Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Sil Tarithyn’s face tightened. “Say not that word! It speaks of demon magic. We have come to remove that word, war-knight, to make this sorcerer face the Mother’s wrath. We have come for justice.”

  “Do you know who raises these creatures?” said Mazael.

  “Not who,” said Sil Tarithyn. “What. The San-keth have returned to this land. Fifteen turns of the sun have passed since they were defeated. Yet they have returned to our land to spread their filth once more. It is the people of the Serpent who spread this poison across the land, who blaspheme the Mother with their unholy ways.” His face seemed a mask of wrath. “And the great dark one has come back with them, that monger of lies and the weaver of deceits. He was here in the days of your father, do not doubt it, before the Slayer of Dragons destroyed his web of lies.”

  “My father?” said Mazael. “You can’t mean that this San-keth cult and this dark one were here during Lord Richard’s uprising...”

  “I say what I mean, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The dark one wears many faces and many names. His is the power to trick and deceive, to wear lies as one of the Mother’s People wears a garment. And the San-keth have been in this land during many turns of the sun, many turns. They built the stone house of your family, the castle of Cravenlock. It is the curse of your family. Always there is one to defeat the serpent people. Yet always there is one to invite them back. Much misery has been wrought from the house of Cravenlock.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Mazael. “First Krondig and now you? How do you know all this?”

  “The Mother has told us, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “And you know it in your heart and in your soul. You know the truth.”

  “Do I?” said Mazael. “And what truth is that?”

  “The nature of your house,” said the old Elderborn. “The darkness in their souls, the blight in their hearts.”

  “Oh, truly?” said Mazael. “I’m a Cravenlock, as well. Your people are fingering those bows so eagerly. Why not give them the chance to try feathering my blighted black heart? I wouldn’t advise it, though.”

  “Mazael!” said Romaria.

  “You are not like the others,” said Morgan Sil Tarithyn. “Your soul is not black. Your heart is fire and your sword arm is power, but you are not tainted. Not yet.”

  “Tainted,” said Mazael. “What does that mean?”

  “You know,” said Sil Tarithyn, and all at once Mazael remembered the dreams. “The daughter of Athaelin knows it true, as well.” Romaria looked away.

  “Mitor thinks you’re behind the zuvembies,” said Mazael. “He blames you.”

  “The Lord of Cravenlock is unworthy,” said Sil Tarithyn

  “We agree on that,” said Mazael, “but he’s a powerful unworthy, one with many soldiers. My original task was to slay any Elderborn I found north of the Great Southern Forest.”

  “A task you do not carry out,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  Mazael snorted. “Mitor and I share parents, that is all. And sometimes I even doubt that.”

  “Then what is your purpose, coming here?” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “Master Othar, the wizard of Castle Cravenlock, has a spell that can trace an enchantment back to its caster,” said Mazael. “My purpose is to destroy a zuvembie and take its remains back to Castle Cravenlock. Then I will know who has raised the creatures, and I will kill him.”

  “You do not believe in the San-keth,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Who do you believe is responsible for these heinous acts?”

  “Simonian of Briault,” said Mazael. “An outlander wizard. I believe he is the necromancer.”

  “So you do,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Perhaps you have it true. But do you have the why?”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “I don’t care why.”

  “To defeat your enemy, you must know him and know his reasons,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  Mazael snorted. “Why or not, he’ll still die on my blade.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sil Tarithyn. “What do you mean to do now?”

  “Make camp,” said Mazael, “and wait for the zuvembies to arrive. If they are so numerous as Sir Albert and that Cirstarcian monk fear, they’ll come.”

  The ardmorgan considered this. “Your plan is sound. We shall make camp alongside you.”

  Mazael snorted. “Even if I am in error?”

  Sil Tarithyn’s gaze flashed like purple fire. “The creatures are more of a threat to us than you, war-knight. You live walled away in your stone houses. We live under the stars in the leafy houses of the Mother’s trees. No child of the Mother is safe in the night while these creatures walk. The necromancer can be made to face justice later. For now, it is well that we destroy his abominations.”

  “I’m glad we agree,” said Mazael.

  Sil Tarithyn said something to his warriors in his own tongue. The Elderborn began to sharpen stakes and wrap oil-soaked rags around their arrows. Mazael saw the fifty lancers Mitor had given him approaching, and behind them the men with Gerald and Nathan.

  “Your men approach," said the ardmorgan. "Go to them. We have yet a few hours before the sun goes to his rest and the moon awakens. We shall speak later,” said Sil Tarithyn

  Romaria bowed. “Thank you for your wisdom, ardmorgan. I shall try to remember what you have said this day.”

  “Go,” said Sil Tarithyn, “and may peace find you.”

  “I doubt it will,” said Mazael, “but thank you for the thought, nonetheless.”

  Mazael and Romaria rode down the hill as the Elderborn began raising a camp of their own. Chariot sniffed at Romaria’s mare, and Mazael grimaced and tugged on the big horse’s reins.

  "What did the ardmorgan say?" said Mazael. "That made his men laugh?"

  Romaria flashed a smile. "He said he thought that my mare was not the only one in heat."

  Mazael blinked, but they rejoined the lancers before he could think of a response, and together they rode to rejoin Sir Nathan and Gerald with the footmen.

  “How did it go?” said Gerald.

  “Splendidly,” said Mazael. “Their leader offered me a nonsensical string of riddles for answers. He seems to believe this idiocy of a San-keth cult as well. Nonetheless, they want these creatures destroyed. They will help us.”

  Sir Nathan shifted in his saddle. “You have a plan, I take it.”

  “Aye, I do,” said Mazael. He waved an arm. “These creatures, by all reports, only come out in the night. Well, we’ll give them something to hunt. We will make camp at the base of that hill, dig a trench around it and ring it with stakes and torches. The crown of the hill and that ring of boulders will make an excellent archery platform for the Elderborn. If these zuvembies attack, we’ll greet them with fire and arrows.”

  “And then we will take some of the remains back to Castle Cravenlock for Master Othar’s arts,” said Sir Nathan. “Well thought.”

  “I hope so,” said Mazael. “What was it you told me once? Words are idle, but hands are busy? Time to put that practice. We’ve work to do.”

  “Very good,” said Sir Nathan.

  2

  The Dead That Walk

  The land was scorched and black, as if some great fire had turned the world to ash. Twisted black clouds writhed beneath a bloody red sun. Mazael walked past the crumbling foundations of ruined houses and the blackened corpses of long-dead villagers. He saw a cratered pit filled with writhing, snapping snakes, their fangs dripping with venom. A pair of wretched creatures, twisted serpents with human heads, crawled out of the pit. Mazael drew Lion and slew them both.

  “Interesting, is it not?”

  Mazael turned, black ichor sliding down Lion’s length. Lord Adalon stood nearby, his lips twisted in a cavorting smile. Again he held the black staff crowned with a silver raven.

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “How little we know of our origins,” said Lord Adalon. The snakes hissed and snapped, but could not climb out of the pit. “Most men know from whose loins they sprang. A few know
their parent’s parents and a little of their history. The great houses can trace their lineage back for centuries, even millennia.” He laughed. “But do any of them truly know their origins? Do they?”

  “The gods made men,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon grimaced. “How very puerile. What were the gods thinking, eh? Likely they regretted their acts of creation the next morning. But you, Mazael, my boy, where did you come from? That’s the question that must occupy us now.” He gestured at the pit of snakes. “You came from this, you know.”

  Mazael looked into the pit. “This?”

  “Not literally, of course,” said Lord Adalon. “Think of it as a circumstance, one of many that led up to your birth.” He grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked and sharp. “That was such a happy day. I was so proud. You’ll make me prouder yet, before I’m done. And, ah, your fair mother.” His vicious grin widened. “Pregnancy gives a certain glow to a woman, wouldn’t you say? But when you were born...oh, my son, how did she cry. You must have been such a disappointment. She even tried to kill you. Pulled a pillow over your little wrinkled red face, tried to smother the air from your flapping little lungs...”

  “Stop this,” said Mazael. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Lord Adalon laughed. “The truth always hurts, doesn’t it? But it will make you free. Free as a bird, free as the heavens...free as a demon.”

  “Go away,” said Mazael. “You’re dead, Father, or have you forgotten? Go and leave me in peace.”

  Lord Adalon's laughter redoubled. “Dead? Oh, no, not dead. Certainly there are many who pray for my demise.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s take another walk, shall we? I do so enjoy our little strolls together. Who knows? You might even find it instructive.”

  They walked together across the blasted land, their boots raising puffs of black dust.

  Lord Adalon hummed to himself. “I’ve always been fond of music. It can lift the spirit and soothe the soul, but it can also pull men down to murder, madness, and despair. Not that they’ve ever needed much help, of course. I think a little music to accompany our walk would be pleasant. Don’t you?”

  He waved his staff. The air shimmered, and a lean, hawk-nosed man with a silver-shot black beard and gray eyes appeared. It was Mattias Comorian, the jongleur from the Northwater inn.

  Lord Adalon snapped his fingers. “Play, I say!”

  The jongleur obliged.

  “Heart of darkness, soul of sin,

  a murderer’s bloody grin.

  So came the boy to his fate,

  dark son of a demon great.”

  “I’ve always loved that song,” said Lord Adalon. “Don’t you? No? A pity. I must confess, I’ve never liked the ending. Too inaccurate. How often have you seen a man proclaim the gods in the face of certain death? But, who knows? Perhaps I’ll yet have a chance to write a different ending.”

  “Leave me in peace,” said Mazael. “Go away.”

  Despite the sun’s glare, the air was cold. Mattias Comorian continued to sing.

  “His demon soul within him rose.

  He slew and cast down his foes.

  Blood stained red his killing blade.

  Death and fear his kingdom made.”

  “Peace, my son?” said Lord Adalon. “Is that what you want? I’m disappointed in you. Peace is a shelter for the cowardly, a place where weaklings can hide in the shadow of the strong.” He looked at Mazael. “You weren’t born for peace.”

  Castle Cravenlock loomed ahead of them, bleak and empty as the rest of the land, its windows black eyes in walls of dead rock.

  “The child met his dark father,

  before the church’s altar.

  ‘My dark child’, said the demon.

  ‘Your glory has now begun’.”

  Lord Adalon waved his staff at the castle. “This is where you were born. More, it is where you were conceived. It is where you began. It is where you grew up. And it is where you will embrace your destiny, your true self.”

  “This is nonsense,” said Mazael.

  “‘I renounce you!’ said the demon child.

  ‘You lie, you destroy, you defile!

  In the name of heaven, get...”

  Lord Adalon grimaced. “Silence.” Mattias Comorian vanished in a flash of light. “A fine song, but such an execrable ending.” He grinned, a black, rough tongue licking at his jagged teeth. “But let’s write a different ending to this song, shall we?”

  He snapped his fingers, and the world swam around them.

  Mazael found himself standing before the altar of Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, the domed ceiling draped in shadow. Dust caked the altar, and debris littered the floor. A peculiar stench, a mixture of excrement and snake scales, hung in the air.

  “Look,” said Lord Adalon.

  Rachel, Mitor, and Arissa Cravenlock stood motionless on the dais, their green eyes empty and uncomprehending. His mother looked more peaceful than Mazael remembered.

  “Here!” said Lord Adalon, spreading his arms wide. “Here is where it all began, right where you are standing. There the Lady Arissa Dreadjon became the Lady Arissa Cravenlock.” He smiled and climbed the dais steps to stand besides her. “How she hated the man she had married! She wanted power. To her, Lord Adalon was a weak, sniveling wretch. It was so easy for her to dominate him. Yet she too was weak. She brought down the house of Cravenlock with her machinations.”

  “Why should I care?” said Mazael. “That was fifteen years past.”

  “Ah,” said Lord Adalon. He reached out and squeezed Arissa's shoulder. “Your mother was a beautiful, lusty woman, even wanton. I still think of her fondly, from time to time. But don’t you see? No, of course not, they never do, not at first. The events of the past cast a long shadow.”

  He ruffled Mitor’s lank hair. “Look at her children. They’re just like her. They both want power they cannot wield. Mitor wants the liege lordship of the Grim Marches. But he has no idea how to attain it. And Rachel.” Lord Adalon stroked a lock of her hair. “She has grown into a beautiful woman. I might even take her into my bed. If she survives what is to come.” He laughed. “But she’s no different than her mother. Softer, perhaps, but no different.”

  “That’s not true,” said Mazael.

  “Is it?” said Lord Adalon. “No doubt you’ll have the chance to discover it firsthand.” He descended the stairs and faced Mazael. “But you, my son, you are different.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “Arissa’s children are smaller simpering versions of herself,” said Lord Adalon. “They lust for power. But they are flawed. They are unable to attain what they desire. You’re different. You’re my son, after all. They are weak, but you are strong.”

  “I don’t care,” said Mazael. “This is madness. I want nothing to do with it.”

  “Do you?” said Lord Adalon. “Do you know what happens to the strong when they refuse to use their strength? Mitor fears you. For all her beauty, the Lady Arissa was a petty little soul. How she hated you! You were a reminder of her failure and the price she had to pay for it. And Rachel. Do not doubt that she will kill you if you stand in her way.” Lord Adalon laughed. “Such a fine family, eh?”

  “Be quiet and go away,” said Mazael.

  “You still don’t believe me,” said Lord Adalon. “Ah, pity. The young are ever slow to take instruction from their elders.” He rapped the butt of his staff against the dirty stone floor. “It is time for a lesson.”

  Mitor and Lady Arissa shrieked. Black daggers flashed in their hands, the blades glistening with green poison, and they leapt at Mazael.

  Mazael had Lion in his hand in less than a heartbeat. He stepped to the side as Mitor stabbed at him, drops of poison falling from the dagger. Mazael parried his mother’s stab, shoved her back, and spun on Mitor, Lion's blade ripping across his chest. Mitor attacked still, screaming as he raised his dagger high. Mazael's next slash opened Mitor's throat and half his chest. Mitor staggered and fell,
landing in his own blood.

  Lord Adalon laughed.

  Mazael’s mother screamed as she attacked him, a poisoned dagger in either hand. Mazael’s sword angled left and right to beat off her attacks, fine droplets of poison splattering on the floor. For all her fury, Lady Arissa moved so slowly. Blocking her attacks was like batting aside feathers.

  Arissa stabbed her daggers at Mazael’s face, and he spun past her. She lost her balance, her legs tangled in her skirts, and Mazael plunged Lion into her back. Arissa screamed, howling like a dying dog. Mazael put his boot to her back, wrenched his sword free, and she fell lifeless to the ground.

  “So easy,” said Lord Adalon. “They tried with all their fury and strength to slay you...and it amounted to naught. They are nothing before you. They deserved to die, did they not? Was it not satisfying to make them suffer?”

  Mazael looked at the bloody corpses. “Yes.”

  “Splendid!” said Lord Adalon. “But there’s one more Cravenlock, isn’t there?”

  Mazael turned and saw Rachel, the shadows gone from her face.

  “Rachel,” he said, smiling.

  “Dear brother,” she said.

  Mazael never saw the dagger coming until Rachel had plunged it into his chest. Hot blood bubbled through his lips as he screamed, Rachel's laughter ringing in his ears.

  “You see?” said Lord Adalon. “You’re more powerful than her. But if you don’t destroy her, she will take what you refused.”

  Blackness welled up in Mazael’s vision, blood choking his throat...

  He jerked awake with a gasp in his rolled-up cloak. The stars shone bright above him, the smell of smoke in the air. He remembered the camp, and the Elderborn, and how he had taken the opportunity to get some sleep...

  He could still feel the pain. He pawed at his chest, feeling for the dagger’s hilt, for the blood. Instead he felt the sweat-soaked fabric of his tunic.

  Someone lay down besides him.

  An arm encircled his chest. A hand reached over, cupped his chin, and tilted his head to the side. Mazael stared into Romaria’s ice-blue eyes.