Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  The gallows had nooses and trapdoors for eight people, and each noose held an occupant. The necks of a plump man and a stout woman filled the first two, the man's eyes bulging huge with fear while the woman wept. An ancient woman stood next to them, the noose holding down her white hair. Two pretty young women and three children filled the other five nooses. The oldest child looked Wesson’s age, the youngest about three years or so.

  “Mazael!” said Gerald. “Those are children! What in the gods’ names are those soldiers doing?”

  A fat man in the armor and tabard of a captain stepped to the gallows. “Hear all you loyal subjects of Lord Mitor Cravenlock, Lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches!”

  “Liege lord?” said Mazael. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Know you all that these men, women, and children are traitors, and guilty of treason against Lord Mitor!” continued the captain. “Hence they have earned their deaths.”

  “How does a child commit treason?” said Gerald.

  “Rachel, what is this?” said Mazael.

  Rachel’s face went white. “I...I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t come to the town often, and...”

  A gleeful grin spread across the captain’s face. “If any of the condemned would like to beg for their lives, they may do so.”

  The stout man and woman screamed at the captain, begging for their children’s lives. The pretty younger women wept and offered to give him what he wanted while the children sobbed.

  “For gods’ sakes, Mazael, we’ve got to stop this,” said Gerald. “But there are fifty soldiers here. Don’t do anything mad...”

  The fat captain smirked, and Mazael's rage found a focus.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mazael roared.

  The peasants took one look at his face and hastily backed away.

  The fat captain spun, his jowls quivering with anger. “Who dares...” His eyes widened as he saw Mazael, then they narrowed again. “Who are you? You dare interrupt these proceedings of justice?”

  Mazael pointed at the quivering children. “You call this justice?”

  “Seize him!” yelled the captain. Gerald groaned and spurred his horse to Mazael’s side.

  Lion glimmered in Mazael’s fist. “Try,” he said, his voice calm. Something in his face made the Cravenlock armsmen back away. “Now, who the hell are you?”

  The man’s face glowed with rage. “I am Captain Brogan. When Lord Mitor hears of this, he’ll have your head!”

  “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael, “and threaten me again, and I’ll give Mitor your head.”

  Brogan’s eyes widened. “Sir...Mazael? Forgive me, my lord knight, I didn’t recognize you.”

  Mazael waved Lion at the bound prisoners. “Now, explain to me how a little girl commits treason?”

  “My lord knight,” said Brogan. “It grieves me to bring you ill news, but your sister was kidnapped less than a week ago. Sir Tanam Crowley came in good faith as Lord Richard Mandragon’s emissary and spirited Lady Rachel away. These vermin,” he pointed at the prisoners, “aided the treacherous Old Crow in his escape!”

  “They did not!” said Rachel, riding to Mazael’s side. “Sir Tanam abducted me with his own men. No one from castle or town helped him! These people are innocent!”

  “Lady...Lady Rachel?” Brogan said. “But how? Sir Tanam...”

  “Sir Mazael and Sir Gerald rescued me from Sir Tanam,” said Rachel. “They cut through his men and took me before Sir Tanam even knew what was happening. Just two, against Sir Tanam’s thirty, when you and all the armsmen of Cravenlock couldn’t keep me safe!”

  Jeering laughter rippled through the crowd, and Brogan snarled. “They are guilty of treason nonetheless!”

  Chariot stepped towards Brogan. “And what treason would that be?” said Mazael.

  Mazael saw the panic begin in Brogan’s eyes.

  “The child!” Brogan screamed, pointing at a girl of ten or so. “She sang a treasonous song, ‘Lord Mitor the Mushroom Lord.’”

  “My lord knight!” screamed one of the young women. “That’s...

  “Silence!” said Brogan.

  “Let her speak,” said Mazael. “You did, after all, ask any of the condemned if they wanted to beg. What’s your name?”

  The young woman’s face was puffy from tears. “I’m...I’m Bethy, my lord knight. I work for master Cramton, who runs the Three Swords Inn.”

  “Cramton is the fellow in the noose over there, I assume,” said Mazael, pointing at the fat man.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Bethy.

  “So, what happened?” said Mazael.

  “She’s a liar!” bellowed Brogan.

  “Shut up,” said Mazael. “Bethy, what happened?”

  “It was like this,” said Bethy. “Me and Lyna work in master Cramton’s inn. We wait on the patrons and tend the bar. Captain Brogan and some of his men come in yesterday, start smashing up tables and stealing ale. Master Cramton tells them to stop. Captain Brogan says master Cramton should shut up if he knows what’s good for him. He said that master Cramton should hand over me and Lyna...for his men. Master Cramton said no. Captain Brogan then says that’s treason, and arrests us all, even master Cramton and his wife and his little ones.”

  “That so?” said Mazael.

  “Lies,” said Brogan. “These peasants hate the strong firm hand of justice that rules them, so...so they spread slander and falsehood...”

  “For the last time, shut up,” said Mazael. He pointed at the man-at-arms holding the lever. “You. Cut them loose. They can go back to their inn.”

  The man-at-arms stammered. “My...my lord knight, we...Captain Brogan commanded us to burn the Three Swords inn to the ground.”

  “So,” said Mazael to Brogan. “The innkeeper refused to let you rape his barmaids. That’s treason, now? And because of this crime, you burned down his inn and tied him and his family to a gallows? Oh, yes, the firm hand of justice indeed.”

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” said Brogan. “You ride in here after fifteen years and strut about so high-and-mighty! I kept order in Lord Mitor’s name. You wouldn’t know the first thing about keeping order, about justice, if it hit you in the face!”

  Brogan never saw it coming. Mazael ripped Lion's point through Brogan's throat, the captain's eyes bulging as blood gushed from his mouth. He collapsed to the ground, drowning in his own blood.

  “And neither would you,” said Mazael.

  The Cravenlock armsmen gaped, fingering their weapons.

  Gerald sighed. “Oh, this is off to a dreadful start.”

  Mazael tore off Brogan’s cloak and used it to wipe down Lion’s blade. “I mean to have words with this new fool of an armsmaster, Sir Albron.” Rachel’s eyes flashed. “Sir Nathan would never have let something like this happen.” An armsman shouted and ran at Mazael. Mazael rammed the palm of his hand into the armsman's face, sent him sprawling.

  “Anyone else have any objections?” said Mazael, glaring at the armsmen. None of them did. "Good." He pointed. "You."

  “Sir?” said another armsman.

  “Cut them loose. Since Brogan saw fit to burn down their inn, they’ll have to come with me back to the castle. I mean to see that they get reparation,” said Mazael.

  “Cut them loose?” repeated the armsman.

  “Now!” said Mazael. The soldier leapt up the gallows and sawed at the ropes with his dagger. Cramton stumbled free from his noose and ran to his wife and children.

  “Form up!” yelled Mazael to the armsmen. “You will provide an escort for Lady Rachel back to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Oh, my lord knight, thank you, thank you,” wailed the innkeeper’s wife, clutching her children. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

  “We did no treason, my lord knight,” said Cramton, sweating and weeping. “I just wanted to do right by my workers, I did.”

  “The gods sent you,” Bethy declared. “The gods knew we were innoce
nt, so they sent you.”

  Mazael snorted. “Come long. Here, now. If the woman can’t walk, Sir Gerald and I have two extra horses. She and the little ones can ride.”

  “I can take one up here with me,” Romaria said.

  Eventually, the innkeeper’s wife, so overcome by relief that she could not walk, mounted with her youngest child on one of the dead bandits’ horses. Bethy went on the second horse, another child on her lap, while Romaria took still another with her. By then the milling mass of Cravenlock men had managed to form up in an escort. Romaria started to amuse the children with another coin trick.

  “Go,” said Mazael.

  Cramton walked next to Mazael’s horse and babbled thanks. Mazael nodded, his thoughts dark. Things were indeed wrong at Castle Cravenlock. He had just seen firsthand evidence of it. For the moment, he didn’t care about Rachel’s story of impending war, or Romaria’s tale of dark magic. The idiocy, the brutality of the armsmen, bothered him the most. Oh, yes, he would have words with Lord Mitor over this, and with this fool Sir Albron Eastwater.

  Chapter III

  1

  The Brothers’ Reunion

  Castle Cravenlock stood on a war footing.

  Mazael saw camps of mercenaries arrayed around the base of the castle’s rocky hill, some standing in precise military order, others little more than a hodgepodge mess of tents and latrine ditches. At least three thousand men all told, Mazael reckoned. Nearby a blue banner with a silver star, the standard of the Knights Justiciar, flapped over a camp of five hundred men. Next to the Justiciar camp rose the banners of Lord Marcus Trand and Lord Roget Hunterson, their camps holding at least another two thousand men.

  Mitor meant to challenge the might of Swordgrim with this rabble?

  Spearmen patrolled the castle's ramparts, looking down as Mazael and the others rode up to the gates. Armsmen guarded both the gate and barbican, while crossbowmen waited atop the wall.

  Mazael reined up before the gates.

  “Halt!” called a man from the ramparts. “Who comes?”

  “Gods almighty!” swore an armsman. “That’s Lady Rachel with him!”

  “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock!” said Mazael, standing up in his stirrups. “Behind me are Sir Gerald Roland of Knightcastle, Lady Romaria Greenshield of Deepforest Keep, and the wizard Timothy deBlanc. And no doubt you recognize Lady Rachel Cravenlock?”

  “My gods!” exclaimed the gate’s lieutenant. “Sir Mazael, Sir Tanam Crowley abducted Lady Rachel a week past! For you...to come with...”

  “How do you think Lady Rachel won free?” said Mazael. “Do you think the Old Crow let her go?”

  “Open the gate!” said the lieutenant. “Lord Mitor will want to meet with his brother and sister at once.”

  “He damn well better,” muttered Mazael.

  The castle’s portcullis rattled up, and Mazael rode into Castle Cravenlock’s courtyard and came home.

  It was almost exactly as he remembered. A new roof had been put upon the stables, and three additional forges stood against the curtain walls, but nothing else had changed. The earth beneath Chariot’s hooves remained a mixture of hard-packed dirt and grassy patches, and the servants, peasants, and armsmen going about their business in the courtyard could have been the same men Mazael had seen fifteen years ago.

  Someone touched his elbow. “Welcome home,” said Rachel.

  Mazael laughed. “Yes, but I rather doubt home is glad to see me.”

  Grooms hurried forward to take their mounts, and Chariot bared his teeth. Mazael handed the reins over, and the big war horse deigned the grooms to lead him.

  “You ought to have that horse gelded, you know,” said Romaria. She slid down from her mare’s saddle. “He’s hasn’t stopped sniffing at my poor mare.”

  Mazael snorted. “Why would I want to do that? A gelding’s no good in battle.”

  “A gelding would be easier to control,” said Romaria.

  “Yes,” said Mazael, “but a gelding wouldn’t bite the faces off my enemies.”

  A young boy in a page’s livery ran forward. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” he said in a high voice. “Lord Mitor commands your presence and the presence of your companions in the great hall at once.”

  “There’s gratitude,” said Mazael. “I bring back his abducted sister and he cannot even rouse himself to come meet me?” The page flinched. No doubt Lord Mitor was not often questioned. “Very well. Tell him we will come presently.”

  The page bowed and ran off.

  “Master Cramton, accompany me,” said Mazael. He turned to the Cravenlock armsmen. “Make certain his family is comfortable. If they give me a single word of complaint, I’ll take you back down to those gallows and hang you myself. Oh, and try not to burn down any more inns while you’re at it?”

  “Shall...shall some of us escort you to the great hall?” said an armsman.

  “I know the way,” said Mazael.

  He started for the great hall. Some of his mood must have shown on his face, and servants and armsmen alike melted out of his way. Mazael climbed the steps to the central keep and walked through the anteroom. The massive double doors to Castle Cravenlock’s great hall stood open.

  The great hall had been built in imitation of the vast vaulted naves of the high cathedrals. Delicate pillars supported the ribbed roof, and crystal windows stretched from floor to ceilings. The banners of the Cravenlocks hung from the ceiling and balconies. The lord’s dais stood at the end of the hall, and a long table rested at its foot for the lord's councilors. Both dais and table stood empty.

  “Where is everyone?” said Mazael.

  A herald’s voice rang out from the balconies. “All hail for Mitor Cravenlock, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and liege lord of the Grim Marches!”

  “Oh dear,” said Gerald.

  Lord Mitor Cravenlock appeared from the lord’s entrance behind the dais, the hem of his embroidered robe trailing against the floor. Unlike the castle, Mitor did not look as Mazael remembered. He looked worse. His face was milk white, and dark bags encircled his bloodshot green eyes. Sweat plastered his lank black hair to his pale scalp, making him resemble a poisonous mushroom, while his belly strained against the front of his robe. Mitor sat in the lord's chair, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Mazael and Rachel, and did not speak.

  “All hail of Marcelle Cravenlock, lady of Castle Cravenlock and wife of Lord Mitor!” boomed the herald.

  Mitor Cravenlock's wife and Marcus Trand's daughter was a thin woman in a rich green gown. As far as Mazael could see, she had no curves at all. She looked at Rachel with open contempt, and sat down with serpentine grace besides Mitor.

  “Marcus Trand, Lord of Roseblood keep, vassal to Lord Mitor!”

  Lord Marcus, built like an ale keg, looked nothing like his daughter. Muscles rippled beneath his fine tunic, yet Mazael saw the cringing sycophancy in his eyes. He took a seat at the table beneath the dais.

  “Roget Hunterson, Lord of Hunter’s Hall, vassal to Lord Mitor!”

  Lord Roget was a thin, stooped man with a long white beard and a bald head who looked as if he had not gotten much sleep.

  “Sir Commander Galan Hawking, Commander of the Justiciar Knights of the Grim Marches, and Lord Mitor’s honored guest and friend!”

  Sir Commander Galan gleamed, light reflecting from the polished silver of his breastplate. His blue cloak with its Justiciar silver star flowed out behind him, and he moved with the grace of a stalking lion. Once Lord of Hawk’s Reach, Galan had supported Lord Adalon against Lord Richard. But Lord Richard had won, Galan’s younger brother Astor became lord of Hawk’s Reach, and Galan found himself shipped off to the Knights Justiciar. He had done well in the order, it seemed, but Mazael saw bitterness in the Sir Commander’s eyes.

  “Sir Albron Eastwater, armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, vassal to Lord Mitor!”

  Sir Albron looked like the sort of muscled, handsome knight that rescued pining damsels in jongleurs’ bawdy tales. His skin was tanned, his f
ace chiseled, his eyes clear and strong. Sir Albron wore a black surcoat embroidered with the three silver swords of Cravenlock. A plain longsword with a leather-wrapped hilt hung from his belt. Mazael wondered if Sir Albron knew how to use that blade. Sir Albron smiled when he saw Rachel, and she returned the smile tenfold.

  Mazael saw Romaria staring at Sir Albron as well, her eyes intent, and suppressed a laugh.

  “Simonian, wizard of Briault, advisor to Lord Mitor!”

  “A foreign wizard...my lord knight, he wouldn’t have been trained at Alborg,” whispered Timothy. “He could have learned dark arts. Briault is a land of warlocks and necromancers.”

  Romaria looked away from Sir Albron and frowned.

  “Of Briault?” said Mazael to Rachel. “You didn’t tell me that Mitor had hired a foreign wizard.”

  Rachel blinked. “I...I forgot.”

  A man wrapped in a voluminous brown robe followed Sir Albron. He wore a bushy gray beard, and unkempt iron-gray hair encircled his head like a lion's mane. His eyes were brown and muddy, the color of a pond choked with silt. He reminded Mazael of someone, but he could not place the recollection. Simonian’s murky eyes fixed on Mazael for a moment, and then he sat at the councilors' table.

  The herald banged his staff against the floor three times to signal the beginning of court.

  “You,” said Lord Mitor, his voice rusty.

  “Correct,” said Mazael.

  “What are you doing here?” said Mitor. “Why are you here? Father sent you away fifteen years ago. Why did you come back?”

  “Why did I come back?” said Mazael. “I’m gone for fifteen years, I rescue your sister from the likes of Sir Tanam, and return with her to Castle Cravenlock, and that’s all you have to say?”

  “Will you tolerate this questioning from your younger brother?” said Lady Marcelle.

  “I am lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mitor. “Not you. You do not question me.”

  “My lord,” said Sir Albron. His voice was melodic. “Sir Mazael has accomplished a great feat! My men scoured the countryside and we found no trace of Sir Tanam. I had feared her lost to Lord Richard’s clutches. And now Sir Mazael has returned your sister, my dear betrothed,” a flush of pleasure rose in Rachel’s cheeks, “to our arms. We should greet Sir Mazael with gratitude, my lord, not with suspicion and angry accusations.”