Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mazael smirked. “How heartening. The passage is that way. Go, now. I doubt you have much time.”

  “I shall send two of my preceptors,” said Hawking. His eyes bright and feverish with guilt. “I will stay and fight besides you, Sir Mazael...rather, Lord Mazael. One way or the other, we shall make you Lord of Castle Cravenlock once this night is over.”

  “Their armor and weapons are likely in the guardroom, same as ours were,” said Romaria.

  “Very well,” said Mazael. “Hurry up and arm yourselves. We haven’t much time.”

  Romaria opened the other cell doors, and the Justiciar preceptors stumbled. Hawking commanded two of them to return to their camp and prepare the knights and sergeants for battle.

  Hawking pointed at a door on the opposite wall of the guardroom. “That door opens into some storerooms. Beyond that is the blasphemous temple.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “One of the castle servants got us out the cells. She knew all these rooms.”

  “Then let us go,” said Sir Commander Galan.

  Mazael kicked down the door, stepping into a high vaulted corridor. Polished red granite gleamed like fire, and closed doors rested in niches. A knot of Cravenlock armsmen stood some distance down the corridor. Besides them stood a skeletal figure with a serpent wrapped around its spine. For a moment Mazael thought it was Skhath, but this San-keth was smaller, its scales not so bright. Lion burst into hot blue flame, and the armsmen turned and flinched.

  “Kill them!” screeched the San-keth priest. The armsmen raised their weapons and charged, while the priests began hissing a spell.

  Mazael ran at them, Romaria raising her bow. Sir Commander Galan howled and charged, his preceptors a half-step behind. The San-keth’s black-slit eyes fixed on Mazael, and its carrier lifted a skeletal hand.

  Timothy stepped forward and shouted a word. Multicolored sparks flared up the San-keth’s enchanted skeleton, and the creature reeled, its incantation dissolving into an angry hiss. Mazael stabbed at it, and the undead carrier disintegrated into a heap of smoking bones. The San-keth reared out of the wreckage, fangs bared, and Mazael took its head off.

  The battle was over quickly, with the Cravenlock armsmen overwhelmed and slain. The hall ended in a double set of black doors. Chanting rose from behind the doors, yet Mazael heard screams and bellowed commands echoing from other chambers.

  “It seems as if Sil Tarithyn and the Dragon’s Shadow have made their presence known,” said Mazael. The massive doors were locked and barred. “Timothy, if you please!”

  The young wizard nodded and began another incantation. He pointed at the doors, and Mazael heard the bar shatter and fall to the floor. The doors swung open with a slow groan, and Timothy grunted and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  Mazael stepped through the doors and into the temple, his boots clicking against the blood-red marble floor, the walls and pillars with their ghastly carvings rising around him. The huge statue of the serpent god loomed over the altar. A fresh corpse lay atop the altar, blood running down its sides, and a ring of people knelt before the dais, Mitor, Marcelle, Rachel, and Lord Roget and Lord Marcus among them. Skhath stood before the kneeling supplicants, a golden chalice in his skeletal hands.

  “Drink you now of this blood, offered up to great Sepharivaim,” said Skhath.

  "Skhath!" roared Mazael, lifting Lion.

  The San-keth reared back and hissed. “You! Kill him! I command...”

  The doors on the other wall of the temple burst open, and a pair of screaming armsmen burst through. “Lord Mitor! Lord Mitor! We’re under attack...” The man’s scream ended in a wet gurgle as an Elderborn arrow sank into his chest.

  “Stop them!” howled Mitor. “Kill Mazael, kill him now!”

  “Mitor!” roared Sir Commander Galan. “Face me, you sniveling liar!”

  Everything exploded into chaos. The Cravenlock armsmen in the temple drew their weapons. Skhath threw the chalice to the ground and reached for Rachel. Lord Roget Hunterson fell to his knees, clutching his chest, while Lord Marcus Trand sprinted for the doors. Skhath grabbed Rachel and pulled her up. Arrows hissed through the open doors.

  Mazael charged, Romaria a half-step behind him. An armsman brandished a mace and sprang at Mazael. Mazael parried the mace, Lion ringing from the force of the blow, and Romaria took off the man's head with a powerful two-handed cut.

  They fought their way through the press side-by-side. Galan Hawking howled with fury, striking left and right. Sir Nathan bellowed commands, taking command of the Justiciars as Galan raged. Mazael saw Skhath, Mitor, Marcelle, and Rachel running for a shadowed staircase under the balcony. He growled and launched a backhand that gutted a Cravenlock soldier.

  “We’ve got to catch them!” said Mazael. Romaria gave him a worried glance, and nodded.

  A soldier came at Mazael armed with a war axe and a heavy shield. Mazael beat aside his attack and went on the offensive, Lion flashing and spinning in a storm of blue flame. The man's axe clipped Mazael's shoulder, but he twisted and stabbed, Lion's point plunging into the man's heart.

  He already felt the wound on his shoulder healing itself as the armsman fell.

  Then they were in the clear. Mazael saw Elderborn running along the balcony, sending arrows lancing down. The air rang with screams and crashing steel. Mazael and Romaria jumped past a pair of dying men and ran for the staircase.

  The staircase was as twisted as a serpent and as narrow as a needle’s eye. Mazael heard Mitor’s labored breath above him, and the grinding of stone against stone. Then the stairs ended in a closed stone door with no sign of a handle. Another one of the castle's hidden doors, no doubt. He had to find the trigger.

  Rachel was on the other side of that door.

  “Look for a hidden key or switch,” Mazael said. Romaria nodded and began searching.

  “Damn you!” Mazael hear Mitor’s voice through cracks in the stone wall. “Damn you!”

  “Silence!” said Skhath. “Simonian, you miserable traitor! I shall sink my fangs into your lying...”

  “Come now,” came Simonian’s amused voice. “We both know you can do no such thing. If you wish to escape, simply take horses and flee through the gate.”

  “Save us!” said Marcelle. “Save us, save us!”

  “We cannot leave through the gate! The courtyard is thick with the Elderborn.” Skhath’s voice rose to a sibilant snarl. “You must use your arts to take us from this place. It is our only hope!”

  “Your only hope,” said Simonian, and he laughed. “You have brought this on yourself. Did you really think you could conquer the Grim Marches with Mitor as your patsy?” His laughter redoubled. “You poor fool. It’s rather amusing. You and Mitor both wanted to conquer the Grim Marches. Now Lord Richard, or Lord Mazael, most likely, will kill you both. A fine joke.”

  “Kill Mazael, at least!” screamed Mitor. “Damn you, wizard, I bought your services! Kill him!”

  “Why should I do that?” said Simonian. “I have no argument with Lord Mazael.”

  “Don’t call him that!” said Mitor. “I am Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I am liege lord of the Grim Marches...”

  “Lord Mazael is more than you,” said Simonian. “More than any of you crawling mortals.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this!” said Rachel. Her was voice so soft Mazael could barely hear it. “Mazael isn’t the monster you think he is. He could show mercy yet, if we surrender. Skhath, please, there’s still a way to end...”

  “Do not touch me!” said Skhath. Mazael heard a crackle of a spell and Rachel’s scream.

  “I will kill you for this betrayal, you faithless infidel,” said Skhath. “I shall do that, at least.”

  Simonian roared with laughter. “How do you propose to do that? Think, Skhath! Do you know what the ultimate irony is? You have failed in your purpose, but in doing so, have fulfilled mine perfectly...”

  “Got it!” said Romaria. She pressed her fingers into a crack between two
stones.

  The stone door slid aside with a groan, opening below the balcony in the castle's chapel. Dozens of candles on the altar threw back the darkness, revealing windows that had been painted over with scenes from the San-keth temple. Simonian stood atop the altar, cloaked in his dark robes, while Skhath, Mitor, and Marcelle stared up at the necromancer. A leather weapons belt hung from Skhath’s shoulder, holding a sheathed longsword and a pair of daggers.

  Rachel lay sprawled at the foot of the dais, eyes closed.

  “Ah!” said Simonian. “It’s seems I won’t have to kill you after all. Lord Mazael will do that for me.” Simonian made a spinning gesture with his hand and faded from sight. Skhath hissed and lunged for the necromancer, but his skeletal fingers raked only empty air.

  “He’s still there,” said Romaria. “It’s an illusion. He’s made himself invisible.”

  “Mazael Cravenlock,” said Skhath. “You have made a ruin of everything! By the true god, I should have killed you!”

  “Probably,” said Mazael.

  Mitor’s cowered behind the serpent priest. “Kill him, Skhath, oh, please, kill him now.” Mitor was haggard, his face sallow with terror. Mazael felt a moment of pity, but contempt soon replaced it. Mitor had brought this disaster on himself.

  “It needn’t come to this, Sir Mazael,” said Skhath. “Lord of Castle Cravenlock? Bah! You’ll be the Dragonslayer’s slave, just as Lord Adalon and Mitor were. But I can change that. With the power of Karag Tormeth and great Sepharivaim behind you, you could become liege lord of the Grim Marches, even king...”

  “Shut up,” said Mazael, striding through the rows of pews.

  “It doesn’t seem as if slithering Sepharivaim’s power did Lady Arissa much good,” said Romaria. “Nor did it do Mitor any good. Do you think Mazael is that stupid?”

  “You want to kill me? You still have the chance.” Mazael lifted Lion. “Try.” He slapped the flat of his blade against Romaria’s sword, the blue flames spreading to her weapon.

  Romaria swung her heavy sword in a loop. “Shall we see if a half-breed wild woman is a match for a full-blooded serpent?”

  Skhath shoved Mitor and Marcelle in front of him. “You think I shall fall as easily as Simonian's zuvembies or Mitor’s idiot soldiers? I shall not. I have the power of Sepharivaim behind me, humans. It is time you learned to fear his strength!”

  Skhath snatched the daggers from his weapons belt, the dark blades gleaming with poison. Mazael raised his sword in guard to block any thrown daggers. Mitor and Marcelle were both screaming, begging.

  Then the serpent priest stepped forward and slammed the daggers into the Lord and Lady of Castle Cravenlock.

  Mazael froze in astonishment. Mitor fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on Mazael. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. Marcelle managed to stand for a moment longer, blood trickling down her face, then she collapsed atop her husband. Blood dripped from their mouths and ears in a gathering dark pool.

  “Why did you do that?” said Romaria. She looked as stunned as Mazael.

  Skhath laughed and Lion burned white-hot.

  The blood oozed over Mitor’s face and transformed it into a gruesome mask, his clothes sizzling and smoking as the black blood touched them. Their blood flowed over their Mitor and Marcelle's bodies like a coat of paint, filling the chapel with a hideous stench. Mazael could not take his eyes from the ghastly sight.

  “Mazael! He’s casting a spell!” said Romaria.

  Mazael’s eyes snapped up as Skhath’s dead hands flickered in a spell. Green light danced up his arms. “Fool! See the wrath of Sepharivaim!”

  Black blood covered Mitor and Marcelle’s naked bodies from head to foot.

  Then the corpses moved.

  “Simonian prided himself on his necromancy,” said Skhath. “I do not need his help! He has nothing to match the wrath of Sepharivaim.”

  The two corpses stood, the black blood making them look like animated shadows. They moved with a sliding, deadly grace, a far cry above the shuffling zuvembies, or even the armored warriors Mazael had fought in the temple corridor.

  “Kill them both,” said Skhath. “Kill the unbelievers!”

  The creatures lunged at Mazael, fingers hooked into claws. Skhath reached over his skeleton’s shoulder and drew the sword.

  Mazael leapt back as Mitor’s animated corpse clawed at him, leaving a trail of black bloodstains on the floor. He worked his sword in intricate circles, the monstrosity flinching away from the fire in his sword. He saw Romaria struggling against Marcelle’s corpse.

  Skhath strode towards him, sword grasped in skeletal hand. “When I faced you before, I had to hold back, lest you discover my true nature.” The serpent’s hissing laughter echoed. “Now I need not.”

  His spellbound skeleton moved with grace and power. Mazael knew that if he could get his sword through Skhath’s defense the magical fires would rip apart the skeleton. But the serpent priest moved too fast. Mitor's corpse grabbed for Mazael, the thing’s fingers brushing his shoulder, and a deathly chill sank into his left arm. Skhath’s silvery sword bit through Mazael’s armor and skidded off a rib. Mazael grunted and staggered back to a guard stance, feeling his blood stick to the inside of his tunic. He heard Romaria’s rapid breathing and muttered curses as she struggled.

  “I shall make you confess the glory of Sepharivaim before I take your life!” howled Skhath. His sword went high, then low, and angled in a stab for Mazael’s chest. Mazael beat aside the thrust and slashed, and Skhath rolled his wrists and caught the blow. Mazael tensed his legs and shoved. Skhath's undead skeleton was lighter than Mazael, and the serpent priest reeled back. Mazael lunged forward for the kill, but Mitor's blood-soaked corpse interposed itself. Bloody fingers raked across Mazael's cuirass, the chill sinking deep into his chest. The cold in his chest slowed him just long enough for Skhath to tear a gash down his leg. Mazael realized he could not face both Skath and the animated corpse by himself.

  Romaria had been driven to the other side of the chapel, near the barred doors that opened into the courtyard. She wielded her bastard sword with both hands, the blue flame of her blade bathing her face in an azure glow. Marcelle’s corpse had been slashed and torn in a dozen places, yet it still pressed forward.

  Mazael attacked at Mitor’s corpse in a flurry of slashes. The thing retreated from his attack, and he scored a minor hit on its shoulder. The black blood shriveled away, revealing a patch of white flesh, a keening wail escaping Mitor's mouth. But Mazael didn’t dare press the attack with Skhath’s sword darting and stabbing. The tip of the serpent priest’s blade nicked off Mazael’s helm. The blow staggered him, and he barely parried a strike that would have driven through his heart.

  Skhath’s hissing laughter filled Mazael’s ears.

  Mazael grimaced and took Lion in both hands as Skhath and Mitor's corpse drove him towards the wall. Once they had him against the wall, he couldn't evade their blows, and they stood between him and Romaria.

  Mazael growled. Some of the battle-rage welled up in his mind. He welcomed it.

  He parried Skhath’s next slash and shoved hard. Skhath stumbled, skeletal feet clacking against the floor. Mazael wheeled left just as Mitor reached for him, twisting his sword, and Mitor’s hand clamped around Lion’s blade instead. There was a brilliant blue flash, and the undead thing wailed. It fell back, most of its left arm gone, the stump a sizzling mass of burned flesh.

  Mazael sprinted past Mitor’s wailing corpse, Lion clenched in both fists. Skhath seized his sword and rose to one knee, but Mazael was past him in a second. He heard the Mitor-thing in pursuit. Mazael ignored them. He had one chance to do this right.

  Romaria and Marcelle’s corpse moved in an intricate dance. Romaria’s eyes fixed on Mazael’s for a moment, and then she backed away from the dead thing, letting it drive her towards the wall. Mazael heard Skhath and Mitor’s corpse behind him.

  He sprang at Marcelle's corpse. It started to t
urn, but too late. Mazael brought Lion down in a huge two-handed cut, the blade slashing through Marcelle's shoulder and into her chest. Blue fire blazed, black blood shriveling. The creature shrieked, its voice a knife against Mazael’s ears. Romaria drove her sword into Marcelle's ruined chest. There was another flash of blue fire, brighter than before. Mazael caught a brief glimpse of Marcelle, the black blood burned away, thrashing like a landed fish on their blades. Then her body withered into black, stinking ash.

  Mazael spun in time to catch Skhath’s enraged thrust. The serpent priest went on the offensive, swinging his gleaming sword in mighty two-handed blows. Romaria launched a looping swing, and Skhath hopped back, the bones of his carrier clacking.

  “Kill him!” hissed Skhath.

  Mitor’s corpse lurched forward, and Mazael slashed Lion across the corpse’s chest. Romaria took off its right arm with another chop. It wailed and stumbled back, the black blood crumbling from Mitor's pale body. Mazael saw Mitor’s face, the bloodshot green eyes dead and staring, and stabbed Lion into Mitor's chest. Blue fire burst through the dead thing, and Mitor’s corpse shuddered and disintegrated into a spray of ashes.

  Skhath backed away from them, sword raised in guard. His head swiveled back and forth as he looked for some means of escape.

  “No tricks left, snake?” said Romaria. “Seems the might of Sepharivaim wasn’t so great.”

  “Blasphemer,” said Skhath, his voice a dry whisper. He ran forward, sword raised high.

  Mazael moved to parry, but Skhath’s coils suddenly unwound from the skeleton’s spine. The serpent, hurled forward by its carrier’s momentum, flew like an arrow for Mazael’s face. Skhath’s jaws yawned wide, revealing gleaming white fangs. Mazael tried to change his parry in time.

  Romaria’s sword tore a long gash on Skhath’s scaled flank. The force of her blow knocked the San-keth aside, and the serpent struck the ground, writhing and hissing. Mazael lashed out and struck the headless skeleton, smashing it with a single blow.

  Skhath slithered towards the altar, leaving a trail of fresh blood. Mazael overtook the writhing serpent and brought his foot down, pinning Skhath behind the head. Skhath hissed and cursed, spitting venom, but his jaws could not reach Mazael’s leg.