Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  The dull tip of his wooden sword plunged into Albron’s stomach, and six inches of splintered wood disappeared into Albron's belly. Mazael felt the sword scrape against bone. It was impossible. The wooden sword couldn’t have impaled Albron. Yet Mazael saw it with his own eyes. Mazael waited for Albron’s face to pale, for the blood to gush from his mouth and his stomach.

  Instead, Albron shook his head and stepped free.

  Mazael’s eyes darted from the tip of his sword to Albron’s stomach. No blood marked the wood.

  “How?” said Mazael.

  “You ought to know,” said Albron. “After all, you did win. I didn’t even hit you once. Well...fought.” His eyes were hard and angry.

  “But I saw the sword go in!” said Mazael. “I felt it scrape against your spine! You ought to be bleeding to death.”

  Rachel ran to them. “Albron! Oh, Albron, you’re hurt!” She frowned. “You’re...but...I saw Mazael run you through.”

  Albron laughed. “Ah, you worry for me so. No need. Your brother can’t kill me.”

  “But I saw the sword go in,” said Mazael.

  Albron shrugged and a put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Men see many strange things in the heat of battle. Most like your sword caught up in my clothes.”

  Mazael stared at Albron. “That must be it.” He had seen the blade go in. He had felt it scrape against bone. Mazael had felt that scrape a hundred times before in battle. “That must be it, I suppose.”

  “You must be more careful, Albron. If you were to die...well, what would we do, then?” said Rachel.

  Albron jerked his arm away. “Wither and perish. If you’ll excuse me, I have business." He stalked from the practice field, Rachel trailing after him like a faithful dog. Mazael wiped sweat from his brow as Romaria and Sir Nathan came to join him.

  “What a remarkably chivalrous loser,” said Romaria.

  Adalar took the battered wooden sword and handed him a clay pitcher, and Mazael drank. “What a bad swordsman, you mean. The man has potential, I’ll give him that. But he doesn’t know...”

  “It’s as if he learned perfectly how to use that sword yesterday,” said Romaria, “but hasn’t been able to practice the skill.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly it,” said Mazael, handing the pitcher back to Adalar. “It’s like his hands but not his mind knew how to use a sword.”

  “I noticed that, as well,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Fighting with the blade is an art,” said Romaria, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It combines mind and body and spirit. Albron’s body knew that art, I saw ...but his mind and spirit did not.”

  Mazael stared after Albron. “And that sword. I saw it go into his belly. I would swear it.”

  Sir Nathan frowned. “I thought it had, for a moment. But he stood. A man could not stand after taking such a wound.” He shrugged. “Besides, you were fighting with dulled wooden blades. You would have to fall with the sword beneath you to drive it into flesh.”

  “I saw it as well,” said Adalar.

  “As did I,” said Romaria. “So did half the garrison, I would wager.”

  Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah, my lord knights and lady, if I may speak? Sir Mazael, it concerns the matter we spoke of earlier ...”

  “Go ahead,” said Mazael. “I trust everyone here.”

  “Why, how flattering,” said Romaria.

  “My lord...I observed, discreetly, of course, during your fight that Sir Albron carries an enchantment about him,” said Timothy.

  Silence answered his pronouncement.

  “As well?” said Romaria. “Who else?”

  “Simonian of Briault, my lady,” said Timothy. “He and Sir Albron have similar spells cast upon them.”

  “What sort of spell?” said Mazael.

  “I do not know,” said Timothy.

  “Could you determine who had cast the spells?” said Romaria.

  Timothy shook his head, flustered. “Ah...no, Lady Romaria. I have yet to develop my skill to such a high degree.”

  “A spell of protection,” said Mazael. “I knew that sword had gone in. Albron must have had some magic to keep him safe from injury.”

  “Then who cast the spell on him?” said Romaria.

  “Could Othar have done it?” said Mazael.

  Nathan shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “That would leave Simonian,” said Romaria.

  “Perhaps Albron is Simonian’s creature,” said Mazael.

  Sir Nathan shrugged. “It is possible.”

  “More wizard’s trickery,” said Mazael. He remembered Simonian's casual request for Mitor’s death.

  Sir Nathan frowned. “You may be right, Mazael. But we have no proof. We cannot act without proof.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Romaria.

  “Find proof,” said Mazael. “But first, I’m going to find breakfast.”

  Romaria smiled and touched his arm. “I think I’ll join you.”

  3

  Mazael Visits the Kitchens

  “Sir Gerald!” said Mazael.

  Sir Gerald descended the steps to the chapel, his sheathed longsword's pommel flashing in the morning son. Wesson trailed after, bearing Gerald’s shield.

  “Sir Mazael,” said Gerald. “I missed you at the feast. What detained you?”

  “I fell ill,” said Mazael.

  “You? You never take sick,” said Gerald. “Are you sure you are well?”

  “I feel fine now,” said Mazael. “You missed morning practice, Gerald.”

  “I wanted to attend morning prayer,” said Gerald with a sigh.

  Mazael laughed. “Why so glum? Confessing your sins puts you into a better mood for hours.”

  Gerald scowled. “You should try it.” Romaria snickered. “No, what upsets me is the chapel’s condition.”

  The ancient chapel dated back to the old kingdom of Dracaryl. The massive building had stone walls, high, narrow windows, and a domed roof. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon, Father of the Gods, rested atop the dome. “It looks fine to me.”

  “The outside does, yes,” said Gerald. “These old chapels were built like fortresses. In Dracaryl I suppose they were built to take blasts of dragon fire. It’s the interior that troubles me.”

  “What about it?” said Mazael.

  “A mess,” said Gerald. “I’ve rarely seen such open disrespect, Mazael! The floor looks as if it was used to stable horses. The pews are dusty and have been carved with all manner of vile obscenities. And those priests, and those acolytes.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen such an ill-trained bunch! They stumbled through the liturgy. I doubt they even know more than five or six words of High Tristafellin.”

  “Mitor was never one for piety,” said Mazael.

  “Your whole family seems that way,” said Gerald.

  “That’s insulting,” said Romaria.

  Gerald shrugged. “Mazael is hardly the most pious of men, but he’s not a blasphemer. Lord Mitor borders upon it.”

  “Perhaps we’ll be fortunate and the gods will strike Mitor dead,” said Mazael.

  “Let’s leave this place,” said Gerald. “I do not like it. No doubt Lord Mitor is awaiting us for breakfast.”

  Mazael laughed. “I doubt it. Lord Mitor feasted last night. He might rouse himself in time for supper, though I wouldn’t wager on it.”

  “Lord Mitor reminds me of Wesson’s father,” said Gerald. “They call him Lord Tancred the Tankard. I’ve seen him drink like a fish. But Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man drink so much. It was as if they drank to escape all the demons of all the hells. And the court followed suit. Such debauchery. And I shudder to think what followed in the hay lofts and in the dark corners.”

  Mazael laughed. “We need to find you a wife.”

  “Why?” said Gerald.

  Mazael laughed harder and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go get breakfast.”


  He led Romaria and Gerald around the back of the chapel and towards the kitchen’s rear door. He felt eyes on him as he walked. Servants faltered in their stride and armsmen gaped.

  “They’re staring at us,” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Romaria. “They’re staring at Mazael. They saw the way he fought.”

  “That’s hardly new,” said Gerald. “Sir Mazael has always fought well.”

  “Yes, but he defeated Sir Albron in sword practice,” said Romaria.

  Gerald whistled. “That will raise attention.”

  Mazael snorted. “It shouldn’t. It wasn’t impressive. Yes, yes, I know, Romaria. If I could defeat him, then the great and powerful Lord Richard should have little difficulty vanquishing Albron.”

  “Is Lord Mitor incapable of leading his own armies?” said Romaria.

  Mazael snorted. “What do you think? In armor, Mitor would look like a pear in chain mail.”

  They came to the back of the kitchens. A stout old woman brandished a broom, herding a trio of clucking chickens back into an old coop. Mazael felt heat radiating from the ovens, and he stepped through the back door. The kitchens were vast, a dozen ovens ablaze as cooks labored to feed the castle's armsmen, servants, and nobles.

  “Sir Mazael!”

  Mazael turned. A young woman in a soot-stained apron approached. Her sweat-stained clothes stuck to her body. It made for a pleasant sight.

  Especially since when Mazael had last seen her, Bethany had a noose around her neck.

  “Do you remember me?” said Bethy. “Or do you go about saving women and children so often that it’s all another day’s work to you?”

  Gerald laughed. “You’d be surprised what occupies Sir Mazael’s days, lady.”

  “And how are you faring in the kitchens, Bethy?” said Mazael.

  Bethy sighed. “Well enough, I suppose. Master Cramton has taken over the kitchens.” The fat man bellowed orders on the other side of the room. “Lord Mitor had no one running things, if you can believe it. I miss the old inn, though.”

  “At least you’re alive,” said Romaria.

  “That’s true,” said Bethy. She grinned, her teeth white in her sooty face. “I saw you beat Albron, Sir Mazael. You whipped him right and good.”

  Mazael shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”

  “Aye, I’ve never seen a man fight like you, so I have!” said Bethy. “And if there’s ever a man that deserved a good whipping, it was that Sir Albron.”

  Mazael thought of Rachel. “I couldn’t disagree.”

  Bethy’s eyes sparkled. “But, oh, the way you and the lady fought!”

  “You fought a woman?” said Gerald.

  Romaria turned on him. “So? He couldn’t beat me.”

  “He couldn’t? But...it...is not chivalrous,” said Gerald.

  “I’d never seen anything like it, Sir Gerald,” said Bethy. “They moved together, and so fast, so...graceful, it was like watching a great ball, where the lords and ladies wear their silks. Except it was swords, instead of silks, I suppose.”

  “She beat you?” said Gerald, incredulous.

  “Oh, no, my lord handsome knight,” said Bethy. “No one won. It was a stalemate, just like in the songs.”

  “Songs? I wonder what Mattias Comorian would say of that,” said Mazael.

  “Who?” said Romaria.

  “Just a jongleur I met,” said Mazael, wondering what had brought him to mind.

  “Their swords crashed together,” said Bethy, “and then they shattered, and all that was left was the splintered hilts. I’d never seen anything so wondrous as that fight, so I have. Neither had half of those armsmen, too, the way they stood about with their mouths hanging open.” She snorted. “It’s the likes of them that are supposed to defend us from the Dragonslayer lord? I’m betting that if Sir Mazael and the Lady Romaria stood together, they could fight his army themselves.”

  “A pity I missed this,” said Gerald. “The gods know I wouldn’t have missed much by passing up on morning prayers.”

  Bethy wrinkled her nose. “Bah, I don’t hold with that lot, those chapel priests with their mutterings. They spend half their time drunk and the other half staring at me and the other girls as if they’d like to see us with no clothes.” She winked at Gerald. “Of course, you do too, but with you, it’s different.” Wesson smothered a snicker.

  “But...” said Gerald. “I most certainly—I did—I didn’t, I mean—”

  “Oh, but I’m being rude!” said Bethy. “Why, you likely came here for food, not to listen to me babble! Master Cramton would bellow my ears off if he saw me standing about chattering with you hungry. Let me run and get you some food.” She winked at Gerald again and hurried off, leaving the young knight speechless.

  “Sir Mazael is right,” said Romaria. “He does need to find you a wife.”

  Gerald sighed.

  “And what of you, Sir Mazael?” said Romaria. “Have you no plans to wed?”

  Mazael laughed and looked over the bustling kitchen. “I doubt it.”

  Gerald laughed. “My father will likely find some pretty but brainless minor noblewoman for you. You’re almost two-and-thirty. He has said that it was past time you married.”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Your father acts only for power and prestige. Were I Lord of Castle Cravenlock, he’d offer his daughter.”

  “The Elderborn believe that marriages are fate, the joining of two hearts,” said Romaria.

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” said Mazael. “Marriage is about lust and money. Love is a ploy for the jongleurs’ songs.”

  “I am not hungry. Excuse me,” said Romaria.

  “She’s a strange woman,” said Gerald, tugging at his mustache.

  “Yes, but I don’t hold it against her,” said Mazael. Women either bored him or inspired lust, but he had never met anyone like her before. And he had never met anyone who could have fought him to a standstill.

  Bethy returned, bearing hollowed heels of bread filled with steaming beef. “Here you are." She smiled at Gerald. “I put a bit of extra in yours.”

  “I’m sure he’s flattered,” said Mazael. “Anything to drink?”

  “Oh!” said Bethy. “I’d forgotten.” She disappeared into the chaos of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a pitcher of ale. “Now, drink up."

  “Gladly,” said Mazael. He drained a large part of the pitcher and handed it to Gerald. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” said Bethy. “For you, we’d prepare a feast, we would! Besides, with Lord Mitor sick as an old dog from too much drink, we needn't worry about preparing his breakfast.”

  Gerald snorted. “That’s hardly appropriate!”

  Bethy smiled at him. “Oh, but it’s true, isn’t it? I bet you tell the truth all the time, don’t you?”

  “A knight must strive to act honestly and honorably at all times,” announced Gerald.

  Bethy laughed. “Oh...so they swear,” she said. She shook her head. “But give me a copper coin for every one that doesn’t...why, I’d have more money than the Lord Dragonslayer. But you and Sir Mazael, you’re different. This isn’t your place.” Her eyes darted back and forth, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Lord Mitor and Lady Rachel and Sir Albron and...that wizard, the Briaultan fellow...they’re all bad sorts, all of them.”

  “Not Rachel,” said Mazael. “What are you saying?”

  “Leave,” said Bethy. “Right now. This isn’t a good place. I don’t think you’re welcome here. You take Lady Romaria and your squire and your friends and leave and don’t ever come back.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Mazael.

  Bethy paled. “I’ve...said too much...I’m just babbling...I’m a bit tired...”

  She spun and ran away.

  Chapter V

  1

  Romaria’s Tale

  Mitor’s head exploded from his shoulders in a shower of gore, his body crumpling. Mazael sneered and kicked the head aside.
Blood pooled on the marble floor, gleaming like liquid ruby, and Mazael heard Lord Adalon's laughter.

  Rachel screamed and backed away. Mazael raised Lion, blood dripping down the sharp blade...

  He awoke with a strangled scream, sweat dripping down his jaw. For a moment he thought he saw Rachel’s severed head lying its pool of blood, the green eyes staring at him...

  “Sir Mazael?” Adalar stood near the bed.

  “What?” said Mazael, his voice a rasp.

  “I heard you shouting...” said Adalar.

  “Nothing,” said Mazael. “It was nothing. Go back to sleep.” He stood and tried to find his boots. “I'll take a walk. The night air will clear my head.”

  “If...if you say so, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. The squire turned and went back to his chamber. Mazael wondered what he had shouted out in his sleep. His head ached, worse than any hangover he had ever had, and he shut his eyes and pressed his hands to his temple. After a few moments, the pain faded. He reached for his sword belt, remembered the dream, and let his blade fall.

  He climbed the stairs to the top of the King’s Tower. A wooden ladder reached the tower's turret, and Mazael pulled himself onto the roof. The cool wind blew past him, tugging at his cloak and running chilled fingers through his hair. Mazael leaned against the battlements. He could see the land for miles around, the stars blazing overhead.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Mazael said.

  Killing came easily to him. He had often entertained the notion of killing Mitor. But the dreams were so vivid. He could still see the blood staining the marble stairs, could still smell Mitor's fear. And Rachel...gods, he loved Rachel, he had never wanted to hurt her, not even now.

  It was Castle Cravenlock. He had memories here, some good, many dark. It was good to see Sir Nathan and Master Othar and Rachel again. But Mitor had grown from a cruel, lazy boy to a cruel, foolish man. No wonder Sir Nathan had given Adalar to Mazael as squire. The old knight likely wanted his son far away when Lord Richard dealt with Mitor’s rebellion.

  Mazael decided to leave tomorrow. He would leave Mitor behind, he would leave the scheming Simonian behind, and he would leave the dreams behind. Let Mitor smash himself against the Dragonslayer. He would take Rachel with him tomorrow, whether she wanted to come or not. Better that he drag her to Lord Malden’s court than to leave her here in the grasp of a creature like Sir Albron.