Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “My lord!” It was Timothy. “The ward against undead! It…” His eyes widened at the blood on Lion’s blade.

  “I know, they came for me,” said Mazael. “Move, man! Rouse the castle! Take as many armsmen as you can find and get to Toraine’s quarters. The changelings were men from his party. He might have gone over to the San-keth himself…”

  “Toraine?” scoffed Lucan. “Not likely. He hasn’t the wit to entertain faiths other than his own, which is only in himself. He was duped, most likely.”

  “Go, damn it!” said Mazael, pushing Timothy. “We can debate later. Run!”

  Mazael dashed into the castle’s courtyard. Two of his watchmen lay dead on the cold ground, faces locked in terrible grins, fang wounds on their necks. Mazael spat a furious oath and ran to the great hall. The night guard lay dead, and the doors hung ajar. He kicked them open and raced for the stairs, his heart hammering with rage and alarm.

  A hideous vision of Rachel lying dead on the floor, her face twisted in that agonized grin, played through his mind.

  “Wake, you fools!” shouted Lucan to the knights sleeping on the floor. “Wake! We are attacked! San-keth changelings! Arm yourselves!”

  Rachel’s chambers lay in the keep’s western tower. Mazael sprinted up the steps. If they lived through this, he would move her into the rooms besides his…

  A pair of changelings stood guard at the top of the steps, and attacked him in one smooth motion. Mazael threw himself aside and the changelings crashed into each other. He rolled to one knee and hamstrung the nearest man, Lion’s blade shearing through skin and muscle. The changeling toppled with an agonized scream. Mazael punched out, and Lion’s pommel smashed the second changeling’s nose. The snake-eyed man stumbled back, poison bubbling from his fangs. Lion ripped through the changeling’s neck, and Mazael’s boot crushed the first changeling’s throat.

  A woman’s faint scream rang out, fanning Mazael’s alarmed fury to new heights. He kicked free of the dead changelings and ran down the corridor.

  In the back of his mind he felt his Demonsouled rage stirring, threatening to break free and transform him into a whirlwind of death. Lion jolted in his hand, and Mazael felt a wave of warmth from the sword. The edges of the blade shimmered with azure light.

  Dark magic was nearby.

  He turned the corner and sprang into Rachel’s room, sword leading.

  A dozen changelings crowded his sister’s bedchamber. Rachel knelt naked on the floor, held by a trio of changelings, her head pulled back, the cords bulging in her neck. Sir Roger Gravesend stood by the door, watching Rachel with a mixture of lust and glee.

  A black-scaled San-keth cleric stood over Rachel, riding the usual undead human skeleton. An ancient bronze urn dangled from one bony hand.

  Lion jolted in Mazael’s hand once more, almost eagerly. The enspelled weapon had been forged in the last days of Tristafel, created to destroy undead and San-keth and Demonsouled.

  Sometimes Mazael wondered why the sword hadn’t destroyed him.

  Lion burst into raging blue fires, drowning out the necromantic glow from the San-keth’s skeleton.

  The San-keth’s head snapped around, fangs bared. “Him! Kill him now!”

  “Oh, gods!” shouted Sir Roger.

  “Mazael!” shrieked Rachel, sobbing, “run, run, go before they kill you too…”

  “We are yours, holy Blackfang!” howled the changelings, flinging themselves at Mazael.

  Mazael roared, took his blazing sword in both hands, and sprang to meet them. He beheaded one changeling, smashed another in the face with Lion’s pommel, lopped off the hand of a third. Sir Roger lunged at Mazael, stabbing with a longsword. Mazael blocked the blow and backhanded Sir Roger across the face with his free hand. The traitor knight went down, spitting blood. A changeling struck Mazael across the chest with a club, while another raked a dagger across his leg. He bellowed and beheaded the changeling holding Rachel’s legs. She scrambled free and backed towards Mazael, trying to cover herself with her arms.

  “Run!” he roared, killing another changeling.

  “They’ll kill you!” Rachel half-sobbed, half-screamed.

  Sir Roger seized her ankle and yanked. Rachel toppled with a yell, landing hard on her stomach. Mazael pivoted and kicked Roger in the face, and the traitor rolled away with a yell of pain. A changeling took the opening to stab Mazael in the side, fangs brushing his ear. He howled, jerked free of the blade, and gutted the changeling.

  The San-keth cleric called Blackfang laughed, backing towards the window. “The apostate and the enemy of our faith shall die together! Perhaps the bards of your wretched race shall make a song of it! Perish!” The skeletal fingers opened the urn and sprinkled a few flecks of charred bone across the floor. Blackfang’s hissing voice droned in a necromantic spell, green fire blazing to around his fingers.

  A hooded, ghostly form materialized between Mazael and Blackfang. The San-keth pointed, and the skeletal wraith plunged at Mazael, wrapping itself about him. Mazael gagged, a hideous chill spreading through him, his head spinning with vertigo.

  “This enslaved spirit shall drain away your life,” said Blackfang. “Perhaps I’ll raise your carcass to serve as my new carrier…”

  Mazael snarled and took a staggering step towards Blackfang, but the changelings closed around him.

  A rushing wind filled the chamber, and some unseen force seized Blackfang and slammed him against the far wall, bones clattering. The wraith holding Mazael vanished, and warmth flooded into him once more. He spun and killed another changeling.

  Lucan stood in the doorway, hand raised.

  “The Dragon’s Shadow,” spat Blackfang, coils slithering against the skeleton’s spine. “I fail to see why you are held in such dread.”

  A changeling sprang at Mazael, jaws yawning, fangs glistening. Mazael rammed Lion into the changeling’s mouth. Black-slit eyes bulged, and the changeling fell back, its mouth a splintered ruin.

  “Do you, now?” said Lucan, stepping into the chamber. “A failure of perception on your part.” He laughed, hard and mocking. “You were sent to contend with the likes of me?” He laughed again. “Your superiors must wish you to die, and to die horribly.”

  Mazael took another changeling, trying to cut his way to Blackfang.

  “Fool!” snarled Blackfang. “You shall see the wrath of mighty Sepharivaim.” The carrier skeleton thrust its hands at Lucan, the San-keth leaning forward.

  Lucan was faster. His hand moved in a dark blur. Again the strange rushing sound filled the room, and Blackfang rammed into the stone wall. Blackfang regained his balance, hissing and snarling, skeletal hands blurring in a spell. Mazael whirled, ducked, and gutted another changeling. The floor grew slippery with spilled blood.

  Lucan thrust out both his hands, and a thunderclap shook the walls. Blackfang tumbled backwards out the window, falling to the courtyard with an enraged snarl. Mazael killed the last changeling and stepped back, panting.

  “Are you all right?” said Mazael. Rachel stood in the corner, arms wrapped over her chest.

  “I’m…I’m fine,” she managed, shivering. “A bit cold…”

  Mazael snatched a blanket from the bed and swirled it around her shoulders. Lucan shoved past him and glared out the window.

  “He yet lives,” said Lucan. “Surprising. Perhaps his arcane art is more potent than I had thought.”

  Mazael frowned. “Where’s Sir Roger?” In the fury of battle, he had forgotten about the traitor.

  “I don’t know,” said Lucan.

  “He slipped out, during the fight,” said Rachel, “and ran.”

  The sound of fighting rose from the courtyard. A flare of green light illuminated the night, accompanied by the sizzling crackle of an arcane spell.

  “Let’s go,” said Mazael. “Rachel, stay with us. Gods know what will happen if we leave you alone.”

  Rachel gave him a tight nod, clutching the blanket close.

  Mazael hurrie
d back into the courtyard. Armed chaos greeted him. His knights and armsmen struggled against the San-keth changelings. Blood and bodies stained the ground. A changeling saw Rachel, shrieked in delight, and lunged for her. Mazael caught the changeling on Lion’s point, and kicked the corpse off his blade.

  Gerald and Sir Nathan fought nearby, yelling commands to the armsmen. Mazael joined the fight, Lion rising and falling. Bit by bit they herded the changelings into a corner of the courtyard and cut them down without mercy. The changelings themselves fought with desperate courage, biting, stabbing, and grappling with their bare hands.

  The last changeling fell dead. Mazael stepped back, breathing hard. The azure fires on Lion’s blade had not yet gone out. He looked about, trying to find either Sir Roger or Blackfang. Rachel stood on the steps to the keep, sobbing into Gerald’s shoulder.

  “Perish!”

  Blackfang stood atop the curtain wall, brandishing the bronze urn. Again the shadowy wraith sprang forth and plunged into the chest of one of Mazael’s knights. The man groaned and collapsed. The wraith burst from the fallen man and shrieked towards Rachel.

  “No!” shouted Mazael, reaching for her.

  Lucan whirled, cat-quick, fingers blurring. The wraith shuddered, moaned, and flew back to the urn.

  “Faithless interloper!” screamed Blackfang, fangs snapping. “You have meddled with us for the last time.”

  Lucan worked a spell in answer. A roar echoed through the courtyard and Blackfang reeled back, the witch-fires of his carrier flickering. No human expression crossed Blackfang’s reptilian face, but it seemed as if the great serpent reared back in fear.

  The courtyard fell silent as all watched the confrontation between the San-keth cleric and the Dragon’s Shadow.

  “Come, holy one!” called Lucan, his voice brimming with amusement. “Use your great arts! Strike me down! Surely a man of lesser race cannot stand against a servant of great Sepharivaim!”

  Blackfang waved the urn in a complex pattern, green fires writhing in the metal. “Perish, dog!” The wraith burst from the urn and shrieked towards Lucan.

  Lucan raised his hand, fingers crackling with magical force. The wraith struck his hand and vanished in a swirl of smoke. The urn exploded in Blackfang’s skeletal hand, knocking the San-keth back.

  “Is that mightiest spell at your command?” said Lucan, grinning. “Have you nothing better?” He spread his arms, his laughter redoubling. “I stand right here, holy one. Why do you not strike me down?”

  The knights and armsmen stared at him in terror.

  “You might slay me,” said Blackfang, “but you can never prevail against the children of Sepharivaim!”

  “Oh, no doubt,” said Lucan, flexing his fingers, “but I weary of your prattle.”

  He thrust out his hand, his fingers blazing again.

  Blackfang’s skeleton blasted apart in a spray of bone shards. The San-keth fell screeching into the courtyard and tried to slither away. Lucan strode towards the fallen cleric, black cloak swirling behind him. Blackfang whirled and reared up, fangs bared.

  “Please,” said Lucan. “I cannot decide whether to be amused or contemptuous. You’ve no hands to wield weapons, nor legs to run. Your miserable people lost them long ago. You’re naught but an overlarge worm.”

  Lucan lifted his hand. Blackfang floated into the air, writhing and snapping. Lucan laughed and waved his hand in a circle. Blackfang began to spin, slowly at first, but faster and faster, like some giant sling. The San-keth's curses of rage degenerated into one long shriek of terror, mingling with Lucan’s maddened laughter.

  Lucan thrust out his hand one last time. Blackfang’s head crashed into the wall at incredible speed.

  The sound of shattering bone was quite loud.

  Blackfang’s limp coils collapsed to the ground.

  “Fool,” said Lucan, still chuckling, his face twisted with glee. For a moment his face resembled that of an ancient, depraved old man. Then he shook himself and pulled his dark hood close.

  Silence fell over the courtyard.

  ###

  Sir Roger's mouth felt as if he had swallowed a coal.

  Every few feet he stumbled, spitting out yet another tooth.

  “Keep up!” snapped Calibah, glaring. “Mazael will send out horsemen once he’s realized you’ve escaped, and if they find you, it’ll be our heads.”

  “If Blackfang doesn’t kill him first,” wheezed Roger, glancing back at Castle Cravenlock.

  Calibah scoffed. “Do you seriously believe that? Blackfang has proven…unworthy.”

  “This is your fault,” said Roger, staggering towards her. He fumbled for the stolen sword dangling from his belt. “You made me do this, it’s your…”

  Calibah seized his tunic and pressed her mouth against his throat. Sir Roger went rigid, the tips of her fangs pricking against his skin.

  “You should have died there,” she murmured, her lips moving up his neck to his ear. “Mazael would have killed you, if I hadn’t pulled you out of his sister’s bedchamber. Do you know why I didn’t let you die?”

  Roger shook his head, barely.

  “Because my master believes you may yet prove useful,” said Calibah.

  “Blackfang’s dead by now, most likely,” said Sir Roger, sweat and blood dripping down his face. “You saw it. His spells couldn’t do anything against Lord Richard’s brat.” He remembered Lucan Mandragon’s cold laughter and shuddered. “At least, Blackfang probably wishes he was dead.”

  “Blackfang was sent to die,” purred Calibah.

  “What?” said Roger. She let him go.

  Calibah smiled at him. “If Blackfang had succeeded, well and good. But my master had wearied of him. His death is no loss. And why did I save you? My master may yet have use for you.”

  “Who,” said Sir Roger, licking his swollen lips, “who is your master?”

  “I will show you.” She gave him a scornful look. “If you can keep up. My master thinks you might be useful. But if I leave you to die here, he will think it no great loss.”

  “The village of Greenhaven lies a few miles east,” said Roger. “If we make for there, we can steal horses and cover more ground.”

  Calibah smiled, cold eyes glinting. “That’s better.”

  2

  The Necromancer

  Pyres burned below Castle Cravenlock’s walls.

  The dead changelings had been thrown atop the pyres, doused with oil, and set afire. Five of Mazael’s knights and nineteen of his armsmen had been killed, either poisoned or cut down in the fighting. The bodies of the knights had been sent back to their heirs and lands, while the armsmen went to the town’s church for burial.

  Mazael stood by the pyres with Master Cramton and Bethy, watching the changelings burn.

  Or watching their bodies burn. Their heads sat on spears over Castle Cravenlock’s gate. Blackfang’s head rested among them, mouth open in his final scream.

  A warning to the others.

  “That’s the last of them,” said Master Cramton, mopping his brow. “Forty-nine, all told.” He shook his head in dismay. “Quite a lot of wood, too.”

  ”Winter’s almost over, anyway,” said Mazael.

  “A bloody business, my lord,” said Bethy, hair blowing across her face. “The servants are terrified.”

  “At least it wasn’t any of our people,” said Mazael. “Besides Sir Roger. By all the gods, he had best hope I never lay eyes on him again. But the changelings hid themselves among Toraine’s party, not my people.”

  “Aye,” said Bethy, scowling. “It’s not my place to say so, my lord, but…”

  “Say whatever you will,” said Mazael.

  Her scowl deepened. “It’s all Lord Toraine’s fault, I say. He kissed the snake, I’ll wager, and came here to kill you and Lady Rachel.”

  “The changelings tried to kill him,” said Mazael. Six of them had burst in on Toraine, who had been lying with one of his whores. Fortunately, Toraine had held them o
ff until Timothy had arrived with a half-dozen armsmen.

  “Bah, it’s but a cover,” said Bethy. “They were just pretending to kill him, I say.”

  Mazael smiled. Bethy’s fierce loyalty cheered him. She smiled back at him, and Mazael felt a wave of heat.

  “Ah…Sir Gerald and Lord Toraine are coming,” said Cramton.

  Gerald and Toraine strode down from the castle, Wesson stomping afterwards. Cramton and Bethy bowed and withdrew. Bethy avoided looking at Toraine, and Mazael hid another smile.

  “How’s Rachel?” said Mazael.

  “As well as can be expected,” said Gerald. “I think she’ll be better in a few days. She’s still upset.”

  “You’d best go to her, I think.”

  “But my duties…”

  “Sir Nathan can handle them for the day,” said Mazael. “Go.”

  Gerald bowed and walked away, leaving Mazael alone with Toraine.

  Toraine scowled, his teeth grinding.

  “Just get it over with,” said Mazael.

  “I am sorry,” spat Toraine. “I did not realize the snake-kissers had hidden themselves among my party.”

  “You ought to observe your camp followers carefully,” said Mazael. “Though I suppose even you can’t sleep with all the whores at once.”

  Toraine growled.

  “Some even think you swore to Sepharivaim and came here to kill me," said Mazael.

  “Who says that?” said Toraine, eyes flashing. “I’ll kill anyone who says that!”

  “Then I most definitely will not tell you,” snapped Mazael. “Is it true or not?”

  Toraine almost looked shocked. “It is not! Do you question my word?”

  “If not for Lucan, my sister and I both would have been killed,” said Mazael.

  “Lucan!” spat Toraine. “Why not question him? The San-keth have tried to kill both my father and myself in the past. Maybe Lucan invited them. Have you thought of that?”

  “I did.” Lucan’s display of raw power had alarmed Mazael. Timothy, fifteen years Lucan’s senior, had no such magic. Even Master Othar, Castle Cravenlock’s old court wizard, couldn’t have worked such spells. Yet Lucan was just twenty years old.