Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Stop this! Stop this!” said Skhath. “You dare not touch a servant of Sepharivaim, you dare not, he will avenge, Sepharivaim, save me, protect me...”

  Mazael’s sword came down and ended the creature’s frantic prayers. He kicked the staring head aside in disgust. The long scaled body stopped its thrashing and lay very still. The chapel fell silent.

  Rachel still lay at the base of the altar. Her clothes were shredded and torn, her skin marked with bruises and cuts. Mazael looked at his sister and felt such a peculiar mixture of pity and rage that he thought his head would explode. Rachel had helped bring about all the darkness that had befallen the Grim Marches. She deserved to die just as much as Mitor had. Yet Rachel had been a prisoner here for the last fifteen years. And Mitor had paid enough for both of them.

  Romaria touched his arm. “Don’t. There’s been enough death already.”

  “It’s not finished yet,” said Mazael. “Is he still here?”

  Romaria nodded. She pulled a silver coin from her belt and made it dance across her fingers as she cast a spell. There was a flash, and Simonian appeared atop the altar, his invisibility dispelled.

  His murky eyes shone with amusement.

  “Well,” said Simonian. “That was impressive. Mightier men than you have fallen to the wrath of Sepharivaim.”

  “Who are you?” said Romaria.

  “I am who I am, dear lady,” said Simonian.

  “No,” said Romaria. “I recognize the spell upon you now. It’s the same sort of spell Skhath always wore when he masqueraded as Sir Albron Eastwater. Who are you? Another San-keth priest?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “What are you?”

  Simonian laughed. “Perceptive, is she not? Well...why not? This beard itches terribly. And it is the end of things...why should you now not know the truth?”

  Simonian's face began to shimmer and ripple, the features morphing and changing like sculptor's putty. His features flowed into those of Lord Adalon Cravenlock, the grinning Lord Adalon Mazael had seen in his dreams. The faces of a dozen men appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then the illusion vanished, revealing a lean, hawk-nosed face with a trimmed beard and cold gray eyes.

  It was Mattias Comorian, the jongleur he had met at Eastwater inn weeks ago.

  “Is...is that his true form?” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Romaria. “There’s still an illusion there.”

  Mattias laughed. “This is what I looked like as a mortal man, many years ago.” The jongleur’s smoother voice had replaced Simonian’s rough tones. “If you were to gaze upon me in all my glory...the sight would rather destroy your minds.”

  “You were here all along!” said Mazael. “You were at the inn. You were Simonian. And you were the thing in my dreams, weren’t you?" His mind spun at the realiziation, filling with dread. "What manner of creature are you?”

  “Why, the same as you,” said the thing standing atop the altar.

  “What is your name? Who are you, really?” said Romaria. “Answer!”

  The creature laughed. “Names? What is a name? I’ve had so many in my life. Call me Mattias. It’s my favorite. But in Briault I am known as Simonian the Necromancer. In Ritoria, mothers used to call me Old Man Ghoul. They still warn their children, lest I snatch them away. The Travish peasants still whisper tales of Margath the Terrible.” He smiled, as if recalling a fond memory. “There was Cristiphar Barragon, who convinced the last Mandrag king to lead Dracaryl to its downfall. I was Marugot the Warlock, who advised King Julius Roland to wage war to the ruin of his land. Sir Trakis of Richtofar, who counseled the Patriarch of Cristafel to lead his holy war into Travia and turn the rivers red with blood.” He laughed. “Ah, names, names, so many names I have worn! I’ve lost count. The Elderborn call me sar’diskhar, the Hand of Chaos. But the High Elderborn name is closest to the truth, closest to what they called me in the palaces of Tristafel long ago...altamane’malevagr...the Old Demon.”

  Mazael remembered all the tales he had heard in his life, all the times peasants had cursed and muttered the words “Old Demon.” Fear and rage coursed through him in equal measure.

  But also a sensation of strange rightness. As if for the first time he had met someone who truly was like himself.

  “But you needn’t call me any of those names,” said Mattias, the Old Demon, spreading his arms wide. “There is only one thing you can call me.”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “Father,” said Mattias.

  Mazael looked at Mattias’s cold gray eyes.

  The eyes were mirror images of his own.

  “No,” said Mazael. “That...that cannot be.”

  “Oh, but it is,” said Mattias, grinning. “Don’t you see? How many Cravenlocks have gray eyes? Look at your miserable mother. How she despised her husband, how she lusted for power!” He leered. “She would have done anything for someone who could bring her power. Look at your wretched, dead brother and your foolish sister. You are beyond them. You see, they were Lord Adalon’s children, but you are my son. You are more than simply Demonsouled! Most of our so-called kindred have but the barest thread of my father’s magic in their souls. But I am his son, the son of a god, and you are my son!”

  “Don’t listen to him, Mazael,” said Romaria.

  “How...how can this be?” said Mazael. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold his sword. “I...

  Mattias smiled. “Don’t you see, my son? Our father, the Great Demon, died long ago. We are his heirs, his descendants. The world belongs to us. Come with me, Mazael, and I will teach you. I will show you all you can accomplish with the power in your soul. I will show you how to transcend death, to live beyond the mortal fools who crawl across this world like cattle. I will show you how to rule them, to make them dance to your will.”

  “You don’t have the right,” said Romaria. “The Great Demon didn’t have the right.”

  The Old Demon laughed. “My dear lady, I have the right to do whatever I wish. And so does Mazael. You, and those like you, belong to us.”

  “No,” said Romaria. “Don’t listen to him. You’ve heard what he’s done. You’ve seen the vileness he has wrought here.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “I know.” Romaria was right. Yet he felt the power within. Mattias’s words had coaxed it out of the dark corners of his soul. It was sweeter than anything he’d known.

  He wanted it so badly.

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Romaria. “You don’t have to. I’m here with you.”

  Mattias snorted. “How cloying. Do you obey her will in all matters? You are more than her and can become greater still. I offer you the power of the gods, and you heed a half-breed mortal?”

  “You’re a liar,” said Mazael.

  A glimmer of red fire flashed in Mattias’s eyes. “Am I?”

  “Yes,” said Romaria. “He’s seen the evil you’ve raised. He’s seen what the demon power does. I swore an oath, when I left Deepforest Keep, to bring an end to your evil.”

  Mattias flexed his fingers. “Try.”

  Romaria obliged, her bow coming up with blinding speed. Mazael ran towards the altar, Lion blazing like a torch.

  The Old Demon was faster.

  His hand shot forward, a rune etched in lines of fire burning on his palm. It exploded in a flash of red-orange light. Romaria’s bow burst into flames, and the force knocked Mazael over and sent him tumbling down the dais steps, Lion flying from his hand. Romaria shrieked in agony, and a bolt of pain shot through Mazael's chest.

  Some time later, he had the strength to look up.

  Romaria lay sprawled across the dais steps near Rachel. Charred ribs jutted from the ruin of her chest, wisps of smoke rising from her clothes.. Mazael came to one knee and reached for her. She was dead.

  For a long time he stared at her.

  “You bastard,” said Mazael at last. The fury broiled up, and he welcomed it. “You murdering bastard!”

  Mattias raised his eyebrows. �
�Bastard? That’s cruel. She tried to kill me. Do I not have a right to defend myself?”

  “You killed her!” said Mazael.

  “She wanted to keep you from your destiny,” said Mattias. “She wanted to hold you back.” He smiled. “Besides, I didn’t kill Romaria.” He pointed. “She did.”

  Mazael looked at Rachel. “What?”

  “Lord Richard drove out the San-keth,” said Mattias. “Who do you think invited them back? She did. Who do you think convinced Mitor to allow it? Who do you think pulled Lord Marcus and Lord Roget into the worship of Sepharivaim? And who allowed Skhath to mate with her...”

  “Be quiet!” said Mazael. But the anger surged beneath his mind like a river of molten iron.

  “She did,” hissed Mattias. A grin spread across his face like a sore. “It is her fault! Kill her! Do justice. Take the power, if for no other reason than that. You think you will become evil? Bah! Take up your power and do justice, Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Rachel Cravenlock is responsible for all that has befallen. She is responsible for Romaria’s death. Kill her. Avenge all the evil that has fallen on these lands!”

  Mazael stood and drew a dagger. Rachel lay at his feet, her breath fluttering in her chest. He saw the runes marking her arms and the emerald serpent scribed on her forehead. Romaria was dead because of her. The Grim Marches were at war because of her. This woman, this whore deserved death for what she had done. The rage spread through his veins like molten metal. His hand clenched around the dagger’s hilt...

  Something struck his boot, and he looked down. A charred apple lay against his foot. It had rolled from Romaria’s burnt cloak.

  A rush of memories surged through Mazael. He remembered meeting Rachel for the first time, remembered how she had always agreed with him. She had not been a strong child, nor had she grown into a strong woman. He remembered when Lord Adalon had sent him away. While he had fought, drunk, and whored his way across the kingdom, Rachel had been left here alone with Skhath and Mitor and worse creatures. She had done terrible things.

  But Mazael had almost done terrible things, too.

  He tossed the dagger aside. “No.”

  Mattias blinked. “No?”

  “I can forgive Rachel for what she’s done,” said Mazael. “But she didn’t kill Romaria. You did.”

  “She betrayed you!” said Mattias. “She lied to you...”

  “And so did you,” said Mazael. “Don’t talk to me of lies, not when you weave them yourself.” A cold certainty rose in his mind. “You’ve been here from the beginning, haven’t you? You said so yourself. Skhath had fulfilled your purpose, you told him.”

  Mattias’s cold gray eyes glittered. “You could not possibly understand my purpose. Skhath? Skhath was a fool! He thought he could carve an empire for himself. Mitor wanted power. I offered him the tiniest crumbs of it, and he followed me like a braying donkey after a carrot. And your mother wanted power so badly she would have done anything for me.” He grinned. “And she did. Don’t you see, Mazael, my son? It has all been for you.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “I came to the Grim Marches to father you. I made you what you are. It was my seed that put the power into your soul,” said Mattias. A glimmer of red light shone in his eyes, and his mouth seemed like a pit into nothingness. “Don’t you see? Everything I have done has made you stronger, made you greater. Who do you think told Lady Arissa to make Lord Adalon send you away? Why do you think I made fools such as Skhath and Mitor dance to my tune? You have it in you to become greater than any mortal, greater than any Demonsouled that has ever lived! My designs called out your power, forced you to confront it, and now you can embrace it.”

  “My entire life has been nothing more than your lie?” yelled Mazael.

  “Yes,” hissed Mattias. He spread his arms, looming on the altar like a dark god. “Look at what I have done for you. Who can stand against you? Think of what you can become! Lord of the Grim Marches? King? Master of the world? Ten thousand years from now men will still speak the name of Mazael the Destroyer with fear and reverence! I will only offer once more. Embrace your destiny and take what is yours!” Power and strength seemed to roll off the Old Demon like smoke, and fear struck Mazael to the heart.

  Mazael looked at Romaria, at Rachel, at the burned apple. His hand clenched around Silar’s holy symbol.

  He looked into his father’s cold, burning eyes. “No. No! You murdered Othar and Romaria, and the gods know how many others, and for what? Nothing. I will not give in to the madness you gave me. No. I deny you.”

  Mattias reeled in disbelief. “No? No!” He threw back his head and laughed, cords standing out in his neck. “I knew your will was strong. You are the first of my children who ever resisted the call.”

  The hair on the back of Mazael’s neck stood up. “There are others?”

  Mattias grinned, revealing teeth that had become yellow and twisted. “Many others. You have merely hastened your fate, you know.” His hands came up to his shoulders and grasped the hood of his robes. “I never lose. My children serve me for a time. But in the end, they always rebel.”

  “And then you kill them?” said Mazael. Lion was too far away for him to reach.

  “Oh, no,” said Mattias. “You’re going to have a very rare honor, my son. You’re going to see my true face, without the illusion.” He pulled his hood up, masking his face in shadows. “And I never kill my children.”

  He threw back the hood.

  Mattias’s skin had become gray and rotten. His face was gaunt and angular, a demon’s face. Curved black horns rose from his brow and curled down his cheeks. Burning red eyes glared out from beneath matted, greasy hair. His teeth had become twisted fangs, his mouth a bottomless black pit.

  “I DEVOUR THEM!” roared the Old Demon, his voice thundering with the fury of the abyss.

  He leapt from the altar, his black robes billowing like a pair of wings.

  Mattias’s mouth yawned impossibly wide, opening like the gates of hell. Mazael could not reach Lion. All he had was Silar’s holy symbol. He could still save himself. If he submitted to Mattias, submitted to the Old Demon . . .

  “Gods help me,” Mazael said, throwing up his fist.

  Something jerked in his fist, and Mattias howled. Silar’s holy symbol trembled, a rime of white light flashing across the steel, and the Old Demon took a step back.

  “Help me,” whispered Mazael. He fought his terror and stepped forward, the light from the three interlocked rings flashing.

  “What is this?” hissed Mattias.

  “Get out of here,” said Mazael. “Leave the Grim Marches and never return. I can’t possibly kill you. You’re stronger than I. But this is my castle now. You made it that way. And I command you to leave. Now.” A curious feeling of calm swept over him. The symbol pulsed with power. He could not defeat Mattias by himself. But perhaps he was not alone.

  “You dare!” hissed Mattias. “No one commands me!” He leapt, claws extended for Mazael’s throat.

  Mazael thrust the holy symbol at the Old Demon’s face. The metal exploded with white radiance, and the light filled the chapel, driving back the shadows. Mattias howled in pain, his clawed hands raised to cover his eyes.

  “Go,” said Mazael. “Go and never return.”

  Mattias staggered back. “You...ah, Mazael, I must compliment you. No one has ever had the strength to stop me. Ah, you are greater than my power, I see that now. I...will go.” He turned, slumped in his dark robes.

  Mazael’s hand lowered. “You will?”

  Mattias shuddered. “Yes.” He whirled. “With your soul in my hand!”

  The Old Demon moved with inhuman speed. Mazael yelled and lifted the holy symbol, and Mattias's clawed hand closed around Mazael's. His father's skin felt cold and dead. The white light from the symbol flickered as Mattias pushed Mazael back. The Old Demon’s lips writhed in a ghastly grin.

  “You are mine,” hissed Mattias.

  “Go,” s
aid Mazael. Mattias snarled, his black tongue scraping against his teeth. “Go!” Something shifted in Mazael. An iron, determined fury flowed from the symbol and filled him.

  Mattias flinched.

  “Go! In the name of Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar and all the gods of heaven, I command you, BE GONE!”

  The words boomed like thunder, ripping from Mazael’s throat with awesome force. The symbol exploded with white fire, flinging Mattias to the floor. The defaced windows of the chapel shattered, and glass shards rained to the floor, the barred doors exploding open. Rachel sighed, the runes and serpent mark vanishing from her skin. Mattias slammed into the altar, cringing from the blazing fire.

  “BE GONE!” said Mazael. The floor trembled with the sound of his words. The terrible might of the Old Demon seemed insignificant before the thundering fire. “GO AND NEVER RETURN!”

  Mattias howled and fled for the door. His black robes billowed behind him, becoming longer and darker, taking the shape of dark wings. With a final cry he leapt through the ruined doors and took to the air. The black, winged thing flew away to the east, vanishing into the pale pink sky. The fire from the symbol pulsed in one final burst, and faded away.

  Mazael sank to his knees, too weary and too overcome by grief and wonder to stand. Outside, the sounds of fighting faded as dawn broke.

  Chapter XII

  1

  Lord Marcus Trand’s Last Stand

  The battle lasted less than an hour.

  The armies camped outside Castle Cravenlock remained oblivious to Sil Tarithyn’s attack, the death of Lord Mitor, and Lord Richard’s approaching force. Even when Lord Marcus appeared, shouting incoherent warnings of impending doom, the mercenaries remained at ease.

  Then Lord Richard’s army struck.

  Sir Tanam and Toraine’s wings of heavy horse cut through the camp like a scythe through wheat. Lord Marcus tried to rally his men from Roseblood Keep, and came under attack from Sir Commander Galan Hawking’s Justiciars for his trouble. The mercenary camp disintegrated, and Cravenlock armsmen fled in every direction. Lord Marcus tried to flee and Sir Tanam put a lance through his chest. Then Lord Richard struck with his footmen and archers. The mercenaries were slaughtered and driven off, the Cravenlock armsmen broken, and Lord Marcus and Lord Roget’s men were killed.