The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  Alarice rode alongside. Her lips moved but Vered heard no words. She repeated; he caught the gist of her comment.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Santon and I never got used to silent communication. That’s one reason we did so poorly in battle.” Vered smiled as he remembered. “No commander dared send us on the dangerous missions. We chattered like birds quarrelling over a tasty morsel. The others used sign language or semaphore. Not Santon and me.”

  The echoes from his voice rang from the iron walls of the canyon and returned to haunt him. He gazed up from the floor of the narrow canyon they followed. The walls had an ugly blackness to them, the only colour being spots turning to rust from constant exposure to the elements. Truly, he knew why they called this sorry collection of rock the Iron Range. Such purity of ore he had never seen. Vered would have exchanged a fraction of the hematite for a grassy slope or a gently flowing stream.

  They had encountered neither since entering the pass after slaying the brigands.

  Alarice held up her hand. Vered reined in while Santon continued on to scout their path. In a voice low enough to be heard but not so loud that it triggered new echoes, Alarice said, “This is the spot where our phantom friend died.”

  Startled, Vered looked around. “So far away?” he said. “The remains were found not a league from where we slew the brigands. Your scrying proved remarkably accurate.”

  “Especially so since Patrin blocks my attempts to see into the City of Stolen Dreams.”

  Vered jerked nervously when the phantom appeared at his elbow. The sudden swirl of air caught up tiny bits of debris and dust laying on the floor and spun them in blinding circles.

  “Is this truly the spot where I was slain?” asked the phantom. The intense longing in his voice communicated to Vered and touched the man’s heart.

  “Here you died. Your body was taken out of the pass, possibly for burial, possibly to prevent your enemy from learning the true numbers of your casualties.” Alarice shook her head, sending a wild frizz of snowy white hair away from her eyes. She pointed. “There. You died there at the base of that hillock.”

  The phantom drifted toward the indicated spot and hovered. Vered knew it might have been his imagination but he thought the ghostly pillar took on added substance and became less transparent.

  “Yes, I feel it. Here. I died here!”

  Alarice whispered in Vered’s stoppered ear. “The remains should be laid to rest on this spot. The digging will be difficult. The ground is extremely hard.”

  Vered kicked at the scattered rocks with his boot and found the layer of soil beneath. It looked as if they would have to blast through solid iron ore. Frowning at something he uncovered, he dropped to one knee and pawed through the rocks. A rusted corps insignia came to light. He lifted it for closer examination and saw that the medallion was brass, that the red splotch was dried blood. He sagged. Fourteen years, the phantom had said. For that long this bit of military uniform had lain exposed to the winds of winter and the searing heat of summer and still the blood remained.

  “That was mine,” said the phantom. “An insignia from the left shoulder of my uniform.”

  Vered nodded. He recognized it as such. “This is where you died,” he said. He took out his dagger and scraped at the ground. It resisted. He worked until sweat poured down his face. The Glass Warrior added her blade to the chore. After Santon returned to report that the way ahead was clear for another day’s travel, he added his nicked axe blade to the task. Hours later they had carved a shallow crypt in the stone.

  Vered wiped the sweat from his face and sank back, the hard canyon wall supporting him.

  “That’s enough, is it not?” He had become increasingly disheartened as they dug, in spite of the phantom’s enthusiastic encouragement for their task. Vered had found that the blood shed in this forgotten battle had seeped into the ground and turned the very soil rusty. The amount of life’s blood needed to perform this transformation measured in gallons — and what distressed him the most was his ability to imagine such carnage. He and Santon had seen worse during their days together.

  “Give me a hand,” said Santon, struggling with the sack containing the remains.

  “Then I’d be the one lacking a pair,” said Vered. Santon glared at this tasteless joke at his expense and said nothing. Vered grunted as Santon pulled the sack containing the remains from the back of a packhorse and dropped it fully on Vered’s shoulder. The smaller man staggered under the load, then turned and made his way to the grave. He tried to lower the sack as easily as he could. It landed with a thunk! loud enough to give birth to new echoes.

  “I feel strange,” the phantom said. “It…I cannot tell you what is happening.”

  “Rest easy,” Alarice said. They piled rocks over the sack, then built a small arch above to mark the grave. She began the death litany.”

  “Peace,” the phantom said. “I feel tranquillity settling over me like a warm, comforting blanket. Thank you, my dear friends. For so many years I prayed for this. Thank you…”

  The words vanished into echoes, drowned by the Glass Warrior’s recitation. When she finished, all trace of the phantom had gone. For several minutes, the trio simply stared at the grave.

  Vered broke the silence. “May we be as lucky to find peace in death.”

  Alarice looked at him sharply. “You don’t have the second sight, do you?” she demanded.

  “No. I have trouble predicting what I’m going to say and do next. The future is closed.”

  The Glass Warrior relaxed. “This quest has been difficult for me. It will become even more taxing before we…succeed.”

  Vered and Santon exchanged glances. Not for the first time, Vered wondered at the Glass Warrior’s age. Alarice walked with a spring in her step and fought with reaction and strength that would be the envy of a new lieutenant of guards, but a miasma of age about her descended now and again. Vered thought she had come by the white hair honestly, by living through ages undreamed of by ordinary men. She might match Santon’s thirty summers or she might be three hundred. He could not tell.

  “When do we leave these demon-damned passes?” asked Santon. “The echoes are driving me insane.”

  “Such torture is used by the Inquisitors,” said Vered. “They place a bell over their victim’s head, then ring it occasionally, when it is least expected. The sound is terrible, but the uncertainty is worse.”

  “There is no uncertainty to these echoes,” said Santon. “We talk. Echoes. We ride. Echoes. Even the echoes spawn echoes.”

  “We must ride for another few days. How many, I cannot say.”

  “Our water runs low,” Vered said. “We use more for the horses than I anticipated. The heat radiating off these accursed iron walls are cooking the water from our bodies, too.” He tried to spit and couldn’t form enough to clear the grit in his mouth.

  “There is water,” she said. Alarice closed her eyes and turned slowly. When she completed a full circle, she pointed to their left. “In that direction. A small spring. The lip of the basin is rusted but the water within is pure.”

  “Thank the saints for such a small favour,” Santon said glumly. “It’d be my luck to find water poisoned by the heavy metals.”

  They mounted and rode until they found a crossing canyon. Vered swayed in the saddle, the heat putting him to sleep. The exertion from digging the shallow grave had also drained him, but putting to rest the shade of the fallen soldier had buoyed him. To become trapped between death and life, to wander endlessly seeking succour, was a fate he wished to avoid. To help another escape this limbo must give him a better chance. The Death Rota carried all acts good and ill performed while mortal and living. This day Vered had negated several of the reprehensible entries against his name.

  “There,” came Santon’s booming voice. Vered struggled to open his eyes. The tiny puddle of water surrounded by the rust-brown iron shore looked more appealing to him than the coldest beer, the frothiest ale, the headiest brandy. He
spurred his steed forward and dismounted.

  “Should we sample the water first to be sure it won’t harm the horses?” he asked. Better that one of them turn sick from unsuspected poison than to kill their mounts. No one could escape the Iron Range on foot. Not amid this sweltering heat and interminable twists and turns of rocky canyon.

  “The water is pure,” Alarice said. “I detect no spell placed on it. And my scrying shows nothing harmful within,” She dangled a cord with a catamount’s fang tied onto the end. The hot wind whipping along the canyon failed to stir the tooth. “If the water had been tainted, the tooth would point downward. It reacts only to my magic.”

  Vered knelt and cupped his hands. The water almost burned his lips. He spat it out. “It’s almost boiling hot.”

  “Not that hot,” said Santon. Although he sampled gingerly, the bigger man did drink. “The taste is peculiar.”

  “That comes from the iron. It is not harmful,” Alarice said. She dipped her empty water skin into the pool and filled it. The wind caressed the exterior of the damp bag and evaporation cooled the contents. Only then did she drink. A satisfied smile crossed her lips.

  “What can we do for the horses?” asked Vered.

  Santon laughed. “They seem not to mind the temperature. Just be sure not to let them drink too much and begin to bloat.”

  Their three horses, plus the two captured animals they used as pack animals, shouldered one another to the side to stick their noses deep into the pool. They lapped noisily. The echoes annoyed Vered. He considered totally clogging his ears with mud to shut out the sounds.

  Vered settled down and began to drift off to sleep. The heat soothed him, swaddled him, and took all burden of thought from his mind. His head swayed, then his chin dipped.

  He awoke suddenly when he heard cackling laughter. Vered looked around, his brown eyes bloodshot from the heat. Shimmering curtains of heat waves danced from the walls and along the canyon they had traversed to reach this spot. But of others he saw naught. Again lethargy crept up on him and sleep controlled his mind.

  — mine!

  “No,” Vered mumbled. “Can’t have me.” He stirred, wrapped his arms around himself, and noticed the sweat flowing copiously from his body. Too hot. He drifted into deeper sleep.

  — you are my slave!

  Vered experienced a moment of drowning, the fluids claiming his life being those that had given him life. Blood and sweat mingled and rose around him. He panicked. He fought, trying to escape. Ever higher rose the waters of death. Vered threw back his head, trying to keep his nose and mouth above the flood. The harder he tried, the more he sweat. The more he sweat, the higher the waters rose.

  — surrender to me, my little one. you are mine!

  “No,” mumbled Vered. He thrashed from side to side. The lapping waves crested over his head. He felt himself sinking, a sailor on the seas of his own juices.

  Sudden searing pain caused him to scream. His eyes popped open and he stared up into Alarice’s concerned face. She held her glass dagger in one hand. A tiny drop of blood — his blood! — dripped from the tip.

  “Do not go to sleep. You must not,” she said. The concern in her voice frightened him.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  “I had not expected to find any still alive. But one roams these mountains.”

  “What? A wizard?”

  “A wizard’s creation. A mind leech. It hunts only when its prey sleeps.”

  “I was drowning.” Vered dragged his hand across his face. It came away drenched with sweat. He reached out and touched his shoulder; the hand found a bloody streak where Alarice had cut him to force him from his trance.

  “I’m sorry. Pain is the only way to combat the lure of the mind leech.”

  “It made me think I was drowning,” Vered said, his voice cracking from strain. He looked directly into the woman’s cold grey eyes. “What would it have done to me?”

  The shudder passing through the Glass Warrior’s body made Vered not want to hear the answer — yet he had to. Alarice said, “It saps your will. Slowly, you become its slave, doing its bidding. The more you resist, the more ways it finds to break your resolve.”

  “When we’re awake, can it get us then?”

  “No, not as easily. I felt it tugging at the edges of my mind, but it sensed my control of magic. The mind leech is a cowardly beast, never risking physical contact. It hunts with its mind- — and this is how it triumphs.”

  “It uses slaves to kill for it? The slaves tend it?”

  Alarice nodded. “They hunt, they protect, they obey. Submit once, and its insidious mind probe slips into your will. Submit further and you are doomed.”

  “So it’s a physical being,” said Vered. “One that can die?”

  “Vered, no. I know what you are thinking,” said Alarice. She took a step away. “We dare not seek out the mind leech. There is no time. Patrin. The City of Stolen Dreams. We must not tarry.”

  “This creature might be sent by Patrin,” said Santon. “To kill it is to weaken Patrin.”

  “To attempt to slay a mind leech is easy. To accomplish such a feat is almost impossible. Any fear you might have would be turned against you.”

  “We dare not let it rove the Iron Range,” said Vered. He yawned. “Besides, we can never win free of this wretched, hot place before falling asleep.”

  “You are especially vulnerable to it now, Vered,” she said. “It has almost taken you.”

  “Then we must find it. No other way exists for us to safely escape the mountain passes,” said Santon.

  “Is there any fear in your heart, armless one?” she asked.

  “Fear?” Santon shook his head. “Bitterness? Yes.”

  “I think there is fear,” Alarice said. She circled, her dagger point raised. “Is there not a small shred of fear that your left arm will wither like your right? To lose that arm in combat? To fall and break it and starve to death?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Santon’s voice lacked confidence. Both Alarice and Vered heard the worry hidden by years of denial.

  “How dangerous is it facing a mind leech — with real fear lurking inside you?” asked Vered. He hastily added, “I’m seething with fear myself. It wouldn’t do for me to approach this matter without knowing the full extent of my danger.”

  Santon’s heavy breathing slowed. Vered had lessened the tension the one-armed man felt. But what might happen if Birtle Santon confronted the mind leech and this gnawing, buried fear was turned against him?

  “The creature is able to attack several at a time. Simply presenting a united front will not permit us to triumph,” said Alarice.

  “Are there spells you can cast to destroy it?”

  “No, Vered, none. I am not a wizard of Patrin’s class.” She laughed without humour. “I am unable to magically defeat even a creation like the leech.”

  “We must try,” said Vered. “The three of us. Can you predict success with this monster lying in wait for us? An unsuspecting moment, a drifting into sleep, an unrecognized fear, and we are victims, not rescuers.”

  Alarice’s face contorted in anger. “By the saints, you are right. Damn you for that!”

  “Where do we find the leech?” Santon asked. “Near, I trust. Watching Vered yawn and stretch is making me sleepy, too.”

  Alarice looked around, up the towering walls of iron. “High. It will have its lair high so that it can look down on its prey. And near. It is a living creature as we are and needs water.”

  “Since this is all the water we’re likely to find in this miserable stretch of the Iron Range, let’s go upslope,” said Vered.

  “It might lair near the snow line.” The tallest peaks retained heavy white caps and only reluctantly allowed thin trickles of moisture to creep downward. In another few weeks or even days, the spring sun would send down torrents from the melting snow.

  “Dangerous,” said Alarice. “The mind leech is sensitive to temperature. Physically it i
s weak. Only through strength of mind and the mental weakness of its prey can it survive.”

  “Let’s look for traces of its slaves obeying its will. I’ve never known slaves to be particularly neat nor slave masters to care,” said Santon.

  They tethered their horses and went into the searing heat of the iron canyons in search of spoor. Only a few paces farther into the canyon Vered discovered a well-chewed carcass. He called, waited for the echoes to die, and then motioned to the others. He pointed silently.

  Alarice closed her eyes. She turned slowly, trying to locate the mind leech. When she stopped and her face turned as white as her hair, both men acted. As one they started up the slope, the loose rock coming back downhill in dusty torrents. Vered reached the top first. His short sword swung as he yelled in attack.

  “Boars! Three demon-damned boars!”

  The rush of one tusker sent Vered back-pedalling too fast. He lost his balance and slid down the slope, enduring minor cuts and abrasions until he regained his feet at the bottom.

  “Careful, Santon!” he called. Vered remembered what Alarice had said about the mind leech finding the festering sore of fear in a man’s mind and using it against him.

  “Careful be damned. Get your ass back here and help me!” The heavy battle-axe rose and fell. An anguished squeal told of porcine death. Vered and Alarice hurried back to the top of the slope. Santon held at bay the other two tuskers.

  The yellowed fangs snapped and flashed at Vered, taking away part of his breeches. He avoided the filthy fang and the possible infection it offered by a hairsbreadth. Off balance again, stumbling forward, he lunged with his short sword. The glass tip penetrated the boar’s flank. The ponderously heavy pig died without a sound; Vered’s blade had found its heart.

  Vered laughed joyously. The adrenaline flowed through his arteries. The fight brought him to full awareness of his world, gave him confidence — and allowed him to know his true enemy.

  Birtle Santon stood over the last boar, his heavy axe lodged in the animal’s thick skull. Santon was Vered’s enemy. Santon would split his skull asunder as he had done to Vered’s ally, the tusker.