Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  One of the armsmen stepped forward, a bored expression on his face. “Most High Priest Skhath has ordered no patrols for this...”

  Mazael spurred Chariot, and the guard just had time to scream before Lion opened his throat. Romaria slew another, her blade splitting his head down the middle. One guard gripped his halberd with both hands and tried to charge her from behind. Mazael batted aside the thrust and Chariot kicked out, stunning the armsman. The sole survivor turned and tried to run for the keep. As he ran past Silar’s horse, the monk’s palm shot out. The armsman's head snapped back, and he joined his companions on the ground.

  “We’d best make haste,” said Sir Nathan.

  They galloped through the barbican gates, past the town, and north to Lord Richard’s waiting armies.

  Chapter X

  1

  Wrath of the Dragonslayer

  “There,” said Romaria. “I see them.”

  “How?” said Mazael, blinking in the midday sun. “It’s only been a day and a half.”

  “Lord Richard must have marched when he heard Sir Gerald’s news,” said Nathan.

  “I would have,” said Silar.

  Richard Mandragon's army spread across the horizon, followed by a column of dust. Mazael saw a sea of fluttering banners, heard the distant boom of marching drums.

  “Horsemen,” said Sir Nathan.

  A dozen riders galloped towards them, led by a horseman in magnificent black dragon's scale armor. The hilt of a sword rose over his armored shoulder, and the black dragon of Lord Richard marked his crimson shield. The armored rider reined up before Mazael, pulling off his helm.

  “So!” said Toraine Mandragon. “It appears you’ve survived the treachery of your family after all. We are relieved. You didn’t happen to kill Lord Mitor on your way out, did you?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “The opportunity never arrived.”

  “A pity,” said Toraine. “I would have killed him. Then Castle Cravenlock would have had a new lord, and a new name, for that matter.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Mazael said. “I don’t care.”

  Toraine’s dark eyes flashed. “My father has commanded that you are to be brought to him at once. This way, if you please.”

  “You’re too kind,” said Mazael. “Lead on.” Toraine scowled, and his riders settled in an armored wedge around Mazael and his companions.

  They rode through Lord Richard’s army, past rank after rank of pikemen and company after company of archers. But the core of the army was the knights, the heavy horse. Mazael counted six thousand in all, armored in heavy plate and armed with war lances, battle axes, and hammers. The knights alone could tear through Mitor’s hodgepodge mass of armsmen and mercenaries.

  Mazael found himself looking forward to the battle.

  Lord Richard and his captains rode with the lancers, the Mandragon banner flying overhead. The Dragonslayer sat atop a great black stallion, his red armor brilliant in the sunlight. The Old Crow rode close to his master’s side, along with stout Lord Jonaril and slender young Lord Astor rode with him. Gerald rode at Lord Richard’s right hand, Adalar and Wesson trailing behind him.

  Lucan rode some distance behind them, a shadow in his black cloak.

  Gerald’s eyes widened. “Sir Mazael! You’re alive!”

  “No thanks to myself,” said Mazael. “The monk and Timothy were right. We should have turned back.”

  Lord Richard's eyes fixed on Mazael, and then turned toward his followers. They moved off, along with Mazael's companions, leaving him alone with Lord Richard.

  “Sir Mazael,” said Lord Richard. “Did you find what you sought?”

  “Yes,” Mazael said. “I found. I saw. All of it.”

  “So,” said Lord Richard. “You have seen the truth. Your decision?”

  “You were right,” said Mazael. “Mitor and Sir Albron and their followers are all monsters. I’ll follow you.”

  “Excellent,” said Lord Richard. “You have made the right choice.”

  “There are two things you must know,” said Mazael. “Sir Albron isn’t a knight. He isn’t even human. He’s a San-keth priest disguised beneath a spell of illusion.”

  Lord Richard nodded. “We anticipated as much. My vassals have brought their court wizards. And my son’s arts are capable.” Disapproval showed in his eyes for a moment.

  “You’ll need them,” said Mazael. “There’s something else. Simonian isn’t human. Not fully, at least.”

  “Another San-keth priest?” said the Dragonslayer. “We are prepared for such.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “He’s Demonsouled.”

  Lord Richard fell silent. “How did you gain this knowledge?”

  “He told me,” said Mazael.

  “Does Brother Silar know?” said Lord Richard.

  “He knows quite a bit,” said Mazael.

  “Then we shall leave the matter for his consideration,” said Lord Richard. “The Cirstarcians have experience dealing with both San-keth and Demonsouled. Brother Silar wishes to assist? Then let him.”

  Mazael nodded.

  “My captains and I will have a council of war when me make camp,” said Lord Richard. “Speak no more of this until then. My men already whisper rumors.”

  Mazael nodded. Lord Richard made a small gesture, and his captains returned to his side. Mazael steered Chariot past them to rejoin his companions. Sir Nathan was telling Gerald what they had found under the castle.

  “Gods!” Gerald said. “Such vileness! I never would have thought. Well, it certainly explains the decrepit state of the chapel, if all the inhabitants of the castle pray to the god of snakes.” He shook his head. “Gods, Mazael. I always took your stories of your brother with a grain of salt. It seems I should have believed them and worse. I feel sorry for your sister, though. She seemed a sweet child.”

  “Child?” said Mazael. “She’s older than you.”

  “She seemed so lost, though,” said Gerald.

  “Lost?” said Mazael. “She knows right where she is. She is a liar and a murderess, and I will bring her to justice myself!” Gerald flinched from the iron in Mazael’s tone.

  They left him alone after that, and he rode in silence.

  The army marched until Lord Richard gave the command to halt at sunset. The ordered tent city Mazael had seen a week earlier rose out of the plains. Tents were pitched, trenches dug, and stakes placed. The smells of cooking food, oiled metal, and excrement rose into the night.

  Mazael threaded his way through the bustling camp to Lord Richard’s command tent. It rose from the center of the camp, banners flying from their standards. The Roland standard of silver greathelm on a blue field flew at equal height with the Mandragon banner. Gerald’s work, Mazael supposed. Beneath the banners of Roland and Mandragon flew the Cravenlock standard of three crossed swords on black. Since Mitor had probably not joined Lord Richard, Mazael supposed the Dragonslayer had something else in mind.

  He ducked under the heavy canvas flap and into the tent. Several long tables had been laid out, one covered by maps, the other by food. Lord Richard’s vassals and captains stood talking.

  “Sir Mazael!” said Sir Tanam, appearing with a pair of wooden cups. “Here, take this. You look as if you need a drink.”

  Mazael drained the cup in one pull. “That, and many more.”

  The Old Crow laughed. “Ha! Never get drunk the night before a battle, I say. The night after, however, is quite a different matter.”

  Mazael grunted and handed his cup back to the Old Crow.

  “Mazael!” It was Gerald, his armor gleaming with new polish. Poor Wesson looked exhausted. “Where have you been?”

  “Thinking,” said Mazael.

  Gerald laughed. “You used to warn me against worrying too much.”

  “A lot can change in a month,” said Mazael.

  Gerald’s expression sobered. “That is true. And a lot more will change tonight, I fear.” He paused. “Lord Richard has news for you. I fear you
may not like it, thought it is necessary.”

  Mazael frowned. “What news?”

  “Let us begin,” said Lord Richard, his voice cutting like a knife through the babble. His vassals and captains took their seats. Mazael sat down besides Romaria, and she reached out and squeezed his hand. A cloaked man sat across from Mazael, and pulled back his hood to reveal a lean, angular face with gold-slashed silver hair and deep purple eyes. It was Sil Tarithyn, the ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf. A gasp of surprise went up from the Dragonslayer’s captains, but the Elderborn’s unblinking eyes fixed on Mazael.

  “We have a guest and an ally come to our cause,” said Lord Richard. “Ardmorgan Sil Tarithyn of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

  “A wood demon,” said Toraine. “What can they do for us?”

  Lucan laughed. “That wood demon, my brother, could put an arrow through your eye at a hundred paces. Even with that fine dragon helm of yours.” Toraine sneered, but fell silent.

  “The lands of the Elderborn have been afflicted by the zuvembies, just as ours have been,” said Lord Richard. “Sil Tarithyn and his warriors have ventured from their woods to destroy the creatures. Their foes are our foes. Shall we turn away aid when it is offered?” Toraine glared but did not answer.

  “And we have a second ally come to our cause,” said Lord Richard. “Sir Mazael has made the decision to join with us against his rebellious and apostate brother.”

  Toraine smiled. “A wise choice. Why should all the Cravenlocks die?”

  “Lord Mitor is a rebel,” said Lord Richard. “He has turned against his rightful liege lord and his rightful gods. Hence, he has forfeited his lands and titles. Sir Mazael is now Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock...if he chooses to take the title. If not, it shall pass to my son Lucan.” A rumble of discontent passed through the assembled lords.

  It was not something Mazael wanted. For the rest of his life, men would say he had murdered his older brother to take Castle Cravenlock. Yet he had no other choice. Mitor and Rachel deserved death for their crimes, and Simonian had to be stopped. Silar’s warning repeated in Mazael’s mind. Suppose the demon magic overwhelmed him? Would he become the tyrant the monk had feared, something worse than Simonian?

  He had to take the risk. He had no other choice.

  “I accept,” said Mazael.

  “Excellent,” said Lord Richard. “I hope Lord Mazael will do much to insure peace once our battle is won. Now, Lord Mazael, we would consider it a favor if you described what you saw at Castle Cravenlock.”

  Mazael told Lord Richard’s assembled vassals and captains what he had seen, of Othar's journal, of the temple beneath the castle, the true natures of Sir Albron Eastwater and Simonian of Briault. He did not mention his own nature.

  Toraine laughed. “My, my, saved by a tavern wench! Hardly the sort of thing that goes into a song of the heroic.”

  “And how would you know?” said Lucan. Lord Richard silenced his sons with a dark look.

  “So,” said Lord Jonaril, reaching for a goblet. “We had always suspected Mitor of allying with dark powers. It appears his crimes are worse than even I suspected.” He smiled. “The fool has sealed his own fate. No one, not even Lord Malden Roland or Lord Alamis Castanagent, will fault us from eradicating this perversion from the face of the earth.”

  “Indeed,” said Gerald. “My father has his...ah, disagreements, with Lord Richard, but he would not deny Lord Mitor’s crimes.”

  A gleam came into Lord Jonaril’s eyes. “And there are, of course, the matters of Lord Roget and Lord Marcus and Sir Commander Galan Hawking. A pity they chose to ally with Mitor. Sir...ah, pardon, Lord Mazael shall receive the Cravenlock lands, certainly. But as for the others, their lands are forfeit without a doubt, and shall have to go to more deserving, loyal men. And the Justiciar lands will revert to Lord Richard, of course.”

  Lord Astor sighed. “It is a shame. My brother is proud and brave, but he did have a penchant for allying with lost causes. Though I’d never have thought him capable of forsaking the gods.”

  “Perhaps he did not, my lord,” said Sir Nathan. “We did not see him the temple, nor did he seem aware of its existence. Revenge against you and Lord Richard were his motives.”

  Sir Tanam laughed. “Heresy or treason.” He chopped his hand down. “Either one gets the axe.”

  “Might I remind you, my lords, that the battle is still to be fought?” said Lord Richard. “Matters of spoils, lands, and titles shall wait until after our victory. We must know the order and rank of our enemy. Sir Tanam?”

  The Old Crow cleared his throat. “I have done extensive scouting around Castle Cravenlock. Lord Mitor has, at most, four thousand armsmen. Rather less since Lord Mazael has been there, I imagine. Mostly foot, with a thousand horse. The Cravenlock forces have declined since Sir Albron took over. Snakes can’t ride horses, I suppose. Lords Roget and Marcus together have another two thousand. The Justiciar forces are the most formidable...fifteen hundred sergeant foot soldiers and five hundred heavy lancers. To top off this motley crew, Mitor has brought in the mercenary scum of every city from Knightport to Forgotten Sea. Most, if not all, these men are encamped at the base of the castle’s hill.” He looked at Mazael. “Am I right?”

  Mazael nodded. “Mitor keeps about four or five hundred men in the castle proper.”

  Toraine laughed. “Hardly an army. More of an unwashed mob, I say. We shall cut through them like a scythe through wheat.”

  “Take heed, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “You speak true. The men are nothing. The dark powers that the traitor lord serves in his pit beneath the earth are the true foe.”

  Toraine smiled. “Flesh or dark power, a blade will end them all.”

  “Regardless of whatever sorcery Mitor serves, his men are still flesh and blood, vulnerable to blade and bow,” said Lord Richard. “We shall split our heavy lancers and place them on the right and left wings. The heavy foot and archers shall make up the center. My son shall command the right.” Mazael did not need ask which son. “Sir Tanam shall take the left. I shall command the center. The rest of you shall remain with your individual forces, under the command of either myself, Sir Tanam, or Toraine.”

  Lord Jonaril frowned. “What is our battle plan?”

  “The heavy horse will attack first, striking from either side,” said Lord Richard. “The more disciplined enemy soldiers, the Justiciar knights and perhaps the Cravenlock armsmen, shall no doubt respond first. Neither Lord Mitor nor his vassals are capable commanders. Their men are undisciplined, and the mercenaries are no better. Sir Tanam and Toraine shall engage while I bring up the infantry and the archers. By that time, the enemy will have mobilized against our lancers.”

  “Making them unprepared for archers and infantry,” said Mazael.

  Lord Richard nodded. He turned to Sil Tarithyn. “My lord ardmorgan, I do not believe your warriors are suited for such a battle. I ask you to take your men and use them as you best see fit, striking from the flanks as opportunity dictates.”

  “No,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “You refuse my father’s command?” said Toraine.

  “The Elderborn are a free people, boy,” said Sil Tarithyn. “We are not your Dragonslayer lord’s servants. We did not come north to slay innocent men. Innocent those men are, for many of them do not know the darkness they serve. The Tribe of the Wolf came north to destroy the zuvembies, and to bring their maker to justice.”

  “What of the garrison in the castle?” said Lucan, face shadowed in his heavy cowl. “Surely they know of the serpent temple and its black rites. Otherwise Mitor would not keep them close. Would it not be justice to slay them as well?”

  “You speak wisely,” said Sil Tarithyn. “If the we must face those soldiers to reach the necromancer and the priests of the serpent god, then face them we shall.”

  “Then we would be pleased to have you join us in laying siege Castle Cravenlock, once Mitor’s host has been crushed,” said Lord Richard.

/>   “Why not have them attack the castle during the battle?” said Sir Tanam.

  “Your thoughts, my old crow?” said Lord Richard.

  “Now, while I’ve no doubt my lord Lucan and our other wizards are more than capable of deflecting any dark magic Simonian and the serpent blokes could conjure at us,” said the Old Crow, “I, for one, would rather not test them. After all, I’d rather not end my days as an old crow in truth. Feathers wouldn’t suit me.” A chorus of snickers rose up from the lords. “A formal battle wouldn’t suit my lord ardmorgan and his fighters. But scaling the walls and creeping up on the castle garrison and Simonian...that, I think, would work quite well for them. What have you to say for that, my lord ardmorgan?”

  “Our battle is with the perversions in Castle Cravenlock,” said Sil Tarithyn. “They must be made to face justice.”

  “I do believe that is a yes,” said Sir Tanam. He grinned. “We’ll strike Mitor’s great lumbering mass of troops, while my lord ardmorgan and his fighters distract Simonian and the garrison.”

  “We must have assistance,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Simonian is master of dark arts. The priests of the betrayer god can call upon great necromancy. We have no druids among us. We need one of arcane skills to fight besides us.”

  “I’ll go,” said Lucan.

  “You?” said Lord Richard.

  “You’re no warrior,” said Toraine.

  Lucan sneered. “Oh, no, I’m not, brother. I’ll leave that distinction for you. But our lord ardmorgan here didn’t ask for warriors. He asked for wizards. And in that, I believe, I fill the bill admirably, more than any other man on the Grim Marches.”

  “I may require your assistance,” said Lord Richard.

  Lucan snorted. “For what, might I ask? You brought me along to combat whatever dark power you might find in Castle Cravenlock. And I know all about dark powers, don’t I?”

  Lord Richard regarded his son in silence, his face a mask. “Very well. You may go. Try to prove of use.”

  Lucan’s smile was mocking. “Oh, I shall certainly try.”