Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Something scraped against the stone.

  His hand shot to his sword hilt but banged against his hip, and he berated himself for leaving his sword in his room. He reached for his boot and yanked free a short dagger. Mazael peered over the battlement, glimpsed a dark form making its way across the roof of the keep.

  Could the wealthy Lord Richard have hired assassins? Mazael tucked the dagger into his belt, vaulted onto the battlements, and jumped. His boots hit the roof of the keep with a slap. The dark form spun, and Mazael raised the dagger for a throw.

  It was Romaria. She wore tight-fitting trousers and a tunic with the sleeves cut away. Her marvelous eyes widened in fear as she saw him.

  Then she recognized him and amusement almost replaced the fear. “Good to see you, too.”

  “What in the gods’ name are you doing? I could have killed you.”

  Romaria shrugged. “Everyone dies. I could ask the same of you.”

  “I saw you,” said Mazael. He slid his dagger back into its boot sheath. “I could not sleep. I came out to the tower’s roof to think and saw you crawling about. That wasn’t a good idea, my lady. And you still haven’t told me what you’re even doing up here.”

  “I like to climb things,” said Romaria.

  “Climb things?” said Mazael.

  “I find it relaxing,” said Romaria.

  Mazael’s annoyance evaporated. “You would, wouldn’t you? Just don’t fall. Give the guards some warning, first. I would be displeased if someone put a crossbow bolt through your chest.”

  “Would you?” said Romaria. “Flattering. And the guards didn’t see me. Lord Richard could march his whole army into the castle, and Mitor wouldn’t notice them until his hangover passed.”

  Mazael laughed. “Gods, I suppose you’re right.”

  Romaria tossed her head, hair sliding over her shoulder. “And they couldn’t hit me. You saw the way they stumbled over each other this morning. I doubt they could hit the side of the castle...”

  He noticed something.

  Her voice broke off as Mazael stepped towards her. A dozen expressions flashed across her face, and for a moment she trembled like a deer mesmerized by a wolf.. Mazael reached for her neck, pushing back her thick black hair to reveal her ears.

  They came to delicate points.

  “Who are you?” said Mazael. “You don’t look like one of the Elderborn. But you move like one, and those eyes...”

  “I am who I told you I am,” Romaria said. “Romaria Greenshield, the daughter of Lord Athaelin of Deepforest Keep.”

  “Are the Greenshields all Elderborn?” asked Mazael.

  “No,” said Romaria. “My father is human, but my mother was the Elderborn high priestess. I have the blood of both races.”

  “How did that happen?” said Mazael. He drew back his hand, his fingers lingering on the skin of her neck. “I thought the two races never mated with each other.”

  “It’s always been this way,” said Romaria. “The old Dragon Kings of Dracaryl sent the first Greenshield to the Great Forest to conquer the tribes. Instead he made a peace with them and took the high priestess to wife...though they rarely have children. It’s been that way ever since, for thousands of years. Deepforest Keep has outlasted Malrag invasions, the great Holy War, and a dozen other battles.” She smiled. “It will outlast Lord Mitor and Lord Richard, and even you and me.”

  “Why do you hide it?” said Mazael.

  “I didn’t want to,” Romaria said, “but I know how the peasants feel about the Elderborn...wood demons and other nonsense. And even the other Elderborn believe ‘half-breeds’ are...inferior.” Her eyes turned flinty for a moment. “You don’t think that, do you?”

  Mazael kissed her on the forehead. “What do you think?”

  Romaria kissed him back on the lips. “I knew it.”

  Mazael snorted. “Gods forbid I should agree with Mitor.”

  Romaria laughed. “And if you do, should I kill you?”

  “Probably,” said Mazael. “At least, you should try.”

  “You ought to kill Mitor,” said Romaria, “and save us all a horrible amount of bloodshed.”

  Mazael frowned, remembering Simonian’s words. “I won’t kill Mitor. I don’t like him. I detest him, in truth. But he’s my brother and I can’t kill him.”

  “I was half-joking,” said Romaria. “He would never survive the Ritual of Rulership.”

  “What’s that?” said Mazael.

  “It’s a test,” said Romaria. “When the old lord of Deepforest Keep dies, his heir undergoes the Ritual in the druids’ caverns under the Keep. It’s a test of strength of will and strength of body. No one knows what goes into it, save the heir and the druids. If the heir succeeds, he walks out of the caverns as the new Lord of Deepforest Keep. If the heir fails...well, he doesn’t walk out at all, and the nearest blood relation takes the Ritual.”

  “Sounds efficient, I suppose,” said Mazael.

  “Oh, it is,” said Romaria. “It ensures that only one worthy takes the mantle of ruling.” Her smile turned mocking. “Deepforest Keep has never had a lord like Mitor.”

  “Then your home’s the better for it,” said Mazael. “What’s it like?”

  “What?” said Romaria.

  “Your home,” said Mazael. “Deepforest Keep.”

  This time Romaria's smile held no mockery. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world. The castle’s been built with the trees, over the years. Great oaks taller than this castle form the pillars of the great hall. The town, humans and Elderborn alike, live in the trees, in houses built within the branches. And the gardens...the druids blessed the gardens with their earth magic. You’ll never see larger fruits and vegetables, Mazael, no matter how long you live and how far you travel.” Starlight glinted in her eyes. “I’ve visited the Old Kingdoms in the south and Travia in the north, and many places in between, but there is nowhere more beautiful than my home.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see it for myself, one day,” said Mazael.

  “Where’s home for you?” said Romaria.

  “Home?” said Mazael. “I never gave it much thought.” He shrugged. “Not here, that’s for certain. Knightcastle, maybe...but I’ve rarely stayed there more than four months out of the year. My home is on the road. I’ve spent most of the last fifteen years riding from place to place.”

  “You were a knight-errant?” said Romaria.

  Mazael nodded. “My father turned me out after Lord Richard’s victory.”

  “Where have you traveled?” said Romaria. “You must have seen most of the kingdom.”

  Mazael shrugged. “Here and there. Through the Stormvales and the Green Plain, and then I rode with the Iron Lancers of Barellion.”

  “What’s the most beautiful place you’ve seen?” said Romaria.

  Mazael thought it over for a moment. “Stillwater...the lands and castle of Wesson’s father. It’s this little valley in the Knightrealm hills, near the River of Jarrsen. The mists come down from the hills in the morning ...” He shook his head. “But I think the most beautiful thing I’ve seen is you.”

  Romaria looked away. “Flatterer. You really mean that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Mazael. He laughed. “Gods help me, I do. I don’t know why. But I do.”

  “He told me I would meet you,” said Romaria, voice distant.

  “Who?” said Mazael.

  “The Seer,” said Romaria.

  “Who is that?” said Mazael.

  “He’s a druid, I suppose. I don’t know,” she said. “He’s a Elderborn and has no other name. We all call him the Seer. He has visions. They come true.”

  “Is he some sort of wizard?” said Mazael.

  “No. A druid,” said Romaria. “There’s only one Seer born every generation...for the Elderborn, that’s around a hundred and fifty years. He receives his powers and his mantle in a ceremony.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “When Father sent me north, to find the wizard ra
ising the zuvembies, the Seer...the Seer told me I would meet you.”

  “How would he know that I was coming?” said Mazael.

  “I don’t know,” said Romaria. “He said I would face a demon...and that I would meet you.” Her voice became hysterical. “He said...he said you were a man with a lion’s fang for a sword, who could move faster than any other, and could kill any man...and that you...that I would...”

  And to Mazael’s astonishment she began to cry. He took her in his arms, and her face fell against his shoulder. It had been a very strange day. He held her and tried to think of something to say.

  Romaria sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “Gods, look at me.”

  “What did he say?” said Mazael.

  “I...don’t...I don’t want to talk about it now,” said Romaria. She managed a feeble smile. “I just hope that for the first time the Seer was wrong.”

  Mazael laughed. “When I was in Barellion, this old gypsy woman predicted that I would rise to great power and fame. Unless spending my nights sleeping on cold ground is greatness, she was wrong. Your Seer is probably no better.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Romaria.

  “Come with me,” said Mazael.

  Romaria laughed. “What?”

  “Come with me,” said Mazael. “Mitor’s a sinking ship. Lord Richard will crush him and most likely he’ll kill your dark wizard. I’m leaving tomorrow, and taking Master Othar and Sir Nathan if they’ll come. Why don’t you come with me? You’ve seen the Old Kingdoms and Travia...why not see the rest of the kingdom? I would like you would come with me.” He could not believe what he had just said. He wondered what Lord Malden would say when he saw Romaria Greenshield. Mazael decided that he didn’t care.

  “I can’t,” said Romaria. “I would like to, but I must stay. I was sent to kill this dark wizard, and that is what I mean to do. You have to stay, as well.”

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “Because if you had seen a zuvembie, you would know that whoever would raise such a monstrosity must be stopped,” said Romaria. “And you can’t leave. This is your family, where you were born. I know you don’t care for Lord Mitor, but I think you loved your sister, once. Will you leave her to the mercy of Lord Richard?”

  Mazael was silent. “I don’t know. She’s changed.”

  “Then stay,” said Romaria.

  Mazael kept silent and stared out over the courtyard.

  “I think I shall retire,” said Romaria. “Climbing up the keep is tiring.”

  Mazael reached out and took her hand. “I’ll stay. Don’t go. I haven’t been sleeping well, lately.”

  Romaria smiled. She stayed.

  2

  Mitor’s Plans

  “Lord Mitor commands your presence at once in the great hall,” said the page.

  Mazael stared at the boy. “Does he, now?”

  The page’s face whitened. “Ah...he sent me to tell you, Sir Mazael, if you please.”

  Mazael waved a hand. “Go. Tell him I shall be there shortly.”

  The page ran from the room. Mazael yawned, leaned back in his chair, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He had not slept at all last night. That was fine. If he did not sleep, he did not dream.

  Timothy returned, bearing a clay cup filled with a vile-smelling black fluid. “It is ready, my lord knight.”

  Mazael took the cup and sniffed. “What is it?”

  “A southern elixir made from the beans of a wild plant,” said Timothy. “It is called coffee. I understand it is quite popular among scholars.”

  Mazael sipped at it. “Tastes vile.”

  “It does,” said Timothy.

  “Will it keep me awake?” said Mazael.

  “Oh, yes,” said Timothy.

  Mazael shrugged and drained the cup in one long draught. The black liquid burned like hot pitch going down. “Strong stuff. Thank you. Adalar!” Adalar handed Mazael his sword belt. Mazael rose, exited his chambers, and started down the stairs. The wizard and the squire followed him.

  He found Gerald waiting in the courtyard, with Wesson standing behind him. Gerald’s armor had been polished, and the leather of his sword belt and boots gleamed. No doubt Gerald had kept Wesson quite busy last night.

  “You look awful!” said Gerald.

  “And a fine morning to you, as well,” said Mazael.

  “I mean no insult,” said Gerald. “You look ill again, Mazael. You should speak with Master Othar.”

  “I’ve spoken to a wizard,” said Mazael. He felt the aftertaste of the coffee. Gods, that was foul stuff. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

  “He didn’t.” Romaria stepped out from the entrance to the King’s Tower. She wore her traveling clothes and her worn green cloak. “I should know. I was with him.”

  Color flushed Gerald’s cheeks. Mazael heard Wesson’s ribald snicker. “Ah...I see...I did not mean to pry...”

  Mazael laughed. “Never mind, Gerald. Let’s go see what Mitor wants.”

  They crossed the courtyard and entered the anteroom to the great hall. A herald in Cravenlock livery raised a hand for them to halt. Mazael walked past, and left the flustered herald behind.

  Mitor stood at the high table with Marcelle, his advisors, his allies, and his vassals - Sir Commander Galan in his armor, Lord Marcus and Lord Roget in their finery, Albron in his mail, Rachel at his side. And Simonian, watching Mazael with a smile. Mazael wanted to sprint up the dais and gut the wizard, but he did not. Perhaps Sir Nathan and Master Othar’s presence stopped Mazael. They stood with Mitor and his advisors on the dais.

  Mitor’s bloodshot eyes locked on Mazael. “It is customary to wait for the herald,” he said.

  Mazael strode up the dais. “You did summon me here, my lord brother. Should the business of the Lord of Castle Cravenlock wait upon mere formalities?”

  Sir Albron smirked. “Is it customary for a landless knight to ignore his lord brother’s preferences?”

  Lord Marcus puffed up. “Lord Mitor is your elder and your lord, Sir Mazael! It is your duty to heed his wishes.”

  Simonian drummed his gnarled fingers on the table. “Sir Mazael may speak wisdom, my lord.”

  “What?” said Mitor and Marcus.

  “Have the great men of history waited upon mere formality when events moved about them?” said Simonian. “No, my lord, they moved with speed and acted with decisive power! Now history taps upon your shoulder, my lord, and it is time for you to seize the liege lordship of the Grim Marches.”

  Mazael heard Mitor’s teeth grinding. “Very well. Come here, Mazael. There are events afoot that we should discuss.”

  Mazael and his companions stepped up to the dais. The wrist of Albron’s sword hand had been bound with a bandage. Mazael wished he could kill Albron and Simonian both and have done with them.

  “I have just received word,” said Mitor. “Lord Richard has marched from Swordgrim.”

  Dead silence answered his announcement.

  “With him is the entire might of Swordgrim, nine thousand foot and horse,” said Mitor. “Marching with him are Sir Tanam Crowley,” he shot a sour glance at Mazael, “Sir Commander Galan’s brother, the Lord Astor of Hawk’s Reach, the Lord of Drakehall, the Lords of Highgate and the other mountains passes, for a total force of perhaps twenty-two thousand men.”

  “My Lord Mitor,” said Lord Roget. “Our own hosts number under ten thousand fighting men. The Dragonslayer brings two armsmen for every one of ours. How can we hope to defend against him, let alone defeat him?”

  Lord Marcus sneered. “You doubt our Lord Mitor?”

  “No need to fear, old man,” said Sir Commander Galan. “My brother Astor is a traitor and a usurper. The gods are on our side. More importantly, I bring the might of the Knights Justiciar to deal with this traitor Richard Mandragon. Two thousand sergeant foot and Justiciar knights, and ten thousand more once I inform the Grand Master in Swordor that we stand to regain our ancient estates!
”

  “Sir Commander,” said Sir Nathan. “The forces of the Justiciars are scattered across the kingdom, and your two thousand, however strong, are still only two thousand. By the time your order marches, they will arrive to see the Mandragon banner over Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Have you lost your courage, old man?” said Sir Commander Galan.

  “I have lost my youth,” said Sir Nathan, “in the service of Lord Adalon and Lord Mitor, but I have gained the experience of years. My lord Mitor, I beg that you heed my words. Meeting Lord Richard in open battle is folly.”

  “Folly, eh?” said Mitor, waving his spindly hand. “Well, we shall see what is folly! My father had twice the men that Lord Richard did, and the Mandragons defeated him nonetheless. Now the tables are turned, yes? Lord Richard has twice the men, but justice and the gods are on our side, and we shall prevail! Besides, Sir Albron shall lead my host, and he has a few tricks for the mighty Dragonslayer.”

  “He had better,” said Romaria. “Else you’ll get to personally explain to Lord Richard why you are the rightful liege lord of the Grim Marches.”

  Mitor’s face soured. “When I want your counsel, woman, I shall ask for it.”

  “She is right and you know it,” said Mazael. “Unless you have some brilliant strategy, Lord Richard will tear your army to shreds.”

  “Do not fear, Sir Mazael,” said Albron. His smile turned wolfish. “I plan to kill Richard myself and present his head to Lord Mitor.”

  “Oh, I should like to see that,” said Mazael. “Especially with the broken wrist.”

  “Enough,” said Mitor. “I did not summon you here for advice, Mazael. I will not entrust my plans to a brother who has not visited his home in fifteen years. I have a task for you. I hope you can carry it out.”

  “What sort of task?” said Mazael.

  Mitor waved him over. A detailed map of the Grim Marches had been laid out across the table, its corners weighed down by empty wine goblets. The map was old, but accurate. The towns and villages that had been destroyed in Lord Richard’s uprising were underlined in red ink, while additions and notes had been made in Master Othar’s firm hand.