Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Every day Gerald took Sir Tobias out hunting. Sir Nathan took it on himself to keep Toraine entertained, to Mazael’s boundless relief and gratitude. Everyone agreed that keeping hot-headed Sir Tobias and brutal Toraine apart was a good idea, and neither man seemed eager to meet the other.

  And at night Bethy came to his rooms, and they lay together with enthusiasm. Two nights Bethany had to prepare food for the guests, so in her place she sent one of the new servants, a girl named Anne. Anne was about twenty, had blue hair, brown eyes, freckles in unusual places, and remarkable vigor.

  One night both Bethy and Anne came to his chamber. During the next day’s negotiations, Trocend commented on Mazael’s unusually languid manner.

  Adalar’s scowls got ever wider. Mazael, preoccupied with affairs of state, did not notice.

  He and Trocend concluded their negotiations. Mazael would take Rachel and Gerald to Knightcastle himself, accompanied by thirty of his knights, with Sir Tobias and his knights acting as a guard of honor. Mazael planned to bring Timothy, and Sir Aulus Hirdan, who would no doubt appreciate escaping from his wife for a few more months.

  He appointed Sir Nathan to act as castellan in his absence. Sir Nathan refused. Mazael refused the refusal, and Sir Nathan acquiesced, though with little pleasure.

  That left one man to convince.

  ###

  Mazael pushed open the door to Lucan’s chamber. The room looked bare and empty, and a thin layer of dust covered the ragged cot. Mazael stared at in some confusion. Where did Lucan sleep, if not here?

  “Lord Mazael.”

  Lucan had appeared from nowhere, again.

  “How the devil do you do that?” said Mazael.

  “Do what?” said Lucan, running his hand against the wall.

  “Disappear like that,” said Mazael.

  Lucan lifted his eyebrow. “Do I? Perhaps I walk quietly.”

  “No doubt,” said Mazael.

  Lucan smirked. “How can I be of service?”

  “Trocend Castleson saw through your mindclouding spell,” said Mazael.

  “He did.”

  “Will he always be able to see you?”

  Lucan laughed. “Trocend is quite skilled, but not nearly as clever as he believes. There is more than one way to work a mindclouding. I could stand before his face and he would never notice me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I stood over his shoulder and watched him write a secret letter to Lord Malden,” said Lucan.

  “And?”

  Lucan turned, stepped to the narrow window. “It seems he doesn’t believe that you truly wish peace. Trocend believes that you will play Lord Malden and Lord Richard against each other, and plan to ally with whomever offers you greater rewards.”

  “But I told him I want peace!” said Mazael.

  “That’s right, you did. And lying lords are so rare.”

  Mazael sighed through gritted teeth. In the end, it didn’t matter what Trocend believed. Mazael had to convince Lord Malden, not his lackeys. “All right. I am leaving for Knightcastle tomorrow, and will likely not return until autumn.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to come with me,” said Mazael.

  Lucan frowned. “No.”

  “Why not?” said Mazael.

  “Because I’m not a fool,” said Lucan. “I can conceal myself, but Trocend might discover me, and Lord Malden could have other wizards lurking about Knightcastle. If Lord Malden finds me he will do his utmost to kill me. A son for a son, after all.”

  “You didn’t seem the sort to fear death,” said Mazael.

  “Don’t be trite,” said Lucan. “If Lord Malden tries to kill me, I might be forced to kill several important people, possibly Lord Malden’s surviving sons, or even the old man himself.” His lip curled. “You’d then find peace rather unattainable, I expect.”

  “I expect,” said Mazael. He sighed again, wishing he had room to pace. He hated standing still. “I need your help.”

  Lucan said nothing.

  “You were right,” said Mazael. “The San-keth will not stop at anything to kill Rachel. I don’t…I couldn’t have stopped Blackfang myself. I can’t protect Rachel by myself. Not against black magic.”

  “And what is your sister’s life to me?” said Lucan.

  Mazael glared in a sudden flash of rage. How dare he say such a thing? Mazael throttled back his fury and forced himself to speak.

  “Because,” he grated, “don’t you want to defend others against the dark powers that took you? This is your chance. You heard what Trocend said about the Dominiars. War is coming, I fear.”

  “I told you as much,” said Lucan.

  “This is the sort of war the Old Demon will manipulate,” said Mazael. “Or the San-keth. You saw it yourself, when Mitor rose against your father. He was a puppet on the Old Demon’s strings.” He hesitated. “So was I.”

  “Men often make war, with or without demonic prompting,” said Lucan. “Demons walk the earth, but that does not mean they lurk in every shadow.”

  “Yet suppose they lurk in the shadows of this war,” said Mazael, staring at Lucan, “and you could have stopped them, but you did not.”

  Lucan drew in a deep breath, folded his arms, and lowered his head. For a long moment he stared at the ground. Mazael watched him. A distant part of his mind realized that Lucan was but five years older than Adalar, and yet his face looked so old, so grim.

  “Why not?” said Lucan. “It would startle my lord father. That alone would make the journey worth it.” He did a mocking little bow. “I will travel with you, Lord Mazael.”

  “Good,” said Mazael, thinking of what it might mean if Lord Malden discovered a son of Lord Richard Mandragon in his court. This, like the marriage, might too have its price. “Very good.”

  ###

  They left Castle Cravenlock the next day, in a spring morning that still had winter’s bite.

  A line of a hundred riders wound its down from the castle. Sir Aulus rode in the front, carrying the Cravenlock banner with its three crossed swords on the black background. Mazael rode behind him, glancing to the north. He saw another band of horsemen riding in that direction, the Mandragon banner flapping in the wind. Toraine had departed for Swordgrim, no doubt to deliver a lengthy report to his lord father.

  Toraine’s departure filled Mazael with vast relief. The gods alone only knew what kind of havoc the man could have wreaked during Mazael’s absence.

  He took his horse, a sturdy gray palfrey named Mantle, and rode down the line. Gerald and Tobias were towards the front, Tobias bellowing a dirty ballad, and laughing every time Gerald scowled. Adalar and Wesson rode behind them, Adalar leading Chariot. The big horse suffered himself to be led, albeit grudgingly.

  Rachel was in the middle of the column, surrounded by her maids and the wives of various knights and lords. Mazael beckoned to her, and she steered her mare to his side.

  She rode better than Mazael would have thought.

  “You look nervous,” said Mazael. In fact, she looked haunted, a look that had not left since Blackfang’s attempt on her life.

  She gave him a wan smile. “I am well, I suppose.” She looked at the broad plains and shuddered. “It’s just…”

  “The San-keth?” said Mazael.

  “That?” said Rachel, frowning. “I haven’t thought about it much. If I do…I’ll get upset. You understand.” Mazael nodded. “I’ve…never left the Grim Marches before, Mazael.” She waved her hand at the sky. “I’ve never been farther west than that inn at the Northwater.”

  “You’re pointing southeast,” said Mazael, following her hand.

  Her expression turned arch. “And which way is west, lord brother?”

  Mazael smiled and pointed.

  Rachel pointed west. “Then I’ve never been further west than the inn.” She dropped her hand, staring. “I’ve always wondered what other lands are like.”

  Mazael smiled again. “Then I will be glad to sh
ow you.”

  Rachel smiled back, and they rode to the front of the line.

  Chapter 3

  1

  Dustfoot

  They crossed over the Northwater and rode west.

  The western reaches of the Grim Marches bordered on the northeastern corner of Knightrealm and the eastern edge of the High Plain. Most travelers to Knightrealm took the road through the High Plain, and then south to Knightcastle itself, or chartered a river barge to take them up the Riversteel, one of Knightrealm’s two great rivers.

  Mazael did neither, instead leading his party southwest into Knightrealm. The Lord of the High Plain was not on friendly terms with Lord Richard. And the road southwest was not well-traveled. Mazael wished to avoid chance meetings.

  Who knew when they might encounter more San-keth changelings, disguised as normal men?

  The road wound southwest, through the wild lands between the Great Southern Forest and Knightrealm’s low mountains. Rachel stared at everything with wondering eyes. Mazael realized that she had never seen mountains before. She even seemed enchanted by the mud of the road.

  Timothy rode at the rear, clutching small crystal wrapped with copper wire. Every now and again the crystal flashed. With luck, Timothy’s divinatory magic could sense any enemies before they attacked.

  Besides Timothy rode a slight figure wrapped in a black cloak.

  No one had noticed Lucan. That still raised the hairs on the back of Mazael’s neck. Even Trocend had failed to notice Lucan, or, at least, pretended not to.

  ###

  Four days later, Mazael decided to talk with Gerald.

  On their left loomed the silent, towering trunks of the Great Southern Forest, filled with shadows. No one dared lumber within the forest, fearing the predations of the wood devils. Mazael had met the Elderborn of the wood, and had found them no devils, though ruthless in defending their homes.

  To the right rose the worn, green-mantled slopes of Knightrealm’s mountains. A few rose high enough to have crowns of snow, but most had jagged peaks of bare stone and tree-cloaked flanks. The mountains looked stately, but often held many bandits. Every few years the local lords sent armsmen and knights to sweep out the bandits. Mazael himself had done so at Lord Malden’s bidding, years past.

  He shook aside stray memories and came to Gerald’s side. Gerald rode with his brother, and together they told Rachel stories from Knightrealm’s past. Every damned rock in Knightrealm, it seemed, had legends attached to it. At this village a knight had made a valiant last stand. Or beneath that tree two lords had fought each other to the death over the love of a fair lady, slaying each other, while the lady killed herself in grief. Mazael wondered how much was true, and how much puffed-up twaddle.

  “It’s said that King Lancefar Roland, the fourth of his name, took this road eight hundred years past to wage war against the kings of the High Plain and Dracaryl,” said Gerald. “Along the road he met and killed the bandit-king Black Ricard in single combat.”

  “Did he?” said Rachel. Rachel ate it up. She had always loved songs and tales. Maybe, Mazael mused, that was how the San-keth had ensnared her. Perhaps they had told her a better tale.

  “Aye,” said Tobias, grinning. “And then as he rode back from war, though yon hills,” he waved his hand at the worn mountains, “he came upon a meadow where seven lonely shepherdesses dwelt, yearning for a manly embrace to ease…”

  “Tobias!” said Gerald. “That is hardly an appropriate tale for a lady’s ear.”

  “What isn’t?” said Mazael. “There’s not a jongleur’s song in the world that doesn’t have some fool beheaded ere it’s done, or some maiden lass who’s no longer maiden by the end. Gerald! I need to speak with you. If you can trust Tobias alone with your betrothed, of course.”

  “My lord!” said Gerald. “He is my brother.”

  Tobias guffawed. “Fear not. You seem the sort of man to be most jealous of his sister’s honor.”

  “Keep that well in mind,” said Mazael.

  He and Gerald rode to the back of the line. Lucan lifted a dark eyebrow as they passed, and Gerald failed to notice him. Mazael suppressed a shudder. Despite Lucan’s pledge, his powers still made Mazael uneasy.

  “What’s amiss?” said Gerald.

  “A question. From here,” said Mazael, “if a man wished to go to Knightcastle, what road would he take?”

  Gerald blinked. “Well…we’d take the road through Krago Town, cross the Black River, then head north to Knightcastle. A bit out of the way, to be sure, but most folk traveling from the Grim Marches to Knightcastle go through the High Plain.”

  “We’re not going through Krago,” said Mazael. “We’ll head west through Stillwater, instead, take the road to Knightcastle from there.”

  “Stillwater?” said Gerald, frowning. He glanced at his squire. “I suppose Wesson would be glad to see his father.” Wesson’s father, Lord Tancred, was Lord of Stillwater. His prodigious capacity for ale had earned him the nickname Tancred the Tankard. “But that would be farther out of our way. We’ll have to cross both the Black River and the Riversteel, then approach Knightcastle from the north.”

  “We will,” said Mazael. “But I’m not riding through Krago Town.”

  “Why not?” said Gerald. “The place has an unpleasant reputation, but I’ve never been there.” He shrugged. “Though I did meet Krago’s lord once. Rather uncouth fellow, really. Krago Town’s ill name may just rise from him.”

  “Or it may not,” said Mazael. He closed his eyes, letting his horse follow the road. “Skhath. The San-keth priest, when he still masqueraded as a man. Where did he claim to have been born?”

  Gerald nodded. “Krago Town.”

  “And Skhath told me he had come from Karag Tormeth in truth,” said Mazael.

  “The San-keth high temple,” said Gerald. “The heart of their cult.”

  “Nobody knows where it is,” said Mazael, “but I’d wager it’s not far from Krago Town.”

  “In Knightrealm?” Gerald shook his head. “I can’t believe that such a place would remain hidden for so long. And Skhath most likely just lied. Mayhap he picked Krago Town for its obscurity, knowing that no one from Castle Cravenlock had ever been there.”

  “And maybe not,” said Mazael. “But it’s possible there’s a hidden snake-cult at Krago Town, as there was at Castle Cravenlock.” He looked at Rachel, laughing at Tobias’s stories. “But if there is…then it’s not someplace we should take Rachel.”

  “Agreed,” said Gerald, face grim. “Stillwater it is, then.”

  They rode in amiable silence for a moment.

  “At least,” said Gerald, “if we do encounter a San-keth cleric, you’ve got that magic sword of yours.”

  “I wonder about that,” said Mazael.

  “About Lion?” Gerald’s eyes flicked to the longsword dangling from Mazael’s belt. “Of course it is enspelled. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and you have too.”

  “We have,” said Mazael. “But where did it come from?”

  Gerald frowned. “Don’t you remember? Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiars gave it to you in surrender, after we took Tumblestone.”

  “And where did Aeternis get it from?” said Mazael. Gerald shrugged. “This thing is a relic of old Tristafel.” He patted Lionel’s pommel. “It’s at least three thousand years old. I wonder where Aeternis found it.”

  “Maybe you’ll have the chance to ask…”

  “Lord Mazael!” Timothy’s shout cut off Gerald’s conversation.

  Mazael booted Mantle to a trot and hastened to Timothy’s side. “What is it?”

  Timothy’s eyelids fluttered, his hand tightening around the crystal. “There’s…ah, people. Ahead. Over the next hill.” He jerked his chin at a craggy hill. The road wound its way around the base. “About four or five dozen. And…I think one group’s trying to kill the other group.”

  “Gerald,” said Mazael, “get the knights ready. This isn’t our concern, but fight
s have a way of pulling in bystanders. And for gods’ sake, have some men stay with the women.” Gerald nodded and galloped ahead, giving orders, and took his shield from Wesson.

  “Lord Mazael!” said Trocend, steering his horse towards Mazael. “Is something amiss?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Mazael. “Ready yourself, just in case. Sir Tobias!” Tobias looked up from telling another bawdy story. “There might be bandits ahead.” Or, of course, a battle between minor lordlings. “Get your men ready!”

  Tobias grinned. “Ha!” He pulled his long axe free. The crescent blade looked scarred and very sharp. “A boring journey, so far. A little excitement would be welcome!”

  Mazael rode to Adalar and dismounted Mantle. Adalar took Mantle’s reins, and Mazael climbed up into Chariot’s saddle. The big horse snorted and tossed his head as Mazael took the reins, pawing at the ground.

  “You’re as eager as Tobias,” muttered Mazael. His destrier looked ready for blood and mayhem, which was the horse’s usual mood. Mazael wondered if horses could become Demonsouled, shook aside the ridiculous thought, and rode to the head of the column. Sir Tobias and Gerald settled on either side of him.

  They rode around the rocky hill, into a broad valley between two of the low mountains. A small river, little more than a creek, ran down the center of the valley. A dozen heavy wagons stood on the road running alongside the creek, the oxen snorting in fright.

  Close to seventy ragged men ran in circles around the wagons, shouting and brandishing crude weapons. A dozen men in studded leather jerkins stood atop the wagons, wielding short swords, fighting for their lives. Even as Mazael as watched, one of the men fell with a scream, pierced with a javelin, and fell into the creek.

  “Bandits,” muttered Mazael. He yanked Lion free and stood up in his stirrups. “Charge! At them, at them!”

  Tobias whirled his axe over his head and whooped.

  Mazael kicked Chariot to a gallop. The horse sprang forward with an eager whinny, hooves tearing at the turf. Behind him the knights shouted and surged forward. Mazael wished there had been time to don his armor, and then he had no thought for anything but sword play.