Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The Mandragons are generous to those that serve them well,” said Sir Tanam. “Every man who joins me will receive three silver pieces. Every man who completes the journey to Swordgrim will receive three gold pieces.”

  The mercenaries’ smiles widened, and the armsmen moved closer to Sir Tanam. The guards holding the woman shifted, turning her face towards the stairs. Mazael moved to the left, trying to see into the hood.

  “We will journey with haste,” said Tanam. “I must deliver this prisoner to Swordgrim with all speed so she may face my lord’s justice. We may come under attack.”

  Mazael leaned over the railing to get a better look at this prisoner destined for Lord Richard’s judgment.

  The green eyes of Rachel Cravenlock, his younger sister, stared back at him from beneath the hood.

  Her eyes widened as she recognized him.

  Mazael jolted back from the railing. Through sheer will he kept his hand from flying to his sword.

  “What is it?” whispered Gerald.

  “My sister,” hissed Mazael, his voice grating. “The damn bastard has my sister.”

  “Your sister?” said Gerald. “Gods, Mazael...Crowley must have kidnapped her from Castle Cravenlock. Mazael, for the love of the gods, don’t do anything foolish...”

  “Just follow me,” said Mazael. He put one foot on the railing. “Sir Tanam!”

  Sir Tanam looked up. “Three silvers are all I’m offering for hire. The gold will have to wait until we reach Swordgrim.”

  “A question, sir knight!” said Mazael. “What crimes has your prisoner committed?”

  Sir Tanam’s face darkened. “She has committed crimes against the laws of both gods and men. She has done witchcraft and practiced sorcery. Her family has ...well, regardless to say, she has well-earned her fate. Might I ask, who are you? You have the look of a knight about you. A knight-errant, perhaps?”

  Mazael grinned. “Not quite. I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock. This is Sir Gerald Roland.” Gerald groaned.

  Tanam’s eyes widened. “Mazael...Cravenlock? I thought you were still in Knightcastle.” He shook his head. “Well, here you are, and for the welfare of the Grim Marches, I think you and Sir Gerald had best come with us. My lord Richard would much like to speak with you.”

  “I think not,” said Mazael. His blood drummed in his head and his battle instrincts rose. “For your welfare you had best release my sister to my custody and go on your way.”

  Tanam seemed amused. “Really, now?”

  “Last chance,” said Mazael. “Let her go.”

  “No,” said Tanam. “Come with us.”

  “I did warn you,” said Mazael.

  Lion flew from its scabbard. Mazael vaulted over the railing and landed in the midst of the Crowley soldiers, his sword blurring. Two men fell dead before they had even thought to draw their weapons. He heard Gerald’s groaned curse and the hiss of his drawn sword. Crowley’s men shouted and scrabbled for their weapons, while Sir Tanam himself bellowed commands and drew an axe from over his shoulder. The innkeeper shrieked and dove under a table. Gerald leapt over the railing, sword and shield in hand.

  Mazael drove Lion through the eye slit of a helm. The man-at-arms staggered and fell, blood gushing out of his mouth. Mazael spun and parried two quick blows, riposted, and another Crowley armsman fell dead. Blood ran red down Lion’s steel blade. Mazael danced through Crowley’s men, laughing. They all seemed to have lead weights tied about their arms and legs. Lion felt like a part of his arm and the blood roared through his body as he sidestepped a thrust and took off an armsman's head.

  It was so easy to kill them.

  Someone hit him from behind with a sword. The blade didn’t penetrate Mazael’s armor, and he used the blow for momentum. He bashed aside one man, gutted another, jumped, and landed face to face with Sir Tanam Crowley. Sir Tanam lifted his axe, but Mazael jerked his sword up, bashing the lion's head pommel across Tanam's face. The knight fell like a dead horse, his armor clanging against the floor. The armsmen holding Rachel leapt to defend their master. Mazael killed one, wounded the other, and severed the ties holding Rachel’s hands with a single slash. She looked at him, green eyes wide, a thousand questions on her face.

  “Can you run?” said Mazael.

  Rachel nodded. “What...”

  “Gerald!” bellowed Mazael. “Let’s go!”

  Gerald ran for the door, Wesson at his heels. “By all the gods of all the heavens,” yelled Gerald. “I swear, man, you are a lunatic!” His shield had been hacked to kindling and his shiny armor bore a half-dozen scars.

  Mazael laughed and kicked down the door. A half-dozen of Sir Tanam’s irate men charged after them.

  The morning sun shone bright in the courtyard. A dozen more of Sir Tanam’s men sat on their horses, their expressions tense and anxious. They scowled at the sight of Mazael, hands flying to their weapons.

  “We’re under attack!” said Mazael as he ran for the stables. “The Cravenlocks! The Cravenlocks came through the back of the inn!”

  The horsemen galloped towards the door just as Crowley’s other men burst out. They tangled together in a confused mass as Mazael, Gerald, Wesson, and Rachel ran into the stables, hastening to saddle the horses.

  “Rachel, take my palfrey,” said Mazael, vaulting into the saddle of his war horse, an ill-tempered brute named Chariot. Gerald helped Rachel into the saddle and then mounted his own war horse. Wesson claimed Sir Gerald’s palfrey.

  “What if they try to stop us?” said Gerald.

  “Ride them down,” said Mazael. Sword in one hand and hammer in the other, Mazael spurred Chariot forward. The big stallion whinnied and burst out of the stable.

  Mazael heard Sir Tanam shouting, and armsmen raced towards them. Mazael hit one on the head with his hammer, while Chariot bit a second in the face. He heard the clang of Gerald’s sword and a man’s scream. Then they were through the inn's palisade, riding hard for the Northwater bridge.

  Dust churned beneath their horses’ hooves, and soon the long wooden Northwater bridge came into sight. A trio of riders waited on the bridge next to a pot of burning coals and a bundle of unlit torches. Each of the rides wore armor and bore a heavy war lance. Beneath the bridge the Northwater raged in a swirl of white foam.

  “They’re going to burn the bridge!” shouted Mazael. “Ride!” He kicked Chariot to a gallop, the horse thundering forward. The riders on the bridge wheeled and dropped their lances for a charge. Mazael slung the hammer over his shoulder and snapped Chariot’s reins. A pair of the lancers made for Gerald, while one rode for Mazael.

  Mazael stood up in the saddle, the lancer raising his weapon in response. At the last second, Mazael jumped off Chariot's side. He tucked his shoulder and rolled as he hit the ground, his armor rattling. The lancer reined up, attempting to swing around to attack. Mazael surged to his feet, Lion's hilt in both hands, and swung. The longsword hewed the horse’s leg like wood, and the big animal went down with a scream. The lancer flew from his saddle and struck the ground, his armor clattering with the impact. Mazael was on him in an instant, his sword stabbing down for a gap in the armor.

  He sprang back into Chariot’s saddle as one of the remaining lancers broke his lance against Gerald's shield, the other circling with an axe in hand. Mazael spurred Chariot to a gallop, slammed Lion into its scabbard, and took his Mastarian war hammer in both hands.

  The lancer on Gerald’s right never saw Mazael coming. Mazael whipped the hammer sideways in a looping swing. The lancer toppled off his horse, head bent at a bizarre angle. The second lancer gaped at his dead comrade long enough for Gerald to finish him.

  Horses galloped from the inn as the Old Crow rallied his troops. Sir Tanam looked bloody and very angry.

  “Any wounds?” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Gerald. “Just bruises.”

  “Good. Over the bridge, I’ll follow,” said Mazael.

  “What...” said Gerald.

  Mazael grinned at him. �
�Just go.”

  Gerald sighed. “Madman.” He spurred his horse over the bridge, Rachel and Wesson riding alongside.

  Mazael leaned down, snatched a torch from the bundle, and thrust it into the pot of burning coals. Then he wheeled Chariot around, galloped onto the bridge, and dropped the torch.

  Evidently it had not rained in the Grim Marches for some time, because the bridge's planks were hard and dry, and took fire at once. A wall of flame rose up behind Mazael, and Chariot whinnied and bolted to the opposite bank.

  He joined Gerald and Rachel and turned Chariot around just in time to see Sir Tanam’s horse shy away from the flames. Tanam stared across the river at Mazael, his expression a mixture of frustration and astonishment.

  “Sir Mazael,” said Sir Gerald. “You are insane. You could have gotten us all killed!”

  Mazael grinned at him. “Yes, but it worked, didn’t it?”

  Gerald sighed and looked heavenwards.

  Mazael clasped his sister’s hand, careful not to squeeze with his armored gauntlet. “And you, are you all right?”

  Rachel smiled at him. She had always been very pretty, and even as a child suitors had swarmed about her like flies, hoping to win her hand once she came of age. Mazael didn’t know if his sister had married or not. He had left the Grim Marches fifteen years ago, and no word had come to him since. Rachel looked much the same, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and she was very pale.

  “Mitor will be upset you burned his bridge,” Rachel said at last.

  “Mitor can bugger himself with the bridge,” Mazael said. “A bridge for a sister, a small price, it seems. Now, how are you?”

  “I’ve been better, I’ll confess,” she said. “But, gods, Mazael, it’s so good to see you again.”

  “You as well.” Mazael looked over the river. “We’d best be on our way before old Sir Crow decides to use those crossbows.”

  They galloped for the east, leaving the inn and the burning bridge behind.

  3

  Rachel’s Apple

  At Mazael’s insistence, they rode hard for the east all day, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. The nearest fords were a day’s ride north and south of the burned bridge, but Mazael didn’t want to risk encountering more of Lord Richard’s minions. He permitted his companions to stop long enough to water the horses, but no longer. They rode in silence. There would be time to exchange stories later.

  They passed bands of mercenaries that ranged from ragged knots of ruffians to professional companies with banners. All marched east for Castle Cravenlock. Mazael and his little band rode around them, and the mercenaries ignored them.

  As the sun sank beneath the western sky, they came across one of the abandoned farmsteads that littered the Grim Marches. Only few strewn foundation stones, a pond, and an overgrown orchard remained, and Mazael pronounced the site fit for a camp. Gerald slid out of his saddle with a sigh of relief.

  “Good horse,” said Mazael, patting Chariot’s flank. He undid the saddle and blanket, rubbed the horse down, checked the hooves, and gave Chariot another apple snared from the grove the day before. Chariot snorted but accepted nonetheless.

  Rachel stumbled from Mazael’s palfrey. Mazael and Gerald were both accustomed to hard riding and days in the saddle, but Rachel was not, and Gerald helped her to stand. It seemed that his sister had captured another admirer. Wesson gathered wood and grass, and soon a fire crackled within the old foundation stones.

  “I don’t suppose we have any of our supplies left?” said Gerald, brushing down his horse.

  Mazael shook his head. “Our supplies are sitting in our room at the inn. No doubt Sir Tanam and his men are enjoying them. We’ll have to make do with whatever’s in our saddlebags. I hope the lady of Cravenlock will not be discontented with jerky and stale bread?”

  Rachel laughed and sat down. “I would rather eat peasant fare than dine with Lord Richard at Swordgrim.” She winced again. “I can’t imagine how you knights can ride that hard for days on end.”

  “Practice, mostly,” said Mazael. “You’re still able to sit, at least. When Gerald first trained with a lance and hammer from horseback, he had to sleep standing up for weeks.”

  “Gods, don’t remind me,” said Gerald, rummaging through one of Mantle’s saddlebags.

  “Gerald?” said Rachel. She laughed. “Sir knight, I’ve been riding with you all day, and I don’t know your name! Mazael, would you kindly make the introductions?”

  “Certainly,” said Mazael. “Lady Rachel Cravenlock, this is Sir Gerald Roland. Sir Gerald, Lady Rachel.”

  Rachel’s pretty green eyes widened. “Sir Gerald Roland?” Gerald looked pleased. “Lord Malden’s son, Sir Gerald?” Gerald nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord knight. What brings you to the Grim Marches?”

  “I was wondering much the same of you, sister,” said Mazael, tearing a hard chunk of bread into four pieces.

  “It’s been fifteen years since we’ve heard from you, Mazael,” said Rachel. “Then, a day and a half after I’m kidnapped by Sir Tanam Crowley, I find you here with the youngest son of one of the most powerful lords in the kingdom. That is a strange coincidence, I think.”

  “So Crowley did kidnap you?” said Gerald. “Gods, Mazael! What have we walked into?”

  “A mess, it seems,” said Mazael. “But that’s a fair question, sister. I’ve served Lord Malden Roland for the last nine years. When Lord Malden heard rumors of trouble in the Grim Marches, he sent us to investigate.”

  “My father has a vested interest in the Grim Marches,” said Gerald.

  “He wants revenge, you mean,” said Mazael. He took a bite of the stale bread and winced.

  “Lord Richard did kill Lord Malden’s second son, Sir Belifane,” said Rachel. “And he killed our older two brothers, Mazael.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. He hadn’t liked his two oldest brothers and considered their deaths a favor. “Our brothers and Sir Belifane Roland managed to get themselves killed in battle with Richard Mandragon. Then Father marched out from Swordgrim to avenge their deaths, and what happened? Father lost, Lord Richard marched in triumph into Swordgrim, and we were left with Lord Mitor the Mushroom.”

  Rachel laughed.

  Gerald looked puzzled. “Mitor the—Mushroom?”

  “Our nickname for Mitor, when we were children,” said Mazael. “When you meet him, you’ll understand. So, now that you know how we came here, how did you wind up the captive of Sir Tanam Crowley?”

  Rachel shivered and hunched closer to the fire. “It’s...a long story.”

  “Considering I just tried to kill one of the Dragonslayer’s sworn knights, I would like to hear it,” said Mazael. He looked at Rachel for a moment. She was indeed thinner than he expected, more tired, more worn.

  “It was about a marriage,” said Rachel. Her eyes glimmered in the firelight.

  This surprised Mazael. “You aren’t married yet? I thought Mitor would have married you off the instant you came of age.”

  “He wanted to,” said Rachel. “But he wanted to save me for the son of some powerful lord, someone with whom he could make a strong alliance.”

  “Bloody chance of that,” said Mazael. “The Dragonslayer crushed Lord Adalon. What fool would want to ally himself with Lord Adalon’s imbecile son?”

  “Not many,” agreed Rachel.

  “Did Mitor ever get married?” said Mazael.

  “He did,” said Rachel. “About four years ago, to Marcelle Trand.”

  Mazael knew of the Trands, a noble house that had supported Lord Adalon against Lord Richard. After the Dragonslayer became liege lord of the Grim Marches, the Trands found themselves relieved of a great portion of their lands. “Lord Marcus Trand must have been desperate to foist off the girl, if he offered her for Mitor.”

  “He was,” said Rachel. “Marcelle is a hateful woman. I imagine Lord Marcus offered her to half the noblemen in the kingdom before Mitor finally took her.”

  “W
hy would Lord Mitor marry her, then? From everything you’ve told me over the years, Mazael, your brother sounds a proud man,” said Gerald.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Mazael. “If Mitor ever goes to war against Lord Richard, then Lord Marcus will have to stand with him.” Mazael paused. “Is Mitor planning to do something so foolish, Rachel? Lord Richard is a seasoned commander, Mitor is no warrior, and Swordgrim can raise three times the men Castle Cravenlock can.”

  “I don’t know, Mazael. I really don’t.” Rachel stared into the fire. “About six months ago, Lord Richard sent Sir Tanam to Mitor with an offer. Lord Richard wished to end the long enmity between our houses, and offered to join me in marriage to his eldest son Toraine.”

  “Amatheon and Amater!” swore Mazael.

  Gerald frowned. “That’s brilliant. Toraine is Lord Richard’s heir. If you bore him a son, a man with both Mandragon and Cravenlock blood would rule the Grim Marches one day. That would forever end the rivalry between the house of Cravenlock and the house of Mandragon.”

  “Mitor refused him,” said Rachel.

  Silence hung over the little camp for a moment. Mazael heard the fire crackle, saw the flames dance in Rachel’s eyes. “Why? Even Mitor could not be so foolish. Half the lords in the kingdom have approached Lord Richard to offer their daughters for Toraine. How could he possibly pass up such an opportunity?”

  “I didn’t want to marry Toraine Mandragon,” said Rachel in a rush. “He’s a monster. The peasants don’t call him the Black Dragon because of his armor. In a village near Amritsar, a man stole one of Toraine’s horses. The Black Dragon caught the thief and had him and his entire family herded out into the village square. He beheaded them all with his own sword, even a baby and an old woman, and had their heads mounted above the village gate as a warning to other thieves.”

  “That’s monstrous,” said Gerald.

  “Yes, but he made his point,” said Mazael.

  Rachel glared at him. “Would you want me to marry such a...a monster? Would you want me take him into my bed?”

  “No,” said Mazael, “but I doubt Mitor had such concerns. What made him turn Lord Richard down?”