of youth. From his quick movements and easy way of handling his sword, she thought him a dangerous adversary. But the other, Santon, held her attention. Older by ten or more summers, he carried the scars of devastating warfare. His left hand clutched powerfully around the handle of a battle-axe; his right arm dangled helplessly, a withered remnant of former strength. He moved like a soldier, his eyes seeing more than the superficial.

  It took Santon only seconds to find the trail she had left in leaving the camp. The Glass Warrior rose and walked into the light of her campfire when Santon peered at the very bush behind which she had tried to hide.

  “Good evening, sirs,” she said.

  “And to you, fair lady,” answered the brasher Vered. Santon took a step to the side, his heavy axe held away from his body and ready for action.

  “There is no need to rob me,” she said. “I have little worthy of your attention.”

  “Rob?” protested Vered. “Gracious one, how can you think such a nasty thing of us? We are but traveling jugglers.”

  Her quick glance at Santon’s crippled arm brought a laugh from Vered. The young man said, “I juggle for coins. My dear friend only assists, sometimes acting the fool.”

  “Quiet, Vered. She knows your honeyed lies for what they are.”

  “Lies? Really, Santon, we — ” The man reached out, as if to protest. But as quick as he was in bringing up his sword, the Glass Warrior proved faster. She caught the edge of his steel blade and deflected it with her glass one. Vered recovered swiftly and tried to lunge, to drive the razor tip of his sword past her guard and cut a hamstring.

  She stepped into the thrust, disengaged, and spiralled around his blade. She took it from his hand and sent the weapon flying into the night. Before Vered could recover, the glass point rested at the hollow of his throat.

  “Stay your blade, dear lady. I meant nothing! Honest!”

  “I doubt you’ve ever been honest in your life. Is this not true, warrior?” she asked of Santon. From behind she saw the man beginning to come at her. This pair worked well together, for all their insults and bickering.

  “If his lips are moving, you can be sure Vered is lying.”

  “A vile canard!” cried Vered. He did not seem to notice the point menacing his throat. The Glass Warrior had to admire his courage. She lowered her blade and stepped away so that she could see them both.

  “We’ve met our match,” said Santon. “Can we call a truce? Or do you wish us to travel on?”

  “Travel in this miserable, inky night?” protested Vered. “We’ll become irretrievably lost. None will find us for a hundred years! Our bones will be gnawed by wild animals, then bleach in the sun for the rest of eternity. We — ”

  “Quiet, Vered. Do you not recognize her?”

  Vered fell silent as he studied the Glass Warrior more carefully. “She is truly beautiful. Never have I seen such lovely hair and so fine a figure. And she is adept with her sword. A peculiar brand of weapon it is, too. Glass? Yes, I thought so. I’ve never seen one, though I’ve heard the legends.”

  “He thinks you a legend, Lady,” said Santon.

  “No legend,” she assured him.

  Vered frowned. “I do not understand.” He brightened. “I do understand that we have been incredibly rude. Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Vered, and my friend who cannot juggle is Birtle Santon. We are — ”

  “Traveling entertainers,” she finished, with a laugh. “Traveling thieves appears to be a better description.”

  “And you, dear lady, who are you?”

  “She’s the Glass Warrior, Vered,” said Birtle Santon.

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s only a legend.” Vered’s words trailed off as he looked at the glass sword held so easily in her hand and at the glass dagger sheathed at her belt.

  “The cape is spun from glass, also,” she said, seeing his interest. “I seldom wear it unless I require protection. Your dagger. Draw it and try to thrust through the cape.” She spun about, sending the cape swinging from her body. She held out an arm and let the cape dangle.

  Vered whipped out his slim-bladed dagger and slashed with all the power locked within his strong arm. The tip danced along the cape and skittered away.

  “It can be cut, but it requires luck as well as skill and a sharp dagger,” she told him. “Go retrieve your sword. You look lost without it.”

  “What would I do with it?” Vered asked, making a helpless gesture. “Never have I found a cape that resists my sharpest blade.” He backed away, then went in search of his lost sword.

  She turned to Santon and motioned for him to sit by the fire. “It is not much, but it helps hold back some of the night’s chill.”

  “Vered can get more wood,” said Santon. He settled down warily.

  “No.” The Glass Warrior’s order came out sharper than she had wanted.

  “So you are followed,” mused Santon. “No, let me guess. I have heard the legends, but the reality must be something less. No woman, even one as handsome as you, could live up to the tales told over a tankard or two of ale.”

  He poked at the fire and urged the flames higher. “Do not worry,” he said. “The flames are hidden and the smoke can’t be seen. Vered and I both keep a sharp watch. We were almost upon you before we saw the fire.”

  “You run, too?” she asked.

  “Let’s say that we’ve had our share of disagreement,” said Vered, returning with his sword. He dropped to the ground, legs thrust out and propping himself up on one elbow. In the firelight his brown eyes danced with mischief.

  “Thieves,” she said.

  “Some have called us that,” admitted Birtle Santon. “We think of ourselves as two lost souls seeking a bit of adventure wherever we can.”

  “Thieves.”

  “Yes,” said Vered. “But you. What of you? We are an ex-soldier and a youngling unable to cope with a bad case of wanderlust. You are a legend.”

  “You flatter me, but I see that is part of your charm. Flattery and a quick slice with the knife to remove the money pouch.”

  “You have nothing to worry from us,” said Santon.

  “No,” agreed Vered. “We can see by the way your pouch swings that it is as empty as ours.” He reached out with the tip of his sword and bounced her money pouch. “I am more interested in how your blade survives real combat. Steel against glass? Surely, the glass must shatter.”

  “I am skilled at its preparation. At times, I wish it to shatter. At others, it is stronger than your blade.”

  They traded banter and odd stories for a time, edging around one another while they decided if trust was merited. The Glass Warrior decided long before either Santon or Vered.

  “You are not actively sought by the authorities?” she asked. Their expressions, guarded though they were, showed that they were. “That is no concern of mine. What is of importance is a sacred vow I have taken.”

  “Sacred vows tend to be written in blood — others’ blood,” said Santon.

  “You have seen combat too often. You grow cynical,” she accused.

 
“I have, and that is a fact. For long years I rode Porotane trying to maintain order. Too many demon-damned brigands for that. Kill one and two spring up. I decided to make a path for myself through the world.”

  “Would you see an end to the civil war?” she asked.

  “Who wouldn’t? But the duke is too feeble. The others in the castle…by the saints, I wouldn’t trust a one of them!” declared Santon.

  “You would support a true king or queen?”

  “One of royal blood?” asked Vered. He shrugged. “For all my life, there’s been naught on the throne but Duke Freow. Santon remembers old King Lamost.”

  “Aye, and his children,” said Santon, almost dreamily. “They’d be older than young Vered by now, had they lived.”

  Both men stiffened when Santon uttered those words. Santon paused for a moment, studying the Glass Warrior’s face, then asked, “They are dead, aren’t they? It’s been too many years for them to still live.”

  “This I do not know,” said the Glass Warrior. “But Duke Freow has entrusted me with the task of finding Lokenna and Lorens. He is dying. One twin must assume the throne soon or Porotane’s wars will intensify and permanently divide the kingdom.”

  “Where there’s strife, there’s opportunity,” quoted Vered.

  “For the likes of us, aye,” said Santon. “For the likes of Baron Theoll, too.”

  The Glass Warrior saw the men’s dislike for the small baron. “I seek the twins. I hope to find both, but either will be able to succeed to the throne. We must hurry, though. Freow is dying and the baron is becoming bolder.”

  “We? You think to count us into this madness? Oh, no, dear lady, not us. No,” said Vered. “We’re honest thieves, not heroes bent on dying nobly.”

  “He has a good point. This is not our worry. Theoll is a swine, but the likes of Dews Gaemock oppose him, not that he is that much better. I say, any who seek the throne should be denied it.”

  “Spoken like a former soldier,” she said. “But I do need help. The baron has sent a squad after me. No, do not fear. I have eluded them for the moment, but they are determined. His threats drive them faster than any promise of reward.”

  “We want nothing to do with it,” said Vered, his tone firm and his gaze unswerving.

  “And you?” she asked of Birtle Santon. “What of you?”

  “Vered’s right. We have no stake in this. Gaemock would make no different a ruler than Theoll — or either of the twins.”

  “You are wrong. There is good reason for once more seating royalty on the throne. Too few follow Gaemock or any of the hundred other would-be rulers of Porotane who are little more than brigands. No one wants Theoll on the throne. No one, I assure you.”

  “No,” said Santon.

  “I cannot coerce you,” she said. “Come morning, we’ll ride our separate ways.”

  Santon nodded, then asked, “Would you like a small drink of brandy? I’ve saved it for a special occasion. Meeting the famed Glass Warrior on a mission for the duke is as special as I’m likely to find.”

  “I’d be pleased.”

  Santon fetched the bottle and two battered metal cups. He poured her some and took one for himself. “What of Vered?” she asked. The young man had already drawn his cloak tightly around himself and lay sleeping by the low fire.

  “Vered doesn’t drink such swill. Slows the reflexes, he says. Burns out the brain, he says. He drinks only the finest of wines from the Uvain Plateau wineries.”

  “In that, he may be right.”

  “He is,” said Santon. “It burns out both brain and memory. It’s the only relief I get from the past.” He tossed back the full cup, coughed, then poured himself another.

  The Glass Warrior sipped slowly and considered the two men carefully. “I am sorry you will not aid me,” she said.

  “If it’s true you’re a wizard you might put a spell on us,” suggested Santon.

  “I command a few spells,” she admitted. “But I would not force you to help. Such would only work against me.”

  The Glass Warrior took a long drink from the cup, the brandy burning her gullet and belly. She put the cup down and said, “You know that a wizard seldom reveals a personal name.”

  “The name can be used against them in spells and in battle,” said Santon.

  “It is a sign of trust.”

  Their eyes locked.

  “My name is Alarice,” the Glass Warrior said.

  CHAPTER VI

  Vered stirred and turned, wrapping himself so tightly in his cloak that his arms tingled from lack of circulation. He sneezed, his nose clogged. Still more asleep than awake, he opened one eye and tried to remember his dreams.

  Pleasant ones, he knew. The saucy wench chasing him had been gorgeous. And the commotion when she insisted that they…

  Vered sneezed again and came fully awake, the dream remnant finally fleeing from conscious thought. He sat up and looked around. The fire lay cold and black between him and Birtle Santon. For a few seconds, Vered puzzled over the curious lump where his friend lay.

  Vered then realized that Santon had not slept alone this past night. The Glass Warrior had curled up close by, whether to share only warmth or more, Vered didn’t know or really care. She was an attractive one, he thought, but not his type. More Santon’s, with her sturdy build and obvious fighting prowess. Vered preferred his women less combative and more curvaceous. Like the one in his dimly remembered dreams.

  He shook free of his cloak and stood, stretching. The cold morning air caused his breath to come out in silvery plumes, but it invigorated him and convinced him that this day might be better than the last. He strolled off into the bushes to relieve himself, then returned to the cold campsite.

  Santon and the Glass Warrior lay spoon-fashion, sleeping deeply. It might be another hour before they roused. What harm could there be in aiding this handsome woman by giving her some of his expertise in packing? She carried a lush looking knapsack, but the lumpiness must tax her sorely, Vered thought. The harsh edges of whatever lay within had to cut into her softer curves as she walked.

  Fingers nimble from practice, Vered opened the ties on the black velvet knapsack. The only sounds were those of the forest animals and wind blowing softly through the spring leaves. The sounds of velvet slipping across velvet were drowned out even by the distant brook burbling on its way to the River Ty.

  He drew forth a crystal box and ran his fingers along the edges, seeking a possible trap. Some of the less enlightened booby-trapped their prize possessions with poisoned needles that leapt out at the wrong touch. Vered had even found one or two who installed spring-driven catapults within to kill the unwary.

  No such trap had been laid by the Glass Warrior. He held the box at arm’s length and peered through its crystalline sides. A simple gold circlet rested within.

  “Not worth more than a few days’ lodging in a good city,” he decided aloud. He looked at the sleeping pair. Santon stirred now, unconsciously considering rising. In another few minutes, he would awaken.

  Vered knew that it would be a churlish thing to do to steal this simple gold ornament from a woman who might have been Santon’s lover the past night. He knew it. Still, he opened the crystalline lid and withdrew the circlet.

  A tingling passed through him, electric and startling. Vered rocked back on his heels and laid the crown on the ground until he regained his senses.

  “Too little food,” he decided. “Weak from starvation. Imagine me, master thief the length and breadth of Porotane, being unable to lift a light gold circlet without fainting dead away! A travesty of honourable thievery!”

  On feet quieter than a stalking cat, Vered went to the wagon and searched through the littered interior until he found a coil of wire. He balanced out an amount equal in weight to the gold circlet and placed the wire into the crystal box. The tricks light played as it went through the cut glass box walls made it appear as if he had left the circlet untouched. Pleased with his petty deception, Ver
ed took the box with its wire crown back to the velvet knapsack. With care equal to that he had shown in removing the box, he replaced it and retied the velvet bindings, duplicating the Glass Warrior’s simple knots.

  Birtle Santon made an inarticulate sound that Vered knew to mean that his friend awoke.

  “Good morning, Santon,” Vered greeted brightly. “And how did you sleep? Better than I, from all appearances.” He inclined his head in the direction of the still-sleeping Glass Warrior.

  “Aye, for once you’ve hit on the truth of the matter.” Santon disengaged himself from the woman’s arms and stood.

  “What do we do about her?” asked Vered. “I have no desire to be broken on the wheel because of her mission for the duke.”

  “Nor I, but she pleads her case well.”

  “How well?” asked Vered, a grin on his face. Santon grunted and threw a stone at him. Vered dodged easily. “We can let her ride along with us for a time,” said Vered. He smoothed out his rumpled clothing and ran his fingers through light brown hair hanging in greasy strings. “If she can stand the odour, that is.”

  “You worry too much about appearances. You should consider the Inner soul, that which cannot be scrubbed clean with only soap and water.”

  “And you, Santon, worry too much about your soul and not enough about how you smell!”

  Alarice rolled over, awakened by their banter. Her eyes blinked open, grey orbs holding Santon and Vered pinned as firmly as if she had driven pins through them.

  “Good morning, Lady,” said Vered.

  “It is, isn’t it?” she said.

  “And it will be even more of a good morning when we’ve eaten. I could eat a horse.”

  “Touch that nag pulling our wagon and I’ll cut off your ears,” growled Santon. To Alarice he said, “His belly often gets the better of him. No discipline.”

  “Santon wants us to march on no rations for a month, though he is a less than harsh taskmaster at times,” said Vered. “He might let me drink a thimbleful of water once a week.” The younger man began preparing a cooking fire, then jumped up when he saw Santon heading toward their dilapidated wagon.