“You mean Alarice?” the wizard taunted. “She must remain behind. For her, I have special plans. She has dreams. No,” he hurriedly corrected himself. “She has dreams. I want them for my own!”
“Santon, Vered, leave the city. At once,” she said. “You can do nothing against him. This is my battle.”
“No,” they said as one. “We all leave or none does.”
“Foolish bravery on your part,” said Patrin. He entered the room. At his elbow stood Lorens. The apprentice wizard basked in his master’s approval. “That was your only opportunity.”
Patrin’s lips began moving, but no audible sounds emerged. Vered felt himself being crushed to death. He saw Santon struggling in an unseen grip, too. The magical death coming at them from all sides could not be evaded. They stood struggling futilely, the weight of the world slowly pressing the life from them.
“Lord Patrin, the bitch!” warned Lorens.
Alarice drew her glass sword and walked forward, as if she had no care to occupy her. The glass tip rose and pointed at Patrin. Vered thought she would lunge. Instead, she paused. Red lightnings danced along the tip, growing in power.
“Patrin, die!” the Glass Warrior shrieked. The flaming crimson bolt leaped from the tip of her glass rod and smashed squarely into Patrin’s chest. The wizard staggered. Vered gasped in relief when the pressure around his chest suddenly lifted. Alarice’s attack had drawn Patrin’s full attention.
Vered wiped sweat from his eyes and sucked in huge draughts of air to steady himself. But Vered saw nothing he could do to aid Alarice. She and Patrin stood less than a pace apart. The air between them turned silvery, then translucent, then flowed into a liquid carrying writhing, slippery beasts unseen on this or any other world. Their spells constituted an attack more powerful than any he could mount with his puny glass weapon.
“Santon, get him. The apprentice!” Even as he called to his friend, Vered dived forward, his body crossing in front of Lorens’ legs. The apprentice went down in a heap.
“1 curse you!” shrieked Lorens. “You are mine. You — ” The young man’s head snapped back when Santon’s powerful fist struck him squarely on the jaw.
“You didn’t have to break it,” said Vered. He ran knowing fingers along the line of the fallen Lorens’ jawbone.
“I broke my hand.” Santon rubbed it against his chest.
“He’ll be all right. He’s just knocked out.” Vered rolled out from the tangle of legs and came to his feet, ready once more to aid Alarice. Both he and Birtle Santon stood and stared.
The magics burned and froze, surged and waited. For any not dealing in the most esoteric of spells, this battle would mean instant death.
“She’s losing,” said Santon, anguish in his voice. “See how she looks? Her face, her lovely face!”
Alarice faded and lost opacity even as Patrin grew in stature.
“The Demon Crown will be mine!” cried Patrin. “You are yielding to me, Alarice. Yield and die miserably!”
“He uses her name as a weapon.” The sound of Santon’s pitying voice tore at Vered. He knew his friend blamed himself for this. If he had not carelessly uttered the woman’s name, Patrin could not have used it against her in his spells.
“We must do something.” Vered rocked from side to side, indecision eating at him. He was no wizard. Neither was Santon. How could they fight magic when they controlled none?
“The City of Stolen Dreams,” said Vered, almost in wonder. “That’s it. It must be!”
He pushed Santon aside and ran to the wall. He quickly went along it until he found another niche containing a sealed dream trap. He seized the jar and ripped off the wax seal. In the same motion, Vered heaved it at Patrin.
“What are you doing?” cried Santon.
“The dreams. Let him deal with them and Alarice.”
“See how he uses them?” raged Santon. “He grows more powerful!”
And so it seemed. The dream trap had broken at Patrin’s feet. Whatever had been contained within fed the wizard’s abilities. Alarice weakened even more, sinking to her knees, battling and losing.
“No!” cried Vered. “That is just one jar. Throw them all! Let him experience a hundred perverted dreams!” Vered began heaving the magical dream traps at Patrin. When Santon saw the effect on the wizard, he joined his friend. The pair tossed the fragile jars from two sides. Try as he might, Patrin could not dodge both. Vered had no idea what dreams — what nightmares — they released, but the effect on Patrin was dramatic.
The wizard’s lips pulled back in a soundless shriek. He tore at his hair and jerked from side to side, as if they drove burning spikes into his belly.
“Alarice,” whispered Santon. “She is destroying him with her magic!”
Vered dared to hope again. The Glass Warrior stood on shaky legs and turned her full attention to Patrin. The man clawed at his face now, gouging out bloody chunks. When he tore out his eyes, Vered knew the wizard posed no further threat. Patrin sank down and seemed to melt. Alarice’s magics reduced him to a smouldering puddle of grease.
“Dead,” she gasped out. She fell face forward onto the floor. Santon rushed to her and turned her over. He cradled her head in his lap. The eyes looking up had lost their grey coldness. Only love shone there now.
“Alarice, my darling,” Santon said, holding her close.
“I love you, too,” she said in a voice almost too faint to be heard.
“We’ve won.”
“Yes, Santon, we’ve won. You’ve won.”
Something in her tone caused Santon to stiffen. “You’re going to be fine. You’ll recover. You’re just tired, drained. The battle…”
“The battle killed me. Patrin’s spell burns on within my breast. No one can halt its slow progress.”
“No!”
“Yes, my love.” She swallowed. A frail hand reached up to touch Santon’s cheek. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll return Lorens to Porotane and see him crowned as king. The land must be united or my death is in vain.”
“You won’t die. You won’t,” Santon said.
Vered put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Vered reached over and closed the Glass Warrior’s eyelids. “She has succeeded, Santon,” he said quietly. “She achieved her goal.” In a lower voice, he added, “She loved you very much.”
Birtle Santon held her while the building around them turned translucent, transparent, slowly vanished. Even when the streets and other buildings faded from sight, Birtle Santon held her.
Only when the harsh desert winds whipped around him did he lower her head to the sand.
CHAPTER XVIII
Birtle Santon stood and stared at Alarice, no expression on his face. But Vered saw the tear slowly rolling down one dusty cheek and leaving a muddy track. The hot winds whipping across the Desert of Sazan quickly sucked up the moisture and left only a dried trail to mark its passing.
“Patrin killed her,” said Santon.
“She destroyed him,” said Vered, hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She destroyed his greatest work, too. The City of Stolen Dreams is no more.” He gestured to take in the emptiness of the desert. “When the wizard died, his dreams died with him.”
“Evil dreams. They were evil.”
Vered felt the powerful muscles ripple under his grip. He tried to stop Birtle but the man was far too strong. Santon whirled and drew his battle-axe, intent clear. A few paces away lay Lorens. Patrin’s young apprentice stirred, one hand exploring his jaw where Santon had hit him.
“You can’t,” pleaded Vered. “He’s our king!”
“He’s the demon-damned wizard’s apprentice.”
“Lorens is the heir to the throne. Alarice wanted him on the throne. She risked her life — she gave her life! — to put him there.”
Santon had passed beyond reason. He shrugged his powerful shoulder and sent Vered reeling. The smaller man hit and rolled, somersaulting over and coming to his feet. Without thinking, he ch
arged like a rogue bull. Vered’s arms circled Santon’s waist and the force of his charge carried both men forward. Santon’s axe fell from his grip and dangled by the thick leather thong. This prevented him from swinging it and splitting Vered’s skull.
“Stop, think, damn you. Think about why we’ve come this far!” Vered fought a silent Santon, but the life had gone from the man. He fought without purpose. When Vered got behind him and pinned him face down in the sand, Santon ceased to fight.
“There,” Vered said. “Will you behave?” He rolled off and stayed on one knee, ready for renewed wrestling. If Santon had the fire of old Vered knew he would have been an easy victim. Santon might lack an arm, but the left had overdeveloped and was prodigiously strong. As a result of this and his many hours of practice, few men with normal strength and two arms could best him. The exhaustion Vered felt welling inside him told that a strong breeze might knock him over. A fight was beyond his winning.
“He doesn’t deserve to live. Patrin trained him.”
“Away from the wizard’s influence, he might be different.”
“Normal?”
“What wizard is normal?” asked Vered. “Except Alarice,” he added hastily.
“No,” said Santon. “Even she was not of the common people. She was special — she was also a wizard.”
Vered went to Lorens’ side and helped the man sit up. A large bruise had formed on his chin, and a lump the size of a small egg made speaking difficult for him.
“Where’s the city?” he asked, his bright blue eyes darting about. “And my lord? Where’s Patrin?”
“Dead,” Vered said with some enthusiasm. “The Glass Warrior perished in the battle, too. That was a magical fight about which legends are born and ballads sung.”
“My master is dead?” Shock clouded Lorens’ face.
“Does this bother you? He seemed a cruel and thoughtless master.”
“But he was all the family I’ve ever known.”
“What of your sister?” asked Santon. The man’s intent seemed clear. If Lokenna lived, the apprentice could die for his master’s sins.
“She is dead. Long dead. She betrayed me. Only Lord Patrin helped me.”
Santon slumped. “Then you are the one and only true ruler of Porotane. We have come far to install you on the throne.”
The shock began to fade as Lorens gathered his wits. “Is the City of Stolen Dreams truly gone?”
“Like that.” Vered snapped his fingers.
“My master and my home have deserted me.”
Vered refrained from pointing out that Patrin had not willingly left his apprentice. Had Alarice been less capable, Patrin would have killed them all and taken the Demon Crown.
“The crown,” Vered said to Santon. “Where is it?”
“There.” Santon picked it up. The black velvet bag seemed none the worse from dirt or wear. He peered inside. “It still glows its ghastly emerald colour.”
“The Demon Crown?” Lorens forced his way to his feet. He wobbled slightly, then reached for the bag. “Give it to me. It’s mine!”
As if one brain powered three arms, both Santon and Vered shoved the bag holding the crown from the young man’s grasp.
“Not until you ascend the throne,” said Vered. “Those are the orders given us by Alarice.”
“But the Demon Crown is rightfully mine! I am of the royal blood. You told me so.”
“Patrin did lie to you on this point,” Vered said cautiously.
“Whether my master did or not is meaningless. I can use the crown. Such power should not be wasted.”
“Such power is for the good of the people of Porotane,” Santon said gruffly. “As the Glass Warrior ordered, so shall it be. You will be crowned when you assume the throne and not one instant before.”
“I can force you to relinquish it,” Lorens said in a nasty tone.
“Of course you can,” Vered said smoothly, before Santon could give a toss to his wrist strap that would put the handle of the battle-axe in his meaty grip. “But how are you going to survive? Simply wearing the Demon Crown does not provide you with the knowledge we possess.”
“I am a wizard. Patrin taught me well.”
“Then conjure me a drink. I am thirsty. You promised a fine white wine from the Uvain Plateau. I never received it.”
“I cannot do such magic.”
“So reduce me to ash,” snapped Vered. “And then let yourself die in this miserable desert. The Desert of Sazan is not known for its caring attitude, whether you wear a crown or not.”
“How far is it to the edge of the desert?”
“A day’s travel,” said Santon. The smile crossing the wizard-king’s face turned nasty. Santon added without pause, “To the Iron Range. Another week crossing it. I doubt if any this far north of Rievane know the waterholes as well as Vered and I.”
“The Iron Range is hot and dry, drier than the desert.”
“And on the other side of this mountain range?” asked Lorens.
“Brigands, warring rebel bands all too eager to slay any pretender to the throne and seize Porotane for themselves, others.” Vered did not mention the legions of phantoms roaming the land. Let those come as a surprise to the would-be king. Vered slowly began to agree with Santon about removing this arrogant demon-spawn permanently.
If Alarice had lived, would she permit such as Lorens to rule Porotane?
Vered had no answer. He could only hope that Lorens became more civil and the lingering effects of Patrin’s life-long education wore off.
“You have made your point,” said Lorens. “Lead me to Porotane. Until then, we need one another.”
“No,” said Santon, dark rage barely masked. “You need us. We have no use for you.”
Vered whispered to his friend. “We get off to a bad start with the next king of Porotane.”
“Why change our ways now?” said Santon. He turned and lumbered off, finding their horses on the far side of a sand dune. Ten minutes later, they rode slowly for the edge of the Desert of Sazan.
*
“We needed Alarice and her scrying tools,” said Santon. He turned in the saddle and peered at the towering black peaks of the Iron Range. It had taken three times as long for them to find their way back to Porotane as it had to traverse the passes originally.
“I miss her, too,” said Vered. He sat astride his horse, feeling ready to die. He had not bathed in a month and smelled like a charnel pit. His skin itched constantly, his clothing hung in tatters, his belly grumbled from the pitiful food they were able to find, and for a taste of good wine he would have cheerfully wrestled Kalob and forty other demons.
“Is this all there is? I expected more.” Lorens rode the strongest of the three horses. The other animals had died en route. “If I am to rule, I want Porotane to be exquisite, a gem, a work of art!”
“It’s endured twenty years of civil war,” said Vered. “Actually, this is a quieter section of the country.”
“Quiet? With that howling?”
“What howling, Lorens?” demanded Santon. He cocked his head to one side and strained. Turning to Vered, he said, “It is a familiar sound. I think it is a phantom.”
“We have too little time,” said Vered. “We must ride for the castle. Duke Freow leaned against death’s door when Alarice left. He might already be gone.”
“That would mean Baron Theoll has assumed the throne,” said Santon. He spat.
“Maybe not. The duke was a strong one,” said Vered.
“It matters naught who is on the throne. The regent, this duke who is supposed to be my uncle, does not sound fit to rule. And the baron of whom you speak with such loathing, cannot stand against me. Not when I wear the Demon Crown.”
“In that you are probably right,” said Vered. He touched the saddlebag where he carried the crown in its crystalline case. “The mere sight of anyone wearing the crown will rally many to your banner.”
“Will it bring you, Vered? Or you, Santon?”
Those bright blue eyes fixed firmly on the men. “I know you hate me because my master killed the Glass Warrior. But they were enemies. She killed the only teacher I’ve known.”
Vered saw a hint of the true and likable Lorens shine forth. “Hate you?” he said. “No. Distrust anyone who can use such power as is offered by the Demon Crown? Definitely.”
“I can accept that. I must. But what of that horrid howling?”
“A phantom,” said Santon. “No other cause presents itself.”
“Let’s ride. Due west, then to the north until we find a branch of the River Ty. We can follow it to the castle.”
“What of this phantom? I have never encountered one.”
“Ride and we can talk,” said Vered.
Barely had they gone a hundred yards when a miniature whirlwind caught up leaves and debris from the trail in front of them and carried it high into the air. The familiar mistiness of the phantom’s body took on substance.
“That is a phantom?” asked Lorens, fascinated. “All it needs is a proper burial to be put to rest?”
“Something like that,” said Santon. “This one seems intent on blocking our way.”
“You there, phantom,” called out Vered. “Why do you stop us? We are simple travellers on our way to…the Uvain Plateau.”
“Liars!” whined the phantom. “You are spies. You report back to those in the castle. You report to Theoll!”
“Not him,” argued Vered. “We have no desire to see the baron grow more powerful.”
“Spies! I will stop you from reporting.”
“Reporting what?” asked Santon.
The phantom’s torso darkened and the mistiness turned to opaque body. “You cannot pass me. You will die on this spot as I died.”
“A trade,” said Vered. “We’ll find your body and — ” His words were cut off by the phantom’s attack. Vered had not appreciated the power locked up within the ghostly beings until this instant. The wispy arms reached out and then solidified around his throat. He choked. The phantom spun wildly about its central core and rose, taking Vered with it. The brown-haired man found himself being lifted high into the air.
Strangling, he fought to pry loose the phantom’s fingers. Only the fingers choking him had substance. Cool, moist fog met his feet and hands as he strove to free himself.
The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1) Page 19
