Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Sir Albron Eastwater,” said Mazael.

  Nathan nodded. “Aye. He offered to take Adalar as his squire. Do you think I would entrust my son’s training to that one?”

  That decided Mazael. “Very well.” He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Adalar knelt, his head bowed. Mazael spun his sword and placed the flat of the blade on Adalar’s left shoulder. “Adalar Greatheart,” he said. He tried to remember how the oath went.

  Fortunately, it came. “Do you swear to serve me in all things, to obey me without question, to care for my weapons, mounts, and other possessions, and to pay me due respect?”

  “Yes, sir knight,” said Adalar. His voice cracked on the second word. The boy grimaced and spoke again. “Yes, I swear, Sir Mazael.”

  Mazael tapped Adalar and switched the blade to the boy’s right shoulder. “And I swear to feed and keep you, to train in you in the use of weapons and horses, and to teach in you in all the ways of a knight. Do you accept my oath?”

  “Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar.

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. He sheathed Lion and pulled his dagger from his belt. He offered it hilt first to Adalar. “Well, get up, Adalar. You’re a squire now.”

  Adalar took the dagger and stuck it through his belt. He was smiling. “Yes, Sir Mazael. Thank you.”

  “I’d offer you congratulations,” said Gerald, “but I fear you’ll come to regret this, after the first time Sir Mazael decides to charge an army by himself.”

  “Hilarious,” said Mazael.

  “Wesson should be glad for the reprieve, since he will no longer have to squire for both of us,” said Gerald.

  “Yes, Sir Gerald,” said Wesson. Mazael could not recall ever hearing such sincerity in the boy’s voice.

  “I am proud of you, my son,” said Nathan.

  Othar clapped his free hand on Adalar’s shoulder. “Very good, my boy! I have no doubt you’ll make a splendid squire. You take after your father that way.” The old wizard grinned. “You’ll make a far better squire than Sir Mazael was, I’ll wager.”

  “No challenge there,” said Mazael.

  Othar laughter. “Ha! If Sir Mazael rides you too hard, boy, come to me and I’ll tell you about the time he broke the leg of Lord Willard Highmarch’s eldest son.”

  Adalar’s eyes widened. “You did, Sir Mazael? Robert Highmarch is lord of Highgate now.”

  Mazael had forgotten about that. “The fool had it coming. His father’s armsmaster hadn’t trained him to guard for blows below the waist.”

  “Lord Willard was furious, as I recall,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Why? I did him a favor. It’s good someone taught Robert Highmarch that lesson. If I hadn’t, I doubt Lord Willard would have ever had any grandchildren,” said Mazael.

  Sir Nathan cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go to the great hall. Lord Mitor will be waiting on us...or upon you and Sir Gerald, rather.”

  “I wouldn’t mind making Lord Mitor wait a little longer, in truth,” said Gerald. “I wish my father would meet Lord Mitor before deciding his course. I do not doubt that speaking with Lord Mitor in person would drastically change my father’s opinion regarding certain matters.”

  The guards bowed as they stepped through the keep doors. Lord Mitor, his wife, and his advisors waited within the anteroom to the great hall, clad in their richest finery. Mitor looked like a pear in his green doublet, and Marcelle's gown somehow made her look more vulpine. Rachel was beautiful in a green gown that matched her eyes, but Mazael thought Sir Albron’s arm around her waist ruined her appearance.

  Simonian of Briault stood in the corner, still in his rough brown robes, shadows playing across the craggy planes of his face. Mazael saw the amusement in his murky eyes.

  Lord Marcus quivered with indignation. “You are late! One does not keep the liege lord of the Grim Marches waiting!”

  Mitor waved his hand. “Bah! One does not keep you waiting for your food, that is what you mean to say, Marcus. Sir Mazael has merely ensured that we enter a few moments late, as is appropriate to our high stations.”

  “That’s exactly it,” said Mazael.

  “I was afraid you were not coming, Sir Mazael,” said Rachel.

  “Why? I wouldn’t miss this for all of Lord Richard’s gold,” said Mazael.

  Simonian laughed. “That is generous of you, my lord knight. Richard Mandragon has quite a lot of gold.”

  Mitor’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. His pallor was worse than it had been this morning. Mazael wondered if Mitor was drunk. “That is my gold, by rights.”

  “Truly, my lord,” said Simonian. “Lord Richard shall soon learn that, to his everlasting sorrow. But if your humble servant may make a suggestion, should you not commence with the feasting? Your subjects within the hall grow anxious, my lord, and wish to bask in the light of your wisdom.”

  Flatterers and liars, Mazael thought.

  “Do not presume to advise Lord Mitor, sorcerer,” said Sir Commander Galan.

  Simonian bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord knight, but I cannot wield sword and shield as you do, or lead armies, or inspire the masses. I can only serve my lord as best I can.”

  “Do not concern yourself, my friend,” said Mitor to Sir Commander Galan. “Simonian only seeks to serve me...and I seek to restore the Justiciar order to its ancient rights in the Grim Marches once I am liege lord. Therefore, we are all of one purpose, no?”

  Sir Commander Galan looked anything but pleased. “Very well, Lord Mitor.”

  “Let us proceed, then,” said Mitor. “Mazael, you and Sir Gerald will join me at the high table, as befits my brother and a son of Lord Malden Roland.”

  “Really,” said Mazael. “What of Sir Nathan and Master Othar? They have served the house of Cravenlock well all their lives. Surely they deserve a seat at the high table?”

  Mitor snorted. “They are old and have outlived their usefulness to me.” Mazael saw Adalar tense at the insult to his father, but the old knight remained calm. “Do not quibble with me, Mazael. After all, once Lord Malden comes to my cause, yes, we shall all indeed be of one purpose.”

  Sir Nathan bowed. “If you will excuse me, my lords, Master Othar and I must find our places at the benches. Adalar, remain with Sir Mazael.”

  “Yes, Father,” said Adalar.

  “Now, shall we feast, or shall we stand here and talk all night?” said Mitor. “Tell the herald to begin.”

  Armsmen threw open the double doors to the great hall. Mitor’s herald banged his staff against the marble floor thrice and called out the names. “Lord Mitor Cravenlock, lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches. Lady Marcelle Cravenlock, his wife!” Mitor and his wife marched arm in arm down the aisle between the low tables, almost appearing regal.

  “Lord Marcus Trand, lord of Roseblood Keep!”

  “Mazael,” said Rachel, “I’m sorry we exchanged harsh words earlier today. You were only trying to tell me the truth...at least, the truth as you see it...and there are so few people who will be honest with me.”

  “Now, Rachel,” said Albron. “If Sir Mazael has offended you, he should apologize to you, not the other way around.” He smiled at Mazael. “True knights should remain courteous to ladies at all times.”

  “Lord Roget Hunterson, Lord of Hunter’s Hall!” Old Lord Roget sighed and began the long shuffle down the great hall.

  “Knights are also supposed to speak the truth at all times,” said Mazael. “Didn’t Lord Mitor...oh, wait, Lord Adalon...tell you that when he knighted you?” Mazael had the satisfaction of seeing Albron’s eternal smile turn sour.

  “Sir Commander Galan Hawking, Justiciar Knight, Commander of Justiciar Knights in the Grim Marches!” Sir Commander Galan adjusted his blue cloak with a flourish and marched into the hall, boots clacking against the stone floor.

  Sir Albron laughed. “Now, now, Sir Mazael. You’re setting a poor example for young Adalar Greatheart. We should not bicker like this. It is most unseemly.”

&n
bsp; “Did Lord Adalon tell you that?” said Mazael. “That would be an interesting trick, since you never met him.”

  “Mazael,” said Rachel. “Please, stop this. Albron will be your brother-in-law within the year.”

  “Truly,” said Sir Albron. “There’s no need for such pettiness. I have no doubt that you have a few embellishments in your personal history. Did you really defeat Sir Commander Aeternis in the Mastarian war? Oh, wait, my mistake. That was Sir Mandor Roland, as I recall. And that sword with such a pretty gold lion’s head for the hilt? A trophy of battle, or a bauble picked up in some Knightport vendor’s stall?”

  “Sir Albron Eastwater, armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and his betrothed, Lady Rachel Cravenlock, sister of Lord Mitor!”

  “Ah,” said Albron. “Duty calls. Well, I shall see you at the high table, Sir Mazael, Sir Gerald.” He marched away, Rachel on his arm. Mazael wanted to ram Lion into the man’s back. Rachel gave Mazael a single sad glance over her shoulder, and then walked with her betrothed to the high table.

  “What a remarkably loathsome little man,” said Gerald. “Wesson, take note. When you are a knight, never act as Sir Albron did.”

  “I must apologize for Sir Albron,” said a gravelly voice. Simonian stepped out of the shadows. “He has risen high most quickly. Seven years ago he was a common mercenary. Now, he is armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock and betrothed to Lady Rachel. I fear his pride has risen just as high. He is almost unmanageable at times.”

  “Lord Mitor does not find it so,” said Mazael.

  Simonian laughed. “Indeed. Why would Sir Albron bite the hand that feeds him? So long as Lord Mitor’s star rises, Sir Albron will rise with it.”

  “Until this ship starts to sink,” said Gerald. “Then Albron and all the other rats will swarm out.”

  This seemed to amuse Simonian. “I had not viewed in that way, my lord knight.”

  “Sir Gerald Roland, son of Lord Malden Roland!”

  Gerald straightened. “Well, that’s it, I suppose. Come along, Wesson.” Gerald strode down the hall, scrutinizing every noblewoman in sight.

  “And what of you, wizard?” said Mazael. “What stripe of rat are you?”

  Simonian smiled. “You are direct, are you not? I imagine Sir Tanam Crowley found that out quite well. No doubt our fair young Lady Romaria has accused me of all sorts of vile necromancy. And I shudder to think what Sir Nathan has told you.”

  “How would you know?” said Mazael.

  Simonian spread his callused hands wide. “My lord knight, you know better than that. When there’s a plague, or a famine, or a woman births a deformed child, who is first to catch blame? Why, the wizard, of course. The common folk of Briault always believed such twaddle. And a foreign wizard...even better! Fetch the oil and the torches!” Simonian sighed. “I fear I am misjudged and misunderstood on every turn. I am a simple servant. I simply wish to help Lord Mitor reach his full potential, the heights of greatness.”

  “Really,” said Mazael. “I have difficulty connecting Mitor with greatness.”

  Simonian sighed. “As do I.” His murky eyes glimmered. “But you, my lord knight, you’re different, aren’t you? You always have been, I judge. That fine sword must dance like lightning when you wield it. Who has ever been able to stand against you? None, I should think. Killing comes so naturally to you. And you enjoy it, do you not? Yes, I can see it in your face, in your eyes.”

  Mazael wanted to draw Lion and silence the wizard. But another part wanted to listen. “What are you babbling about?”

  “Potential,” said Simonian. “Mitor is nothing. But you, Mazael Cravenlock, you could be so much more. The herald will call your name soon. When he does, why not march up to the dais, draw that magnificent blade, and separate Mitor’s ugly head from his fat body?”

  Mazael saw it clearly. He saw himself stride up to Mitor, saw Lion flash from its sheath, and saw Mitor’s head roll and bounce down the hall.

  “Think of it,” murmured Simonian. “You could become a greater lord that Mitor ever was. You can end your sister’s absurd betrothal to that strutting fool...marry her to your friend Gerald, perhaps. And Mitor deserves to die, does he not? And you want to kill him, I know you do. I see it in your face. You would enjoy it. Do it.”

  Mazael looked into the hall. He saw Mitor sitting at the high table, fat and weak, his harridan wife perched besides. Around him, Mitor’s covey of fools and allies sat and babbled, Rachel caught in their midst like a rose in a ring of thorns. His gaze wandered down the hall and settled upon Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Yes, Mazael could kill Mitor, but what would they say? What example would that set for Adalar?

  “What sort of lying serpent are you?” said Mazael. “Mitor’s advisor, indeed! What game are you playing? I’ll warrant you’re the one behind all the rumors of witchcraft and necromancy I’ve heard!”

  “No serpent, I assure you," said Simonian.

  “I ought to tell Mitor all this,” said Mazael. “Let’s see how he reacts when he’s confronted with real treason.”

  Simonian’s amusement increased. “He’d never believe you. You do realize that he’s terrified of you?”

  “Get out of my sight,” said Mazael, “else I’ll kill you, and deal with the consequences later.”

  Simonian flinched, then his smile returned. “Yes...I rather believe you would." He bowed and departed for the great hall.

  “Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” boomed the herald, “brother of Lord Mitor.”

  “Adalar,” said Mazael.

  Adalar didn’t answer.

  “Adalar!”

  Adalar twitched. “What...oh, my apologizes, Sir Mazael. My...my attention wandered.” He frowned. “Where did everyone go?”

  “To the feast,” said Mazael. “Didn’t you see?”

  Adalar’s frown deepened. “I...I suppose not.”

  Mazael stared after Simonian. “Go to your father, and tell him that I gave you permission to attend with him.”

  “Are you not coming?” said Adalar.

  “I feel ill,” said Mazael. “The prospect of eating with that pack of serpents is enough to steal anyone’s appetite.”

  “As you command.” Sir Nathan had trained Adalar well. The boy walked through the doors and went to his father’s side.

  Mazael walked out into the comforting coolness of the courtyard. His stomach churned and his head ached, and he felt so tired. Gerald will laugh at this tomorrow, Mazael thought. He went to the King’s Tower to find his bed.

  4

  The Dream

  Mazael stood atop the castle’s curtain wall and looked over the land.

  The Grim Marches had become a desert of cracked earth. The plains lay blasted and dead, the swollen sun hanging in a blood-colored sky. A jumble of broken stone and burned timbers marked the ruins of the town, bleached skeletons strewn about the ruins.

  “It all ends like this, eventually.”

  Mazael turned. “Father?”

  Lord Adalon Cravenlock stood next to him. He looked as Mazael remembered, gray-haired and thin, his face careworn. “Yes. I am.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “You’re dead. You’ve been dead for more than ten years.”

  “True...but I live on through my sons.” His voice was sardonic. He had never taken that tone in life. “Come, my son, let’s go for a walk. We can catch up, you and I. We have so much to talk about.”

  “This is a dream,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon nodded. “Most likely. Would you care to find out?” He walked along the rampart wall, Mazael following. Lord Adalon carried a black staff topped with a silver raven, the sun flashing like flame from the dark wood.

  Lord Adalon swept his arm out over the wall. “Look at it! An improvement, I’d say.”

  “The people are dead,” said Mazael. “The land is a desert. You have a strange idea of improvement.”

  Lord Adalon roared with laughter. “Now, if I had a copper coin for every time someone told me that...why, I could b
uy the world. Several times over. Not strange, my boy, not strange, correct.”

  “And why is that?” said Mazael.

  “Because they’re all dead,” said Lord Adalon. “Every last one of them. They destroyed each other. It always happens. It always ends this way. The heavens fell when the demons rose up. And again and again men build nations, and destroy themselves in war. Tristafel. Dracaryl. The Kingdom of Storm. All mighty nations, now nothing more than dust.” He laughed, his tired eyes sparkling with delight. “Do you know something, Mazael? Do you know something, my son?”

  “What?” said Mazael. Lord Adalon had never spoken like this.

  “They say dark sorcery ruined Tristafel.” Lord Adalon grinned. “But...do you know what? They brought themselves down. The Tristafellin invited in the Great Demon. The wizards wanted more magic. And they created the Demonsouled. They destroyed themselves.” He swept his black staff over the plain. “It doesn’t matter, my boy. No matter how strong an empire is built, no matter how great a kingdom becomes, those nations are still built of mere men, and mere men always end like this. In utter ruin.”

  “Why are you speaking this nonsense?” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon smiled. “Come with me.”

  He hurried down the rampart stairs. The castle’s courtyard lay desolate and empty. Something gleamed in the courtyard’s scorched dirt, and Lord Adalon bent and picked up a silver dagger. His eyes blazed, and his wrist snapped.

  The dagger hurtled for Mazael’s face.

  “Catch!” said Lord Adalon.

  Mazael’s right hand snapped up. He caught the dagger by the hilt. The blade quivered an inch from his eye. He threw it aside and reached for Lion.

  Lord Adalon laughed. “Hold your wrath. I knew you would catch it.”

  “How?” said Mazael.

  “How old are you now, Mazael? Two-and-thirty years? Getting older, aren’t you? When I was that age, I started to slow down. My eyes began to blur, my hands began to shake, and I couldn’t move so fast.”