The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “A bath doesn’t hurt anyone,” said Vered. “In your case, it might reveal a lighter shade of skin, should you clean off the caked outer layers.”

  Before his friend answered, they saw Alarice galloping back from scouting the dusty trail ahead. She reined in and said, “We’ve trouble. The wizard drawn by your use of the crown has laid his men in ambush not a mile down the road.”

  “Hard to retreat now,” said Santon. “We could cut through the forest, though the trees are growing more sparse now. The rolling hills might hide us, even if the sounds of this creaking wagon carry from here all the way north to the Yorral Mountains.”

  “The wizard knows we approach,” said Alarice. “His scrying spells are similar to those that I use. If we do not appear soon, he will know that we try to evade him.”

  “So he comes after us later, rather than sooner,” said Vered. “Does this give us a chance to prepare a trap for him? I feel more comfortable attacking than being attacked, especially if I can choose the battlefield.”

  “What you say has merit,” Alarice said. “But I see nothing in the terrain that we can turn to our advantage. The wizard has positioned his men on either side of a narrow draw. We are too few to duplicate such a plan.”

  “What good does it do for us to run?” asked Vered. “This wizard watches us with his infernal spells and knows everything we do.” He turned to face Alarice. “He does watch, doesn’t he?”

  “The use of magic is tiring,” she said. “He might know we are here, but watch us constantly?” She shook her head. “That I doubt.”

  “So he uses the spell and drains himself until he is bedridden,” scoffed Vered. “What matters this to him? He has a score of armed ruffians at his service.”

  “Magic is not the answer,” said Alarice. Her cold grey eyes scanned the rolling hills. No opportunity for ambush suggested itself. Nor did it seem likely that they could tumble boulders off tall cliffs and crush the rebel band.

  “Cast a spell and mask our path,” said Vered. “But no, you said this is tiring. We will need to fight soon.”

  “Premonition?” asked Santon.

  “Good eyes.”

  Clouds of dust rose. The wizard’s fighters had tired of waiting and rode along the narrow, rutted road to seek them out.

  “There are not a score,” said Alarice, her face vacant and her eyes glazed with concentration. “Only ten.”

  “Three against ten,” said Vered. “Why, these ruffians have no chance against us! You, Santon, you take the first three and a third. I’ll take the next third, and Alarice can finish them off. Unless that does not include the wizard.”

  “It does. There are only ten. But the wizard is more likely to use sword and shield than spells for this attack. Spells work too slowly, unless you are a master wizard.”

  “He isn’t? You aren’t?” Santon sounded disappointed.

  Alarice smiled sadly and shook her head. “Never have I controlled more than a few simple spells. This is my weapon.”

  She drew forth her long glass sword. In the bright sunlight it shone like a solidified rainbow. She wheeled her mare about and said, “They come. Soon.”

  Vered heaved a sigh and climbed to the roof of the wagon. He drew his sword and a wicked basket-hilt dagger, spread his legs for a better stance, and began settling himself for the fight. Birtle Santon dropped to the ground and pulled his battle-axe from the wagon box. His left arm bulged as he swung the heavy axe about, getting the feel of it.

  “Three and a third apiece,” called Vered when the first rider came into view. “No slackers!”

  The first wave of horsemen surged forward, lance tips shining in the sun and multi-coloured ribbon banners flapping from the shafts. Santon roared and took two steps forward to build momentum for his swing. The heavy axe passed through the leading horse’s front leg and sent the rider sailing through the air to land hard near the wagon.

  Vered shouted a warning to Alarice, but it was not needed. The Glass Warrior swung about, her fragile-appearing sword deflecting a lance. She put spurs to her mare and edged forward to lunge and impale the rider, her lethal glass tip penetrating leather armour and chest with equal ease.

  Then Vered no longer saw what happened. Two riders had circled the wagon and he found himself engaged from two directions simultaneously. The young thief vaulted one sweeping blow with a lance shaft. He ignored that rider. His attention turned fully on the lancer charging from the far side. Vered used his dagger to parry; the lance tip drove into the top of the wagon. The shock brought the lancer up in his stirrups.

  Vered’s sword ended the man’s life.

  Vered twisted about and again parried a lance thrust. He took the opportunity presented when the other horseman foolishly turned away from the wagon. Vered leaped and landed behind the lancer. A quick slash with the dagger sent a fountain of crimson spewing forth. The horse reared and threw Vered off.

  He hit, rolled, and came to his feet beside Birtle Santon.

  “Some fight, eh?” he shouted. “How many?”

  “Just the one,” said Santon.

  “I need only one and a third to go!” Vered rushed forward, a lance tip almost opening his skull. He thrust his dagger into the horse’s flank even as his sword reached upward to gut the rider. If either attack had failed, the other would have proven effective. As it was, Vered scored easily with both. Horse and rider died in a pool of blood.

  Santon had unseated another lancer. A powerful overhead swing with the axe shattered an upraised shaft. A return swing ended the life of the lancer.

  “I still need a third of a rider. You need one and a third,” called Vered. “But where are they? Have the cravens run? What manner of ruffian is this, to attack in overwhelming numbers, then flee?”

  Vered turned in a full circle. He hardly believed his eyes. The fight had gone well, he thought, but how could it be over? It had barely begun, yet the corpses he counted totalled ten. He had accounted for three and Santon two.

  His brown eyes rose to stare in surprise at the Glass Warrior. Her long blade dripped gore. “You have vanquished fully half the force,” he said. Then, angrily, “How dare you! You took more than your fair share!”

  “Calm yourself, Vered. She did us both a favour.”

  “The wizard?” Vered walked to a fallen man whose throat had been neatly slit. Only a thin line of red appeared beneath his chin, but he had died from the wound.

  “A minor one,” said Alarice. “I have seen him before in the southlands. Never have I heard a name.”

  “Too bad. I wouldn’t mind it if you cursed him and sent him and the entire pack of ruffians to the hottest depths of demon-infested hell.” Vered knelt down and used his dagger tip to lift the sorcerer’s pouch. He opened it cautiously, spreading the contents on the ground.

  “I see nothing of interest,” said Alarice. “Take what you will, Vered. There’s no magic potion hidden there.”

  “To hell and gone with magic potions,” he cried. “I want gold! The wizard is as poverty-stricken as we are. What kind of brigand was he? Imagine, dying without a full purse. The impudence of it all!”

  Santon and Vered searched the bodies and found fewer than a dozen coins, mostly silver and copper. No gold. Even the equipment carried by the rebel band proved worthless to them.

  “We should only allow better-quality rebels to attack us. This is ridiculous. No booty. Pah!” Vered dropped down beside the wagon, his back against a wheel.

  “We’ve gained a few horses. The ones you didn’t gut in your clumsy attempts to kill the riders,” said Santon.

  “Horses. We can’t hitch them to the wagon. These are saddle mounts, not work horses. They’d be more trouble than they’re worth. What a wasted fight.” His eyes turned back to Alarice. In a lower voice, he said, “But it was an honour seeing her fight. By the saints, what a warrior!”

  “She’s that and more,” agreed Santon, emotions Vered had seldom seen in him rippling across the man’s weathered face.
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  The pair sat in silence for some time. Then both spoke at the same time. They quieted, and Santon said, “What do you think of her quest to find the twins? A worthy one?”

  “It would eliminate scenes such as this. No rebel bands. The countryside would be quieter, more peaceful, less suspicious.”

  “Our trade would be the easier for that,” said Santon.

  “What else do we have to occupy our time?” asked Vered. “We’re wanted by too many local constables to travel freely. I had demurred originally because I thought she was no true warrior. But she equalled our combined best.”

  “Better than that,” said Santon. “She hardly seemed tired from the exertion.”

  “Neither of us worked up a sweat,” Vered pointed out. “She is quite a woman. One fine warrior. And the season is good for exploring. Who’s to say that we wouldn’t find the twins — and a sizable reward?”

  “There is that,” Santon said.

  They sat in silence for another few minutes, then stood and began stowing their weapons so that they would come easily to hand. Wherever the Glass Warrior led them, they knew those weapons would be needed.

  CHAPTER VIII

  “There’s no need to keep looking for the wizard’s fighters,” said Vered. “We finished them off.” He sneezed, wiped his nose, then said, “Or perhaps it is not the wizard you seek. Could it be that your heart reaches out to Alarice?”

  Birtle Santon glared at his friend, then turned his eyes squarely ahead to the double ruts they followed across the countryside. Rains had washed away much of what had been a road, and with the minor battles raging constantly, no one had the will or time to repair it.

  “What’s wrong with me looking at her? She’s a fine-looking woman.”

  “She is,” Vered agreed.

  “You go whoring about whenever we find a town large enough.”

  “Most are large enough,” said Vered.

  “Who are you to pass judgment on what I think or feel?”

  “We all need a vice or two. Makes life more interesting.” Vered leaned back and put his feet over the edge of the wagon box. “It seems that you have more than a few vices, though, Santon my friend. If you add Alarice to the list, why, you might spend all your time trying to remember what to indulge in next.”

  “You mock me.”

  “Of course I do! It’s all in good fun. You take yourself much too seriously. Loosen up. There is nothing wrong with lusting after a wench so comely.”

  “She’s no wench.”

  Vered quickly apologized. “She’s even better with that strange sword of hers than I am with mine. And I have grown accustomed to the balance of mine. Best weapon I ever stole.”

  They rode along in silence until Alarice reined in and waited for them to catch up. “Pull over,” she said. “We need to discuss our course. The land is turning against us.”

  “But the day is beautiful,” protested Vered. “As far as the eye can see, it is lovely. No storms, although the muddy road suggests we might be in for more rain this evening.”

  “We go to the southlands,” she said patiently. “The way is dangerous and we must discuss how we are to proceed.”

  Santon pulled on the reins and the horse gratefully slowed and stopped. The animal bent forward in its harness, straining to graze at a patch of verdant grass. Vered swung down and released the horse to graze freely. He doubted the horse would run off. Its running days were long past.

  “Here is the castle,” Alarice said, her finger marking a spot in the damp dirt. “The River Ty runs along this course, then empties into the delta swamps.”

  “I’ve never been there, but others who have report only insects and disease. Why do we go there?” Birtle Santon settled down on his haunches to await the answer.”

  “Tahir d’mar killed King Lamost.”

  “I’d heard of Lamost’s death,” said Vered. “Never has it even been hinted that foul play helped him along to his grave.”

  “Tahir is a powerful wizard and adept at traceless potions carrying a hundred deaths in every drop.”

  “What did he hope to gain from killing the king? He certainly hasn’t been active over the past decades,” said Santon. “If he sought power, he failed miserably.”

  “These are matters I hope to explore with Tahir. I am sure that he killed Lamost and kidnapped the twins.”

  “He might have exploited that and gained a small part of Porotane as his own. Yet we go into the filthy bowels of the swamps. This Tahir could not have chosen such a spot for his domain.”

  “This is something else to discover, Vered. Tahir lives. My best scrying shows that. Why does he hide in a swamp laced with death and disease? Even a sorcerer cannot avoid all enemies. If I sought to harm Tahir, I would choose an insect carrying a deadly poison as my weapon. Should the victim swat it, another could be a-wing in seconds. This is opinion and not magic, but I feel that Tahir did not choose this retreat willingly.”

  “The twins are with him?” asked Santon.

  The Glass Warrior shook her head. “I detect no sign of them, but Tahir must know. It is possible that both Lokenna and Lorens died soon after the kidnapping. Tahir might have decided they, too, had to die in some scheme that failed later. These are things we must learn.”

  “Is it wise to carry the Demon Crown into a wizard’s stronghold, even if the stronghold is hidden by swarms of gnats and sucking swampland?” Vered worked over lines of approach and liked none of them. Alarice had picked the worst section of Porotane for attack. Who can charge properly through scummy swamp water? At best, he would look ludicrous. At worst?

  Vered turned his thoughts from this sorry picture. That which worried a soul the most always came to pass. Better to consider only successful ventures.

  “My scrying shows only that Tahir lives within the confines of the swamp. I have no clear idea where he is.”

  “How do we track within such muck? Better to simply stand on the fringe of the swamp and yell for him to come out. A challenge always provokes response.” Santon sank back into silence.

  “Not this wizard. Tahir scorns society. He thinks little of violating sanctions simply because it causes discord. Of all the wizards I have known, Tahir was the one most likely to have assassinated a king and stolen away the heirs to the throne.”

  “Might he have done it out of spite? He might not have sought power,” suggested Vered.

  “His motives are obscure, but Tahir wanted something more tangible than discord,” said Santon. “This sorcerer isn’t driven by insane urges. He seeks gain. All men do.”

  “But Alarice says he is irrational.” Vered tried again to formulate a plan and failed. The Glass Warrior’s quest took on disturbing aspects that he could not cope with.

  Alarice made a motion that quieted the men. ‘This swamp lies many days’ travel to the south and west,” she said. “The land between here and the edges of the swamp is dangerous. Rebel bands roam freely.”

  “We’ve been across it a few months ago,” said Santon. “You speak the truth about the land. The people are left homeless and many have taken to wandering. Some are even joining rebel bands, although they have no sympathy for the leader’s cause.”

  “They join only to have food and protection,” said Vered, cutting in. “It is a sorry state for any country’s citizenry to be in. Possibly the worst in all Porotane.”

  “We can reach the swamp in a week, if we travel swiftly,” she said. “Are you up to it?”

  “Are the horses up to it,” corrected Vered. “Mayhap the wagon has outlived its usefulness. What do you say, Santon? Leave it and ride our captured horses?”

  “The roads get worse with every passing mile. If we want to reach this Tahir before he dies of old age, we’d be well advised to do just that. Let’s ride.”

  The men chose horses from those taken from the soldiers and used two extra ones as pack animals. Their swayback horse that had served them so well they let roam free.

  “Dinner,” said
Vered. “That scrawny animal will end up as dinner for someone. Mark my words.”

  “Why not?” Santon said. “You mark your cards.”

  But he, too, hated to set free their trusty swayback horse. The Glass Warrior called, and he wheeled his horse about and trotted off, willing himself not to look back.

  *

  “This is our destination?” asked Vered, horror in his voice. “We have endured all manner of deprivation these past ten days. Starvation, no sleep, the saints take them — cannibals! And for what? So we can arrive at a place like this?”

  The swamp extended in a noisome fan before them. Heavy-limbed mangroves appeared to sway and move, as if alive. The clouds of insects around these trees were more than Vered wanted to consider. The green slime-covered waters circling the thick tree trunks rippled with unseen life. When an unblinking amber eye rose and fixed on Vered, his hand flashed to his sword.

  “I know not what it is, but it sizes me up for dinner.”

  “A swamp swimmer,” said Alarice. “Nothing to fear.”

  Vered tried to outstare the eye that began moving slowly along the scummy surface. He failed. When he looked back, the eye had vanished beneath the water.

  “What should we fear? I like nothing about this place.” Vered swatted at a hungry insect working its way past his collar. His hand came away sticky with blood.

  “We cannot ride aimlessly,” said Santon. “Alarice, how do we find your murderous wizard in this slop?” His horse bucked and protested. Standing at the edge of the slime-covered pond, the horse had begun sinking into the muck. Santon got the horse moving and pulled free of the sucking mud.

  The Glass Warrior stood in her stirrups and slowly scanned the swampland. Vered and Santon exchanged glances. They had no idea what she sought. The banyan trees, with their long arm-like branches, dangled mosses to form feathery green curtains preventing anyone from seeing into the swamp. Of dry land, there was none in sight.

  “There is much power locked within this land,” Alarice said. “It is stunted, though. A power once great but now on the wane. This has to be Tahir d’mar.”