Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Very well,” said Mazael. “I mean to leave for Castle Cravenlock by midday tomorrow. You can ride with us.” He touched Lion’s hilt. “But if it is Simonian who has raised these things, I’ll kill him when I lay eyes on him and deal with the consequences later.”

  3

  The Ride Home

  The stink of burned flesh filled Mazael’s nostrils.

  The sun climbed over the eastern horizon, red-orange light spilling over the plain. Mazael held out his sword, sunlight glittering off Lion's golden pommel. The blade was the work of a master swordsmith, but seemed normal in all other respects. Timothy's spell of magical detection had sensed power within it, but the wizard had been unable to determine the nature of the sword's magic.

  “Let’s put this Cirstarcian learning of yours to the test,” said Mazael. Brother Silar ran two fingers down the length of the blade. “Do you recognize it?”

  Silar winced and pulled his finger back. “Sharp.”

  “I could have told you that. Do you recognize it?” said Mazael.

  “Aye, I do,” said Silar. “The sword is Tristafellin.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Romaria. “The magic of ancient Tristafel. I’ve heard legends of such swords. I’d never thought to see one, though.”

  “I can tell you more than that,” said Silar. He tapped Lion’s pommel. “This is the sigil of a group of knights founded in Tristafel’s last days. They called themselves the Knights of the Lion, dedicated themselves to fighting the Demonsouled and the San-keth that had corrupted Tristafel. Sir Mazael, this sword was made to destroy dark magic. The wizards allied with the Knights of the Lion made magical weapons for them, working spells of power into the folds of the steel.”

  “Then that sword is valuable beyond price,” said Timothy. “No spells of such power have survived.”

  Mazael reversed Lion and slid it into his scabbard. “A lot of good it did these Knights. Tristafel is no more, last I heard.”

  “True,” said Silar, “but remnants of Tristafel survived in the kingdoms of Knightrealm and Dracaryl and Cadlyn and Caria. Sir Gerald’s own distant progenitors, ancestors of King Roland of Knightcastle, were Knights of the Lion.”

  “He’s right, Mazael,” said Gerald. “Do you remember a battered old shield hanging in Knightcastle’s hall? You’ve seen it, I’m sure. It has the lion sigil.”

  “The Knights of the Lion and their wizards, allied with the High Elderborn, confronted the Great Demon and the San-keth high priests in Tristafel,” said Silar. “The city was destroyed, and the Great Demon and the Knights slain, but the Knights of the Lion saved our world. Were it not for them, the San-keth, the Demonsouled, and the Malrags would have overrun everything.”

  “But the Old Demon,” said Sir Nathan, “the firstborn child of the Great Demon, eldest of all the Demonsouled, escaped to wreak havoc in the world. I’ve heard the same story, Brother."

  “History, not story,” said Silar.

  “Fascinating,” said Mazael, “but story or truth, I care not.”

  Silar scratched at his chin. “You ought to, sir knight. That sword just saved our lives, did it not? The shades of the Knights were undoubtedly pleased to see that sword battle dark magic once more.”

  “It was farsighted of those wizards to let Lion bestow some of its enchantment when touched to another weapon. I couldn’t have destroyed all the zuvembies myself,” said Mazael.

  Silar frowned. “That was strange.”

  “Beyond the obvious?” said Mazael. “How so?”

  “Weapons of magical power are rare,” said Timothy. “It is unheard of for a magical weapon to transfer its power in such a manner.”

  “You said the spells of enchantment were forgotten,” said Mazael. “It’s been centuries since Tristafel fell. The sword could simply have powers you never considered.”

  “True,” said Silar. He smiled. “We Cirstarcians are strange ones. Our stated mission is to praise the gods and to preserve knowledge. And we do, don’t doubt. But our true purpose is to hunt down and destroy creatures such as the zuvembies. Magical Tristafellin weapons are valuable to us. We’ve collected a few, some quite similar to your Lion. None of them can temporarily bestow their power the way your sword did.”

  Mazael shrugged. “So what? It seemed logical enough at the time. Fire spreads, does it not? My blade had taken afire. So I thought to spread the fire and drive back the zuvembies.”

  “Aye,” said Silar. “Suppose your own will made the sword’s power spread?”

  For a moment, it seemed as if Silar’s face was a mask of crimson blood, his eyes white and staring and dead. Mazael blinked, and the momentary vision vanished.

  “My own will?” Mazael said. “That’s absurd. You said the sword’s magic awoke in response to the necromancy that raised the zuvembies.”

  “It did,” said Silar. “But you exhibited control over that magic. Suppose you have some sort of innate power?”

  Romaria flinched.

  “Power?” said Mazael. “You speak nonsense. I am not a wizard. The only power I’ve ever wielded is that of the sword.”

  “There are different sorts of magic than that of Alborg,” said Romaria.

  “Most certainly true,” said Silar.

  “Sir Albert was right,” said Mazael. “You are mad.”

  Silar laughed. “The good knight was right, I fear, but this is no delusion. Hear me out, Sir Mazael, if just for a moment. Consider yourself. I have trained in fighting arts all my life, and seen more than my fair share of war, but I have never seen anyone fight like you. You move like lightning.”

  “I had good teachers, that’s all,” said Mazael, “and a great deal of hard experience.”

  Sir Nathan laughed. “Sir Mazael, you do me too much credit. You have surpassed my teaching, I fear.”

  “He’s right, you know,” said Gerald. “I fancy myself skilled with the blade, but if I practiced every hour of every day for ten years, I still could not hope to defeat you.”

  “I’m faster, that’s all,” said Mazael.

  “Is it?” said Silar. “Suppose you do have some sort of magic, Sir Mazael, a magic that is unconscious and follows your will? You worked to become a warrior. You have become a formidable fighter. And now in your need, when the zuvembies rose to slay us, you exerted command over the magic of the sword.”

  Mazael thought it over. Chills ran up his spine as he remembered the bloody dreams. He remembered how, since he had first begun practicing with a wooden blade, he had always known exactly how to kill his enemies. He looked at Romaria and saw the fear on her face. Why did she fear him? He was tempted to leave, take her with him, kidnap Rachel from Castle Cravenlock, and ride far away.

  He wondered what was happening to him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael.

  Silar blinked. “Why do you say that?”

  “The sword has magic. Perhaps I do as well. Right now I have more pressing concerns than some mystical power. If this sword has power, it will make it all the easier to kill Simonian.”

  “Easier, yes, but still dangerous,” said Silar. “Simonian of Briault is a dangerous man. You should not face him alone.”

  “I don’t intend to,” said Mazael. “I will have Sir Nathan with me, and Sir Gerald, and Lady Romaria, and Master Othar. And Lord Mitor and his armsmen, once I show them the truth of Simonian.”

  “Assuming that Lord Mitor does not already know,” said Silar. Mazael glared at him, but Silar did not look away.

  “Come,” said Mazael. “Let us return to the camp. We will do what we must when the time is right. Until then, it is pointless to worry.”

  Smoke still rose from the pyre. Four more men had died during the night. Mazael had followed Sil Tarithyn and Romaria’s advice and ordered them burned. He did not like the idea of burning the bodies of his men like garbage, but he not like the idea of their corpses rising as zuvembies even more.

  “I mean to rest the men until midday,” said Maza
el. “We’ll march until sunset, sleep the night, and continue on our way. They are exhausted. I’d rather not have them dropping in their tracks.”

  Gerald yawned. “I’d rather not drop in my tracks, as well.”

  “Then we shall deliver the remains of a zuvembie to Master Othar,” said Mazael. Timothy had already packed away scraps of bone and lumps of ash in his saddlebags. “He will discover who raised the zuvembies, and then we’ll have an end to this business.”

  “I hope you are right,” said Silar, “but I believe that you are wrong.”

  Mazael shrugged. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  “What will you tell Mitor about the Elderborn?” said Romaria.

  “The truth,” said Mazael. “What do they have to hide? Sil Tarithyn and his warriors helped rid Lord Mitor’s lands of dangerous creatures. They should have his gratitude. Perhaps he’ll even send them a reward.”

  Romaria grimaced. “I doubt that. He’d rather send them fire and sword and call it justice.”

  “He can’t send them anything if he cannot find them,” said Mazael. Sil Tarithyn and his Elderborn had left a few hours after the battle. Mazael had been more than happy to see him go. He had not liked the ardmorgan’s cryptic references to the return of the serpents.

  “Get something to eat and then get some rest, all of you,” said Mazael. “That goes for you as well, Sir Nathan.”

  Sir Nathan smiled. “Aye, as you command.”

  Mazael found an empty spot in the camp and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Dreams tormented his rest, visions of blood and death. Rachel laughed as she plunged a dagger into his heart. The dead rose and killed, their clawed fingers gleaming crimson. He awoke gasping and sweating, and as he did, Romaria lay down against him, her arm across his chest. He went back to sleep. This time his rest was blessedly free from visions.

  At midday, the men from White Rock saddled up and returned to their village, leaving Silar behind. Mazael ordered the men north. They made good time, brown dust rising up in a cloud like a banner of smoke.

  They camped in the same meadow as before. Again Mazael fell asleep with nightmares of carnage, and again he awoke to find Romaria lying against him. After that he was able to fall into peaceful sleep.

  He began to think that without her presence the dreams would drive him mad.

  The next day of their journey was peaceful. Gerald was in high spirits, joking with Adalar and Silar and Romaria. Mazael rode silent and grim.

  They stopped that night in the ruins of the same village where they had camped earlier. Mazael sat at the edge of the ruins, his back against a crumbling stone wall. He did not want to sleep. Then Romaria came and sat next to him, her head on his shoulder, and they fell asleep together.

  Mazael dreamt dreams of a different sort that night. He was alone with Romaria in a deep forest glen, the trees towering high overhead. He felt happier than he could ever remember feeling. Romaria kissed him, her mouth hot against his. They fell together against the grass, kissing and tugging at their clothing.

  Mazael awoke that morning refreshed, feeling better than he had in days. Yet the darkness of the dreams still gnawed at him. Romaria lay against him, looking at him with sleepy eyes. He wanted to kiss her and act out the dream, but the camp was already awake.

  They reached Castle Cravenlock late in the afternoon, as the setting sun painted the castle's walls a deep red. It reminded Mazael too much of his dreams. A sea of fresh tents had gathered about the castle’s rocky hill. More mercenaries, come to fight beneath the banner of the Cravenlocks.

  “The storm clouds are gathering,” said Silar. “I fear they shall break into a storm of blood.”

  “There’s time yet,” said Mazael. “Master Othar will give us proof that Simonian is a lying serpent.”

  “Aye, I hope so,” said Silar. “Yet I’ve seen the same sort of storm, fifteen years past.”

  No sentries challenged Mazael as he rode through Cravenlock town and up to the castle gates, and he scowled at further evidence of Sir Albron's negligence.

  The guards posted at the castle’s barbican straightened as Mazael approached. “Sir Mazael!” called one.

  “Where is Master Othar?” said Mazael. “I must speak with him at once.”

  The guard hesitated. “Lord Mitor has made Simonian court wizard, and...”

  “I said I wanted to speak with Master Othar, not Simonian!” said Mazael. “Where is Master Othar?”

  “My lord knight, I’m sorry. Master Othar died in his sleep three nights past.”

  Chapter VII

  1

  Othar’s Funeral

  “How do they say he died?” said Mazael, sitting in his rooms in the King's Tower. A drop of red wine fell from his the goblet and splashed against the table.

  “Ah...that his heart burst, my lord knight,” said Timothy. Mazael squinted at the wizard through blurred, aching eyes. “It would not have surprised me. He was very fat, my lord knight, and old. I am sorry to be so blunt, Sir Mazael, but that was how he was probably going to die.”

  Mazael waved the goblet. “No. Always tell me the truth, Timothy. Tell me what you wish. So long as it is the truth, I’ll not fault you for it, ever.”

  Timothy bowed. “Thank you, my lord knight.”

  “So they say his heart burst,” said Mazael. “Has anyone examined his body?”

  “No,” said Timothy. “It would be the task of the court wizard to do so. But Master Othar cannot examine himself now, and Simonian will hardly do it.”

  “Can you cast the spell?” said Mazael.

  “What spell is that?” said Timothy.

  Mazael finished his goblet, cursed, and reached for the wineskin. “The spell to determine the nature of an enchantment and trace it back to its caster. Can you cast it over the remnants of the zuvembies?”

  “I know the spell, yes,” said Timothy. “But I do not possess Master Othar’s skill. I cannot trace back the magic.”

  Mazael bellowed and flung the goblet against the wall. Timothy flinched wine splashed across the wall and soaked into the carpet. Mazael closed his eyes and clenched a fist.

  “Convenient,” said Mazael.

  “My lord knight?” said Timothy.

  “Men have said that Master Othar would die within the year as long as I can remember,” said Mazael. “And now, just as we are about to deliver the remnants of a zuvembie for his inspection, he dies. Convenient?”

  “Do you suspect murder?” said Timothy.

  “I don’t know what I suspect,” said Mazael. “He told me something, right before we left. He said he would have answers when we returned. I should have...I should...”

  “My lord knight,” said Timothy. “No man can see the future. You cannot torment yourself over what you might have done...”

  Mazael gave a weak grin. “Yes, yes, I know all that, do what you can in the here and now. Master Othar taught me that, you know.” He reeled in his seat for a moment, but managed to hold his balance. “Well, this is what I intend to do about the present. It is still early. The funeral will not take place for another few hours or so. Go to the corpse, and examine it.”

  “My lord knight?” said Timothy. “That is...”

  “Desecrating the corpse?” said Mazael. “Othar wouldn’t have cared, and neither do I. Examine the body. See if you can determine how he died, and see if magic caused his death.”

  “You suspect Simonian?” said Timothy.

  “I’d be a fool not to,” said Mazael. “Once you are finished, search Master Othar’s chambers. He suspected something, and I want to know what.”

  “I shall,” said Timothy.

  “Thank you,” said Mazael. “Get started. Leave me.”

  Mazael spent a long time staring at the wall, his head spinning. He watched the wine droplets slide down the stones. Like blood, he thought. Blood in his dreams, in the battlefield, and now here at Castle Cravenlock...

  “My lord knight?”

  Adalar stood in the doorwa
y. “Are you well?”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “You spilled your wine,” said Adalar. “I shall clean it up at once...”

  “No!” said Mazael. “This mess was mine and I’ll tend to it. If I teach you anything, Adalar, always clean up your own messes. Now, fetch me a fresh tunic. I’m drunk and half-mad, but I must look passably decent for the funeral.”

  “I will, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I am very sorry about Master Othar.”

  “You are, aren’t you?” said Mazael.

  “He was always very kind to me, my lord knight,” said Adalar. “Father was often gone on many tasks for Lord Mitor. I spent as much time with Master Othar.”

  “Well,” said Mazael. “If your father wouldn’t kill me for it, I’d give you some wine, and we’d raise a toast to one of the finest men who ever lived.”

  “There’s some water,” said Adalar.

  “That will serve,” said Mazael.

  Adalar poured, they raised the clay cups, and they toasted the memory of Master Othar.

  “Now, run and fetch a fresh tunic,” said Mazael. He rubbed his aching temples. “And see if the kitchens still have some of that coffee Timothy brewed.”

  Adalar bowed and left.

  Mazael leaned into his chair, images swimming across his blurring vision. He saw Master Othar standing before him twenty years past. He heard the wizard’s booming laughter. He remembered learning to read under Othar’s eye. He remembered. No matter how drunk he got, he could not forget.

  “Sir Mazael?”

  Adalar stood in the doorway with a tunic and a steaming clay jug in hand. “I found the coffee. Some of the kitchen workers have taken to it. There was plenty to spare.”

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. He raised the jug and drained it in a single draught. It burned like hot oil and tasted like dirt, but it filled him with fresh energy. He pulled off his old tunic and yanked the fresh one over his head. “Sword belt.” Adalar handed him his sword belt, and Mazael buckled it on. “Thank you. You’re a better squire than I deserve.”