Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “And I shall go, as well,” said Mazael.

  Lord Richard folded his hands. “You would serve best in my host.”

  “How?” said Mazael. “One among thousands?”

  “We have all heard of your exploits in the Mastarian war,” said Lord Richard. “There are many commands that could use your skill.”

  “Your men, not mine,” said Mazael. “And this is my fight. My brother and my sister lied to me. They betrayed me. And I will have justice for it. And we all know full well that if I take the title as Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I will be branded a murderer for all time, regardless of what Mitor’s crimes were. If I am to be named a murderer, so be it. I shall do it with my own hands.”

  Lord Jonaril frowned. “You plan to kill your own sister?”

  “She’s a liar and a betrayer,” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said the stout lord. “But she is just a woman! Women are frail. She was undoubtedly led down the wrong path by her brother.”

  “A path she walked of her own will,” said Mazael.

  “In a castle full of apostates, how could you blame her?” said Lord Jonaril. “Mitor and his allies, now that is a different matter. No one will blame you, my lord, for putting them to the sword. Indeed, all men of right virtue would congratulate you. But spare the woman, I ask.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “So she can marry one of your sons in case I die?”

  Lord Jonaril coughed.

  “Regardless of his motives, Lord Jonaril is right,” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “Mitor and his followers are evil, I don’t doubt it. But Lady Rachel seemed only confused,” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Mazael. “I will not spare her.”

  Sir Nathan cleared his throat. “Rachel was an innocent child. I do not know what she has become. But were I in your place, Mazael, I would spare her.”

  “It does not matter,” said Lord Richard. “As Lord of Castle Cravenlock, justice is Lord Mazael’s to administer. Lord Mitor Cravenlock, Lady Marcelle Cravenlock, Lord Marcus Trand, Lord Roget Hunterson, Simonian of Briault, and ‘Sir Albron’ shall all die at my command. What happens to Lady Rachel is Lord Mazael’s concern, not mine.” Lord Jonaril grumbled assent but did not look pleased, and nor did Gerald.

  “Then it is settled,” said Lord Richard. “Tomorrow, we shall march. The next sunrise, we shall strike. I shall send Sil Tarithyn and his men, along with Lord Mazael, ahead to scale the castle’s walls and strike from the rear.”

  “We needn’t even scale the walls,” said Mazael. “Bethy showed me a passage that leads into the castle. With her help, I should have little difficulty getting inside.”

  “Excellent,” said Lord Richard.

  “And I shall come, as well,” said Sir Nathan. “Lord Mitor has betrayed me. And Lord Mazael is my new liege. I am bound to follow him.”

  “I came to rid the land of the zuvembies and whatever hand had raised them,” said Romaria. “I shall see this through to the end.”

  “As shall I,” said Gerald. “It is my duty to put an end to this conflict, to keep my father and his lands from war.” He smiled. “And I’ve followed Sir Mazael for the last ten years. Why should I not do the same for Lord Mazael?”

  “We Cirstarcian monks are sworn to rid the land of Demonsouled and San-keth,” said Silar. “It is my sacred duty to come.”

  Mazael looked at them. “I am glad for your aid.”

  “Well,” said Lucan, his smile sardonic. “Isn’t this a merry little band?”

  “Then it is settled,” said Lord Richard. “Tomorrow, we shall march. And then we shall do battle.”

  2

  Dreams of Blood

  Cold wind lashed at his face.

  Mazael walked alongside a churning river of blood, a spray of fine droplets coating its banks with a gleaming crimson coat.

  The wind howled, bringing the sound of screaming voices to his ears. Mazael's eyes followed the road to the looming bleak towers of Castle Cravenlock. The screams pleased him. They belonged to him. He would tear them from the grasp of others and make them his own. Mazael strode towards Castle Cravenlock, intending to claim it.

  Something thumped against his leg, and his glance down. Lion hung from his belt in its usual place, but a strange symbol dangling from a length of chain besides it. He reached for it, but the symbol burned his fingers. He hissed and nearly threw it to the ground, but the pain faded, and he held the symbol before his eyes. It was made of three interlocking steel rings joined together in a triangular shape. Something about the symbol made him feel ill.

  The screams rose from the castle, but now they filled him with revulsion.

  “So torn. But it will be resolved soon.”

  Lord Adalon stood on the bank of the crimson river, its splashing waves splattering his robe with blood. He held his staff in both hands, the silver raven at its top gleaming.

  “How you fight with yourself!” said Lord Adalon. Red light gleamed in the depths of his green eyes. “But that is what you do. Fight. Battle. And in the end, conquer.”

  Mazael looked at his father, fighting a sudden sense of terrible dread.

  “But why do you fight yourself?” said Lord Adalon. “The rage, the fury...the power, are they truly your enemies? You resist them. Yet they can make you over, make you greater, if you just give into them.”

  Mazael stared at Lord Adalon’s gaunt face, his red-shot green eyes, and his twisted and yellowed teeth. “Who are you?”

  Lord Adalon laughed. “You know, do you not? I am your father.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “No. My father has been dead for ten years. He wouldn’t have come back. He didn’t have the courage.”

  “Such small faith,” said Lord Adalon. “Think of me as your guide, then.”

  “Guide?” said Mazael. “To what?”

  “To your fate,” said Lord Adalon. “To your destiny.”

  “You sound like Romaria,” said Mazael. Who was Romaria? He could not remember.

  Lord Adalon laughed. “I think not. She would keep you as a sheep, docile and plodding, just as all the other cattle that wander the world. But I can show you a better way, my son. You’re growing stronger, aren’t you? More of your nature has come to the surface. You couldn’t question me here otherwise. The time soon comes when you will have to make a choice.”

  “Choice?” said Mazael. “Between what?”

  Lord Adalon beckoned with a bony hand. “I shall show you. Come.”

  Mazael backed away, his hand clutching the metal symbol, as if it could protect him from this creature that called itself his father. “No. You’re a liar.”

  Lord Adalon’s eyes flashed with crimson fire. “I, a liar? I, who have labored to show you the truth of who you are, what you are? I, who am so much older than you, so much wiser, so much stronger? I, who could crush you like a gnat?” His eyes burned red, icy winds whipping over the plain.

  “What are you?” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon blinked, and the decay vanished from his features, his eyes becoming green and bloodshot once more. “I am disappointed. I see you still believe those lies the fat wizard and the old knight wove into you. Very well. Let me show what awaits you. You shall soon have an opportunity that few mortals ever have. You shall have the chance to make yourself over, to become something more than mortal.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Mazael. “I’ve never wanted it.”

  Lord Adalon laughed. “Have you? You’ve always wanted power, my son, whether you will admit it or not. You reveled in the power of killing. You enjoyed it. And now the Dragonslayer has made you Lord of Castle Cravenlock. More power.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I took it because I had to...”

  “Because you wanted to!” said Lord Adalon. “More power in your fist. So much more lies before you. All you have to do is reach out and take it! But if you refuse, this is what lies before you!”

  He raised his staff high and rammed its butt i
nto the earth. The world spun around Mazael, and everything disappeared in a blazing red glow.

  He felt a railing of nicked wood beneath his hand. He stood on the balcony of Castle Cravenlock’s decrepit chapel, the only light coming from a pair of lanterns on the altar.

  “I’ve been here before,” said Mazael. He struggled to remember. “You’ve taken me here before.”

  “Most perceptive,” said Lord Adalon. He kicked aside a piece of a rotted pew. “Dust, ashes, and decay. Is this what you choose for yourself? Death, in the end? You have the power to become a demigod among the witless sheep that are men. Why do you refuse?”

  The symbol fell from Mazael’s fingers, swinging on its chain and bouncing against his leg. “Because...is it not power. It is corruption.”

  “Corruption?” said Lord Adalon. “You don’t really think that, do you? You know better.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I...”

  Lord Adalon smiled. “Let’s take a look, shall we? Let us see what will happen if you reject this ‘corruption’”.

  He clenched his fist, and the red glow shining through the chapel’s stained glass-windows brightened, bathing everything in crimson radiance.

  Lord Adalon lowered his fist. “Let’s meet some old friends.”

  Mazael heard a footstep.

  Rachel stepped out of the shadows, clad in a long black robe with embroidered serpents twisting up the slaves. A golden crown of snakes rested on her head, and crimson runes marked her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were yellow and slit with vertical black pupils.

  “Mazael,” she whispered. Twin fangs protruded from her lips, dripping with greenish fluid. “Come here.”

  Mazael’s hand shot to his sword hilt and banged against his hip. His sword was gone. Rachel laughed and lunged for him.

  “Isn’t that a shame?” said Lord Adalon. “She’s going to kill you. A pity you surrendered your power. You could have destroyed her so easily, otherwise.”

  A drop of venom trickled down Rachel’s chin.

  Lord Adalon leaned against the railing. “You may want to duck.”

  Mazael heard a snarl behind his shoulder, and dodged just as a dagger slashed through the air. Mitor lurched towards him, lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl of hatred. A dagger trembled in his hand, the razor edges gleaming in the crimson light.

  “Isn’t he miserable, my boy?” said Lord Adalon. “Why don’t you tear him apart? He’s weak and slow. Oh, yes, that’s right. You don’t want the power. But what you refuse, others will take.”

  Rachel hissed and lunged, venom falling in a hissing rain to the floor. Mitor stabbed at him, the dagger’s edges cutting air. Mazael groped for his sword, his dagger...but they were not there.

  “Isn’t it remarkable how much they hate you?” said Lord Adalon. “And for what? Their pathetic little scraps of power?” He waved his hand at the domed ceiling. “This old heap of a castle? What would they give, I wonder, to have the sort of power you so freely reject? They will kill you to defend their wretched lives. What would they do to take what you have?”

  Mazael tried to dodge, but Mitor's dagger plunged into his shoulder. He screamed and fell to one knee. Mitor howled with glee. his arm pumping, stabbing Mazael in the back again and again.

  “Poor Mazael,” said Rachel. “You should have listened.”

  Her teeth plunged into his forearm.

  The pain exploded through his veins, the agony forcing him to his feet. He smelled smoke rising from the poisoned wounds as his arm shriveled. Rachel laughed, a mixture of his blood and her venom smeared across her lips. Mazael tried to move, but could not.

  “Poor brother,” Rachel cooed. She kissed him on the cheek, and the poison sizzled into his beard and burned through his skin. “You should have listened to me.”

  Mitor plunged his dagger into Mazael’s chest. The force of the blow sent him tumbling over the railing. He screamed, their laughter filling his ears.

  He hit the chapel floor, and everything went black.

  * * * * *

  He regained consciousness some time later.

  Mazael got to his knees before the altar. The pain was gone. The fang marks had vanished from his arm, and the burns from his face.

  He stood and looked at his belt. His sword was still gone.

  “I suppose that must have hurt.”

  Lord Adalon stepped out from beneath the balcony’s shadows, his dark robes whispering against the dusty stone floor.

  “How am I still alive?” said Mazael.

  “An excellent question,” said Lord Adalon. “All events cast shadows. Think of what you just saw as a shadow of what will happen, if you refuse the power that is your birthright.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “That won’t happen. It...”

  “Oh, yes, of course, that’s right,” said Lord Adalon. “Mitor might be vermin, but Rachel, sweet, innocent, Rachel would never do such a thing. Oh, but she already has, hasn’t she? Did she not pray to that slithering worm that the San-keth worship? Did she not lie to you? And did she not leave you to die in that dark pit beneath Castle Cravenlock?”

  Mazael felt the muscles in his jaw trembling.

  “And if not them, then others,” said Lord Adalon. “That is the very nature of life. The quest for power. Whoever does not possess it requires it, and whoever does needs more. Even the gods themselves are no different. They grasp and clutch for the sparks of might.” He smiled and made a fist “So, these are your choices. Seize the power that is your destiny and right! Or lie down and die, and let others tear it from your corpse. And it is a choice you must soon make.”

  Mitor walked out of the shadows, a poisoned dagger clutched in his fist. Rachel stood next to him, her body draped in the clinging folds of her black robes. Her reptilian eyes watched Mazael, the fangs jutting over her lips.

  “And so the choice comes,” said Lord Adalon. “Will you give in to those weaker than you? Will you let them kill you? Or shall you take what is yours and destroy all who stand against you?”

  Lord Adalon pulled a sheathed sword from his robes. The scabbard was dark wood inlaid with golden runes. The sword’s crosspiece and hilt were covered in crimson gold, the pommel fashioned in the shape of a roaring demon's head. Looking at it made the hair on Mazael’s neck and arms stand up. The sword was both hideous.

  The sword was beautiful.

  “What is that?” said Mazael.

  “It is yours,” said Lord Adalon. He held the sword out hilt-first. “Your power is that of the Destroyer.”

  Mitor snarled and Rachel hissed, advancing towards Mazael.

  “If you want to take it, of course,” said Lord Adalon, his voice mournful. “After all, if you don’t, then Mitor and Rachel will kill you. If not them, then others.” He smiled. “But at least you will have done the right thing, eh?”

  Mazael remembered the pain of Rachel’s venom, the agony as Mitor’s dagger pumped into his back. But the helplessness had been worst of all. He snarled, clamped his hand around the sword's hilt, and tore it free from the scabbard.

  He caught a glimpse of the sword’s long red blade, the edges bright and sharp. Then the sword burst into howling crimson flame, and a jolt of power exploded up Mazael’s arm. Strength flowed through him like a molten river. Murderous fury filled his heart, and he embraced it, feeling it scour away the weakness in his limbs.

  Rachel and Mitor flinched, and Mazael laughed at them.

  Mitor howled, a dagger grasped in both hands, and charged. Mazael danced around Mitor’s attack and slashed. The burning blade cut through Mitor’s wrists like an axe through butter. Mitor wailed, crimson flames chewing at the charred stumps of his hands. Mazael stepped behind Mitor and carved off his legs at the knee. Mitor flailed and collapsed to the floor, twitching and writhing. Mazael tucked a boot under Mitor’s gut, flipped him over, and stabbed down. Lord Adalon laughed.

  Mazael turned from the ruined corpse and faced Rachel. Her fangs had vanished, and her eyes were now hum
an and very wide. “Mazael...Mazael...oh, please, don’t, Mazael...” She backed away from him, her feet tangling in the hem of her robes.

  Mazael stepped over Mitor’s corpse and raised the burning sword high. “Why don’t you run?” The fear on her face was exhilarating.

  Rachel tried to flee for the stairs, but she was too slow. Mazael planted his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved. Rachel went sprawling across the floor, crying for him to stop. Her pleas only acted as fuel to the fire burning his mind. He kicked her onto her stomach, and raised his burning sword. He heard his father laughing.

  And for the first time, Mazael laughed with him.

  “Stop!”

  A woman stood before the altar, tall and lean, a bastard sword slung over her back. There was something in her blue eyes that tugged at Mazael. The corona of fire surrounding the sword of the Destroyer flickered.

  Lord Adalon’s mocking smile twisted into a grimace. “You!”

  Mazael’s sword point wavered. “Who are you?”

  “You know,” said the woman. “You tell me.”

  The sword’s fires sputtered. “I know...you...you’re...”

  “Kill her!” shrieked Lord Adalon. “Kill them both. They’re liars! Don’t you remember the pain? Do you want them to do that to you again?”

  Mazael trembled, the sword's flames roaring, and Rachel sobbed.

  “He’s the liar and you know it,” said the woman. Her blue eyes stared into him. “He’ll have you destroy yourself. He’ll make you into a monster, if you let him. Don’t listen to him.”

  “They’ll kill me if I don’t!” said Mazael.

  “Mitor and Rachel?" said the woman, taking another step towards him. “But they don’t even know you’re Demonsouled. Do you really think there are hordes of enemies waiting to descend on you?” She pointed at Mazael’s father. “Or is he the enemy, spinning his lies around you like a spider’s webs?”

  “She is the liar, my son!” said Lord Adalon. His eyes blazed red, matching the fires of Mazael’s sword. “She will claim the power of your soul, if...”

  “I don’t even have a full soul,” said the woman. Her dark hair shifted as she glared at Lord Adalon, revealing the tip of a pointed ear. “And I care for Mazael. I will take nothing from him. But what of you? You’ll take everything from him, his mind, his spirit, his soul, and in the end, his life...”