The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  The blood pounded like drums in his temples and his vision blurred. Vered’s struggles diminished as his strength fled. He had been close to exhaustion before encountering the phantom. This battle gave promise of being his final one. He fought, but the struggles grew ever weaker.

  The howling he heard he thought came from within his own mind. Did demons come to ferry him to hell? He knew that the saints could not make such a soul-rending noise. And what had he done to entice them when the final entry on the Death Rota had been made?

  He gasped when he fell hard to the ground. It took several seconds for Vered to realize that the phantom shrieked in anguish, not demons. The ghost whirled around and around, stirring up a miniature cyclone with its body. With a tiny pop! it vanished.

  “What happened?” he asked, rubbing his throat. He felt the weals circling the flesh. This had been all too real and wasn’t the product of exhaustion delirium.

  “I had never dealt with phantoms before. The spells are difficult to remember. It took several tries before I drove it off.” Lorens sat on his horse, his expression one of awe. “The spell I used worked!”

  “You’re a wizard’s apprentice. Why shouldn’t your spells work?”

  “But you don’t understand. Patrin never allowed me to cast a spell. Oh, simple ones to start cooking fires, things like that. This was a powerful one.”

  “You destroyed the phantom?” asked Vered. He pulled himself back onto horseback.

  “I can’t. Only consecrating the phantom’s grave can do that. But I drove it off.”

  “Listen hard,” said Santon.

  “Not more phantoms,” groaned Vered. “I’ve had enough of just one. If it’s gone and found a dozen friends…”

  “Hoofbeats. Many. The ground trembles under them.”

  “The phantom scouted for a band of ruffians,” said Lorens, his eyes unfocused and his face slack. What he concentrated on, neither man knew or was willing to ask.

  “Never heard of a phantom spying for rebels, but it might be possible. By the demons, why not?” Santon pointed. “Let’s try to hide. In our condition, we’d never be able to outride or outfight them.”

  “A sage suggestion,” Vered said.

  They rode into a small copse and dismounted. It took long minutes to tether their steeds and build up a shielding wall of brush. Any rider chancing more than a casual glance in their direction would surely see them. But it was all they had time for. The riders pounded hard into view.

  “Let’s hope they keep riding,” said Santon.

  They did not. They reined in and milled about the spot where the phantom had originally appeared.

  “Can you hear what they say?” asked Vered.

  “Give me the Demon Crown,” said Lorens. “With it I can learn much.”

  Vered felt himself torn by the request. Lorens’ attitude had changed only slightly. Still self-centred, still obnoxious and demanding, he was the perfect apprentice for a demon-spawn like his unlamented master Patrin. But Vered could not deny that the wizard-king had saved his life. And occasionally sparks of humanity shone through the tough veneer of his arrogance.

  Vered reached for the saddlebag containing the Demon Crown.

  “Do you know what you are doing?” demanded Birtle Santon.

  “We need information. With the crown, he can get it.” Vered drew out the box containing the crown. To Lorens he said, “Remember what happened the first time you wore the Demon Crown.”

  “I did not know what to expect.”

  “It is like a powerful drug. It will become your master if you let it. Wear the crown for only a few seconds, then return it to the box.”

  “If I don’t?”

  Santon moved slightly, the heavy battle-axe in his hand. His intent was obvious. Lorens nodded and held out his hand to accept the crown.

  The brilliant green glow faded to a more bearable emerald when the Demon Crown came into contact with Lorens’ flesh. He quickly lifted the circlet to his head and placed it squarely on his own brow.

  Vered watched in fascination. A shock went through Lorens’ body. He stood rigidly, teeth grinding, eyes screwed shut. Sweat beaded his forehead and began to run down into his eyes. But it mattered little. Lorens did not see with eyes or hear with ears. The Demon Crown provided those senses for him.

  And what else? Vered wished he knew, but such knowledge was barred from him.

  “The leader,” Lorens said in a low voice. “He rides for a rebel called Dews Gaemock. The phantom did spy for them. It was the brother of one in the band. Baron Theoll’s troops killed him. No, not Theoll’s. One close to him. The Archbishop Nosto might be the one doing it during the Inquisition.”

  “The Inquisition!” exclaimed Santon. “They put their own people to the Question!”

  “Quiet,” said Vered. “He does not dare wear the crown much longer. We must learn what we can.”

  “Farther. Oh, by the saints, I am traveling so far!” Lorens staggered. Vered supported him, then eased him to the ground where the wizard-king sat, eyes still closed. “I see Gaemock. I see!”

  “What do you see?”

  “He has many phantoms scouting for him. They cannot enter the castle. Spells bind them if they do. They suffer horribly, but Gaemock uses them well in the field.”

  “What of the company not a bowshot from us?” asked Santon. “Gaemock might be foremost among the rebels, but these are the ones most likely to gut us.”

  “Turmoil within the castle. Death. No, not death. But close. Theoll. I see him. Such a small man, so insignificant-looking.” Lorens cackled evilly. “He is no worthy opponent. I can crush him beneath my boot heel as I would a desert scorpion.”

  “The rebels,” insisted Santon.

  Vered licked his lips nervously. He cast a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the rebel band still in the clearing where they had encountered the phantom. Had they summoned back the banished spirit? Or had they seen the hoofprints heading for this copse?

  “Theoll engineers Freow’s death. He places poison in the duke’s food. But another — who? — I cannot see who! — removes it. The duke has an unknown protector. Archbishop Nosto? Possibly.”

  “Damn the court intrigues!” raged Santon.

  “You’re right,” said Vered. “He’s too caught up in spying on Theoll.” Vered sucked in his breath and held it. Quick hands grabbed the Demon Crown from Lorens’ head. The explosions in his own body burned and froze, but Vered got the crown back to the crystalline box. He dropped the magical crown and shut the lid. For long seconds, visions fluttered before his eyes.

  “Duke Freow will die within a few hours,” said Lorens. “And Baron Theoll will ascend the throne of Porotane.”

  “For us, that means naught,” said Santon.

  “Why not?” asked Vered. “We might have to fight both rebels and the baron’s soldiers to get Lorens into the castle if the duke dies before our return.”

  “Prepare to fight just the rebels. They’ve seen us!”

  Vered peered through the screen of bushes and saw that his friend spoke truly. The rebels had found their hoofprints and were slowly following them directly to their hiding place.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Vered pushed aside the branches and saw the rebels moving quicker now that they had a spoor. Some worked to free swords and battle-axes. Still others unlimbered bows.

  “The archers won’t be of any good in the forest,” said Santon. “When they are mounted, we have a small advantage on the others.”

  “Damned small,” muttered Vered. He drew the short sword of shining glass that Alarice had given him. Against so much steel it seemed a puny weapon. But something of the Glass Warrior’s courage went with the blade. Vered felt himself forgetting his tiredness and surging with strength.

  “Can you use a sword, Lorens?” asked Santon. “If so, take the one sheathed on my horse.”

  “Alarice’s blade?” asked Vered, startled. “You’d let him use her weapon?”

&
nbsp; “We need all the fighting prowess we can muster,” said Santon. “They are upon us!”

  With that, the burly man lunged through the thin wall of bushes and swung his battle-axe. He grunted as it cut into a rider’s fleshy thigh. The rebel shrieked in agony and toppled from his mount. He landed heavily and tried to wiggle away. The blood fountaining from his thigh weakened him quickly. Vered saw him die before the next rider knew what was happening.

  Santon’s axe swung again, this time the heavy spiked ball on the back of the axe head crushing a horse’s leg and sending its rider tumbling. Vered pushed through the gap in the bushes left by his bigger companion. The short sword lacked the reach needed, but the dense trees and tangle of underbrush aided Vered. The rebels could not get into position quickly enough to launch a concerted attack.

  Vered batted aside a steel blade and leaped upward, the tip of the glass blade working under leather armour. He felt an instant’s resistance, then the blade sank into the rebel’s side. Vered doubted he punctured any vital organs, but the rider fell from his horse. Just eliminating one of the score against them counted heavily.

  Santon fought like a madman, felling two more. Vered fought but had less success. His opponent proved more wary and retreated quickly.

  “They fight like a legion!” cried one rebel. “But there are only two.”

  This bit of information filtered along the rebel ranks. They withdrew to the edge of the forest and formed a ragged battle line. Santon and Vered caught their breath as the ruffians prepared to attack.

  “We’re dead men,” said Vered. “They know our number.”

  “And surprise is lost to us.”

  “Even worse,” moaned Vered, “they stopped using their muscles and started using their heads.

  They’ll flow over us in one rush like the River Ty overflows its bank every spring.”

  Santon sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Our lives mean naught — ”

  “Speak for yourself!” cried Vered, incensed.

  “ — in comparison to Lorens. We must see that he gets to the castle. If Freow is dying, Lorens must ascend the throne.”

  “You’ve changed your tune greatly from wanting to slit the royal bastard’s throat.”

  “Alarice died finding him. For her memory, I’ll see Lorens on the throne.”

  “We’re not likely to see anything but our own deaths,” said Vered. “Look.”

  “The phantom that Lorens banished. It has returned.” Santon sagged slightly. “So much for our apprentice wizard’s spell-casting.”

  “It is another phantom,” Lorens said from behind. “The rebels use a dozen or more of the ghosts to scout for them. This one is recently appeared. I can banish it, too, but other spells occupy me.”

  “Be sure to compose the last verse of your death song. You want the saints to look favourably on you when they come for your soul.”

  “I will not die this day. Nor will you.”

  Vered ducked as an arrow winged toward him. The broad head slipped with liquid ease into a tree trunk to his side. He tried to imagine what that arrow would have done to his body. He shuddered at the thought.

  “They stand back and think to pick us off,” said Santon. “Stay behind the trees and — Lorens! Stop, wait, don’t!”

  Santon dropped his axe and tried to grab the wizard-king. A dozen arrows drove him back to cover.

  “He goes to his own death so willingly,” Vered said in wonder.

  Arrows flew until the air whistled with their passage. Strangely, however, none touched Lorens. He floated in a bubble amid the feathered flights of death.

  The rebel leader held up a sword, motioning for the archers to cease. Lorens stopped a dozen paces from the mounted man.

  “I go to the castle,” said Lorens. “It is not wise to hinder me. I go there to accept the monarchy of Porotane.”

  “Oh,” scoffed the rebel. “So you’re another pretender to the throne? The woods are filled with them. But in you I detect something of the wizard. Well, good Sir Wizard, the woods are full of sorcerers aspiring to the throne, too.”

  Lorens said nothing. The fifteen men in the rebel party spread out slightly, without being ordered to do so. Vered saw the tension mounting in their ranks. Their leader would order Lorens’ death at any instant.

  “I am of the royal blood,” said Lorens.

  “Aren’t they all?”

  A dozen archers loosed arrows. None arrived at their target. Lorens held out his hands, now glowing a pale red. From each finger flew a crackling red spark that intercepted an arrow. The arrows stopped in mid-flight, turned, and wobbled off in unexpected directions.

  “A nice trick, wizard,” said the rebel leader. “I have seen better, though.” Without another word, the rebel whipped his sword around and urged his horse forward. He rode Lorens down.

  Vered winced. The apprentice wizard’s spell failed him at the last instant; the rebel’s sword slashed through the upper portion of Lorens’ arm producing a cut bloodier than it was dangerous. The rebel turned his horse and prepared to gallop back for the killing stroke.

  Vered felt the sudden tension in the air. Even Santon, who professed no magical abilities at all, stiffened in expectation. In the distance a phantom howled, “The spell. He casts a powerful spell!”

  The flames that engulfed the rebel band produced no heat, but the searing light dazzled Vered. He turned away. The light reflecting off the leaves and trunks of the trees proved almost as blinding. Then it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. He turned back to see Lorens standing alone in the small clearing.

  “What magic is that?” wondered Santon. “I’ve never heard of a wizard able to command such force.”

  Vered rushed out to Lorens’ side. The man stood stock still, his blue eyes glazed over. Vered touched him. Lorens toppled forward, as rigid as any tree felled in the forest. Vered tried to break the wizard’s fall and failed. Together, they went down in a heap.

  “Whatever he did, it drained him completely,” said Santon. He rolled Lorens over and examined him. “I’ve seen men look like this — after a week-long debauch.”

  Vered scrambled to his feet and looked at the tiny piles of grey ash that marked where the rebels and their horses had been. “And that is how I feel after a week-long binge.” Vered ran his fingers through the grey ash. He brushed it off and moved away, trying not to shake too hard. “I’ll get the horses. You get Lorens into shape for travel. We’ve a long journey ahead if we are to arrive at the castle before Duke Freow dies.”

  Vered stumbled off, avoiding walking on the ash as he returned to the grove where their horses pawed the ground nervously. He soothed the animals, then led them back to the clearing. Santon had Lorens sitting upright, but the wizard-king showed no signs of life.

  “Is he all right?” asked Vered.

  “He lives. The spell-casting took everything out of him. How long this shock will last is beyond my knowing.”

  They heaved Lorens over the saddle and tied him down. The ride would be uncomfortable, but in his present condition, he would not notice. Vered climbed into the saddle and found this almost more than he could do. His body rebelled at any strain he placed on it.

  “No more fights,” he told Santon. “I have no reserve strength to draw upon.”

  Santon’s shaggy head nodded. He rode with shoulders sagging.

  “What a fine trio we make. All hail the conquerors returning to install the rightful king! Why, I am so exhausted, even the promise of a coronation orgy does nothing to perk me up.”

  “You’re not exhausted,” Santon said. “You must be dead.”

  Vered saved his strength and did not answer. But he wondered at the truth in his friend’s words. How would he know when he died? Vered glanced about and found a pair of shimmering columns marking the spots where phantoms stalked the land. Would he end up like them? Or was death something else? He was too tired to ponder such philosophical notions. Vered let his horse go where it wanted.
His head rocked forward and he slept.

  *

  “More trouble,” moaned Vered. “I’ll never get to bathe or change into decent clothing.” He leaned forward in the saddle, hands spasmodically clutching at the pommel. Arrayed around the castle were rebel troops.

  “I thought Alarice said that Dews Gaemock had retreated for the year,” said Santon. “She scryed constantly to learn of Freow’s fate.”

  “It seems that Freow’s impending death — perhaps actual death, by this late time — has brought out the vultures.”

  “Gaemock’s not that bad,” said Santon. “Truth to tell, I have more sympathy for him than I do for Theoll.”

  “And I,” agreed Vered, “but it is difficult to join a band of rebels when all they seem to do is waylay honest travellers and rob them.”

  Vered glanced over at Lorens. The wizard-king’s head lolled forward, bobbing as his horse walked. Since he had reduced the rebel band to ash blowing away in the breeze, he had not spoken. Vered worried that the strain of casting such a potent spell had burned out Lorens’ brain. His blue eyes stayed open as he rode, but no intelligence shone through. Vered had not liked Lorens much, but for Alarice he would tolerate the heir to the throne of Porotane.

  Now he only felt pity for him.

  “Find a way in?” he asked of Birtle Santon.

  “We must. Getting through the lines might prove easy, even with him in such a condition.” Santon’s critical gaze appraised Lorens’ physical set and judged the young man wanting. “But getting into the castle will prove even more difficult.”

  “Who under siege would let in scraggly-looking travellers such as us, eh?” said Vered.

  “We might enter under a flag of truce.”

  “More likely they would fill us with arrows or pour burning amber on our heads. No, Santon, my good friend, stealth will win us entry quicker than honesty.”

  “I leave that to you, Vered. You always were the…craftier.”

  “You chose your word well. I do not tolerate being called a thief and a liar.”