The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  Santon had seen action in the past twenty years that had toughened him, but he felt like a kitten mewling for milk in comparison to Alarice. They had shared the comforts and joys of one another’s bodies. For Santon it had been more than physical. For Alarice, he could not say. He doubted that she felt any emotional attachment. But he could hope. The road had been long and lonely for him. Having someone as fine as Alarice to share it made the journey worthwhile.

  Santon turned his eyes to the terrain ahead. He should not allow himself to feel more than simple gratification with her. The Glass Warrior’s quest consumed her totally. He should keep matters between them on an impersonal plane. He closed his eyes and tried to settle the churning of his mind and emotions. He should. But he didn’t. So much about Alarice attracted him — the quick mind, the devotion to duty, the loyalty, the independence tempered with need for another.

  He opened his eyes and caught full in the face a blast of dust that caused watering in his eyes. He blinked the dirt free. What others had there been in the woman’s life? He did not know, and Alarice never spoke of her past. For that, he felt some small thankfulness. His own past had been blighted, then lit with love and blighted anew too many times for the subject to be a comfortable one. To reveal that part of his life to Alarice would be giving away all he had.

  “Santon, what do you see yonder?” Vered’s insistent tug on his left sleeve caused him to jerk about, startled.

  “What? Where? Can’t see for all this dust.”

  “You need to show more care,” said Vered. “Your eyes pour tears.” Vered looked at him strangely, then lifted his arm and indicated a collection of low hills off to their right. “I caught the glint of sunlight on metal a few minutes ago, but have seen nothing since.”

  “It might be nothing more than debris long discarded. The weather seems dry enough to prevent rust for many a year.”

  “This time of season is deceptive,” said Vered. “Dry winds now, wet and cold autumns. Still, you may be right in this. It might be nothing more than my fertile imagination since I see no dust rising from horses’ hooves.”

  “We should investigate, though,” he said. “It pays nothing but death to allow an enemy to come up on us from behind once we enter the mountains.”

  Santon peered into the distance and saw the ragged, torn black peaks of the Iron Range. Crossing them would be difficult. Getting into the narrow, torturously winding passes and finding armed men behind would be fatal. His eyes slipped from the mountains back to the prairie lands to the right of their travel.

  “Let me scout. You stay with Alarice.”

  “Not good, Santon. Dividing our forces only weakens us, if you happen to find trouble.”

  Santon laughed. “You think I am so inexperienced that I’d take on an entire band of brigands without letting you in on the fun? I go only to spy, not to fight.”

  Alarice overheard their conversation and dropped back. Her mare tossed its head and looked sideways at the men, as if thanking them for this brief respite from the demanding pace her mistress set.

  “Why stop?” she demanded. “We must reach the foothills soon. The heat of spring melts the snows quickly. I have no desire to be caught in the Iron Range with floods cutting off the passes.”

  “Vered saw riders. I’ll check them out. They might be nothing more than traders beginning to move from winter quarters to the south.” Santon knew better than this. The nomadic traders who roved Porotane seldom appeared until midsummer, when the festivals began, with the plays and gatherings of musicians. The springtime carried too much work for farmers intent on getting seeds in tilled ground. Only after the saints blessed the ground and the first green shoots rose did many in Porotane think of frolicking.

  Santon turned melancholy at the thought of the many festivals lost to the civil war. Even with crops growing, not many people had time for proper festivities.

  “Or I might have seen nothing. A trick played on me by these accursed winds.” Vered brushed dust from his cheeks.

  Alarice stared at him. Vered shrugged. “All right. I saw something, and do not think it was a reflection from a harmless castoff.”

  “We dare not linger here. We must reach the mountains soon if we are to get through before summer.”

  Santon knew the true reason behind Alarice’s concern. Although mountain flooding posed a problem, it mattered less than entering the Desert of Sazan on the far side of the Iron Range in summer. The desert heat melted metal, or so he had heard. Santon had no reason to doubt the tales told by others, fantastic though they seemed. He had witnessed stranger occurrences with his own eyes.

  “How long will it take to find Patrin and the City of Stolen Dreams?” he asked.

  Alarice shrugged. “I have no idea if my scrying spell works on the city. It is a place where intense magic dwells — and Patrin is its ruler. If he thinks to affect the politics of Porotane, he plays a game deeper than any he has chosen before.”

  “No wizard seeks out visitors,” said Vered.

  “Me least of all,” added Alarice. “Patrin and I have never been on friendly terms. If he truly kidnapped Lokenna and Lorens, that dislike has become total enmity.”

  “Then there will be no surprises when we find this City of Stolen Dreams,” said Santon, his mood darkening even more. “That does not resolve the dilemma of our distant watchers.” From the corner of his eye, he, too, caught a glimpse of movement. A rider? An animal hunting late in the afternoon? With the sun at their backs and their shadows long on the ground, they would be ideal targets for ambush. An attacker might have the sun in his eyes, but they would be silhouetted as they rode.

  And the wind! It switched direction constantly. What had been in their face a few minutes earlier now came from the rear. Somehow, this boon from the saints did not keep the grit from Santon’s green eyes or pasty mouth.

  “We should camp soon,” said Alarice. “We can wait for them to come to us — if they mean us harm.”

  “Another night of watches,” sighed Vered. “Before we find the twins, I shall be a hundred years short on sleep. When one ascends the throne, my first request of the monarch will be for a month of never being awakened!”

  “Sounds like death to me,” said Santon.

  “Birtle, you are much too gloomy,” said Alarice. “The reason we ride is serious, but you need not carry the full weight on your shoulders. We do this together.” She reached over and laid a hand on his. The smile warmed him. He tried not to think of the eyes and the cold depths within them.

  They rode for another hour, then camped. It took the men another hour to tend to the horses and prepare a simple meal. While they worked Alarice used her scrying spell to discover the identity of any who followed them into the Iron Range.

  “I’d be tempted to say that we do the hard part,” said Vered, staring at the Glass Warrior while she concentrated. “We tend the horses, we make the meal, we stand the watches, but this time I stand mute.”

  Alarice’s face was drawn and white. Her eyes were closed and sweat beaded on her forehead in spite of the hot breezes still blowing. Finally, she sagged forward, her hands falling limp to her sides.

  “Are you…” began Santon. He knelt. Alarice opened her eyes and smiled weakly.

  “I am unharmed. This scrying proved more taxing than before. Someone counters me. I cannot tell who the wizard is, but it must be Patrin. Somehow, Tahir’s death alerted him. Perhaps when the imprisoning spell vanished it triggered a magical alarm. I don’t know.”

  “I’ve been to the top of yon tree,” said Vered. “From the topmost branches I’ve watched for the past half hour and seen nothing. If we are being tracked, they have no desire to approach before complete darkness.” He cocked his head to one side. “The moon rises in another two hours from behind the mountains. An attack would come from that direction. We would shine in moonlight and they would be invisible to us.”

  “So,” mused Santon. “If they rode parallel to us all day, they would continue
on, then circle back and come at us. When? We have a two hour period of grace before moonrise. Call it another three hours before the moon rose too high to afford them any benefit from the attack. One should keep watch, then, for two hours, all three of us until the moon is overhead, and the usual watch afterward?”

  “Sounds good,” said Vered. “Since I crawled up that damnable tree and got sap all over me, you can take the first watch while I clean off.” Vered made a face as he pressed his hands together and started to pull them apart, only to find the sticky sap gluing them together. The expression on his face when he saw the sap on his clothing told of extreme contempt for any pursuit in which he would sully himself.

  Santon prowled to the perimeter of their camp and began carefully studying the terrain. If attack came, he wanted to know the land better than the enemy. Less than a hundred paces along the route of his careful scouting, he got the eerie feeling of being watched. He did not turn; he moved onward slowly, adjusting his shield as he went. The feeling of being stalked increased.

  Only when he had a large boulder to put at his back did he turn, his battle-axe singing as it whipped free of his leather sling. Santon held back his chagrin. He had been sure that someone stalked him. Try as he might, Birtle Santon saw no one.

  But the feeling persisted — and grew.

  He retraced his path, every sense straining. The wind had died down shortly after twilight. He scented nothing but cloying blossoms in the air. His ears picked up only faint sounds from Alarice and the muffled curses Vered uttered as he peeled the sticky juices from his hands. A horse neighed, then fell silent — one of their own. Santon’s sharp eyes studied the dirt for signs of passage other than his. He had moved so carefully he had left only faint smudges marking his trail. Nothing else had passed this way.

  Santon still felt eyes on him.

  Heavy axe swinging restlessly, he walked on. A sudden gust of wind brought him spinning around, the blunted edge of his battle-ax slashing through a vicious arc. The axe went through empty air and his glass shield protected him from nothingness. But Santon jumped back in surprise when his attack produced an anguished cry.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded, seeing no one. His hand tightened on the handle of his weapon. “Come out and fight like a warrior. Your death will not be any less easy if you hide.”

  “My death was not easy the first time,” came a moan that might have been wind in tall trees had it not formed true words.

  “Where are you?” Santon lowered himself into a defensive crouch, his axe moving slowly from side to side, ready for instant use.

  “Here.” A tiny spiral of dust rose. Within the column of dancing brown motes appeared a faint glow. The glow intensified until it took on the vague form of a man. Santon felt as if he peered into another world — and, in a way, he did.

  “A phantom!” he exclaimed.

  “1 roam these plains seeking my body. It is a lonely quest. Would you aid me?”

  “1 cannot,” Santon said, relaxing his extreme posture. He lowered his battle-axe and moved the shield to one side for a better look at the ghostly figure. The phantom hovered two paces distant. The face glowed with an eerie pinkiness and the body tapered off into the bottom of the swirl of dust; Santon could not tell where dust began and ghost-body ended. The features proved too indistinct for him to identify the phantom.

  “I was lost in a battle on these plains over fourteen years ago. Since then I have sought aid from all who pass. You must help me. I’ve become so tired of roaming, neither alive nor truly dead. I have none of the bodily woes of the living but all the sorrows are mine to suffer. Forever! I cannot bear this burden much longer.”

  “What will happen if you can’t?”

  The phantom rippled like water in a pond filled with myriad fish beginning to feed. “I will surely go insane. Instead of knowing I should seek out my corpse, I will wander and embarrass myself completely, performing irrational acts. This behaviour I have seen in others.”

  “Who were you? In life?”

  “Dare I tell you?” the phantom wailed. “If I fought on the wrong side in the battle, you might think it a boon to let me suffer. I was only a petty soldier, a pikeman. Nothing more. I had nothing to do with the officer corps.”

  “Your allegiance does not interest me. I’ll help, if I can.”

  “You will?” The phantom’s excitement caused it to come apart. Bits of glowing substance flew in all directions, slowly coalescing as the ghost regained control. “How I have longed for one such as you.”

  “Where do you remember last?” asked Santon.

  “Nearer the Iron Range. In a pass. Just going into a pass. We had ventured too far from the main body of our force. My squad started into the mountains when the enemy came from behind. We were trapped, unable to move forward quickly enough.”

  Santon nodded. These were the fears Vered had voiced about entering the Iron Range without being sure if any tracked them. He raised his eyes and studied the sky. The moon poked above the hills. The time for attack, if it came from their mysterious followers, if they even existed, would come soon.

  “We enter the Iron Range on the morrow,” Santon said, “and we have reason to believe we will be similarly attacked.”

  “By those camped a league toward the mountains?” asked the phantom.

  “You’ve seen them? How many? Do they plan to attack us tonight?” He let his battle-axe drop and hang from its leather wrist strap and reached for the phantom, thinking to shake the information from the ghost. His hand passed through the ghostly substance. Santon experienced a momentarily tingling sensation in his fingers and nothing more.

  “Sorry,” apologized the phantom. “It is difficult for me. The ruffians yonder refused me aid. I became so enthused that I neglected to offer a trade of information when you so kindly agreed to help me find my corpse.”

  The phantom reformed after Santon’s hand had sundered it.

  “Come along. You must talk with Alarice.”

  “The Glass Warrior?” asked the phantom. “Many have spoken of her but so few have seen her. This is a signal honour for me.”

  “How do you know her name?” demanded Santon, instantly suspicious. He did not see how the phantom could be a spy for those following them. There was no need for the ghostly being to appear to him. Simply drifting disembodied around their camp would provide adequate intelligence for an attack.

  “I…I know so many things and do not understand why. You are Santon. It is as if all living are known to me. In exchange for this worthless boon, I know naught of my body.” The glowing column shook, as if the phantom cried ectoplasmic tears.

  “Who follows us?”

  “Do you want their names? Those I can give. But who orders them after you?” The phantom made a gesture Santon guessed to be a shrug of non-existent shoulders. The man silently motioned for the phantom to follow. They returned to the camp. Alarice’s cold eyes instantly locked onto the phantom.

  “You found us a spy,” she said with no enthusiasm.

  “For us, against us, who can say?” Santon warmed his hand on the small cooking fire. Across from him Vered lay sleeping lightly. “I’ll make a quick circuit of the perimeter and return. If they are to attack tonight, it will come soon.”

  “They will,” said the phantom. It spun about, its substance agitated and glowing more brightly. “I don’t want you hurt. Santon promised to help me find my body.”

  “I can help,” said Alarice. “I might be able to scry your body.”

  “You are a wizard! But of course. The stories of the Glass Warrior say you are. It becomes so hard for me to think like this. Oh, thank you, thank you!”

  Santon snorted and returned to his patrol. He had little liking for dealings with phantoms, yet this might prove to their benefit. If he had his way, entire battalions would be dispatched to scour Porotane to find the unburied bodies and properly consecrate graves for them. Leaving their shades to wander like this one did was needlessly cruel. Sant
on smiled without any humour. To die in battle was a risk all took. To drift aimlessly in search of your body after dying — that was a burden no one should bear.

  Tiny sounds alerted him. He fell to his knees and hid behind a low tangle of shrubs. The moon had risen too high in the sky to cast good shadows on attackers from the east. Santon knew that the moon would illuminate him well for the enemy, though, if he ventured out into the open. He lay in wait, not daring to move. He wanted to shout, to alert Vered and Alarice. To do so would precipitate the attack and gain him nothing.

  Three men skulked past him, not even noticing him. Santon kept his shield and battle-axe low to prevent vagrant moonbeams from reflecting and warning them.

  Only when they had passed by and he had assured himself a second wave did not follow did he turn and silently stalk the stalkers.

  The one in the rear sensed him. Santon rushed forward, battle-axe raised. The man emitted a squeak more like a mouse than a human before the heavy spiked ball behind the axe blade crushed his skull. Santon’s strong wrist flipped the axe around. The blade cut into the second brigand’s leg. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain.

  “Die, fool!” cried the man who had been in the lead. His sword flashed toward Santon’s breast. A quick movement brought the glass shield into play. The blade deflected and Santon used the shield edge as a weapon, driving it into the man’s arm. This caused the brigand to stumble off balance. Santon’s axe assured that the assassin need never worry about his clumsiness again. Brains spattered over the moonlit ground to glow phosphorescently.

  Panting with the exertion, Santon recovered. He stood and stared at the bodies. Death had come so quickly. It always did. Only now did he realize how it might have been his corpse cooling on the ground. His hand shook and sweat made the handle of the battle-axe slippery. No matter how many times he faced danger like this, he reacted strongly afterward, his stomach churning and threatening to regurgitate. Santon held down his gorge and concentrated on scouting. If three had come, there might be more.