Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “An interesting tale,” said Mazael. “But what of it? You speak of history a thousand years dead. It is the present that concerns me.”

  “I will speak of that later,” said Sir Albert. “The troubles started a soon after we first heard of the cult. It began with a pair of courting peasants who crept out of the village for a tryst. Their bodies were found the next morn. At first I assumed the hunting cats, or a pack of wolves from the forest. Then people began disappearing in the village, snatched out of their homes. And there were sightings of creatures, monsters out of the priests’ descriptions of the fires of hell.”

  “What do they look like?” said Romaria.

  “Like dead men, my lady,” said Albert. “I’ve seen many corpses in my days, I fear. That is exactly what these things look like. Walking corpses, rotting and foul and torn. Their eyes and mouths glow with a sick green light. They are slow, and shamble along, but they are as strong as ten mortal men.”

  “Necromancy,” said Timothy. Gerald made a sign to ward off evil.

  “Aye,” said Romaria, “that matches the things I’ve seen near Deepforest Keep.”

  “I ordered the palisade constructed,” said Albert. “We were fortunate to have finished it before Lord Mitor stripped away the most able-bodied men for his armies. We also lit watch fires at night, and they seem to keep the creatures away. Fire has the power to end their wretched existence. Mortal weapons cannot touch them. We killed, if you can say that, several of the creatures with flaming arrows. Yet we can still see their eyes watching us out of the darkness of the night.” The old knight shook his wrinkled head. “I am too old. Would that I had died before I had seen such evil. The wars of men are one thing, but this is a violation of heaven’s laws.”

  “What does this have to do with a San-keth cult at the castle?” said Mazael.

  “Necromancy goes hand and glove with these cults,” said Silar. “It is one of the foul arts the serpent god teaches his people and his race. I believe that the cult is raising these creatures.”

  “A cult?” said Mazael. “Romaria and the druids of Deepforest Keep believed it to be one man, a renegade dark wizard or necromancer.”

  Silar shrugged. “That would not surprise me. Often only the high priest, or an actual San-keth cleric, possesses power enough to perform such dark arts.”

  Sir Albert frowned. “Do you suspect anyone?”

  “Yes,” said Romaria and Mazael together.

  “Simonian of Briault, a wizard Mitor has employed in his court,” said Romaria.

  Sir Albert did not recognize the name, but Silar’s dark eyes widened.

  “You know the name?” said Mazael.

  “Oh, yes,” said Silar. “Yes, indeed. Most of my order and certainly all of Briault does. Simonian was a necromancer and a warlock of the worst sort, one who consorted with the dead and with demons in equal measure. He terrorized Briault for decades until the Briaultan lords united to fight him. My order had a death mark on him. We assumed that he had died in the fighting. It appears that we were wrong.”

  “Your order isn’t right too often, is it?” said Mazael.

  Silar grinned. “All too true, I fear. We try our best, but alas, we are mortal and prone to error of all sort.”

  “If Mitor’s Simonian is the same man you described,” said Mazael, “then he is undoubtedly the wizard raising these creatures.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sir Albert. He hesitated. “My lord knights...have you considered that Lord Mitor brought him here with just that purpose in mind?”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “Lord Richard Mandragon’s army is twice the size of Lord Mitor’s,” said Albert. “Lord Richard’s potential allies can reach the Grim Marches with greater speed, as well. It...” Albert fell silent.

  “What my friend is unable to say,” said Silar, “is that my order believes Lord Mitor Cravenlock invited the San-keth and Simonian to Castle Cravenlock to help defeat his enemies.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Mazael after a long pause.

  “Why?” said Silar.

  “Because,” Mazael said. “Because...Mitor’s a fool, but... even he could not do something so wretched.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Romaria.

  “Besides,” said Mazael. “How could Mitor even know where find these San-keth?”

  “Because,” said Silar. “Your mother brought the cult to Castle Cravenlock in the first place.”

  “That is treason,” said Sir Nathan. “Dare you say that Lord Adalon or Lady Arissa involved themselves in such filth, I will...

  “Lord Adalon had nothing to do with the San-keth,” said Silar. “It was Lady Arissa who brought the serpent priests to Castle Cravenlock, to assure her husband’s success against Lord Richard. It was her undoing. Did you know that Lord Richard rose up because he knew of the San-keth cult? We Cirstarcians knew, Lord Richard knew, and yet Lord Adalon never did, the poor old fool.”

  Mazael shoved to his feet. “My father was a kindly fool, but even he could not have missed something so dark!”

  “Ah, but he did,” said Silar. “History doesn’t repeat itself, you know, but certain patterns do. Lady Arissa consorted with dark powers to try and hold her grip on power. She ruled Lord Adalon, you know that as well as I. And now her son Lord Mitor consorts with those same dark powers to regain his father’s title. And once again Lord Richard marches to meet the armies of the house of Cravenlock.”

  “This is madness,” Mazael said. “Even if Mitor was cunning enough to ally himself with the San-keth, Rachel...Rachel would never stand by to something so vile...”

  Silar sighed. “Sir Mazael, your sister is not the girl you grew up with, just as you are not the boy you were. You said you had left the Grim Marches for fifteen years, correct? Much can happen in fifteen years. Much can change.”

  Mazael mastered his rage before he drew his blade and slew the old man and the monk. “Do you have any proof?”

  Silar grimaced. “None. Yet.”

  Mazael sat back down. “Then this is all supposition. Simonian is the cause of all this. You said your order had put a death mark on him. He is playing some trickery on Mitor, I don’t doubt it. Gods, I should have simply killed him.”

  “You may yet have the chance,” said Sir Albert. “My lord knights, I am honor-bound to tell you. I have seen enough. When Lord Richard’s army comes, I plan to stand with him.”

  “Now, that is treason!” said Gerald.

  Mazael’s words caught in his throat. He wished that he had stayed in Knightcastle. Everything the old knight and the monk had said rang true in Mazael’s mind. He could almost believe it of Mitor and his harridan wife. But there was no way Rachel could have been involved in something as twisted as a San-keth cult. There was no way. He felt tired. He felt like killing someone.

  He remembered how bitter his mother had become. Had she truly worshipped the god of the serpents? She had had no use for him, but had often spent time with Mitor. Had she drawn him into her perversion? He could believe it of Mitor, perhaps, but not Rachel.

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “Stand with Lord Mitor, or stand with Lord Richard, it means naught to me. And if that’s all, we’ll be going.”

  Chapter VI

  1

  Parley

  They rode over White Rock’s splintering drawbridge.

  “We should go back,” said Gerald.

  Mazael glared at him. “Why?”

  Gerald met Mazael’s gaze. “Because Sir Albert and Brother Silar could have told us much more. Sir Albert has dealt with these creatures from the beginning.”

  “So has Romaria,” said Mazael.

  “True,” said Gerald. “But Brother Silar is a Cirstarcian. He has access to all the histories of his order. He could help us.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “The Cirstarcians will support Lord Richard. Silar said as much.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” said Romaria.

  Mazael reined Chari
ot up hard and turned the big horse around. Romaria had to snap the reins to keep her mount under control.

  “What did you say?” said Mazael.

  “Everything the old knight and the monk said seems plausible,” said Romaria. “I’ve only been at Castle Cravenlock a few days, yet even I have seen your brother for a wretch.”

  “I don’t disagree,” said Mazael.

  “If Mitor is willing to plunge the Grim Marches into years of death and blood for the sake of his pride, what’s to keep him from selling his soul to the San-keth?” said Romaria.

  “That’s different,” said Mazael.

  “How?” said Romaria.

  “Because,” said Mazael, “Rachel would never go along with him.”

  “Your sister agrees with him on all other matters,” said Romaria.

  Mazael’s fist tightened on Chariot’s reins. “We’re going.”

  “We should stay,” said Romaria.

  Mazael stared at her. “If we did, we would sign the death warrant of the village, do you realize that? Mitor has gathered an army of thousands. If he learns that Sir Albert means to declare for Lord Richard, Mitor will raze White Rock. You thought what Brogan did was bad? White Rock would make that seem like a actor’s farce.”

  Romaria frowned. “I...hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes flashed. “But surely you don’t mean to abandon the search for the zuvembies...”

  “Of course not,” said Mazael. “We’ll camp out in the open this night. If the creatures are at hunt, they’ll find us. We’ll ward them off with fire, destroy one, and take its remains back to Castle Cravenlock. This talk of a San-keth cult is all hot air. Simonian is behind this business, I believe. Master Othar will cast his spell over the remains and prove that Simonian raised the creatures. With luck, I can also prove that our honorable Albron Eastwater is Simonian’s lackey.”

  “A fine plan,” said Romaria, “but what of Lord Richard, and what of this war Mitor seems intent on starting?”

  Mazael grinned. “It’s like I told Sir Gerald, back at the Northwater inn.” Gerald groaned. “We’ll take things one step at a time.”

  They rode back to the armsmen waiting beneath the Cravenlock banner. The men milled about, gripping their weapons. Mazael spotted the captain he had left in charge and rode over.

  “I thought I told you to keep the men in order,” said Mazael.

  The captain flinched. “I did, my lord knight! Or so I tried. You ordered scouts and outriders be kept out at all times. One of them has come back with a report.”

  “Report of what?” said Mazael.

  The captain’s face tightened. “There are creatures approaching, my lord.”

  “Creatures?” said Mazael, turning to Romaria. “I thought you said the zuvembies came out at night.”

  Romaria frowned. “They do.”

  “No!” said the captain. “Not zu...zuh...not those. Wood elves, my lord. Wood demons out of the Great Southern Forest to raid the countryside! Lord Mitor was right! The wood demons have allied with Lord Dragonslayer against us.”

  “Ridiculous!” said Romaria.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I can only tell you what I see,” said the captain.

  “Do you have any idea why a band of Elderborn would have ventured this far north?” said Mazael.

  Romaria shook her head. Dark locks spilled from the hood of her cloak. “No. The northernmost tribes in the forest are the Tribe of the Wolf and the Tribe of the Oak,” she said. “And they’re probably looking for us.”

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “The Elderborn are the best scouts and trackers in the world,” said Romaria. “If your scouts saw them, then they wanted to be seen.”

  “The men did say the wood demons—” the captain flinched under Romaria’s furious glare, “—the wood elves were headed this way.”

  “Yes, but why are they coming for us?” said Mazael.

  Romaria shrugged. “Gods only know. The Elderborn do as they will, when they will it. It’s possible they’re here to hunt down zuvembies.” She hesitated. “If they are, and they’ve the same reasoning as Sir Albert’s...then they’ve likely come to kill us.”

  “Amatheon and Amater,” Mazael swore. “If they’re so eager to pin blame on the Cravenlocks, why don’t they go and pay a visit to Mitor? I haven’t set foot in the Grim Marches for the last fifteen years. Romaria, come with me, you’ll know these Elderborn and how to deal with them. Adalar, you’ll come as well, as standard-bearer. I shall take our fifty lancers on horse. If it comes to blows, we can either run for it or ride them down. Sir Nathan, Gerald, take command of the remaining men and follow us at a distance. If battle seems likely, come to our aid.”

  Sir Nathan grimaced. “This does not bode well. The presence of Elderborn hunters in the Grim Marches will lend credence to Simonian’s claims. Lady Romaria, do you truly believe the Elderborn have come to make war?”

  “I don’t think so, Sir Nathan,” said Romaria. “But if they believe Lord Mitor is responsible for raising the zuvembies, they could do anything.”

  “I’ve no intention of waiting here to find out,” said Mazael. He pointed at a scout. “You will show us the way. Gerald, Sir Nathan, give us a few minutes and then follow. Let’s ride.”

  They rode away across the plains. Scattered trees stood here and there, casting long black shadows across the waving grasses. The clouds began to break up, shafts of sunlight stabbing down.

  An hour later, the scout pointed. “There, my lord, I can see them.”

  “They’re waiting,” said Romaria.

  The ground rose in a low hill topped by a ring of eroded boulders. An ancient statue, some forgotten monument, stood in the center of the ring. Mazael could saw figures waiting atop the hill, tall, slim shapes clad in gray mantles.

  “The Tribe of the Wolf," said Romaria.

  “Do you know of them?” said Mazael.

  Romaria nodded. “They’re the northernmost of the tribes. They visit Deepforest Keep from time to time.”

  Mazael could feel their gazes. “Would they know of you?”

  Romaria brushed a stray lock of hair back into her hood. “They might. The morgans...ah, the chiefs, you would say, have often visited Deepforest Keep.”

  Mazael decided. “Then let’s go meet them.” He ordered the men to wait, and rode forward with Romaria. Details became visible as they drew closer. The Elderborn wore trousers and vests of animal skins and mantles of gray wolf fur. Their features were angular and sharp, with large eyes and slender ears that rose to delicate points past their hair. Their knives and spears had blades of chipped obsidian, but their great bows looked deadlier than any Mazael had ever seen.

  One of the Elderborn stepped forward as Mazael and Romaria’s mounts trotted up the hill. His mantle of wolf fur was silver, his skin weathered and marked with many scars. His eyes were a deep, unsettling purple, and he carried an oaken staff in his sinewy left hand.

  Romaria reined up. “Dismount,” she said, her voice soft and respectful. “This is Morgan Sil Tarithyn, Mazael. The ardmorgan...the high chief...of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

  Mazael slid from the saddle and put his hand over Chariot’s face to keep the skittish horse from acting up.

  Romaria walked to the ardmorgan, bowed before him, and began to speak in a melodic, rhythmic tongue. Sil Tarithyn answered, repeating many of the words Romaria had said. His voice was rough and soft, like a stone rasping on steel. Then the ardmorgan said something else, and all the Elderborn burst into laughter.

  “What did he say?” said Mazael.

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Romaria.

  “Greetings, war-knight Mazael of Cravenlock,” said Sil Tarithyn in the kingdom's common tongue.

  “Ah...greetings to you as well, ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf,” said Mazael.

  The old Elderborn grinned. “Romaria has told you of the Mother’s People, I see. That is well.” He tapped the earth with his staff. “We know of you, war-kn
ight. In the south, the tribes speak of the defeat of Malleus, and how the humans who revere the Mother were saved.”

  Mazael smiled. “You attribute too much to me, I fear. My lord wished to seize some of the Dominiars’ lands for himself. Concern for the Old Kingdoms meant nothing to him.”

  Sil Tarithyn chuckled. It made Mazael uneasy. “You will learn, war-knight. You will learn.”

  “Learn what?” said Mazael.

  Sil Tarithyn did not answer.

  “With respect, ardmorgan,” said Mazael. “Why have you come here? It is unusual for any Elderborn to come to the plains, let alone for the ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

  Sil Tarithyn watched him for a while. Mazael met that violet, inhuman gaze and did not blink.

  The old Elderborn nodded. “The Seer was true, when he said you were to be feared."

  The Seer? Was that the same Seer Romaria had mentioned?

  “I do not understand,” said Mazael.

  “You will, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “You know why we have come. The daughter of Athaelin has told you. Dark sorcery defiles our land. The shells of those who have moved onward are raped by this necromancy and forced to walk the temporal world once more.”

  “You mean the zuvembies, I assume?” said Mazael.