Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  He laughed harder. “But not you, my son! Not you! You’ve only gotten faster. And stronger as well. A fellow your age should start to feel it...aches just beginning in his bones, death starting to chew just a little. But not you. What a fighter you are, Mazael! What a man! No wonder the lady desires you so.”

  Mazael blinked. Romaria Greenshield stood next to his father, clad in a low-cut black gown. He saw the curves of her breasts and the shape of her hips.

  Lord Adalon walked around her, running his hand over her bare shoulders. “She wants you, yes, but she’s terrified of you. And you don’t even know why, do you?” His fingers tangled in her dark hair. “She’s very beautiful, with hair like night...and those eyes. You’ve never seen eyes like that before, have you? I find her too scrawny, myself. I prefer a woman with more to squeeze. Like your mother, for instance. But Romaria is such a formidable woman. So skilled with that bastard blade. Yet she’s helpless against you.”

  Romaria’s bastard sword gleamed in her hand, and she charged him. Mazael snapped his sword out of its scabbard and parried. A dozen blows flashed in half as many seconds. Then Romaria’s sword went flying, and she fell backwards upon the ground, chest heaving with her breath. She raised her arms, as if inviting Mazael to take her.

  “Helpless,” said Lord Adalon. “They’re all helpless against you. That primping dandy Sir Gerald Roland, Sir Nathan the Dull, even the Dragonslayer himself...what are they, next to you? Nothing.” He crooked a finger. “So sorry to tear you away from your pretty half-breed, but we have a walk to finish. After all, you can take her when you wake up. One more stop.”

  Romaria vanished. Mazael sheathed Lion and followed his father across the courtyard. Lord Adalon jumped up the keep steps and rapped on the door with his staff. The great doors shuddered and opened with a loud groan.

  “Come along, now!” said Lord Adalon, his voice cheerful. “There are a few more people I’d like you to meet.”

  The great hall was empty, the vaulted ceiling arching away into darkness. The high windows glowed a dull red. The metal-shod butt of Lord Adalon’s staff clicked against the polished stone floor. He spun to face Mazael. “Tell me, my boy! What do you think?”

  “Think of what?” said Mazael.

  “This! All of it! Lord Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock...now how does that sound, eh?” Lord Adalon slammed the butt of his staff onto the floor. Ghostly images flitted past, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches came to swear fealty to Lord Mazael Cravenlock. Lord Adalon rapped his staff again, and the images vanished. “And the only thing that keeps Sir Mazael from becoming Lord Mazael is the feeble fluttering of Mitor’s shriveled heart.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I won’t kill him.”

  Lord Adalon snorted. “And why not?”

  “Because Sir Nathan and Master Othar taught me better than that,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon howled laughter. “So they say it’s wrong, then?” He pointed his staff towards the dais. The silver raven’s eyes were red, glowing crystals. “Come then! Let us just see whose life you have so generously spared!”

  They walked to the end of the hall, to the lord's dais.

  Mitor Cravenlock sat in the lord’s seat, his belly bulging against his fine clothes, his arms and legs like twitching sticks. Rachel sat next to him in the lady’s seat, pale and lovely.

  “Older brother, younger sister,” said Mazael’s father. “Lord Adalon’s baby children!” He sneered. “I am so proud!” He tapped Mitor’s stomach with the head of his staff. “Look at this weakling. I doubt he could lift your sword, Sir Mazael.” Lord Adalon twined the fingers of his free hand in Mitor’s hair and yanked back his head. “And so stupid. So very, very stupid. Lord Richard might mount this head above his gates. I wouldn’t. It would make a hideous eyesore.” He let Mitor’s head drop and circled to Rachel.

  “And the Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” said Lord Adalon. He grinned and caressed her cheek with a finger. “Pretty, yes. But I doubt there’s a thought in that comely little head that wasn’t put there by Sir Albron! You know, Mazael, if he told her to jump from the castle walls, why, I’m quite certain she would do it! Now wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

  “Be quiet,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon laughed. “Oh, that’s right! She was your best friend for a time...your only friend. And look what’s she’s become. Lady Rachel is a vase painted bright on the outside, but empty and dead on the inside.” Lord Adalon licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows. “And wanton...do you think she loves Albron for his charming conversation? For his grace and charm? Certainly not! No, she wants him, she lusts for him...”

  “Quiet,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon’s laughter shrieked off the vaulted ceiling. “Feeling angry, my boy? Want to take that fine sword and ram through my lying heart?” Lion glimmered in Mazael’s hand, and Lord Adalon's grin stretched from ear to ear. “Don’t kill the messenger! It’s very bad form. Is it my fault Mitor is a cruel weakling? Is it my fault that Rachel is an empty-headed little flower?” He leveled his staff at Mazael. “And you’re so different from them, aren’t you? So much stronger, so much faster, so much better...why, it’s hard to believe that you came from the same father.”

  “Quiet!” roared Mazael.

  “They hate you,” said Lord Adalon. “Mitor would sell you for power. And Rachel...ah, poor Rachel, how she’s drifted from you...”

  Mazael swung Lion. The sword sheared through Mitor's neck, his head rolling down his chest to land on his lap. Mazael snarled and hacked again and again, Lion ripping and tearing into Mitor's flesh. Blood sprayed everywhere, pooling on the floor, staining the chair, covering Mazael's arms. The scent of Mitor’s lifeblood filled him with satisfaction and a yearning for more.

  Lord Adalon laughed as Mitor's corpse fell in pieces to the floor. Mazael kicked the bloody chunks aside and stalked towards Rachel. She screamed, arms raised in front of her face. Lord Adalon’s laughter rang in his ears. Mazael brought Lion arcing down towards her head...

  He woke up, screaming.

  Mazael’s breath heaved in his chest, sweat dripping down his face, his stomach roiling and twisting. For a moment he could not remember where he was. He stumbled out of bed just in time to empty his guts into the chamber pot.

  “Gods,” he said. “Mitor does disagree with me.” He found a clay pitcher of water on the desk and drained most of it to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth. His stomach lurched, but the water stayed down.

  Mazael caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. He had gone as pale as Mitor. Blood covered his hands, red and thick and gleaming...

  He gaped down at his hands. They were clean.

  “A dream,” he said. “That’s all. A dream.”

  He walked to the window, half-expecting to see endless desert wastes and a burning sun. Instead he saw the castle courtyard and the grasses of the Grim Marches. He heard laughter and music from the great hall. Mazael had never given a damn what Mitor thought and wasn’t going to start now. But tomorrow he would make peace with Rachel. The dream had been too real. He remembered the way Rachel had screamed, and how he had enjoyed that scream and the fear in her eyes...

  “A dream,” Mazael said. He went back to bed.

  Chapter IV

  1

  Armsmaster

  Sunlight rose over the eastern horizon of the Grim Marches and spilled across the plain.

  Mazael walked the courtyard ramparts, as he had every morning of his youth. The bleary-eyed night watchmen bowed or offered a salute as he passed. Word of Captain Brogan’s fate had gotten around.

  Mazael felt better. Sleeping from sunset to sunrise would do that. He bit into the apple had taken from the castle’s orchards.

  The memory of the strange dream had faded. Most likely it had come from his anger at Mitor and Rachael. And he had been living off travel rations for a month, and a month of travel rations would sicken anyone. And Mitor Cravenlock could upset the stron
gest stomach.

  He flicked the apple’s core into the courtyard. Another few days and he would depart Castle Cravenlock and leave Mitor to his ruin. But what would become of Rachel when Lord Richard crushed Mitor’s delusions of liege lordship? Mazael considered abducting her himself and taking her back to Knightcastle. She would be better off at Lord Malden’s court than in the clutches of Mitor and Albron Eastwater.

  Mazael decided to consider it later. Sleep had slowed his muscles, and he needed morning sword practice to loosen them.

  “Sir Mazael?”

  Timothy deBlanc climbed up the rampart stairs, his black cloak fluttering in the wind. On the collar and shoulders of his black cloak he wore a variety of small metal badges marked with different sigils. Each sigil represented a magical spell he had learned.

  “You’re up early,” said Mazael.

  “Revels...ah, do not agree with me, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “We appear to share that preference.”

  “I enjoy a feast as well as any man,” said Mazael. “But I prefer my own company to that of certain others.”

  “I cannot hold drink very well, I must confess. I left quickly. Yet Master Othar had already drained four tankards of ale!” said Timothy.

  Mazael laughed. “He’s not what you expected?”

  “No, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “Ah...I do not mean that as an insult, please understand. He’s skilled in the magical arts. In just the last afternoon, he showed me a dozen ways to improve upon my spells.”

  Mazael nodded. “Lord Mitor should have kept him as court wizard.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Timothy. “Master Othar is a skilled master wizard, but this Simonian of Briault...Simonian is...unknown.”

  “Simonian is a lying schemer, you mean to say,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria thinks he is the wizard she seeks.”

  “It is possible,” said Timothy. “Briault is full of practitioners of dark arts, warlocks and necromancers...or so I’ve read. I’ve never actually been there.” He coughed into his fist. “I...ah, well, it’s a terrible breach of etiquette, but my curiosity got the better...”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “I cast one of the minor spells before I left the feast. One to sense the presence of magic,” said Timothy. “Simonian has a spell resting upon him.”

  Mazael frowned. “What sort of spell?”

  “I...don’t know, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “I didn’t recognize it. And I feared Simonian might notice me, so I released my spell before I could seek further.”

  “That was likely wise,” said Mazael. He remembered the gleeful amusement in Simonian’s eyes. “He seems dangerous. If he suspected you of meddling, I doubt he would spare you harm.”

  Timothy tugged at his beard. “I’ve lately had no shortage of men trying to kill me.”

  “I’ll have to tell this to Master Othar,” said Mazael. “He likely has a spell that can reveal more about Simonian. Thank you.”

  “Yes. And...there is another reason I’d like to speak with you this morning, my lord knight,” said Timothy.

  “Well, out with it,” said Mazael.

  Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah...I would like to swear to your service...if you’ll take me, that is.”

  Mazael frowned. “You mean Lord Mitor’s service?”

  Timothy shook his head. “No, Sir Mazael. Your service.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “I thought you had come all this way to learn from Master Othar.”

  “Well, yes,” said Timothy. “But Master Othar hardly needs help executing his duties. And he is a good man, my lord knight...but this castle...” He shrugged. “I do not like it here. That is all I can say.”

  Mazael laughed. “You’re not alone in that, wizard. Go on.”

  “And...” Timothy shrugged. “I would rather serve you, my lord knight, than swear to your brother Lord Mitor.” He sighed. “The gallows in the town...I have seen many such executions in my life. I always wanted to put a stop to it, but I had not, and still do not have, the power. Sir Mazael, you are the sort of man who has that power, and I would follow you.”

  Mazael snorted. “Don’t fill your head with notions of chivalry and adventure, wizard. My life is a hard one. If you swear to me, you’ll spend your days riding back and forth on Lord Malden’s errands in fair, and usually foul, weather, with bad food.”

  “I understand,” said Timothy. “I spent most my youth sleeping under trees, and I slept in a bare stone cell during my time at Alborg.”

  “If you’re determined...well, then, who am I to turn away help?” said Mazael. He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Timothy knelt, and Mazael laid the flat of the blade on the wizard’s right shoulder. “Timothy deBlanc, wizard of Travia, do you swear to be my true and faithful servant?”

  “Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Timothy.

  “In return, I swear to provide you with food, clothing, and the protection of my sword. Do you accept this oath?” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Timothy.

  “It’s done, then,” said Mazael. He offered his hand and helped Timothy back up.

  “So quickly?” said Timothy.

  Mazael frowned. “The full version of those oaths are longer. I don’t have the time or patience to recite them, even if I could remember them. First a squire and then a wizard. I’ll have a bloody court of my own by the time I return to Knightcastle.” He frowned. “Speaking of which, here’s your first task. Find where my squire has gotten...”

  “Oh,” said Timothy. “He’s over there.”

  Adalar Greatheart jogged up the rampart stairs. Mazael could have killed the boy with a quick push and a long fall to the courtyard, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.

  “I went to your rooms, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar, “but you weren’t there.”

  “I rose early," said Mazael. "Take a room in my chambers in the King’s Tower.”

  “Would that be inconvenient?” said Adalar.

  Mazael snorted. “Inconvenient? There’s room to quarter an army in the King’s Tower.”

  “Thank you, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I’ll move my possessions in at once...”

  Mazael waved his hand. “Do it later. Now, you can tell me where Sir Albron keeps morning arms practice.” He frowned. “Sir Albron does have morning arms practice, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course,” said Adalar. “It is held over on the other side of the castle, in the courtyard between the armory and the barracks.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Below them, Castle Cravenlock came awake as servants hurried to their duties. Squires and grooms descended on the stables. The watch changed, tired night guards going for their beds, while rested men came to take their places on the ramparts. Singing rose from the castle's chapel, and a deep red glow and the sound of ringing metal came from the forges. Suits of chain mail rested on wooden stands, while completed swords and maces leaned against the forges’ walls. The smell of cooking bread rose from the kitchen, and Mazael's stomach rumbled. Perhaps he would pay a visit to the kitchens later.

  They made a complete circuit of the castle’s walls and came to the stretch of rampart overlooking the yard between the barracks and the armory. Two hundred armsmen milled about, bearing wooden practice weapons, Sir Albron directing them. Further down the battlements, Mazael saw see Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Rachel stood with them, her eyes on Sir Albron. Mazael grimaced, stiffened his resolve, and went to join them.

  “Father,” said Adalar.

  “Adalar. Sir Mazael,” said Nathan. Rachel’s hands clutched at her sleeves.

  “Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.

  “I trust you are well? Adalar told me of your sickness,” said Nathan.

  “I’m well enough,” said Mazael. “After a night of sleep and emptying my guts into the chamber pot, I feel fine.”

  “A pity you missed the feast, boy,” said Othar. He rapped the tip of his cane against a battlement. “A man should never pass up an opportunity for fine food and stron
g drink, I say.”

  “You ate and drank to disgraceful excess, as always,” said Nathan.

  “Absolutely!” said Othar. “I’m an old man, Sir Nathan. I want to enjoy my last years on earth. If I’d wanted a life of austerity, I’d have joined the Cirstarcians.”

  “I’m older than you,” said Nathan.

  Othar waved a meaty hand. “Yes, yes, obey your elders and all of that.” He winked at Adalar. “My boy, let me give you a piece of valuable advice. Just because a man is your elder does not necessarily mean that he is your better.”

  “I know,” said Mazael, thinking of Mitor.

  “Do not poison my son’s mind,” said Nathan.

  Othar rolled his eyes. “Poison? You wound me, old friend. I just want to insure that the boy has proper appreciation for the gift that is life.” He slapped Mazael on the shoulder. “Now, if it wasn’t for me, Mazael would be as dry and dull as you.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” said Nathan.

  “Besides, if we do not enjoy life, then all that is left is our worries and cares,” said Othar. He frowned. “And there are so many of those.”

  “Lady Rachel,” said Mazael, “how are you this morning?”

  Rachel smiled, her eyes fever bright. “I...I am well. And you?”

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “Where is Mitor?”

  “Lord Mitor...does not usually rise before noon,” said Rachel. “Nor the lady Marcelle.”

  Othar snorted. “Bah! And you say I drink to excess, Nathan.”

  “I left early, as well,” said Rachel. “Albron and Mitor often discuss matters of state during the meal. I find that leaves me with little appetite.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Mazael, “considering ‘matters of state’ just gave you three days in the company of Sir Tanam Crowley.”

  “I wanted to rise early,” said Rachel. “Albron likes it when I come to watch him train the men.”

  “Does he, now?” said Mazael. “Rachel, I think you’re making a mistake, marrying him. But I suppose it’s your mistake to make.”