Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “What were you saying about a marriage?” said Mazael. He sat in one of the chairs, away from the window.

  Gerald scrutinized his reflection, tugged at his mustache, and smiled. “Well, I am the only one of my father’s sons to remain unwed. Before he sent us to the Grim Marches, he suggested that a marriage with one of the daughters of the southern Marcher lords might lie in my future.”

  Mazael laughed. “So, a future Lady Roland might feast in Mitor’s hall tonight?” A gleam came into his eye. “I hear that Lord Marcus has another daughter.”

  Gerald shuddered. “The gods forbid! If she’s anything like her sister, I fear that I would rather join a celibate order.”

  “You realize, of course, it’s all intrigue?” said Mazael. “Your father would marry you to my sister if she wasn’t betrothed already. He wants an alliance with the Cravenlocks, should they rise up against the Mandragons.”

  Gerald sighed. “Wesson! My surcoat, please. I’m well aware of that. You have something of an advantage over me, I fear. You left Lord Mitor’s household, so your brother has no hold over you and cannot command you to marry.” Mazael shuddered at the thought. “Yet you are not one of my father’s vassals, nor are you of his blood. You could marry whomever you wish. You could marry a comely peasant wench, and no one would object, though I imagine the court would whisper.”

  Mazael snorted. “Once you’ve been hit with a sword a few times, words lose their sting.”

  “Truly,” said Gerald. “Yet I must marry as my father commands, and I can only hope for a wife who does not have the countenance of a sow and the temperament of a porcupine.”

  “Good luck,” said Mazael.

  “A pity your sister is already betrothed,” said Gerald, pulling on his surcoat, the fine blue cloth embroidered with the greathelm of Roland in silver thread. “She seems quite a proper lady, and is very comely, to boot. Wesson, my sword and belt, please.”

  Mazael tugged his fingers through his beard. “Betrothed to that smiling fool Sir Albron. You ought to court her anyway. Gods know you’d make a better husband. Sir Albron would likely stand there and smile while you wooed her away.”

  Gerald tucked his dagger into his belt. “Well...I agree with you, but it hardly seems honorable...”

  “Honorable,” said Mazael. “Albron has all the honor of a jackal. I wonder if Rachel is merely infatuated. She gets cow-eyed whenever he comes near.”

  Gerald tossed a blue cloak over his shoulders with a flourish. “Well, that’s a consideration for later. Right now, there is a feast with food and wine and music awaiting. I, for one, do not want to keep it waiting any longer than necessary.”

  Mazael laughed. “Then by all means, let’s go.”

  They descended the steps of the King’s Tower. Mazael passed the spot where he had walked into Romaria and grinned.

  Only a thin line of light glimmered in the western sky when they entered the castle’s courtyard. The doors to the central keep stood open, torchlight spilling out. Six armsmen in formal armor stood on either side of the doors, and four other men waited nearby. One lumbered ponderously, while the other moved with fluid grace. Mazael turned towards them, a smile spreading across his face.

  “Who is it, Mazael?” said Gerald.

  “Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael, “may I introduce Master Othar, court wizard of Castle Cravenlock, and Sir Nathan Greatheart, armsmaster...former armsmaster, of Castle Cravenlock...and the men who managed to keep me from getting killed as a child.”

  Master Othar boomed laughter. Six feet tall and half as wide, a tangled white beard covered his double chin. Othar walked with the ponderous majesty of a lumbering elephant, barely using the cane in his meaty right fist. The much shorter and thinner Timothy deBlanc walked after him.

  “Well, boy!” said Othar. “You’ve gotten taller.”

  “And you’ve gotten fatter,” said Mazael.

  Othar laughed and slapped his belly with his free hand. “Aye, boy, so I have! At my age, I reserve the right to eat any damn thing I want. Sir Nathan here has been telling me that he expects my heart to burst any day now for the last twenty years. Well, my heart’s still pounding along just fine.” He laughed again. “Though I do expect I’ll make a misery for the gravediggers when I finally go.”

  “That is not something to jest about,” said a deep voice. Sir Nathan Greatheart was lean and gaunt. Deep lines marked his weathered face, and ropes of sinewy muscle corded his arms. The hilt of a two-handed greatsword, bigger than Romaria’s bastard blade, rose from over his shoulder. A young man, Nathan’s squire, Mazael assumed, stood behind the old knight. “I have been admonishing you to take better care of yourself for twenty years. I cannot recall a single time when you heeded my advice. Mazael.”

  “Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.

  “Sir Mazael, I should say,” said Nathan. He smiled, something he did rarely. “You have earned that title. Even here, we have heard tales of your exploits during the Mastarian war.”

  “Thank you,” said Mazael.

  “Sir Nathan and I have been visiting the villages north of here for the last few days,” said Othar, “raising fresh men for Lord Mitor’s army. When we returned earlier today, it seems you were the talk of the town. According to one peasant, you cut your way through a thousand Mandragon soldiers and snatched Lady Rachel from their grasp.”

  “It was more like thirty,” said Mazael. “And Sir Gerald helped.”

  “And then, when you return in triumph to Castle Cravenlock, you save an innocent innkeeper and his wife from unjust execution at the hands of a cruel knight,” said Othar. “Sounds like a jongleur’s song, boy! You have had a few busy days. I told you, Nathan, this one’s destined for legend.”

  Remembering the sorry scene made Mazael angry all over again. “Captain Brogan was a cruel fool. He should have been scraping dung from the stable floors, not commanding men. And for Albron to give a man like that free reign in the village, gods, that went from mere foolishness to stupidity.”

  “Albron and I have our disagreements,” said Nathan. “The appointment of Brogan stands among them.”

  Othar snorted. “It’s possible that the gods have made worse men, but not many.”

  Mazael grunted and looked at the sky. The stars had begun to come out. “How are things here, really?”

  “What do you mean?” said Othar.

  Mazael made a see-saw motion with his hand. “I talk to Rachel and get one version of events. I talk to Mitor and get grandiose ramblings. I talked to Sir Tanam, briefly, and he accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. What is happening here, truly?”

  Sir Nathan sighed. “Mazael, things have not been well at Castle Cravenlock since Lord Richard rose up against your father Lord Adalon. You know that.”

  Mazael nodded.

  “In truth, I think things have not been well here since Lord Adalon married Lady Arissa Dreadjon, your mother. No man was more kind and generous than your father, Mazael, but he was weak. It shames me to say it of the lord I served for most my life, but he was not a man of strong will, a quality Lady Arissa possessed in abundance. She rode over him without mercy. Were it not for her, I believe Lord Adalon would have surrendered the liege lordship of the Grim Marches to Lord Richard without struggle,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Oft times the sorrows of the present are rooted in the miseries of the past,” said Timothy.

  “Ah...the writings of the magister Aristor. I see you are familiar with the works of the great wizards. Very good, young man,” said Othar. Timothy beamed.

  “What is happening now?” said Mazael. “The Grim Marches were peaceful when I left.”

  “I thought Mitor would be content as Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Nathan. “Then that whispering schemer Simonian came...”

  “No,” said Othar. “It began earlier, when Albron came...”

  “You are right,” said Sir Nathan. “Albron came to Castle Cravenlock six years ago...”

  “Six years?” said Maz
ael. “Albron told me that he had fought in the uprising, and received his knighthood from my father.”

  Nathan grimaced. “A lie. Albron is full of them. He may have fought in the uprising. Thousands did. But he did not set foot in Castle Cravenlock until six years past. He took service as an armsman. Somehow he gained Lady Rachel’s favor, and Lord Mitor knighted him after a year. I wanted him gone from the garrison. The man had less truth in him than a thief. Yet he courted Lady Rachel, and she insisted that he stay.”

  “Then Simonian came,” said Othar. “Watch yourself around that one, Mazael my boy. He’s sly and powerful. It would not surprise me if he knows black arts.”

  “Simonian came three years past,” said Nathan. “I urged Lord Mitor to banish him. Foreign wizards are notorious for knowledge of dark arts. From time to time the magisters simply assassinate those they suspect of practicing forbidden magic. It is legal for them to do so, sanctioned by both Church and king. I feared Lord Mitor would become caught in Simonian’s eventual fall.”

  “Mitor bobs his fat head up and down whenever that wizard speaks,” said Mazael.

  “Lord Mitor made him court wizard,” said Othar, scowling, “but he carries out none of the duties. Simonian is often gone for weeks at a time. I continue on, as I always have, and neither Simonian nor Lord Mitor seems to care. After a few months of this, Lord Mitor demanded harsher taxes of the local peasantry to pay for his mercenaries. Sir Nathan protested, calling it banditry. So Lord Mitor dismissed him...”

  “And replaced him with Sir Albron Eastwater. A liar, but a liar that would carry out Mitor’s instructions without question,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Are Albron and Simonian in league together?” said Mazael.

  Othar shrugged. “It is possible. If they are, Simonian is the greater. When they disagree, Albron always backs down.”

  “What about this business with Sir Tanam Crowley and Rachel’s abduction?” said Mazael.

  “Gods,” swore Sir Nathan. “If Albron and Lord Mitor had listened to me, it would never have happened. Albron had holes in his guards that an army could stroll through. And if Lord Mitor hadn’t planned to take Crowley captive...”

  “What?” said Mazael. Rachel certainly hadn’t mentioned that. “Rachel told me that Lord Richard had sent Crowley to offer Toraine Mandragon in marriage. Mitor rebuffed him, Sir Tanam rode back to Swordgrim, returned to begin dickering, and rode away with Rachel!”

  “That’s almost what happened,” said Othar. He pulled a battered wooden pipe from a pocket of his robes and stuffed it with tobacco leaves from his belt. A brief spell kindled the pipe, and Othar took a long pull, sighing in satisfaction. “Lady Rachel neglected to add that Lord Mitor planned to capture Crowley and hang him in the town’s square.”

  “Gods of heaven!” said Mazael. “If he had...nothing could have stopped war. Lord Richard and the Black Dragon would have fallen on Castle Cravenlock like a storm out of hell. Mitor would find himself dangling from a gibbet. Gods! Sir Tanam might have seized Rachel out of fear for his life!” Mazael wanted to kill someone. Preferably Mitor

  “Oh, yes,” said Othar, puffing on his pipe. He wiggled his fingers, whispering a spell, and the smoke rising from his pipe formed the ghostly image of a noose. “Simonian and Sir Albron had been telling Mitor lies of grandeur for years...how he deserved the liege lordship of the Grim Marches, how Lord Richard was nothing but a murdering usurper...”

  “Yet they failed to remind Lord Mitor how the Dragonslayer spared his life,” said Nathan. “Another man would have killed every one of the Cravenlocks.”

  “Truly,” said Othar, “but tell that to Lord Mitor. Simonian and Albron have filled his head to bursting with these foolish dreams. I’m afraid this business with the Old Crow has sealed the matter. There will be war. Lord Mitor will charge Lord Richard with the abduction of Lady Rachel...and Lord Richard claims...”

  “What?” said Mazael. He thought of Sir Tanam’s charge of “witchcraft and sorcery”, Romaria’s tales of walking dead men, and Othar’s suspicions of Simonian. Something clicked together in his head. “What does Lord Richard claim?”

  Othar raised an eyebrow. “He claims that members of House Cravenlock are practicing ungodly witchcraft and unholy sorcery. Utterly absurd, of course...”

  Mazael shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s not Mitor or Rachel or Marcelle. It’s Simonian who’s doing this ‘vile sorcery’. On my way to the castle, I met a woman named Romaria Greenshield...”

  Nathan blinked. “One of Lord Athaelin’s sisters?”

  “His daughter,” said Mazael. “He sent her north to find and deal with a renegade wizard. She claims that dark magic is loose in the Great Southern Forest, that corpses...zuvembies, she called them, rise to kill. I’m inclined to believe her. She seems a remarkable woman.”

  “Mazael suspected before that a ‘wizard’s trickery’ lay behind the troubles,” said Gerald. “No insult, of course.”

  “None taken,” said Othar and Timothy together.

  “I would not find it hard to believe that a creature like Simonian traffics with demons and conjures dark magic,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Then let us march into the great hall and put an end to him right now,” said Mazael.

  “I taught you better than that,” said Sir Nathan. “We have suspicions, but no proof. Lady Romaria claims to have seen dead men rising. The folk of Deepforest Keep are known for strange things. Master Othar and several other visiting wizards have scoured Castle Cravenlock and the surrounding lands for dark magic and have had found nothing. For all we know, Lord Richard has seized upon this tale of witchcraft to rid himself of Lord Mitor once and for all. The Dragonslayer has mercy in him, but far more ruthlessness than compassion.”

  “You’re right,” said Mazael. “But if Simonian is here for a benevolent purpose, I’ll believe it when I see pigs flying over the castle.”

  “I as well,” said Sir Nathan. “But we have suspicions, suppositions, and rumors. Not fact. We may believe what we will, but Lord Mitor will never believe us without proof.”

  “Damnation,” said Mazael.

  “Speaking of messes,” said Master Othar, “why did you come back to Castle Cravenlock? You were always good at staying out of the messes of other people...but you had an unfailing tendency to create messes of your own, as I recall.”

  Mazael laughed. “That’s true enough.” He told Sir Nathan and Master Othar everything that had happened in the last few months.

  “So, Lord Malden plans to involve himself our mess?” said Othar.

  “I expected as much,” said Sir Nathan. “Lord Malden has never forgiven Lord Richard for his son's death. Pardons, Sir Gerald, but Lord Malden would welcome vengeance against Lord Richard.”

  “None taken, Sir Nathan,” said Gerald. “I know my father. But I am sure he will see reason.”

  “And Lord Alamis Castanagent will not sit by while a war rages on the eastern borders of his lands,” said Sir Nathan. “And if Lord Alamis involves himself, then so will every great lord in the kingdom.”

  “The king would have to take a hand,” said Othar.

  Sir Nathan sighed. “And then we will have war across the kingdom.”

  Mazael blinked. For an instant he saw blood gushing from within the castle keep, bursting from the windows, and pouring down the stone walls in crimson rivers. He blinked again and shook his head.

  “Is something amiss?” said Sir Nathan.

  “No,” said Mazael. “I’ve been suffering from headaches recently.”

  Othar laughed. “Too much ale, I’ll warrant.”

  “Do not project your bad habits onto Sir Mazael,” said Sir Nathan.

  “No, it’s not ale,” said Mazael. “I haven’t had enough to make me drunk since I left Knightcastle.”

  “I could give you an elixir,” said Master Othar.

  “If they still trouble me tomorrow,” said Mazael.

  “Let us s
peak of happier things,” said Sir Nathan. “Master Othar and I have not seen you in fifteen years, Sir Mazael, and the gods have decided to bring us together again. Let us commiserate and share what has happened over the years.”

  “Truly,” said Othar. “All this talk of war and necromancy spoils my appetite. A man can’t eat properly when he’s worried.”

  Sir Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That has never stopped you before.”

  Othar shrugged. “It is the principle of the matter.”

  “Indeed. Sir Mazael...there is something I would ask of you,” said Sir Nathan.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Come here, Adalar,” said Sir Nathan. Nathan’s squire stepped forward. The boy was about thirteen, with brown eyes, a narrow face, and a grave expression.

  “This is your son!” said Mazael.

  Nathan smiled. “Yes.”

  “But you were certain that you and Lady Leah would never have children,” said Mazael.

  A shadow passed over Nathan’s gaunt face. “I...was wrong, it seems. Leah conceived a year or so after Lord Richard’s victory. Nine months later she gave birth to Adalar. The...birth went hard. Othar tended her, and she lived through it, but...”

  “It took most of her strength,” said Othar, holding his pipe in one hand. “I thought she would pull through...but, the gods have mercy, she died five months later.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mazael. He remembered Sir Nathan’s wife very well. She had always given Mazael a treat when he had accompanied Sir Nathan to his keep.

  “The gods give with one hand and take with the other,” said Nathan. “It had always been her fondest wish to have children.” Nathan looked away for a moment. “Regardless, I have a request to ask of you, Sir Mazael. I ask that you take Adalar for your squire.”

  “Squire?” said Mazael. “Why me? Surely you could find some great knight to take Adalar as a squire. I am sworn to Lord Malden, and spend most my time riding about fulfilling his commands...”

  “That is why I want you to take him as your squire,” said Sir Nathan. “I have raised my son as best I know how, and now it is time for another knight to complete his training. You are the best knight for that task. Granted, you are often reckless, and have several bad habits.” Gerald smiled. “But you are the best sword, the best fighter, I have ever met. And you fulfill the true spirit of a knight’s vows, as your actions against Sir Tanam and Brogan show. Too many knights are hollow suits of armor, following the letter of vows they do not believe.”