Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

“Send me,” said Mazael.

  Mitor laughed. “You? Why should I send you?”

  “Sir Mazael’s suggestion is prudent, my lord,” said Simonian. “After all, what shall you lose if he is captured or killed? Nothing. And yet, he is your brother, and since you and the Lady Marcelle are childless, the heir to Castle Cravenlock.” Marcelle bristled. “He has sufficient stature to satisfy Lord Richard’s pride.”

  “I agree,” said Sir Tanam. “Sir Mazael is an excellent choice. Send him. I know my lord would be most honored to receive him.”

  Mitor glanced at Simonian. The wizard gave a slight nod.

  “Very well,” said Mitor. “You may go, Mazael. I shall send fifty armsmen with you as a suitable escort.” He smirked. “Sir Nathan shall go as well. Sir Tanam and Richard Mandragon seem to hold him in such high honor. Perhaps he’ll help convince the Mandragons that surrender is their only option.”

  Sir Tanam seemed pleased. “Undoubtedly, my lord. And, I, of course, will escort Sir Mazael and company in all honor to Lord Richard’s camp.”

  Mitor ignored this. “And take that monk!”

  “Brother Silar?” said Mazael.

  “Yes, him,” said Mitor. “The fool has made a great nuisance of himself! Take him with you, Mazael, I command it! Richard Mandragon is such a friend to the Cirstarcians, let him take the monk.”

  “I would take Sir Gerald with me, as well,” said Mazael, “along with Lady Romaria.” He did not trust Mitor and would not leave his friend in his older brother’s reach. And Mazael wanted Romaria at his side.

  He did not want to endure another nightmare.

  “The wild woman can ride to hell for all I care,” said Mitor. “But I would much prefer Sir Gerald to remain here, as my guest, under my protection.”

  “As his hostage,” muttered Romaria.

  “Lord Malden sent Sir Gerald and myself as observers,” said Mazael. “Doubtless Lord Malden would want his son to observe Lord Richard’s troops?”

  “Sir Gerald is my guest,” said Mitor. “How would Lord Malden view it if I allowed his son to perish from Richard Mandragon’s treachery?”

  “Oh, poorly,” said Mazael. “And just how do you think Lord Malden would view the restriction of his son’s freedom?”

  Mitor hesitated. Perhaps it was the hope of Lord Malden’s aid that kept him defiant against Lord Richard. “Very well. Lord Malden is my friend, yes, and I shall not offend him.”

  Sir Tanam did a little bow from his saddle. “My lord of Cravenlock is most gracious.”

  “Save your flattery,” said Mitor. “Mazael, prepare to depart at once. I will not have this Old Crow roosting in my castle longer that necessary.”

  Mazael nodded. He knew this parley was a farce, that Mitor wanted nothing more than to rid himself of his troublesome brother. Perhaps it was indeed a trap by Lord Richard. But what choice did Mazael have? Romaria had said that his dreams of blood had been triggered by hidden powers within himself, but suppose they were visions of things to come? This might be his one chance to avert those visions.

  He turned to Sir Tanam. “We shall ride before noon.”

  Sir Tanam's grin widened. “I look forward to it.”

  2

  Lord Richard Marches

  Armor glittered and flashed under the afternoon sun as they rode north. Crowley’s banner flapped in the wind, while Mazael had entrusted Adalar with the Cravenlock banner, and Wesson had unfurled the Rolands' greathelm standard.

  “What is that?” said Mazael.

  Romaria grinned. “This?” She hefted the canvas sack hanging from her saddle.

  “Yes, that,” said Mazael. “It looks like a bag of rocks.”

  Romaria laughed and reached into the sack. “They’re apples. Want one?”

  “Of course,” said Mazael, and she tossed one at him.

  “You know, I’d never had apples before,” said Romaria, taking one for herself.

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “They don’t grow in the Great Southern Forest,” said Romaria. “Not enough sun, perhaps. Are there are none south of the mountains. I’d never seen one before last month.” She took a bite, swallowed. “They’re quite good, really. I talked a sack out of Cramton.”

  Mazael gave Chariot half of his apple. “He was charmed by your beauty, no doubt.”

  Romaria’s smile was sly. “Oh, no doubt. It’s fairly common. But you're the one with the charm.”

  Mazael snorted. “Gods, I hope not. I prefer women.”

  “I had noticed. But that’s not what I meant and you know it. You inspire loyalty.”

  Mazael snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Really?” said Romaria. “What about Sir Gerald? He’s a son of the great Lord Malden! He needn’t follow you. And Timothy and Adalar. And Sir Nathan, your old teacher, follows your orders without question.”

  “I don’t want Castle Cravenlock, Romaria,” said Mazael.

  Romaria shrugged. “You might not have a choice.”

  “Destiny?” said Mazael. “Fate? I...”

  “Don’t believe in it?” said Romaria. “I thought I explained that to you. We were fated to meet.”

  “That’s different,” said Mazael. “I need you. I would have gone mad but for you. And I still could.”

  “And what is that? Fate, or destiny, or the will of the gods, whatever you want to call it?” said Romaria.

  Mazael had no answer.

  Romaria leaned towards him. “We’d best speak of this later. It looks as if Sir Tanam and Brother Silar want a word with you.” The Old Crow and the monk rode up together.

  “We should make Lord Richard’s camp in about three and a half days,” said Sir Tanam. “Longer, if any Mandragon forces demand explanations.”

  “You don’t seem worried about any men from Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

  Sir Tanam cackled. “Worried? Of course not! I didn’t see a single one from here to Castle Cravenlock. I rode right up to the gates before anyone even saw us.” He smiled. “Sir Mazael, I could march an army to Castle Cravenlock and Lord Mitor wouldn’t know until we knocked him over the head.”

  “He’s right, of course,” said Silar. “Lord Mitor’s defenses are limited, to say the least.”

  “And how would you know?” said Mazael.

  Silar laughed. “Remember White Rock? Who do you think helped Sir Albert design that palisade? I know a few things about war.”

  Sir Tanam’s eyes flicked to Lion. “That is a most fine sword, by the way.”

  Mazael shrugged. “Sorry I had to hit you with it.”

  Sir Tanam snorted. “I should be grateful you didn’t hit me with the blade. It looks rather sharp.”

  “It has other properties, as well,” said Silar.

  “We’d heard of that,” said Sir Tanam. “Effective against the walking dead things, right?”

  Mazael stiffened. “How do you know about that?”

  “One of our outrider bands slipped past Castle Cravenlock and stopped by White Rock a few days past,” said Sir Tanam. “The village was buzzing with stories of your battle.”

  “You got a band of outriders south of Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael.

  “That surprises you? Sir Albron Eastwater is not an effective commander,” observed Sir Tanam. “Do you really think he can defeat Lord Richard? I wonder, why are you siding with Mitor? If I might ask, of course. He obviously cares nothing for you. And you have everything to gain by going to Lord Richard’s side. If Mitor falls, you’ll be the next Lord of Castle Cravenlock.”

  Mazael glared at him.

  “I see I’ve given you much to ponder,” said Sir Tanam. “Worry not, Sir Mazael. Many of your questions will be answered once we reached Lord Richard’s camp.”

  “Questions?” said Mazael. “What sort of game is your lord playing? I’m tired of games. Mitor plays one, Albron has his own, and Simonian...”

  “You’ll see,” said Sir Tanam. He rode off, Silar following.

  They passed many
small villages and hamlets. Nearly all were deserted. Crowley told them that the peasants had fled north for the safety of Lord Richard’s forces. The silence reminded Mazael of the stillness that would rise before storms swept down from the mountains.

  They made camp near one of the abandoned river hamlets. Romaria curled up besides Mazael and went to sleep. This raised some eyebrows amongst Crowley’s men, but none dared say anything.

  Mazael didn't care. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful.

  They next day Crowley's men veered to the northeast, setting a direct route towards Lord Richard’s camp. The lands north of Castle Cravenlock’s hills had been depopulated since Lord Richard’s uprising, and the grass had grown thick and high. They were forced to take their horses at a walk to avoid stones and debris hidden in the grass.

  Later that day, a snake in the grasses spooked Chariot. The big horse reared and threw Mazael, and he took a long gash down his forearm from a jagged rock. Mazael made a show of having Timothy tend his wound, but even as the wizard wrapped bandages about the arm, Mazael felt the itch as the skin healed itself. By the time Timothy had finished, the gash had faded to a pale pink scar, and it vanished entirely an hour later. Fortunately, no one noticed. They had accused Rachel of witchcraft and sorcery. How would the Old Crow react if he saw Mazael’s flesh knit itself back together?

  It troubled Mazael for the rest of the day. How powerful was the healing? Could it heal a mortal wound? Would it regenerate a severed limb? A finger of ice brushed his spine. Could he even be killed? The thought was terrifying and exhilarating.

  They made camp for the second night. Again Romaria slept touching him, and again his rest was free from his father's bloodshot green gaze.

  The third day of their journey was uneventful. Breezes ruffled the grasses of the Grim Marches, and Mazael saw countless blood roses. They made camp and the night passed quietly, untroubled by bandit or zuvembie.

  Halfway through the fourth day, they reached Lord Richard Mandragon’s camp.

  Romaria smelled it first. “We’re almost there.”

  Mazael looked at her. “How do you know?”

  “I can smell it,” she said.

  “I can’t smell anything,” he said.

  Romaria smiled. “You can’t? I’m surprised. Twenty-five thousand men, their horses, and their pack animals smell after a while.”

  Gerald laughed. “Remember my brother Mandor’s camp after three weeks, Mazael? He never bothered to order fresh privy trenches dug. An old woman in the village died of the stink, I heard.”

  Mazael grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

  “The most splendid lady is quite correct,” said Sir Tanam. “We near Lord Richard’s camp. We should arrive within the hour.”

  A few minutes later Lord Richard Mandragon's camp came into sight.

  It was a city of tents and a sea of waving banners. Mazael saw the Mandragons’ standard, the sigil of Hawk’s Reach, the fiery dragon of Drake’s Hall, and two dozen others. The tents themselves were lined up in neat rows, and a stake-lined ditch encircled the entire encampment.

  Sir Tanam greeted the guards and rode into the camp. A thousand sounds and smells surrounded Mazael. He heard the hammering of blacksmiths, the bellow of shouted orders, the laughter of off-duty men, and the measured tread of drilling soldiers. He smelled cooking food, heated metal, sweat, blood, and the undercutting reek of the privy trenches.

  A man-at-arms in chain mail and a Mandragon tabard ran up to Sir Tanam. “My lord knight, Lord Richard has been informed of your arrival. He and his captains await you and his...ah, guests in the command tent.” It was less than a minute’s ride to the command tent, a pyramid of green canvas atop a wooden pavilion, the Mandragon banner fluttering from a pole overhead.

  “Here we are!” said Sir Tanam, sliding from his saddle. Grooms ran forward to take their horses. “Right this way, my lord knights, my lady. Lord Richard is expecting us.”

  A long wooden table rang the length of the tents, maps and papers covering its surface. A dozen men stood around the table. One was short and stout and wore a surcoat emblazoned with the burning dragon of the Mandrake family, undoubtedly Lord Jonaril Mandrake of Drakehall. The man standing next to him was a younger version of Sir Commander Galan Hawking, no doubt Lord Astor Hawking.

  But despite the others, Mazael recognized Lord Richard the Dragonslayer and his sons at once.

  Lord Richard was in his mid-forties. His red hair and beard were streaked with white, making it seem as if encircling flames crowned his head. His eyes were black and unreadable, and his crimson armor was magnificent. Mazael had never seen anything like it. The armor was a combination of hand-sized plates and gleaming chain mail. He realized the plates were scales, taken from the dragons Lord Richard had slain in his youth.

  The young man besides Lord Richard wore similar armor, though his was night-black. He was fit and lean, his expression arrogant and amused without the slightest hint of fear. This must be Toraine Mandragon, the infamous Black Dragon.

  Behind him stood a shorter man clad in black wizard's garb, his hooded cloak shadowing his face. This was Lord Richard’s younger son Lucan Mandragon, the wizard the jongleurs called the Dragon’s Shadow. Lucan’s face was gaunt, his eyes hard and cold, and a mocking smirk played on his lips.

  “Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Lord Richard, his deep voice resonant. “I am pleased Sir Tanam brought you.”

  “Lord Richard Mandragon,” said Mazael. “Now that we’re certain of each other’s identity, shall we begin?”

  “You are refreshingly direct,” said Lord Richard. “Many of my lords and knights would rather talk than act.”

  Mazael thought of Albron and Mitor. “I understand.”

  “Then let us begin,” said Lord Richard. “This is my son and heir, Toraine.” Toraine did not acknowledge Mazael. “This is my second son, Lucan." Lucan gave Mazael a grave nod, his dark eyes unreadable. "These are my lord captains.” He introduced Lord Jonaril and Lord Astor and the others. “You’ve already made the acquaintance of my old crow, I understand.”

  Sir Tanam grinned. “Twice, actually.”

  “This is Sir Gerald Roland,” said Mazael.

  “Well met, Sir Gerald,” said Lord Richard. “I did not think to see the day when I would speak peacefully to a son of Lord Malden.”

  Gerald bowed. “I’ve seen many strange things over the last month, my lord. Why not another?” Lucan’s sardonic smile widened.

  “This is Sir Nathan Greatheart,” said Mazael. “This is Timothy deBlanc, a wizard in my service. And this is Lady Romaria Greenshield, sent by her father Lord Athaelin to investigate these events.”

  “My lady,” said Lord Richard. “I am pleased your father chose to involve himself. Perhaps together we can bring an end to the madness that threatens this land.”

  “I hope so,” said Romaria.

  “And this is Brother Silar of the Cirstarcians, a monk who has decided to involve himself,” said Mazael.

  “Brother Silar and I have met,” said Lord Richard. “He advised me on the history of Castle Cravenlock before he went to assist Sir Albert Krondig against the zuvembies. Please, be seated.” Mazael and his companions sat, and Lord Richard and his captains followed suit. “I assume Lord Mitor has sent a message for me?”

  Mazael’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He commands you to disband your armies, surrender Swordgrim, travel to Castle Cravenlock, and acknowledge his liege lordship. He hasn't decided if he will show mercy.”

  Toraine Mandragon laughed. “Then Mitor is a bigger fool than I believed. Let us see his pride once we mount his head above his castle gate.”

  Lord Jonaril snorted. “A poor idea, I say. I’ve met the man. His head would make a terrible eyesore.” Mazael remembered his dreams and tried not to shudder.

  “You realize, of course,” said Lord Richard, “that I have no intention of standing down. The Mandragons are the rightful liege lords of the Grim Marches. That makes Lord Mitor a re
bel and a traitor.”

  “I realize that,” said Mazael.

  Lord Richard folded his hands and placed them on the table. “I also have considerable information on Lord Mitor’s army. He has ten thousand men. Only six thousand are loyal. The four thousand from his own house, and two thousand more from Lords Roget and Marcus. The remaining four thousand are mercenaries of dubious reliability.”

  “The Justiciar Knights have gone to support Mitor’s cause,” said Mazael.

  Lord Richard did not blink. “The Justiciar estates in the Grim Marches will only supply Lord Mitor with two thousand men. Neither Lord Alamis Castanagent of the High Plain nor Lord Malden Roland of Knightcastle can move fast enough to aid Lord Mitor. I am only three days' march from Castle Cravenlock. By the time the Justiciar Grand Master sends reinforcements, the issue will have been decided.”

  Toraine smiled. “If they hurry, the Justiciars will come in time to see the end of the Cravenlocks.”

  “I see why my sister didn’t want to marry you,” said Mazael. Toraine bristled, but Lord Richard stilled him with a glance.

  “I also possess a great deal of information on the formation of Lord Mitor’s forces,” said Lord Richard.

  “From the Old Crow, no doubt,” said Mazael.

  “Sir Tanam’s scouting work has been of great benefit to me,” said Lord Richard. “But the vast bulk of my knowledge has come from my many spies within the mercenary encampments. This fool Albron Eastwater is a tenth of the battle commander you are, my good Sir Nathan. Mitor's army is a farce.”

  “It is sloppy, my lord,” said Sir Nathan. “Sir Albron will learn some bitter lessons.”

  "Should he survive them," said Toraine.

  “Ten thousand men against twenty-five thousand are poor odds in any circumstance,” said Lord Richard. “And when those ten thousand are poorly led, ill-disciplined, and improperly arrayed, the outcome is all but certain.”

  “I know all this,” said Mazael. “I came here for a parley, not for a recitation of facts I already know.”

  “The parley has yet to begin,” said Lord Richard. “I merely state what I will do. Tomorrow, I will march. I will fall on Castle Cravenlock and I will smash Mitor’s armies to shreds. Once the castle has fallen, I will hang Sir Albron Eastwater, my traitorous vassals Marcus Trand and Roget Hunterson, this foreign necromancer Simonian of Briault, and Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle. I offered Lord Adalon and his sons mercy fifteen years ago. I will not have it thrown back in my face. Lord Adalon was wise enough to know that. It seems Lord Mitor is not.”