Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Sir Gerald is correct,” said Romaria. “Such a slug as Lord Mitor isn’t fit to rule a dunghill, let alone the Grim Marches.”

  Mazael snorted and turned to Cramton. “I’m sorry Lord Mitor would not pay more. The wreck of your livelihood deserves more than one hundred crowns.”

  Cramton gave Mazael a wan smile. “It will do, my lord knight. After all, I am grateful to the gods we live at all! Thank you, my lord knight, for everything. If you ever need a favor, just come to me or my own. We can’t ever repay you.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Mazael. He caught a passing armsman by the elbow. “Take this man to his family. See that they’re given comfortable quarters. Lord Mitor has promised them work in the castle. Once they are settled in their new chambers, take them to the head steward.”

  The armsman started to sneer a response, then got a good look at Mazael’s face. He bowed and hurried away with Cramton.

  “Idiot,” said Mazael. “What sort of fools has this Sir Albron Eastwater trained?”

  “Numerous fools,” said Sir Gerald. “We saw quite a few in the town.”

  “Sir Nathan would never have allowed these ruffians into the garrison,” said Mazael. “Maybe that’s why Mitor dismissed him. My brother seems to want bully boys in his armies, not soldiers.”

  “Aye,” said Gerald, “and how long do you think those bully boys will stand up to Lord Richard’s horsemen?”

  “I fear we’re going to find out,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria, I regret my brother’s rudeness.”

  Romaria shrugged. “You warned me, didn’t you? In truth, I expected little help from him. If I’m to find this renegade necromancer, I shall have to do so on my own.”

  “What of this Briaultan wizard, this Simonian of Briault?” said Mazael. “Do you think it is him?”

  Gerald laughed. “Lord Mitor has surrounded himself with...ah, how did you put it, Mazael? A covey of clucking hens? Likely Simonian is likely another clucking fool.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “He’s no fool. I think he has his own game.”

  “What would it gain him to unleash dark magic in the lands of the lord he serves?” said Gerald.

  “Who knows? It would be part of some wizard’s trickery, no doubt,” said Mazael. “Once again, no insult, Timothy.”

  Timothy smiled. “Once again, none taken, my lord knight.”

  “You were staring at him rather oddly, my lady,” said Mazael. “Both him and Sir Albron. My sister seems infatuated with the fool. Don’t tell me he’s drawn you into his spell as well.”

  Romaria laughed. “I prefer real men in my bed, not crowing roosters or clucking hens.” She shrugged. “I can’t say why. There was something strange around them. I couldn’t tell you what it was. They were just...odd.”

  “Well, Simonian is strange enough,” said Mazael. “I’ll wager this Sir Albron Eastwater is just another fool...”

  The door behind them creaked. Mazael spun, saw a hulking shadow in the doorway, and his hand shot to Lion's hilt. Then the shadow stepped forward and resolved into Sir Albron Eastwater.

  He smiled, exposing brilliant white teeth. “I see you were speaking of me.” He looked at Mazael and frowned. “Did I startle you? My apologizes.” Rachel followed him, her arm in his.

  “No need for apologizes,” said Mazael. “Preparedness...is something I have been taught with great force, time and time again.”

  Sir Albron laughed. He did not look as young as Mazael had thought. Wings of silver rose from his temples, and fine lines chiseled his face. He was a big man, but moved with a light grace, as if he didn’t carry the weight of his muscle and bone.

  “Ah, I know it well,” Albron said. “I have seen my share of wars as well.”

  “Albron is a great fighter,” said Rachel. She stared up at her betrothed with worshipful adoration, all trace of her earlier revulsion gone.

  “Is that so?” said Mazael.

  Sir Albron smiled. “Lord Mitor has given you guest quarters in the King’s Tower.” That was good, at least. The King’s Tower held the most comfortable rooms in the castle. “I would be pleased to tell you my history on the way, if you’re curious.”

  “I should like that,” said Mazael. He wondered what sort of man had replaced Sir Nathan Greatheart as armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock.

  “This way,” said Sir Albron.

  “I know the way,” said Mazael. “I used to live here.”

  Sir Albron laughed. “Of course...I had forgotten.” He walked towards the King’s Tower, Rachel on his arm. “Sir Gerald and I have something in common. We both come from Knightrealm.”

  “You do?” said Gerald. “From where do you hail?”

  “Krago Town, south of Ironcastle,” said Sir Albron.

  Gerald frowned. “Krago Town?” he said. “I fear you have me, Sir Albron. I have never heard of the place.”

  Albron laughed. “Few have, indeed. There’s not much there. It lies on the north end of the swamplands between the hills of Stillwater, the Great Southern Forest, and the Mastarian Mountains.”

  “I know of the region,” said Gerald, “but I don’t recall ever visiting. It has something of an ill reputation. I did meet a noble from that region once, Lord Alfred Karagon. Unpleasant fellow, as I recall.”

  “That is not surprising,” said Sir Albron. “The main road from Knightcastle does not pass through Krago Town, and the surrounding lands are full of thick swamps. Naturally all sorts of queer tales have sprung up over the years.” He laughed again. “And if you’ve met Lord Alfred, then the bad reputation of Krago Town is secured. He really is quite an unpleasant old fellow, to say the least.”

  “How does a knight from a backwater become armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael. “That’s a tale for the jongleurs, certainly.”

  “Doubly so,” said Albron, “for I was not born noble. My mother was a milkmaid, and my father worked in tanner’s shop, you could say. I fear I grew up with the crudest of country boors. I took service with Lord Alfred’s guard, maintaining the peace, chasing bandits, and slaying the Karwulf monsters when they raided over the Stillwater hills.”

  “The Karwulf are not monsters,” said Romaria. “They’re different from humans, aye, just as the Elderborn, but that doesn’t make them monsters.”

  Albron smiled. “You speak truly, my lady. But you of Deepforest Keep have a different way. You have lived in harmony with the forest peoples since...why, since the old kingdom of Dracaryl fell to the Malrags. But we of Krago must defend our own lands in our own way.”

  Romaria frowned, but said nothing.

  “At any rate,” said Sir Albron, “I served as an armsman in Lord Alfred’s guard until the uprising began on the Grim Marches fifteen years past. When Sir Belifane called for men to accompany him to Castle Cravenlock, I volunteered and rode with him. And then Lord Richard rose up against Lord Adalon, and I saw more of war than I ever did in Krago Town. Sir Belifane and Lord Adalon fought well,” Mazael held back his laugh, “but in the end it was for naught. Sir Belifane was slain and Lord Adalon defeated. But your father, Sir Mazael, was a good and kindly man. I saved his life during the battle, and in return, he knighted me and gave me lands along the Eastwater. When Lord Adalon died a few years later, I swore to his son Lord Mitor, and have served him ever since.”

  “Indeed a tale for the jongleurs,” said Mazael. He thought how a man like Mattias Comorian would mock the tale. “Yet how did you become armsmaster? I thought that Sir Nathan Greatheart had filled the post most admirably.”

  Sir Albron sighed. “Sir Nathan was growing older, Sir Mazael. I know that you thought most highly of him, yet Lord Mitor felt he could no longer adequately carry out his many duties.”

  “Mitor felt?” said Mazael. “Mitor doesn't know which end of a sword is the blade and which is the hilt. He knows less about war than my father.”

  “Perhaps,” said Albron, “but he is the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and his judgment is the correct one.”
r />   Mazael frowned. “Why did Lord Mitor choose you as the new armsmaster?”

  Sir Albron shrugged. “Experience, mostly. I had fought in the battles of Lord Richard’s uprising. And loyalty, perhaps. I had served Sir Belifane to the bitter end, and was sworn directly to the house of Cravenlock.” That explained it. Sir Nathan would never have given a fool like Brogan an officer’s rank. “Sir Nathan was a good man, and loyal...it was most kind of Lord Mitor to let Nathan live out his remaining years in peace.”

  “It’s a good thing Sir Nathan still has years remaining,” said Mazael. “I think you could take a lesson from him.”

  “Mazael!” said Rachel.

  “Is that so?” said Albron, smiling. “I understand you are a most accomplished knight, Sir Mazael. I would be pleased to take any advice you can offer.”

  “The armsmen I saw in the village were an undisciplined mess. You heard what I said to Mitor,” said Mazael.

  “I did,” said Sir Albron. “In all truth, Sir Mazael, I thought the criticism was unwarranted.”

  “And why is that?” said Mazael. “Brogan tried to rape Cramton’s barmaids, burned his inn, and tried to kill his family when he refused. Cramton’s youngest daughter is three. Three, Sir Albron! Tell me, do the armsmen of the Cravenlocks now swear to terrorize innocent children as part of their oath?”

  Sir Albron smiled. “Hardly. Yet...peasants are an undisciplined, unruly...filthy lot. They are much like...oh, small children, I suppose, or frightened little mice that scurry about and spend their time pursuing cheese. That is why the gods created the nobility, Sir Mazael. The peasantry needs a strong, firm hand.”

  “Interesting words, coming from a man who was once a peasant himself,” said Romaria.

  Albron flashed his brilliant white smile at her. “Yet I improved myself, and rose above my meager beginnings. Most peasants...alas, are incapable of such. Ah! Here were are.”

  The King’s Tower loomed above them like a granite fist. “Sir Gerald, you have been given the apartments on the top floor as Lord Mitor’s honored guest,” said Sir Albron. “Lady Romaria, the chambers on the fourth floor are yours. A wardrobe has been provided. I suggest you dress and prepare yourself for the feast. Sir Mazael, your rooms are on the third.” Sir Albron bowed and disengaged himself from Rachel’s arm. “My lady, my love, I must be on my way. Duty calls.” He bowed, kissed her fingers, and set off in a quick walk for the stables.

  “What an utter ass,” said Mazael.

  “He is not!” said Rachel.

  “I’m sure he has many fine qualities,” said Mazael. “Perhaps he will display them someday.” Rachel glared at him and stalked away.

  Sir Albron mounted a horse and rode for the barbican. His steed moved with a light walk. Mazael frowned. Sir Albron was a big man ...yet the horse...

  “What is it?” said Gerald.

  “The horse,” said Mazael, shaking his head. “It’s moving too fast for a rider Sir Albron’s size. Ah, perhaps he’s lighter than he looks.”

  Romaria laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those bulges in his arms were clumped rags.” Timothy snorted and covered his mouth.

  3

  Mazael’s Fathers

  Mazael examined his reflection in the silvered looking glass. He wore boots, clean trousers, and a tunic. Over his shoulders went a black cloak embroidered with the three-swords sigil of Cravenlock.

  The quarters Mitor had given them were comfortable enough. Tapestries covered the stark stone walls, depicting scenes of Castle Cravenlock’s past glories, and a large double bed rested against one wall, covered with a feather mattress and an enormous pile of pillows. A huge paneled wardrobe, a large desk, and a pair of chairs made from red oak and carved with Cravenlock sigil stood against the walls. Mazael had spent the greater part his life sleeping on cold ground under the stars and found the chambers excessive. Gerald, though, was right at home.

  Mazael picked up his worn sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Lion dangled from his left hip and a dagger rested on his right. Lion was ornate enough for a feast and dagger was necessary as an eating utensil. He grimaced and rubbed his beard. He was rarely adverse to feasting, revelry, and wine. But eating at Mitor’s table would leave a sour taste in his mouth.

  But there was nothing to do but to get on with it. With luck, he and Gerald could depart for Knightcastle within a week. He felt a twinge of anger when he thought of Rachel. She had changed in the last fifteen years, and not for the better. Her betrothal to smiling Sir Albron Eastwater proved that.

  Mazael shook his head and left his chambers, intending to see if Gerald was ready yet. Gerald took more time to primp than the vainest of noble ladies.

  He rounded a curve in the staircase and almost walked into Romaria. She stumbled, and his hand shot out and caught her arm.

  “Gods of the earth,” swore Romaria. “You’re fast.” She grinned. “I thought I was going to have a headlong tumble.”

  “We can’t have that,” said Mazael. Her bare arm felt warm and soft under his fingers, despite the corded muscles beneath her skin. She wore a gown of patterned green and blue fabric that left her arms bare. It suited her very well. Around her neck was a stole of black fur. Mazael laughed.

  “What?” said Romaria. She did not try to pull away from him.

  Mazael reached up with his free hand and fingered the black fur. “It seems you’ve found more than one use for that cat.”

  Romaria grinned. “I cleaned it this afternoon.” Her smile turned mischievous. “So, are you going to let go of my arm...or do you want to take a different sort of tumble together?”

  Mazael slid his hand over her shoulder and onto her other arm. “Right here, against the wall? Direct, aren’t you?”

  “What, would you have me play the blushing virgin?” said Romaria.

  “You? I didn’t think so?” said Mazael. He wanted to kiss her.

  “So perceptive,” said Romaria. “For a man, that is. And so good with that fancy sword, and so fast. I think you might be worthy of me.”

  “I should hope so,” said Mazael.

  Romaria smiled. “Your friend would be shocked if he saw us.”

  “Gerald shocks easily. I’ve tried to train him out of it,” Mazael said. Romaria’s strange ice-blue eyes sparkled, a flush spreading through her pale cheeks. “Gods, you have lovely eyes.”

  “Do you say that to all your women?” said Romaria.

  “No, I usually say ‘how much for the night?’” said Mazael.

  Romaria went silent, and Mazael realized that he had blundered.

  Then she laughed, her shoulders shaking with amusement. “You would, wouldn’t you? What a strange man you are! It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d had every whore from here to Knightcastle, yet you put your life on the line for those peasants in the town. You stood up to Mitor, when no one else was brave enough.”

  Mazael shrugged. “Mitor’s cruel and stupid. What right does he have to terrorize his peasants? As for the whores, well, I have urges, as does any man, and the women need to eat, as does anyone. I always pay them triple what they ask. I can afford it, and it seems only fair.”

  “How generous. The Church should make you into a saint.”

  Mazael laughed. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “I wonder if you’re the one the Seer saw,” said Romaria. “I wouldn’t mind that, not at all.” Her voice had that odd note of fear again.

  “Who?” said Mazael.

  Romaria’s grin reappeared, as wicked as the flashing edge of a sword. “No one." She leaned up, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and pulled away. “At least...not yet.”

  “I’m disappointed,” said Mazael. “Could you trip again?”

  Romaria laughed. “Maybe later. After all, we wouldn’t want to shock Sir Gerald.”

  “I suppose I’ll see you at the feast, then,” said Mazael.

  Romaria grinned. “I look forward to it.” Then she was gone.

  Mazael leaned against the wall a
nd blew out a sigh. He’d had numerous women in his life, but never an encounter quite like that. Then again, he’d never met a woman like Romaria before.

  He shook his head. Nothing clouded the mind like lust, and he needed his wits clear for Lord Mitor’s feast. After a few moments, he put Romaria from his mind and climbed the stairs. He thought of what Gerald would have said if he had seen them together and laughed.

  A moment later he reached Gerald’s door. “No, no,” he heard Gerald say. “Fetch that tunic...no, the blue one, I say!”

  Gerald stood before the mirror, his torso bare. His hair and his mustache had been trimmed with razor precision, his boots polished to mirror sheen. His sword lay across the bed, sharpened and polished.

  Wesson stood at the wardrobe, digging through a pile of tunics. He gave Mazael a despairing glance.

  “Ah...good...Sir Mazael!” said Gerald, shaking out a tunic. “I didn’t expect you so early.”

  “Actually, I’m late,” said Mazael.

  Gerald pulled the tunic on, stared at his reflection, shook his head, and pulled the tunic off. Wesson stifled a groan.

  “Really?” said Gerald. “So soon? Were you delayed?”

  “What?” said Mazael. “I suppose so.”

  Gerald grunted. “Say, Wesson, hand me the, ah...red one. Red and blue usually go well together.” Wesson grunted and began to dig through the pile of tunics.

  Mazael sat on the edge of the bed. “This is fastidious, even for you.”

  “Well, I haven’t mentioned it before,” said Gerald. “But my father considered arranging a marriage for me with one of the ladies in the southern half of the Grim Marches.”

  A chill tugged at Mazael. He glanced out the window, and lurched to his feet, eyes wide. A sea of blood covered the plains surrounding the castle, churning in froth-crowned waves, splashing and staining the castle walls...

  “Mazael?” said Gerald. “Is something wrong?”

  Mazael blinked. He saw the plains and the town through the window, and nothing more. “What...nothing. I almost sat on your sword, that’s all.”

  Gerald laughed. “That would make for an unpleasant wound.”