He found no sign of other assassins creeping through the night. He returned to camp.
“You took your time returning. You got them?” asked Vered, casually lounging on his bedroll. For all the man’s flippancy, Santon saw the tension in his body. Santon reacted physically to danger; Vered tried to laugh it off.
“Of course. Were there others?” The small movement of Vered’s hand toward his sword showed that there had been. Vered had already cleaned the gore off his blade.
“Five,” said Alarice. “Eight, all told.”
“I got three. Does that end the madness for the night? I need sleep.”
The phantom spoke up. “Five remain in camp.”
Santon squatted down and stared into the embers of their fire. “Do we leave them be or take them out?”
“You promised the phantom that we’d find his body?” asked Alarice.
“I said that your magic might help us. I made no definite promise. But he can aid us. He died in an assault similar to the one we feared in the mountain passes.”
“His body lies a hundred yards from their camp.”
Santon sighed. Always it came to killing. For too many years he had been the best. He tired of it. “Let’s go,” he said, rising to his feet. “If I am to sleep this night there are five more who must die.”
“Don’t you even want to know whose men they are? Whether they are simple brigands or Theoll’s soldiers?” asked Vered.
“What difference does it make? They want us dead. We must kill them first.”
Vered rose like a feather on a summer breeze. “That’s what I like about Santon. He’s such a philosopher.”
The five in the brigand camp died under axe and sword before the moon rose to zenith.
CHAPTER XIV
Baron Theoll pulled himself up to the greatest height possible and still the assassin towered over him. Trying not to be obvious about it, Theoll moved around the table between them and perched on one edge, a short leg swinging slowly, to prove to himself that the pain had fled. He glared at the man. He might be taller than the baron but the assassin knew who was the more powerful. His paleness had turned to a pasty white before he had finished his sorry report.
“You let these two ruffians and a woman defeat you?” Theoll asked in a voice both low and menacing. “How is this possible? You were the best in all Porotane. None came close to your skill or stealth.”
“They…it was magic, Baron. It had to be. We could not fight them. They…they summoned demons!”
Theoll snorted derisively. He knew better. The Glass Warrior had proven more dangerous than he’d thought possible. He had underestimated the woman’s abilities. Even though the assassins had found her true path into the swamps sifter being misled north, they had failed against her. And the Demon Crown had slipped from his grasp!
“There is more,” Theoll said. “Tell me.”
“The two with her. They fight like a dozen warriors.”
Theoll shook his head. Everything fell apart around him. His carefully built plans turned to ash. His assassins, the pick of all in the kingdom, proved ineffectual against a wizard and her two pets. His fists clenched so tightly that the fingernails cut into the flesh. Tiny crescents of blood formed. Theoll jumped to the floor, staggering slightly as his weakened legs yielded under his weight, and spun to prevent this worthless creation of his from seeing his infirmity.
Never let weakness show. Never. Especially to underlings.
Before Theoll formed the proper reprimand, a page burst through the door and stood breathless.
“What is it?” Theoll had little time for such intrusions. The boy would be punished.
“Baron, Dews Gaemock attacks the castle!”
“Impossible. Gaemock’s forces withdrew. He can’t reform his siege until fall.” Theoll cocked his head to one side and listened hard. The pounding footsteps of hundreds of soldiers came to his ears. “Damn,” he said, knowing that the page spoke truthfully. To the assassin, he said, “Wait here. Don’t stir until I return.”
It pleased him to see the man frozen to the spot by the command. Theoll motioned. The young page fled. Theoll followed closely, checking his dagger and making certain that the light leather armour he always wore covered the vital spots on his body. He burst into brilliant sunlight and squinted. By the time his vision cleared sufficiently, the battle raging below had progressed — too far.
“Who are they?” he demanded of the guard captain.
“Not Gaemock’s troops as we first thought,” the captain answered. “It might be a band of ruffians we found a few weeks ago. They headed to the sea and we ignored them.”
“What do they hope to gain?” Theoll watched the flow of battle with a critical eye. Porotane’s troops — he thought of them as his own — had been caught unawares. Their position proved poor for defence; the field commander showed a spark of intelligence. Unable to defend, he had attacked and split the rebel band in half.
“Lieutenant Squann’s forces have been reduced by almost a hundred, with losses to the rebels of only a score,” said the guardsman. “If Squann had not attacked when he did, they would have been wiped out.”
“He should concentrate on the northern flank. Give him covering archery fire against their southern half.”
The captain motioned and sent runners off to the far reaches of the castle’s battlements. Flight after flight of feathered death arched into the air and fell in rebel ranks. The rebels had depended too heavily on surprise and too little on planning. Either an arrow had felled their leader or the leader failed to keep discipline in his ranks. The southern formation disintegrated, letting Lieutenant Squann commit his full force against the other half.
Theoll watched with little pleasure as the field commander killed every rebel that fell within sword range. No quarter was offered, although the rebels tried to surrender. Theoll wondered if this Squann knew he was being observed. Possibly. But the chance existed that Squann was vicious and offered no quarter under any circumstances. The baron made a small notation in a book he always carried with him to check out this commander. The assassins had done poorly. He needed new recruits for his personal guard.
“Why do they continue to attack?” he asked aloud.
“The rebels expect Duke Freow’s death to weaken our resolve and crack our solidarity. They hope to assume the throne by a clever thrust at the proper instant. Yes, Baron, that’s definitely the way I see their battle plans forming.”
Theoll glared at the guard captain. This man was stupid. Oprezzi had been cunning, if not careful in his sexual liaisons with the Lady Johanna. But Oprezzi’s replacement? Theoll suppressed the desire to throw the verbose fool over the battlements and to his death.
The baron spun and stalked off. Squann had turned the attack. The neighbouring countryside would have to be scourged of all future threat. The spring and summer crops must not be allowed to suffer under the thousands of hooves of rebel cavalry. The food had to be used to supply the castle throughout the autumn and winter months. Theoll knew that Gaemock would never stop.
Kill him and perhaps end the single-minded drive for the throne. Maybe. Theoll had nightmares of Dews Gaemock’s phantom ascending the throne, placing the Demon Crown on a vaporous skull, and ordering everyone put to death. The small baron shoved such nonsense away. Let it inhabit his dreams, not his waking moments. He hobbled back to his quarters, then paused.
An idea formed. The guards had abandoned their posts in the castle corridors to protect the walls. Freow would be unattended. Theoll’s fingers tapped along the hilt of his dagger. Making his decision, he hurried to the duke’s quarters and burst inside.
One muscle strained against another as Theoll fought to keep from drawing his blade and plunging it into Freow’s thin chest. The duke was not alone. Harhar capered and japed between baron and duke.
The jester turned and stared at the baron. “What is it, my lord? Do you come to help me entertain our duke?”
Theoll weighed
the chance of killing the jester and the duke. Such would be for the best. Harhar carried in his dim-witted brain the knowledge of how Archbishop Nosto had been duped into putting Oprezzi to the Question. That little play had crushed Johanna’s chance to ascend the throne. Her power gone, she had pulled back to defensive positions, trying vainly to reform her power base. With Nosto so firmly on Theoll’s side, few would even talk to Johanna.
Harhar should die to protect the guilty knowledge of Nosto’s deception. Theoll dared not have the archbishop turn the Inquisition against him.
But the jester was strong and young and the element of surprise had passed. In the corridor he heard the shuffling of guards returning. Theoll cursed his bad luck.
“I came to see how the duke is,” he said lamely.
“Stronger. Stronger because he enjoys my jokes.” Harhar did a handstand and began relating a preposterous story about two ducks and the king’s handmaiden.
Theoll went to the duke’s side and stared at him. Freow’s eyelids quivered and then popped open. Theoll almost cried out in shock. For months the slow poison he administered had taken its toll on the duke. As if some horrid magic erased all that, Freow looked and acted stronger than ever.
“Theoll?” came a weak voice. “How nice of you to visit me.”
“My…duke.” Theoll bowed. “I am pleased to see you recovering from your grave illness.” Theoll almost choked when Freow sat up in bed unassisted. The poison should have robbed the old man of every ounce of strength. He should have died by now!
“I recover too slowly,” said Freow. “It is as if I have come through a veil of fog and the bright light of day has yet to burn all traces of the mist away from my tired old brain.”
“You fare well, my duke.” Theoll again cursed his missed chance. The poison had failed. He should have driven the dagger deep into Freow’s putrid heart and seized the throne!
“My jests cheer him,” declared Harhar. The lank-haired jester turned a set of powerful handsprings that brought him to the foot of the bed. He jumped straight up into the air and caught a bedpost. Harhar hung like a gigantic fly on the wall. Theoll wilted under the jester’s hot, dark scrutiny.
Behind him he heard guards enter and resume their posts. Theoll bowed deeply and backed away, all thought of assassination passed. He would have to devise another scheme.
All the way back to his chambers, Theoll stewed. When he finally entered his secure rooms, he boiled over. The lone assassin returning from the attempt to steal the Demon Crown from the Glass Warrior cowered.
“You,” snapped Theoll, pointing at the assassin. “You failed once. Will you fail me again?”
“Never, my baron, never!”
“No, you wouldn’t dare.” Theoll slumped in his chair and stared at the frightened man. He had selected for courage as well as ability, yet this man almost burst into tears at the mere sight of his lord. Theoll rejoiced in this. It showed someone feared him. He had considered removing this abysmal failure permanently, executing him painfully as an example for others.
Theoll thought better of such a dire course now. The assassin would risk anything to serve him in return for his miserable life. If anything, that fear might make him all the more effective a tool to use against Duke Freow.
For a fleeting moment, Theoll worried over the failure of the poison. It had sapped the duke’s strength for months. Why did it suddenly reverse itself when death should have been imminent? Could it be interference by the Lady Johanna? Theoll discarded that notion. Johanna’s power had been broken with Oprezzi.
“Archbishop Nosto,” he murmured.
“Baron?”
“Silence,” he ordered. He had forgotten the assassin’s presence in the room. His thoughts returned to the archbishop. Nosto might scheme against him. The Inquisition provided a convenient vehicle for obtaining information and exerting considerable power. Too many in Porotane feared heretics for the cleric’s pogrom to be stopped. Had Nosto decided to save Freow and use him as a puppet?
Theoll shook his head. The notion was too preposterous. During the peak of Freow’s rule, Nosto had been virtually exiled. Freow and Nosto had clashed constantly. Only when the duke took to his death bed had the archbishop again dared to return to the castle. The Inquisition had followed soon after.
An even more ridiculous idea was Nosto’s assuming the throne. Never had a cleric become king of Porotane. The Demon Crown would destroy one so closely aligned with the saints. The tension between demon artifact and belief provided much of the power generated by the Demon Crown, or so Theoll believed. Archbishop Nosto could never surrender himself adequately to the immense demonic power of the crown to use it.
And without the Demon Crown on a true king’s head, the civil wars in Porotane would continue. Should Archbishop Nosto assume the throne, the entire land would be split asunder in a matter of weeks.
Theoll pushed such nonsense from his mind. Nosto might lust after power but he found it by posing the Question, through the Inquisition, by acting the Inquisitor for the saints.
Some other power opposed him. But who might it be? Theoll had eliminated all the other players. He snorted. He had eliminated the strongest, but the factions against him still presented a difficult obstacle to overcome. If he killed Freow outright they would unite against him. Perhaps even Archbishop Nosto would turn on him. The cleric had lain with Johanna, of that he was sure. What other vices did Nosto have that he knew nothing about? The poison had been his best chance and its effect seemed blunted now.
Another sought the throne. If he could not decide who it was, he had only one clear choice. Freow must die quickly so that Theoll could immediately ascend the throne. Such a move would throw the opposition into disarray long enough for him to consolidate his power. Then none would dare oppose him!
“You will obey my commands?” he asked the assassin. The man’s head bobbed up and down as if on springs. “Good. You will prepare for this mission carefully. You will make no mistakes. Is this understood?”
The man bowed his head.
Theoll tented his fingers and rested his chin on the peak. “Very good. You will assassinate Duke Freow in such a manner that it appears to have been done by, say, the Lady Johanna. Yes, she is a good choice.”
“I am to kill the duke?”
“By the saints, you haven’t turned deaf as well as stupid, have you? Yes, yes, yes! You will slay the old bastard. You will do it so that none can suspect me of the crime.”
“When, my lord? It might take time so that none links us. I have been under your command for over a year.”
“I understand that, fool. I’m not asking you to perform a suicide mission. I want you to kill Freow and leave subtle clues pointing to Johanna as the instigator. You are not to be caught or even suspected of the crime.”
Theoll hesitated. He had the feeling that he chose a weak tool for this task. The man had failed once. The Glass Warrior still had the Demon Crown — she still lived!
Theoll had no other choice. “You will do as ordered. I desire Freow’s death within a fortnight.”
“Yes, Baron.” The assassin left quickly — and Theoll was left with a feeling of frustration.
*
Loud rapping came on the barred door of Theoll’s sleeping chamber. The small man came awake instantly, hand on dagger, heart pounding and ready to face danger. He sat up and peered over at his bed — he never slept in the bed for fear of assassination. For weeks he had moved about the room, sleeping in chairs, under tables, even on the narrow, cold window ledge.
“Baron, come quickly. There is trouble. Duke Freow!”
Theoll wanted to laugh aloud. In only four days his assassin had done his job!
He pulled on clothing and went to the door. Outside stood a small squad of castle guards.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to keep the tone of his voice sombre. “Am I needed?”
“At once, Baron. Hurry please.”
Theoll almost ran to keep up with the es
cort’s quick pace. He burst into Freow’s chambers, ready to spout inane condolences. Instead, he choked.
Freow sat up in the bed, looking healthier than he had in over a year. Surrounding the bed were Archbishop Nosto, the physician, Johanna, a few minor nobles, and Harhar.
“We are glad you came so quickly, Baron,” said Nosto. “There has been an attempt on the duke’s life.”
Theoll’s eyes darted around the room. He saw feet sticking out from under a blanket on the floor. The lump under that blanket had to be the body of his killer.
“Yes, an assassin. He was slain before he could work his perfidy on the duke.”
“But who…”
Nosto shook his head. “We do not know.” The cleric stared straight at Theoll. Nosto knew but could not prove it.
“What happened?”
“I slept,” Freow said. His voice cracked occasionally but came out strong otherwise. Too strong for Theoll’s liking. “I heard noises, a struggle. The room was dark but I saw two dark figures. The killer was killed.”
“How? By whom?” demanded Theoll.
Freow shrugged. “I did not see. The guards claim it was none of their rank.” The old man smiled feebly. One parchment-skinned hand lay outside the coverlet as a tribute to the physician’s skill in caring for the decrepit duke. “It would seem that I have an unknown protector in the castle.”
“The saints smile on you, Duke,” intoned Archbishop Nosto.
“Yes, I’m sure that is it.” Theoll’s mouth had turned drier than the Desert of Sazan. His poisons had failed. His assassin had failed. Who guarded Freow so well?
Who?
CHAPTER XV
Vered put his hands over his ears to keep down the din from their horses’ hooves echoing along the dark iron canyons. It muffled the sound a trifle but did nothing to diminish the pounding inside his skull.
“Not even rags stuffed in my ears help,” Birtle Santon said in a too-loud voice.
“Is this the only pass?” complained Vered. “Surely other, quieter routes to the Desert of Sazan exist.”
The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1) Page 15
