Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  "Mitor and Rachel are you brother and sister," said Romaria. "Even if you hated Mitor, you would still find it hard to believe something so dark about him."

  His hands clenched and unclenched. “I have to see it for myself. I have to know.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it quietly,” said Gerald.

  “I have a great deal of experience in getting into places quietly,” said Romaria.

  Silar grinned. “Really? So do I. How splendid.”

  “Interesting activity, for a monk,” said Romaria.

  Silar shrugged. “It is surprising what you learn if you live long enough.”

  “Gerald,” said Mazael. “Timothy is right, though. Lord Richard knows the truth, but he still needs warning. I want you to take the squires and head back to Lord Richard’s camp. Tell him of what we found and give him this journal.”

  And it would keep Gerald and the squires out of Mitor's clutches. Mitor's, and Simonian's.

  “I’d rather face this nest of evil with you,” said Gerald.

  “My place is by your side, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar.

  “Be that as it may,” said Mazael. “You and Wesson are still boys. I’ll not have you perish in a pit of snakes. And you wanted to stop a war, Gerald? What do you think will happen if you die here? Your father will blame Lord Richard.”

  Gerald did not look happy, but he took the journal. “The gods be with you, Mazael. With luck, I’ll see you shortly.”

  “I hope so,” said Mazael.

  Mazael watched them hurry to the stables. “The rest of you can make for Lord Richard’s camp, if you like. This is my error. You don’t have to come.”

  Romaria laughed. “I think not. You need me, Mazael, whether you like to admit it or no.”

  “Lord Mitor is my liege lord,” said Sir Nathan. “I would know if he has betrayed his oath by turning to evil.”

  “I’m sworn to you,” said Timothy. “Where you go, I’ll follow.”

  “The Cirstarcian monks are sworn to face this darkness wherever it rises,” said Silar.

  Mazael was grateful for their presence. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the courtyard for the doors of the central keep, and still they saw no armsmen. Mazael pushed the doors open and strode inside. They passed through the anteroom and the vaulted great hall, both chambers deserted and quiet.

  “Where is everyone?” said Sir Nathan. “Supper should just have finished.”

  Mazael crossed to the lord’s entrance behind the chairs on the dais, to the stairs that led to the lord's chambers. As a boy, Mazael had hidden in this stairwell with Rachel, playing and listening to their father's court. He wondered if Lord Adalon had known of Lady Arissa’s wickedness. For the first time, Mazael’s disgust for his father’s weakness mingled with pity.

  He wrapped his hand around Lion’s hilt and kicked open the door to Mitor’s quarters. Beyond the door lay large sitting room with a carpeted floor and a half-dozen chairs, while the lord's private entrance to the chapel stood to his right. Mazael listened for Mitor or Marcelle to call the guards.

  But the rooms were empty.

  “This way,” said Mazael. “The entrance is in the bedroom.”

  They passed through a carpeted library and a small dining room and entered Mitor's bedroom. A huge canopied bed dominated the chamber. Mazael wondered how often Marcelle and Mitor shared it. A gaping granite fireplace covered one wall, carved with reliefs depicting Cravenlock knights vanquishing Mandragon armsmen.

  “Here,” said Mazael.

  He knelt before the fireplace, running his fingers along the floor. One of the granite tiles was higher than the others. He grimaced, flexed his fingers, and pulled out the tile, revealing a small niche.

  A snake stared up at him.

  It was a bas-relief of green marble, rubies glittering in its eyes. Just as the diagram in Master Othar’s journal had described.

  “Gods,” said Nathan.

  Mazael reached into the hole, put his fingers on the snake’s crimson eyes, and pushed. He heard a deep click, and the floor trembled. With a dull groan, the back of the fireplace slid into the wall and revealed a winding staircase. A warm breeze blew out of the stairwell. It carried the stink of blood and the oily smell of snake.

  “Gods indeed,” said Mazael. “Light, Timothy.”

  Timothy surrounded his hand with shimmering light, and they took the stairs. The steps twisted down, past the castle’s foundations, past the dungeons, and deep into the hill’s bedrock. The walls began gleamed with dampness.

  Torchlight glimmered ahead, and the stairs ended in a long, straight passageway, wide and high with a vaulted ceiling. Walls, ceiling, and floor were built of red granite that gleamed like blood. Guttering torches burned in rusted iron scones, revealing the bas-reliefs covering the walls.

  Mazael swept his gaze down the corridor. He knew the story of the San-keth race, how they and their god had allied with the Great Demon. After the Great Demon had been slain, the true gods had stripped the serpent people of their limbs and forced them to crawl in the dust in penance for their crimes.

  The walls told the same story from a different angle. Mazael could not read the strange script, but the bas-reliefs were clear. They showed the San-keth tortured by the capering and gleeful Amathavian gods. Later carvings detailed the punishment the humans and Elderborn would undergo when the serpent god rose in glory. Mazael was suddenly glad that he had sent the squires away. They were too young for such horrors.

  The worst part was the utter lack of dust. There were no cobwebs. The walls and floor gleamed as if freshly polished. The torches had been recently lit.

  The corridor ended in a massive set of black double doors carved with mating serpents. Mazael saw flickering red and green light from beneath the door. The scent of blood grew thicker.

  “You’d best dismiss your spell, wizard,” said Silar. “If there are any San-keth priests about, they might have the skill to detect your magic.” Timothy extinguished his light.

  “Gods have mercy,” said Sir Nathan. “This place has been here for all these years. I never knew. I am a fool.”

  “No,” said Silar. “The only fools are the ones who come to worship here.” He pointed. “Behind those doors will be the temple proper, if my order’s descriptions are correct. Do you see those smaller doors in the walls, there and there? Those should lead to side chambers for storage, libraries, and the keeping of sacrificial slaves.”

  Mazael jerked his head towards one of the smaller doors, taking care to keep his footfalls silent, and the others followed suit. He felt as if the leering serpents carved into the walls watched him with their crimson eyes, and he drew his sword.

  A jolt of power went up his arm. Lion's razor edges glimmered with blue light.

  “There are creatures of dark magic nearby,” said Silar. “We had best take care.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Mazael. He heard soft voices through the door. He listened for a moment, and held up four fingers. Romaria and Nathan nodded, while Timothy pulled a lump of crystal from his coat.

  Mazael gripped the handle, pushed, and leapt through the door.

  He crashed into a small guardroom. Four men wearing the tabards of Cravenlock armsmen lounged about a round table, guarding a door on the far wall. Mazael recognized them from the gang that had tried to hang Cramton and his family.

  The armsmen gaped up at him for a moment.

  “Ah, hell, it’s him!” said one, scrabbling for his sword.

  Mazael took the armsman's head with a single swing. As the other guards lurched to their feet, Timothy held his crystal high. It flared with white light, and the armsmen shrieked and held their hands over their eyes. Mazael wheeled and killed another, while Romaria's bastard sword plunged into a man's chest. The final armsman ran for the closed door. Silar vaulted over the table, his arms wrapping about the man's neck. There was a cracking sound, and the armsman slumped to the floor.

  “Nice trick,” said Romaria.
>
  Silar stepped over the body. “One hardly needs weapons to kill.” He looked at Mazael. “There’s your proof. This temple has been in use for quite some time. And these armsmen are Mitor’s. They would not be down here without his knowledge. Look at your sword. There are creatures of dark power here we are not equipped to face. Let us leave at once and make for Lord Richard’s camp.”

  Mazael heard chanting through the closed door, warm air seeping through the cracks in the wood. “There’s a ceremony going on in there.”

  "Most likely that's where everyone is," said Silar.

  "Including Rachel,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Silar. “Now we must leave at once!”

  “I have to know,” said Mazael. He reached for the door.

  2

  The Temple

  The door opened into a scene from hell.

  Mazael stepped onto a balcony encircling a cavernous hall that resembled the interior of the great cathedral he had seen years ago in Barellion. That cathedral had been decorated with carvings of gods and saints. But here, statues and carvings of limbed serpents killing humans adorned this temple, this pit. A stone altar rested atop a dais at the end of the temple, overlooked by an enormous stone statue of a giant snake. It was an image of the serpent god Sepharivaim, worshipped by the San-keth people and by human apostates. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, strange incense, and blood. A dull, droning chant in bastardized Tristafellin rose from the floor. Mazael ignored Silar’s hiss of warning and stepped to the edge of the balcony.

  A great mass of people knelt before the altar. There were servants from the castle, Cravenlock armsmen, and men wearing the finer garb of knights.

  “Mitor,” said Mazael.

  Mitor knelt at the front of the crowd, his forehead resting against the crimson stone floor, Marcelle besides him. Lord Marcus Trand and Lord Roget Hunterson knelt behind Mitor like a pair of mongrel hounds crouching behind their master.

  “Rachel’s not here,” said Mazael.

  “I’m happy for you,” said Silar. “Let’s go.”

  “This is a dangerous place. We should leave. Now,” said Romaria.

  “Brother Silar is right,” said Nathan. “We must...”

  The reverberating crash of a great gong drowned out his words, its clang echoing through the temple. The kneeling men and women began wail in ecstasy and terror. A huge drum thundered, its vibrations thrumming through the stone.

  “Simonian,” whispered Romaria.

  Mazael saw the necromancer at the far end of the temple hall, cloaked in black robes, watching the worshippers with amused contempt.

  “Right,” said Mazael. “Let’s get...” He froze.

  Sir Albron Eastwater marched into sight, clad only in a loincloth around his waist. The kneeling men and women parted for him. Rachel walked on Albron's arm, clad only in a shift of translucent black gauze. Golden bracelets wrought in the shape of serpents glittered on her wrists and ankles, and crimson runes marked the pale length of her arms and legs. A diadem shaped like twisting silver serpents supporting a great golden cobra with glittering ruby eyes rested upon her brow.

  “She’s one of them,” said Mazael. Strange that he felt no pain, no rage.

  Only...surprise.

  “Gods,” said Sir Nathan. “Look!”

  Albron’s body began to shimmer, his flesh rippling as if dissolving into mist.

  “An illusion!” said Timothy, his voice an excited whisper. “That was the spell I sensed about him. An illusion, to hide his true form!”

  The illusion dissolved to reveal a moldering skeleton, sparks of green fire glimmering in its joints. It was the same green fire Mazael had seen in the empty eyes of the zuvembies. A huge emerald-scaled snake was coiled around the skeleton's spine, its tail dangling through the hip bone to brush against the floor. The snake’s head reared up in its place, its black-slit yellow eyes roved over the kneeling worshippers.

  Rachel’s arm remained hooked about the animated skeleton. Mazael wanted to scream.

  “A San-keth serpent priest,” said Silar. "Sir Albron's true identity."

  “Why is it riding that skeleton?” said Romaria.

  “The gods stripped the San-keth of their limbs,” said Silar, “so the serpent priests use their dark arts to transform human skeletons into undead carriers, of a sort. The priest can control the limbs through its necromancy.” Silar swallowed. “Sir Mazael, the markings on Lady Rachel’s arms...”

  “What about them?” said Mazael. He did not recognize his own voice.

  Silar met his gaze. “It means...”

  “Hail!” Mitor stood, his arms spread. “Hail to Most High Priest Skhath of Karag Tormeth. Hail to Rachel Cravenlock, his chosen, on whom he shall father children in the name of our great lord Sepharivaim!”

  “Children?” said Mazael.

  “They’re called calibah...changelings,” said Silar. “They’re half-human, half-San-keth. They...”

  “She lied to me,” said Mazael. “She said...she told me...”

  “I know,” said Romaria.

  “Lord Richard was right,” said Mazael. “They were all right. How could I not have seen it?” Fury rose to the forefront of his churning thoughts. “She lied, the wretched scheming...”

  Skhath’s voice was a sibilant, grating hiss, nothing like the illusionary Albron Eastwater's smooth voice. “The time is nigh. Soon our armies shall sweep Lord Richard and his impotent gods from this land. Soon the glory of our lord Sepharivaim shall shine over the lands of Dracaryl. The blood of our sacrifices shall turn the rivers red.” Rachel knelt before him, the thin fabric of her shift stretched tight against her body. “Soon shall Mitor Cravenlock, faithful servant of the true god, reign as king over the Grim Marches, over all lands. And soon shall the worship of Sepharivaim and his glory fill the world!”

  A roar of glee rose from the worshippers.

  “Like hell it will,” said Mazael. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll...”

  “Most High Priest!” Simonian's voice rang over the temple, and the necromancer pointed at the balcony. “Intruders disturb these sacred rites!”

  A dead silence fell over the hall. Mitor gaped at Mazael. Rachel saw Mazael and blanched, color flooding into her cheeks.

  “What? Him!” said Skhath. “Kill them!”

  The mob lurched to their feet and broke into a run. Rachel backed behind the altar, while Simonian and Skhath began casting spells.

  “Damn!” said Mazael. “Run!”

  “Not yet,” said Romaria. She raised her bow and began shooting.

  Her first arrow raked into Mitor’s side. Mitor shrieked, blood dripping down his robes. Her second arrow hummed towards Skhath, only to lodge in the skeleton's rib cage, but the San-keth cleric flinched and ceased his spell. Her third arrow lanced towards Simonian’s head.

  Purple fire flared from Simonian’s body and consumed the arrow an instant before it would have plunged into his flesh. The purple flames flashed, and a line of fire blasted towards Romaria. She ducked, and the line of flame carved a deep gash into the stone wall. Lion flared in Mazael’s fist, the lines of blue light growing into sapphire flame.

  “Now we run!” said Romaria.

  They sprinted towards the guardroom as Simonian finished his spell. Orbs of green fire flashed from his fingertips. Mazael ducked, but the green spheres shot over his head and veered to the right.

  “What were those lights?” said Mazael. He sprinted through the guardroom.

  “I don’t know,” said Timothy. “I’ve never seen such a spell!”

  “Nor I,” said Silar.

  Mazael raced into the great vaulted corridor. The green flames whirled and danced above them, and then vanished into the carved walls.

  “Perhaps his dark art failed,” said Sir Nathan.

  Hidden doors in the walls slid upon with a rumble, and out stepped ten gaunt figures armored in gleaming black breastplates, chain mail, and helms. Lion blazed in Mazael's fist, bri
ghter than it had during the battle with the zuvembies. The creatures that had stepped out of the walls were not alive. Their flesh clung to their bones like dry leather, their empty eyes bright with necromancer's fire. Each carried a curving scimitar and a round shield, and the undead things moved with fluid, unearthly grace.

  “Gods have mercy,” said Sir Nathan.

  Silar stepped to the side. “This is great necromancy. These creatures are monstrosities out of legend.” The creatures moved into a semicircle, scimitars waving.

  “I don’t care if they’re the gatekeepers to hell itself,” said Mazael. The battle rage rose in his mind, and he welcomed it. “I mean to walk out of here. The gods pity whoever stands in my way!”

  Mazael spun, the flat of his sword banged against Romaria and Nathan’s blades, sheahing their weapons in azure flames. He came out of his spin, took two running steps, and brought Lion down in a blazing arc for a creature’s head. The sword exploded through the creature's helm and sank into its skull. The green light in its eyes flickered and died, and the creature collapsed in a heap of bones and black armor.

  The other creatures came at Mazael in a rush, and he parried their attacks. Romaria and Nathan fought beside him, their blades rising and falling.

  Timothy stepped forward, breathing hard. His hands flew through a series of rapid gestures, red sparks flaring between his fingers. He flung the sparks at a pair of the creatures. They shuddered, sparks dancing up their withered limbs, and bones and armor flew in all directions.

  Mazael attacked a pair of the dead things, Lion crashing against shield and scimitar, blue flames reflecting in polished black armor. The creatures were deadly quick, their scimitars stabbing like the fangs of serpents. But they seemed so slow to Mazael, so very slow. His two-handed swing cut one in half with a blazing flash. The surviving creature came at him, scimitar raised high. Romaria’s sword rammed into its back, and blue fire drowned out the green. The creature crumpled to the marble floor, and Romaria's cool eyes met Mazael's.