Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Lucan sprang from the saddle and threw out his hand. The shadows scattered in a snarl. Straganis whirled, hissing. Lucan surged towards the San-keth archpriest, a spell glowing around his fingertips.

  “So!” laughed Straganis. “The troublesome dilettante. I’ll slay you myself. Kill them all!” Straganis made a twisting motion with his hands.

  Mist swirled, and both he and Lucan vanished.

  Mazael blinked in astonishment, and looked up to see dozen crossbow-armed changelings standing atop the village's walls.

  “Get back!” he yelled, waving Lion. “Back, damn you, back!”

  The others turned their horses.

  Mazael just had time to curse himself for not donning his armor.

  A crossbow quarrel slammed into Mazael’s left shoulder, another into his leg, still another into his gut.

  He thought he heard Rachel scream his name.

  He reeled, trying to keep his saddle and his sword, as Sir Roger and a swarm of changelings charged at him.

  ###

  Lucan caught his balance and looked around.

  He stood in a mist-choked forest of gnarled, twisted trees. The fog swirled around his boots and cloak. Hulking shapes lumbered through the trunks, menacing and shadowy.

  Before him he saw the translucent, ghostly walls of Tristgard, watched a horde of wraith-like changelings charge a shimmering Mazael.

  “Do you know where you are, foolish boy?”

  Straganis emerged from the misty trees, spider legs tearing up the mossy ground, tongue flicking at the air.

  “The spirit realm, of course,” said Lucan, circling the San-keth. “The parallel world to the realm of mortals.” He flicked a hand at the ghostly, transparent walls of Tristgard. “Material objects cast their shadows to his realm.” He paused, watching Straganis’s forked tongue flick at the air. “An impressive trick, bringing me here, but a futile gesture. Did you think to impress me with your power?”

  “The thoughts of the lesser races mean nothing to me, Dragon’s Shadow,” said Straganis. “You have long been an irritant to the servants of great Sepharivaim. You have crossed our paths, and meddled in our business, for the final time. My power is strengthened here.” Straganis’s knotted, pale hands rose, and worked a summoning spell.

  A dozen shimmering, hazy tigers loped from gloom, eyes glowing, claws leaving gashes in the damp earth. They were creatures of the spirit world, similar to the ones Lucan could summon in the material world.

  Here, of course, they were much stronger.

  But Lucan had resources of his own.

  His fingers flew through the arcane gestures, his lips mouthing the spell. The mist swirled, and a dozen horse-sized, glowing wolves burst from the gloomy trees. They streaked forward and crashed into the tigers, snarling and snapping, sparks of fire bursting from their claws. Lucan gritted his teeth, trying to keep his balance. Creatures of the spirit realm were stronger here, and took that much more effort to control. If his grip wavered, they would turn on him in a heartbeat…

  Straganis began another spell, his words echoing with arcane force. Lucan felt a moment’s astonishment. Straganis had strength to spare for another spell?

  Lucan began a spell of his own to meet Straganis’s attack, even as he tried to keep his will focused on the wraith-wolves.

  ###

  Timothy saved Mazael’s life.

  Mazael slumped in the saddle, blood flowing from his wounds. The quarrels’ steel heads grated against the bones of his shoulder and leg, Lion dangling from his pain-wracked hand. He had to lift his arm, had to defend himself against the charging changelings, but he could not move…

  Timothy dropped to one knee before Chariot, hand pawing inside his coat. He yanked free a slender copper tube, about a foot long, capped on one end with a cork. Timothy yanked the cork free, held the tube out before him, and began shouting a spell,.

  Even through his pain, Mazael felt a surge of alarm. He had seen Timothy use that spell before.

  One of the changelings raised an axe, his face a few feet from the copper tube, when Timothy finished the spell.

  A blast of flame exploded from the tube and howled into the lines of the changelings. The heat struck Mazael like a burning blanket. A dozen changelings fell dead, charred beyond recognition. Another dozen fell, screaming, flames chewing into their flesh. The rest skidded to a halt, gaping. Mazael caught a glimpse of Roger Gravesend, jaw hanging open.

  Timothy coughed, sweat sheeting down his face, and fell to one knee, panting. The surviving changelings charged forward, eager for blood.

  But Mazael had gotten his breath back.

  He roared and spurred Chariot forward, brandishing Lion. Chariot, less dazed than his master, leapt into motion. The big horse galloped past Timothy and trampled a changeling. Mazael screamed and brought Lion crashing down again and again, changeling blood splashing against him and mingling with his own. Their weapons raked at his legs and chest, but Mazael ignored the wounds.

  The pain failed to penetrate the wall of his rage.

  “To Mazael!” Gerald sounded half-panicked. “For the gods’ sake, after him!” Mazael glimpsed Gerald crashing into the lines of the changelings, his gleaming sword rising. Tobias and Sir Aulus and the rest of the knights thundered after him. Mazael even saw Harune Dustfoot fighting with a sturdy short sword.

  Mazael had just enough time to wonder where the devil Lucan had gotten to, and then battle rage drowned all thought.

  ###

  The misty air snarled with arcane energies.

  Straganis summoned more spirit-creatures, nightmarish shapes that looked like the bastard offspring of a spider and a rabid rat. Lucan countered with another calling spell, conjuring more of the spirit-creatures he had bound to his service. Things like winged jackals dropped from the sky, falling upon Straganis’s minions.

  Lucan’s lips peeled back from his teeth. Power thrummed through his limbs, his head aching with the strain. Every spark of his magical strength strained, yet he still needed more.

  Straganis’s power was greater than his. For the first time in a long while, perhaps for the first time ever, Lucan found himself overmatched.

  Straganis hissed yet another spell, tongue slithering past his yellowed fangs, and raised a hand. The earth trembled.

  One of the trees uprooted itself, rising into the air, roots dangling like filthy hair. It hovered for a moment, then Straganis pointed.

  The hovering tree hurtled at Lucan.

  Lucan thrust out his own will, straining his power to the utmost. The trunk shattered in the middle, shards of wood spraying in all directions. The effort of the spell sent agony through Lucan’s forehead, and for a moment it felt like his brain had begun to flow out his ears and nose.

  “Is that the limit of your power?” said Straganis, laughing. “Can you do no better? You cannot stop me from crushing your life.”

  “Gloat as you will,” snarled Lucan, trying not to gasp. “I am still unbeaten.”

  But he while had the strength to stop Straganis’s spells, he did not have enough power left to strike back. Sooner or later, Straganis would wear down his defenses and cast a killing spell…

  Straganis threw out both of his hands, the full force of his will hammering into Lucan.

  Lucan flew backwards, smashed into a tree, and slumped to the ground, his concentration scattered.

  ###

  Chariot thundered through Tristgard’s gate. The rage in Mazael’s blood filled him, making him stronger, faster, tougher. A changeling lunged at him with a spear, and Mazael blocked it, his blade beating aside the iron blade. Another changeling sprang at him with a long dagger. Mazael yanked the crossbow quarrel from his shoulder and rammed it into the changeling’s eye.

  It hurt, but that didn’t concern Mazael just then.

  The changelings broke and ran. The charge of the knights had forced them back through the village’s gate. Sir Tobias and Sir Aulus galloped onto the ramparts, cutting down the crossbowme
n. The surviving changelings threw down their weapons and ran. Mazael grinned, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes. These changelings were deadly enough when they struck from the shadows with poisoned fang and blade.

  But they could not stand in a fair fight.

  “Kill them!” yelled Mazael, standing up in his stirrups, sweeping Lion over his head. “Cut them all down. No mercy!”

  The knights rode down the street and into the square, where the changelings had gathered for a last stand. It was over quickly.

  ###

  Calibah snarled in the hissing San-keth tongue. “It is time to go.”

  Roger didn’t answer. They stood on the roof of the inn, watching the slaughter. Sir Roger had seen Mazael fight before, of course, had even seen the man angry.

  But Roger had never seen Lord Mazael Cravenlock in such a furious rage. He looked more like a devil than man. And the way he grinned! It chilled Roger to his toes. To think that he once though to go blade to blade with that madman!

  Calibah grabbed his shoulder. “We must go, fool.”

  Roger found the courage to scowl at her. “It seems your great master has failed.”

  Poisoned fangs snapped an inch before his nose. Roger managed not to scream, but only just. “We cannot serve Sepharivaim if we are dead. Unless you’d prefer your skeleton to be raised as a cleric’s carrier?”

  “I’d rather not,” said Roger.

  A chorus of screams rose from the square as the knights cut down the last changelings.

  “Then we run,” said Calibah. She shrugged. “I know not why great Straganis chose this attack. Our kind strikes best from the shadows. But we shall kill Lord Mazael and apostate sister yet. Now run!”

  She sprinted for the stairs. For an instant Roger considered hiding out, going on his own, escaping from the grasp of the San-keth and Calibah.

  He saw Lord Mazael’s horse trampling the dead changelings.

  Sir Roger sprinted after Calibah as fast as his legs could carry him.

  ###

  Lucan staggered back to his feet, spitting out blood. Straganis’s creatures had driven Lucan’s creatures back. Some fled in all directions, their pain and fear breaking through the bonds of Lucan’s control.

  Straganis hissed, his will striking out again. Lucan just had the strength to turn the spell aside. A nearby tree exploded in a spray of splinters and shredded leaves. Lucan’s few surviving spirit-creatures fell back, overwhelmed. He didn’t have the strength left to summon any more.

  “It is finished, human,” said Straganis, creaking forward on his spider-legs. “Lie down and die.”

  “No,” said Lucan. Strewn about the ground lay the ghostly images of slain changelings, dozens of them. “I’ve heard such empty threats before, old snake.” But this threat didn’t seem very empty.

  He looked again at the flickering images of the dead changelings.

  Unless…

  He began another spell, a summoning spell in reverse, and chopped his hands.

  The air snarled about him, and the bodies of the changelings became substantial, pulled into the spirit-world by his spell.

  Lucan reached into his dark half, the part filled with old Marstan’s shadowed memories, and began muttering a spell. Green fire blazed to life around his fingertips, throwing back the gloom of the spirit-realm.

  “You use the arts of great Sepharivaim against me?” laughed Straganis. “Foolish boy.”

  Lucan ignored the taunts and sent his will ramming into the corpses. The green fire sprang from his fingers, stabbed into their staring, dead eyes.

  The corpses moved.

  Lucan raised his hands, gritting his teeth. The corpses shambled up, their movements limp and wooden. Straganis hissed a command in the San-keth tongue and pointed. Three creatures, crab-like things with dozens of eyes, lunged at Lucan, claws clacking.

  Lucan focused his strained mind and sent a command to the animated corpses.

  The undead shambled into the path of the spirit-creatures, ignored their slashing claws, and tore Straganis’s creatures apart. Straganis made a lifting gesture. A tree rose from the earth with a groaning roar and flew at Lucan. One of the animated corpses stepped into the flying tree’s path. The blow reduced the corpse of bloody pulp, but the tree fell to the ground.

  Straganis struck back. His first spell ripped a corpse to shreds. The second sent an undead hurtling through the air. But the remaining corpses continued their grim, plodding advance. Lucan kept working spells, pulling more corpses into the spirit-realm,. The power of the necromancy thrummed through him, filling his flesh with an icy cold, drowning his pain with numbness. No wonder Marstan had practiced this art for so long!

  Death conquered all, but Lucan’s arts made him master of the dead.

  Dozens of animated corpses shambled towards Straganis. The San-keth cleric backed away, tongue flicking, head waving back and forth.

  “Are not the great arts of Sepharivaim enough to stop me?” said Lucan.

  “The fool!” snarled Straganis. “I told him this would fail!” His alien eyes met Lucan’s. “We will meet again, Dragon’s Shadow, in the last moment of your life.”

  Mist swirled around him, and the San-keth cleric vanished. His last few spirit-creatures turned and fled.

  The intact corpses, some two dozen, stopped.

  Lucan commanded them to watch over him, and then promptly passed out.

  ###

  The last changeling died screaming, slashing with a short sword. Mazael’s blade swooped past the changeling’s guard and crashed through its neck.

  An exhausted silence fell over the village of Tristgard.

  Mazael wheeled Chariot around, the rage hammering through his veins. He had not yet had his fill of killing. He wanted to ride through his knights, striking right and left, leaving a fresh layer of blood on his sword.

  Then he remembered Romaria lying on the floor, dead.

  The rage drained away, leaving only a sick weariness.

  And quite a bit of pain. He had torn out all the crossbow quarrels in his frenzy, but the wounds still gaped, along with a half-dozen cuts taken during the battle.

  If he were a normal man, he would have died by now.

  “Mazael!” Gerald galloped to his side, trailed by Sir Aulus and Adalar and Wesson, “Mazael, gods, you’re hurt…”

  “I’m fine,” lied Mazael, trying to keep his voice steady. Wounded or not, he was still lord, and had men to lead. “How many men wounded?”

  “Five were killed,” said Gerald. “Perhaps a dozen wounded, I think.”

  “Timothy!” Timothy hastened over on wobbling legs, still wiping sweat from his brow. “Check the wounds of the men; make sure none were bitten or poisoned. And I thank you. If not for your timely intervention I might be in a dire state.”

  “But… you are in a dire state!” said Timothy. “I saw those crossbow bolts plunge into you. I was sure you were dying, or already dead. By all the gods, I amazed that you can speak, let alone still keep your saddle.”

  “The bolt but grazed me,” said Mazael, looking at himself. He did look awful, his clothes soaked with drying blood, his hands bloody and soot-stained. “Much blood, but little hurt.”

  Timothy shook his head in befuddlement. “I would have sworn on the names of Amatheon, Amater, and Joraviar that I saw a bolt buried in your gut.” He managed a feeble smile. “It is a miracle, a blessed miracle.”

  “No doubt,” said Mazael. Timothy, he suspected, would find the truth unpleasant. Mazael did, after all. “Get going. We have men that need tending.”

  Timothy dashed away.

  “Sir Aulus.” Mazael looked over the stone houses and the bloodstained street, a grim thought coming to him. “Take some men and search the village. See if you can find what became of the village folk.” Ghastly images of cellars and wells stuffed with corpses played through his head. “I doubt the entire village was peopled with San-keth changelings.”

  “Lord.” Aulus turned, bellowing com
mands in his sonorous voice.

  Mazael tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hand came away bloody. “Gerald. Did you see what happened to…” He almost asked what had become of Lucan and caught himself. “Did you see what happened to that devil Straganis? He flung that spell at me, and vanished.”

  “I don’t know,” said Gerald. “I couldn’t see clearly. It…something like a black shadow appeared before him. I don’t know what it was…but it hurt to look at it. Straganis yelled something and disappeared.” Gerald shrugged. “Mayhap his own foul magic turned back upon him.”

  “Let us hope,” said Mazael. What the devil had happened to Lucan? Had he and Straganis destroyed each other?

  “My lord,” said Adalar, edging his horse past Gerald. “You must see to your wounds at once, lest they fester. I was sure you had been killed.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Mazael. Neither Gerald nor Adalar appeared to believe him. Mazael certainly couldn’t tell them the truth. “All right. Just a moment. I’ll…”

  “Lord Mazael!” Trocend waved at him. “We have found someone.”

  Mazael kicked Chariot to a trot and hastened down the street. Sir Aulus and a half-dozen other knights helped a group of women and children from a house.

  “We found them bound and gagged in a cellar,” said Sir Aulus.

  “Search the rest of the village,” said Mazael. He glanced at Adalar. “I’ll have Timothy look at my wounds momentarily.”

  Adalar scowled, but nodded.

  But already the burning pain had begun to lessen, replaced by itching and tingling as his torn flesh knitted itself together of its own accord.

  ###

  The men, it appeared, had been held prisoner in the village’s inn. A brief search discovered the elderly Sir Lindon Tristgard, lord of the village. He did not seem well.

  “They came yesterday,” he croaked, leaning on his daughter’s arm. “Out of the hills. They claimed to be fleeing a flood in the high passes. So I gave them sanctuary and refuge…and…” His daughter offered him a cup of wine, which the old man drained. “They were monsters, San-keth devils. I had always thought the San-keth monsters, nightmares, peasants’ prattle. I never thought them real…”