The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1)

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  “Even if those are truer descriptions?” taunted Santon.

  “You never complained before. In fact, you always joined in. For the adventure, you said.”

  “Only for the adventure. You keep life from becoming too tedious.”

  Vered subsided and studied the dispersal of Gaemock’s rebel troops. No matter how much he thought Dews Gaemock an unrepentant ruffian and thief, Vered had to acknowledge the man’s tactical ability. With a handful of troops, Gaemock prevented easy entry — and exit.

  “Twilight,” he decided aloud. “We try when the sun begins to set. Shadows dance then and make less clear a man’s intentions.”

  “And thoughts turn to a warm supper and a night’s sleep,” finished Santon. “I agree to that, but how do we enter the castle once past Gaemock’s lines?”

  “Alarice mentioned a postern gate. I think the key of glass is the one she used for entry. If we cross the River Ty and go directly for the western wall of the castle, do you think we can find it?”

  “The wall is long and her description was vague.” Santon stared directly at the castle, but Vered saw the moisture beading in the corners of the man’s eyes at the mention of the Glass Warrior. Santon had cared deeply for Alarice, and still mourned.

  “There is one last matter to consider,” said Vered. “When we enter the castle, what then?”

  Santon looked again at Lorens. He shook his head and indicated that he had no idea. They might succeed, only to find they presented a brainless husk as king of Porotane.

  They rode slowly well behind Gaemock’s battle lines. Occasional arrows arched from the castle battlements, but always fell short of the lines. Vered estimated that the royal archers intentionally fired short by a hundred yards — and that Gaemock’s men stayed back twice that for safety. The antagonists played a deadly game, daring, taunting, moving, always challenging. He had to be certain that Lorens stayed beyond the range of both sides until the young king consolidated power within the castle.

  Vered snorted. With Lorens in this trance, it might all go for naught.

  But they could only try.

  “It’s later than I intended,” said Vered.

  “The patrols could not be hastened along their routes,” said Santon. “We have done well avoiding Gaemock’s rebels.”

  “Half-dragging him is slowing us,” complained Vered. Lorens sat docilely, staring into their cooking fire. He had eaten with deliberate mechanical jaw movements, showing neither approval nor disdain for their simple repast. When Lorens moved, he moved only in a straight line. To dodge and hide or to change his direction required considerable effort on the parts of Vered and Santon.

  “We wouldn’t have gotten this far if he hadn’t stopped the rebels,” Santon pointed out.

  “Better to have died out there than to be caught between Gaemock and Theoll.” Vered grumbled under his breath, then said, “That’s not so. We still live. We can finish what we started.”

  “For Alarice,” Santon said quietly.

  “And for ourselves. We’ve never been quitters. We need not begin now.”

  The dusk cloaked the River Ty in soft light and a buzzing cloud of insects. Bats swooped low to gorge themselves on their aerial meals, and the water rippled as fish surfaced to dine. Vered spent a considerable time swatting at the bugs trying to suck his blood. He cursed constantly as they forded a tributary to the river.

  Halfway across, they sighted a sentry on the bank in front of them.

  “Gaemock’s?” Vered asked Santon.

  “Without a doubt.” Santon lifted his good arm and waved. He called out, “Hello! Ready for the shift change?”

  Vered saw the sentry’s confusion. He might have several hours remaining on his watch before relief came. But he dared hope and did not shout warnings to other sentries. He stood and waited for them to ride up on the muddy banks.

  “You come from the main camp?” the sentry asked.

  Vered felt sorry for the youngling. Hardly fifteen summers had passed since this one’s birth. He had not yet had time to learn suspicion. Vered only hoped that it would not prove necessary to end the young guard’s life before he could learn.

  “From the other side,” said Santon, his gruff, military bearing quelling any fears on the sentry’s part. “You are Grogan’s brother, aren’t you?” Santon tipped his head to one side. Before the youth could answer, Santon said, “By all the saints, he’s not the one!”

  The sentry’s confusion mounted. He had forgotten totally about passwords or security. “What do you mean? I have no brothers. No living brothers,” he added sadly.

  Santon cursed volubly. “They sent us to the wrong post. For that, give praise to the saints. Grogan died this afternoon, an arrow in his gullet.”

  The youth relaxed even more. “I don’t even know this Grogan.”

  “An officer in the main camp.”

  Whether Santon had said too much and given them away or the youth’s wits had returned and he realized that proper procedure had not been followed, Vered couldn’t say. The expression altered on the boy’s face. Before he could issue the challenge, Vered slipped his foot free of his stirrup cup, gauged the distance, and kicked hard. The toe of his boot crashed into the youth’s head, knocking him back. The guard staggered and fell flat on his back, arms outstretched.

  “He looks comfortable,” observed Vered. “Just as if he’s sleeping.”

  Santon fingered his battle-axe, then relaxed, his decision made. “We can reach the castle walls before he regains his senses. He won’t even mention this little foray.”

  “Not unless he wants the hide stripped off his back by his officer’s whips. Stupidity is never appreciated, whether the army be rebel or royal.”

  The trio rode on into the gathering night. By Santon’s estimate, it lacked only an hour before midnight when they reached the castle wall. Most of the growth had been stripped away from the walls to give better vision, but they found an ill-travelled path that led them through a patch of trees and past a tangle of shrubs.

  “There,” said Vered. “I feel it in my bones.”

  Santon craned his neck back and studied the battlements above, seeking evidence of a trap. He saw nothing unusual. Shrugging, he silently indicated that Vered should investigate.

  Vered slipped through the bushes, thorns tearing away clothing and skin. He winced but kept on. He could not contain his cry of happiness when he found the hidden door.

  “Santon, hurry! I have it!”

  The bushes rustled and Santon pushed through, leading Lorens. The young man had not regained a hint of his senses. For a moment, Vered considered whether they should continue or not. They might survive well outside the castle. Within the walls, they would be on unfamiliar ground, surrounded by enemies intent on slaying any intruder.

  Should Baron Theoll find that their charge was Prince Lorens, their lives would end swiftly.

  “We go in,” decided Vered.

  “Where else?” Santon shoved Lorens forward. For a fleeting instant, it seemed as if he emerged from his daze. The consciousness fled as quickly as it appeared.

  Vered fumbled at his pouch and withdrew the glass key that had been Alarice’s, fitted it into the lock, and turned. The lock snapped open easily. Vered lifted the latch and shouldered the door open. A dark corridor led through the wall. He pulled Lorens after him. Santon closed the door and said softly, “Lead the way, Vered.”

  “But it’s as dark as a whale’s gut!”

  “Just pretend you’re seeking out a married woman’s boudoir and you want to avoid her husband.”

  “That I can do,” said Vered. “I’ve done it enough times before.”

  “But how many times were successful?”

  “All,” Vered answered.

  “All save this time,” came a booming voice magnified by the narrow corridor walls. A torch flared, momentarily blinding Vered and Santon. “Do not reach for your weapons.”

  They stood in the shoulder-wide passageway,
blinded and unable to retreat.

  CHAPTER XX

  Vered tried to pull out his sword, but even the short length of the glass weapon proved too long for the narrow corridor. Behind him Lorens bumped against his elbow and Santon bellowed for them to retreat.

  “Wait,” Vered said. His eyes adjusted to the flickering light of the torch held by the man blocking their path. “Who are you?” Vered asked. He had detected no animosity in the man’s original challenge.

  “I, good sirs, am Harhar, Duke Freow’s jester. Would you hear an amusing story?” Harhar spun about; bells tinkled lightly with his every movement. “Or would you prefer a dirty limerick?”

  Harhar launched himself straight into the air, twisted nimbly, and landed on his head. Vered took an involuntary step forward to aid the darkhaired man. He stopped when he saw that Harhar had cunningly turned at the last possible instant and had rolled safely.

  “Does that bring a smile to your lips? Or should I do something more?”

  “How did you happen to be in this corridor?” demanded Birtle Santon. “Are you guarding the entryway?”

  “Guard? Me?” Harhar laughed uproariously. “The baron would never trust me with such a role. Even that fount of kindness, Archbishop Nosto, ignores me. But I help Duke Freow.”

  “How?”

  “I make him laugh. I have brought him back repeatedly from the edge of his grave with my jokes.” Harhar pulled his legs up tightly against his chest and hugged his knees, his rattle by his side. The torch fell from his grip and landed on the floor. Vered scooped it up and peered at the jester. Harhar cried.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Duke Freow has died. Even my amusing capers could not save him.”

  “When? When did he die?”

  “Early this morning, just before sunrise. He left me. He left us all.”

  “Has Theoll crowned himself ruler of Porotane?” Vered’s sharp question brought the jester’s wide, dark eyes up.

  “An odd question. Who else? The Lady Johanna was unable to sleep with enough nobles to insure her ascendancy, though I am sure she got many in the castle to rise to her schemes.”

  “Just what we need,” grumbled Santon. “A jester and a gossip.”

  “Who is this with you? He speaks little. Is he depressed? May I amuse him?”

  “We need to get out of this corridor,” said Vered. “A small room where we could go? Do you know of one, jester?”

  “Harhar will show you! I know every room in the castle. I do!” The jester somersaulted off, heels kicking in the air with every rotation. He stopped, spun, and kicked open a door. The dusty room he rolled into served Vered’s purposes well.

  “Where does this door lead?” asked Santon, pressing his ear against a heavy panel. “There is a rhythmic hollow sound outside. Guards patrolling?”

  “Verily, yes, that. But they are so easily distracted. That is how I came to this secret passage.”

  “Tell us about it,” said Vered. He moved Lorens around and shoved the wizard-king into a chair. Some small flickering of interest shone behind those blue eyes, but Lorens did not speak.

  “I saw you from above. From the battlements. I practice my jokes nightly to keep the guards amused. I happened to lean out to relieve myself when I saw you.”

  “May the saints be praised. We were quick enough to miss the yellow rain,” said Santon. To Vered, he said, “I like this less and less. If Theoll has gained power, we are doomed. And if the likes of this crackbrained jester watch us entering, what chance do we have? All in the castle may know of our presence.”

  Vered nodded. He hated to admit defeat, but all that Santon said paralleled his own thoughts.

  “Is he in need of cheering?” asked Harhar. He danced about in front of Lorens. “Who is he?”

  “Quiet, fool,” snapped Santon.

  “Let him do his best — or worst,” said Vered. “It can’t hurt.” He stared at Lorens. The young man had never recovered from casting the spell. He had said that Patrin had not allowed him to use the more potent spells. Had the casting somehow affected his mind? Or had it merely drained him? It mattered little to Vered. With Lorens in this condition, he could not challenge Theoll for the throne. Who would believe this mute, glassy-eyed man was the true heir?

  “What are we going to do?” asked Santon.

  Vered had no answer. “The jester does as good a job as we’ve done with Lorens.”

  “How do we prove him to be of the royal blood?” Santon slammed his fist against a table and exclaimed, “Damn you, Alarice! Why did you put such a burden on us?”

  The jester turned and stared at him curiously, then returned to his capering.

  “Santon,” said Vered. “We agree that there is no hope with Lorens in his present condition. What do you think would happen if we put the Demon Crown upon his brow?”

  “All it could do is kill him. At the moment, that might be preferable to this damnable uncertainty.”

  “Demon Crown?” croaked Harhar. “You have the Demon Crown? You know the Glass Warrior?”

  “She is dead,” Santon said with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. “And yes, we have the crown. Get it, Vered. Put it on Lorens.”

  “Lorens?” cried the jester. “This is one of the royal twins? But how can this be?”

  “The Glass Warrior entrusted us with returning Lorens to Porotane and seeing that he ascended the throne,” said Vered. He carefully drew the Demon Crown from its velvet bag. The box within glowed brilliantly with the green from the Demon Crown. Vered flipped open the lid and moved as close to Lorens as he could get. He had to push the curious jester back.

  “Is it safe for you to handle it?” asked Santon.

  “For a moment. I cannot but wonder who in the family tree gave me the drop of royal blood.”

  “Start naming the outcasts,” grumbled Santon.

  Vered moved quickly. He picked up the crown and hastily transferred it to Lorens’ head. The young wizard stiffened as the effect of the crown’s magics worked on his brain. He smiled almost benignly.

  “I am home,” he said in a soft voice. “I have returned to my home!”

  Lorens rose and turned slowly. His eyes focused past the cobweb-ridden stone walls in the small storage room. He used the powers of the Demon Crown to see beyond.

  “Truly, he is King Lorens!” cried Harhar.

  “It is our belief,” said Vered. “At least, he’s come out of his trance.”

  “Trance?” asked Lorens. “Yes, I was in a trance. The strain of casting the spell proved more than I had anticipated. But the Demon Crown gives power.”

  “It also demands a price for it,” said Vered. But Lorens did not hear. He pushed past Santon and went into the corridor.

  “Wait, Lorens, you dare not let Theoll learn of your presence.” Vered’s warning went unheeded. Lorens walked confidently past the patrolling guards. Vered and Santon exchanged glances. Vered smiled and shrugged, then hurried after Lorens. It seemed safer to be with the wizard-king than to be left behind.

  Vered heard Harhar cackling to himself as they raced along the stony corridors, went up spiral staircases, and eventually emerged in the main audience chamber.

  “Now there’ll be trouble,” whispered Santon. “Theoll is on the throne.”

  They stopped just inside the massive wooden doors of the chamber and watched. Vered looked around, trying to find the best escape route when Theoll ordered Lorens killed for his impertinence.

  “What is this? We are discussing affairs of state!” bellowed Theoll from the throne.

  “You discuss Gaemock’s forces knocking at the castle gates,” Lorens said with great confidence. “You ignore the ten other rebel bands, not aligned with Dews Gaemock, who march toward the castle. You should turn them against Gaemock. That would lift his siege.”

  “Who is this?” cried Theoll. “Guards! Remove this fool!”

  Lorens walked slowly up the steps to the throne. Each step he took caused the Demon
Crown to glow more brightly. By the time he reached the top step, no one in the room could look directly at Lorens. The wizard-king reached out, plucked Theoll from the throne, and cast him down the steps. Lorens turned and seated himself. The glow moderated; Lorens wore a shimmering curtain of light born in the Demon Crown.

  “I am Lorens, son of Lamost. The Demon Crown is mine by right and by birth. I claim it — and the kingdom of Porotane.”

  “At least he no longer speaks of himself as a commoner,” said Santon.

  “How much else of Patrin’s spurious education will he deny?” Vered wondered aloud. “He seems able to fend for himself.”

  “The Demon Crown has done that for him,” said Santon.

  “More,” croaked Harhar. “It takes more to rule.” The jester’s eyes were wide at the sight of the wizard-king on the throne.

  “Well said, fool,” agreed Santon. “And we have no idea if he is capable.”

  “Baron Theoll,” came Lorens’ rumbling voice. “Order Captain Squann to attack Gaemock’s main force immediately.”

  “What? That is suicidal!” Theoll pulled himself up to his full height. “You can’t walk in and declare yourself king. You — ”

  Archbishop Nosto took Theoll by the elbow and spun the smaller man around. The two talked for several minutes, their argument heated. All the while, Lorens sat on the throne, his concentration elsewhere.

  When Nosto made the final gesture of dismissal to Theoll, the cleric called out, “The Church supports King Lorens, true heir and wearer of Kalob’s gift!”

  “Send messengers immediately,” said Lorens. “The fighting will be over in days if the other rebel bands learn that the true king has ascended the throne.”

  “It can’t be that easy,” muttered Santon.

  Lorens turned toward Birtle Santon and shouted, “Yes, Santon, it is. I know what lies in their hearts and minds. The Demon Crown allows me that, just as I see and hear all that happens nearby.”

  “He couldn’t have heard me,” protested Santon.

  “Not with his ears,” agreed Vered. “You cannot know the power of the Demon Crown unless you’ve sampled it yourself. He hears. He sees”