Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Timothy,” said Mazael, “Sir Aulus. See to things.”

  The wizard and the knight went about their tasks. A few Justiciar knights, standing near the wall, cast cold looks at Timothy, but even the Justiciars would not kill a man in Lord Malden’s own castle. Or so Mazael hoped.

  “Come,” said the herald, beckoning.

  Mazael looked at Rachel. She gave him a feeble smiled and hooked her arm through Gerald’s.

  “I’m sure Lord Malden is most eager to see me,” said Mazael.

  The herald’s expression twitched.

  They walked in silence across the High Court’s stone expanse. The guardsmen threw open the massive double doors, and Mazael, his sister, and his closest friend strode into the Hall of Triumphs.

  Slender pillars supported a vaulted roof and a triforium balcony that encircled the hall. The pale marble floor gleamed, so polished that Mazael saw his reflection shimmering beneath him. Sunlight streamed through massive crystal windows behind the dais, revealing a magnificent view of Castle Town and the Riversteel valley. From the ceiling hung dozens of faded banners, dented shields, and ancient weapons. The Lords of Knightcastle had long hung the banners of their vanquished foes in the Hall of Triumphs, trophies to proclaim their might and intimidate their enemies.

  An ancient Mandragon banner, no doubt from old King Lancefar's march, hung near the dais.

  Hundreds of lords and knights and ladies stood in the hall. The murmur of conversation fell silent as Mazael approached. The lords and knights wore berets adorned with bronze and silver badges, long cloaks, and silk doublets. The ladies wore brocade gowns and hats with proud feathers. Mazael’s travel-dusty clothes looked crude by comparison. He didn’t much care.

  It didn’t surprise him to see a large group of Justiciar Knights near Lord Malden’s dais, resplendent in their silvered armor and blue cloaks. He was surprised to see a group of black-armored Dominiar Knights not far from the dais. Some of the knights glared at the Justiciars, who glared right back. A few dared to glare at Lord Malden.

  And with the Dominiar Knights stood a solid, stocky man, Sir Commander Aeternis, who had surrendered Lion to Mazael after the Battle of Tumblestone. Sir Commander Aeternis gave Mazael a solemn nod, which Mazael returned. Behind Aeternis stood a pale young Dominiar officer in ornate black armor, glaring at Mazael with black eyes. At his side stood a tall woman all in mourning black, her hair the color of blood, a dark veil drawn over her features.

  Something about the veiled woman, whether the way the gown covered her hips and bodice, or the sheen of her hair, or the glint of gray eyes beneath the veil, made Mazael’s blood stir in a way it had not for a long time. He wrenched his eyes away from the dark woman, promising himself that he would learn more of her later.

  Assuming he survived the next few minutes, of course.

  The herald moved with a slow, deliberate pace, rapping his staff against the floor with each step. Mazael sighed in annoyance and shoved past the herald, ignoring the gasps. Lord Malden’s obsession with ceremony and courtly codes of behavior had always irritated Mazael.

  If Lord Malden was going to kill him, best to get it over with right away.

  Mazael strode up the long aisle between the crowds of lordly folk, ignoring their hostile stares. He stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed from the waist. “My lord Malden.”

  Lord Malden Roland, Lord of Knightcastle, liege lord of Knightrealm, scoffed.

  He was a lean, thin-faced man of sixty, iron-gray hair just visible beneath his ornate beret with its golden badge. His fine tunic and boots and cloak must have cost a fortune, and his rings and brooch glistened with gemstones. At his side stood a small army of pages, ready to attend to his every whim.

  “My lord?” said Lord Malden, voice mocking. “My lord? Yes, Lord Mazael, I was your lord. Did I not take you in when you were landless and friendless? Did I not offer you the comfort of my home and the shield of my protection? Was I not generous to you? And all I asked in return was loyalty.” His eyes, bloodshot and blue, narrowed. “And you have cast that away in contempt.”

  “I have done nothing of the sort,” said Mazael.

  A surprised rustle went through the court. No one contradicted Lord Malden.

  “You have sworn to become the vassal of my worst enemy,” said Lord Malden, “a vile usurper, a man who murdered my own beloved son. And then you have the gall, the insouciance, to suggest that your sister marry my youngest son! You have trampled upon my generosity and shown contempt for my good lordship.”

  “I have not,” said Mazael.

  Lord Malden’s lip curled.

  “My brother died without issue, and I became the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “Where is the disloyalty in that? If I had been sitting in comfort at your table when Mitor died, I would have still become the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Would you accuse me of disloyalty then, my lord?”

  Lord Malden leaned forward, eyes flashing. “I accuse you for disloyalty because you have sworn an oath to Richard Mandragon! Such folly is beyond my understanding! That man deposed your father Lord Adalon, made him die a broken man! That accursed Richard Mandragon killed my son.”

  “He did not,” said Mazael.

  A muscle in Lord Malden’s face twitched. “Do you call me a liar?”

  “The archers shot Belifane on the battlefield,” said Mazael, “when he was foolish enough to charge Lord Richard’s line. Will you find each and every one of those archers and put them to death?”

  “The common folk are but tools of their lord’s will,” said Lord Malden, “and their lord was Richard Mandragon, may the gods blast his name.” He leaned back into his throne, glaring. “So Lord Mitor died, as you said, and then you became Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Do you know what you should have done?”

  “Enlighten me, my lord,” said Mazael. Gerald and Rachel stepped to his side, gazing at him in alarm.

  “You should have called for me at once,” said Lord Malden. “Together, we could have defeated Richard Mandragon, and annihilated the Mandragons forever. You could have been liege lord of the Grim Marches, as your father was before you. Instead,” he waved a hand in disgust, “instead you are nothing more than Richard’s lackey.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “A war between you and Lord Richard would have led to nothing but ruination. Both your lands ravaged, your common folk slaughtered. You’ve already lost two sons to war. Will you lose the other three for Lord Richard’s two? You and Lord Richard could both rule over the dead, if you wish.”

  “Bah!” said Lord Malden. “You concern yourself with Richard Mandragon’s spawn? From what I have heard, the older is a murderous madman, and the younger is a black wizard in thrall to dark powers. The earth would be well rid of them.”

  Lord Malden’s description was not far from the mark, but Mazael said, “Blood for blood only leads to more blood.” He had a brief vision of the Old Demon standing on the chapel’s altar and laughing. “Only ruin.”

  A rustle of amusement went through the hall.

  “Mazael,” said Lord Malden. “Come to your senses. I offer you the liege lordship of the Grim Marches. You have only to follow me against a man who ruined your father, a man whose sons will probably plunge the Grim Marches into a bloody civil war one day.” He held out his hand. “You were one of my most trusted knights, once. You could have been the Lord Marshal of Knightrealm. Come. Will you not help me?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I will not go to war with you against Lord Richard, nor will I go to war with Lord Richard against you.”

  A vein throbbed in Lord Malden’s temple, his breath hissing through his nostrils.

  “Lord Mazael and I will walk alone for a moment,” said Lord Malden, standing.

  The pages surged forward. One replaced Lord Malden’s blue cloak with a green walking-cape. Another set a new beret on his head. Still a third pressed a silver-headed walking-stick into his hand.

  “Come,” said Lord Malden, glaring at Mazae
l.

  He strode from the dais, not bothering to look back. Mazael followed him. After a moment the pages trailed afterwards, along with the rest of the court.

  Mazael sighed. This was not going well.

  ###

  A short walk took them from the Hall of Triumphs, across the High Court, and to the Arcade of Sorrows. Its marble columns ran along the top of the innermost wall in lieu of battlements and turrets, since enemies had little chance of ever reaching it. The name came from yet another obscure detail of Knightcastle’s history. Four hundred years past the Lady Audea had thrown herself from the wall after hearing a false report that her lover had fallen in battle. He returned, however, found that Audea had killed herself, and flung himself from the Arcade of Sorrows after her. Mazael had always found the story foolish.

  But after losing Romaria, he understood it a little better.

  Lord Malden strolled along, walking stick tapping against the flagstones. Through the Arcade’s arches Mazael had a grand view of the valley, the midday sun glinting off the Riversteel like firelight on a sword blade.

  Behind them, it seemed the entire court of Knightcastle stood in the High Court, watching them.

  “We’re walking alone?” said Mazael.

  “After a fashion,” said Lord Malden, his voice still angry. “It is a ritual, of sorts. I am Lord of Knightcastle, and they must wait on my will,” he waved his hand at the courtiers, “rather than the other way around. A lesson you would do well to learn. So. We are alone…”

  “After a fashion.”

  Lord Malden inclined his head. “Then let us speak candidly. I want your aid, Lord Mazael. I want vengeance on Lord Richard, and you will help me take it.”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  The vein in Lord Malden’s temple throbbed. “Were you not listening? Did I not tell you that it was better to wait upon my will, rather than to force yours upon me? Richard Mandragon deposed my loyal friend Lord Adalon. He murdered my son…”

  “I told you,” said Mazael, “Belifane fell in battle. If you hadn’t sent him to the Grim Marches, he wouldn’t have died. If you wish to blame anyone, perhaps you should start with yourself.”

  Lord Malden’s breath hissed like a drawn sword. “You overstep grievously.”

  “And so do you,” said Mazael, refusing to back down, “by asking me to subject my lands and my people to slaughter, famine, pestilence, and all the other horrors of war, simply so that you can slake your gods-damned pride.”

  Lord Malden thumped his stick against the ground so hard it almost cracked. “Pride? Is it pride to avenge my son’s death?”

  “You’ve lusted for revenge since I’ve known you,” said Mazael, “and that’s been ten years. What about Sir Mandor? He fell in Mastaria at the hands of the Dominiars, and you’re not screaming for their heads.”

  “Because the Dominiars already paid,” said Lord Malden. “You took Tumblestone from them.” His eyes glinted. “You helped me with my revenge against the Dominiars. Why do you blanch now?”

  “Because,” said Mazael, memories of the grim Mastarian campaign shuffling across his mind. Mandor had been killed by his own incompetence, and his blundering had nearly destroyed his army. Since Gerald had been barely eighteen, it had been up to Mazael to take command. “Because we had no other choice. If we hadn’t taken Tumblestone, we would have died in Mastaria, and Malleus would have defeated you and your army. You could lie dead now, or live out your days as a hostage in Castle Dominus.” Some long-forgotten anger flared to life. “And you sent us on that fool’s quest because of a slight the Dominiars gave to your damned precious Justiciars.”

  “The Justiciars are my true friends,” said Lord Malden, “unlike some.” He fixed Mazael with a baleful glare. “Any slight against them is a slight against me. And let us speak of slights against the Justiciars, Lord Mazael, shall we? Richard Mandragon expelled them from the Grim Marches, stealing their lands and usurping their castles.”

  “He had cause,” said Mazael. “They did vow to kill him.”

  “They vowed to kill a lawless, faithless, murderous usurper,” said Lord Malden. “A faithless usurper you saw fit to make your proper liege lord.” His voice grated with anger. “Was not my generosity enough for you? You were the best of my knights. You would have received land in my service, eventually, perhaps even marriage to one of my bastard daughters.”

  “Mitor died,” said Mazael. “I didn’t have any other choice.”

  Lord Malden scoffed. “You killed him and took his lands, you mean.”

  “I did not kill Mitor!” said Mazael, the edges of his temper giving way. “The San-keth cleric murdered him, stabbed him in the back.”

  “A San-keth, of course!” said Lord Malden. “A convenient excuse. Yes, I’m sure your brother was murdered by a child’s tale.”

  “The San-keth are real enough,” said Mazael. “Ask Gerald. He saw Skhath with his own eyes. Ask Tobias. Ask Trocend. Even ask old Sir Lindon Tristgard. They all saw the San-keth cleric at Tristgard.”

  “I’m sure,” said Lord Malden, sneering. “Snake-men skulking about my lands? Perhaps you had Lucan Mandragon conjure up some illusions. No, Lord Mazael, I think you are a black-hearted villain.” Mazael’s temper frayed a bit more. “You murdered your brother and betrayed me by swearing to Richard Mandragon. Now you throw honeyed words of peace in my face, while plotting with the usurper to kill me and seize my lands. And then, no doubt, once you have no further need of him, you’ll kill Richard Mandragon and make yourself lord over the Grim Marches as well. High King Mazael Cravenlock? That is your real goal, I deem…”

  “You old fool!” snarled Mazael, his anger exploding all at once. A shocked gasp escaped from the trailing courtiers, and Lord Malden’s face went rigid. “Fine! Take your lands to war! You’ve lost two sons already. Why not lose the other three? Sir Mandor was a fool, and his death was mostly his fault, but you sent him into Mastaria to die. And Sir Belifane’s death was your own damned fault! Yours, lord, and no one else’s! And what will you do when all your sons are dead, no one left to carry on your name, your lands ravaged, your people put to the sword? You’ll sit in this pile of a castle until you die, brooding over the ruin of your realm, and you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

  The two men glared at each other for a long moment. Mazael knew he had pushed Lord Malden too hard, too far, but was too angry to care. His hand twitched towards Lion’s hilt, wondering if Lord Malden would order him cut down then and there…

  Lord Malden began to shudder, his breath rasping. Mazael took an alarmed step towards him, wondering if the old lord’s heart had burst from rage.

  Then Lord Malden threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Mazael blinked.

  “By the gods,” wheezed Lord Malden, between burst of laughter, “by the gods. How I’ve missed that rough speech of yours!”

  “Lord?” said Mazael, puzzled.

  Still chuckling, Lord Malden waved his hand at the hovering courtiers. “You were the only one who ever had the courage to tell me the truth. The only one! Not a one of those fawning leeches ever has the nerve to disagree with me, even to speak a cross word to my face. Bah!” He thumped his stick against the ground. “I could tell them that flying pigs soar across the full moon, and they’d stand there and nod, and even suggest that winged pork would make a splendid meal.”

  “But,” said Mazael, trying to find his tongue, “but surely Sir Garain and Trocend tell you the truth?”

  “Certainly,” said Lord Malden. “They’d regret it sorely if they did not. But it’s always cloaked in so many fair words, ‘if you please, my lord’, and ‘by your leave, noble lord’. And they’d never dare argue with me. But you!” Lord Malden grinned. “you actually have the courage to disagree with me!” He sighed. “I haven’t had a proper argument in months. Maybe even since you left for the Grim Marches. My mistresses try, of course, when I command them, but they can never really work up the proper nerve.” />
  “I…am pleased to be of service, my lord,” said Mazael.

  “You’re not,” said Lord Malden, smiling. “And you’re still wrong, by the way. Richard Mandragon is a murderer and a usurper, and I will see justice done upon him on day.”

  “You’ve mentioned that,” said Mazael.

  “But,” said Lord Malden, “I can see how, in light of certain ill-starred events, becoming the Lord of Castle Cravenlock and swearing to Mandragon might have been, under the circumstances, an…acceptable course of action.”

  “How terribly gracious of you,” said Mazael.

  “I know,” said Lord Malden with a smug little smile. He raised his voice. “My throat grows parched from all this shouting. Wine!”

  Three pages raced forward, bearing a pewter tray with a pair of silver goblets and a pitcher of wine. Lord Malden held out his hand and a page pressed a goblet into his hand. Mazael took the other from the tray.

  “Let us resume our walk,” said Lord Malden. He took a drink, held out the goblet, and the page carried it for him. “I agree with you on one point. Now is not the time for Knightcastle to wage war against Swordgrim. Lord Richard, damn his name, can match my strength. A war between us would bleed us both dry, leave us vulnerable to the other great lords.”

  “I’m pleased you see reason,” said Mazael. Lord Malden snickered.

  The Arcade of Sorrows ended in a large parapet jutting from the corner of Knightcastle’s highest wall. A small garden filled most of the parapet. The grass had begun to green, buds showing on the branches of two small trees. Audea’s garden, this place was called, where Lady Audea had awaited word of her lover’s fate.

  Lord Malden moved to one of the marble benches. The pages hastened forward, two lifting the skirts of his cloak while another held his walking stick. Mazael sat on the bench opposite him.

  “And as it happens,” said Lord Malden, “the strength of Knightcastle must be preserved for a closer, a more…pressing threat.”