Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The Dominiar Knights,” said Mazael.

  Lord Malden nodded. “Trocend made my wishes clear, I see.”

  “The Dominiar Knights were broken after Tumblestone,” said Mazael. “I can’t believe that Grand Master Malleus would be fool enough to attack Knightrealm.”

  “Tumblestone was five years ago,” said Lord Malden. “Malleus has hardly been idle. He has new commanders, young men vigorous and hungry for glory. They have done a fair job of rebuilding the Dominiar Order's strength.” Lord Malden favored him with a mirthless smile. “And now they want the city of Tumblestone back. Peacefully, if possible, but by force, if necessary.”

  “The Dominiar Knights in your court,” said Mazael, “that’s why they’re here, aren’t they? A deputation from Malleus, demanding Tumblestone back.”

  Lord Malden lifted iron eyebrows. “Oh, they’re hardly demanding. They are far too courteous for that. They make lofty statements about the brotherhood of all men, and the ancient claims of the Dominiar Order on Tumblestone. The demands will come soon. And then come the swords.”

  “War may not be necessary,” said Mazael.

  “It is.” Lord Malden’s voice was hard. “Tumblestone is mine. My son Mandor died to take it. It has been purchased by Roland blood, and I will not give it up. Now, Lord Mazael, let us come to the point of all this argument, delightful though it has been. You want your lady sister to marry Gerald to tie yourself to me, as you are tied to Lord Richard. With you between us, I cannot strike at Lord Richard, nor he at me.”

  Mazael gave a slow nod.

  “I am prepared to grant you that,” said Lord Malden. “Rachel may marry Gerald, and I will not make war against Lord Richard. But in return, my lord Mazael, in return, you will help me against the Dominiars.”

  Mazael took a swallow of the wine. It tasted very fine. “And if I do not?”

  “Why, Mazael,” said Lord Malden, smiling like an old fox. “You are in my castle, surrounded by hundreds of my knights. Not that I would dream of threatening you, of course.” He took a sip of wine, sloshed it around his mouth, swallowed. “But, still. Your poor sister would remain unwed, possibly even for the rest of her days. And, well…there would be nothing to stop me from waging war against the Mandragons. Nothing at all.”

  Mazael stared hard at the old lord, his mind a thousand miles away. If he refused, Lord Malden would bring fire and sword to the Grim Marches. Yet if he agreed, if he wound up fighting with Lord Malden against the Dominiars…what would happen then? Wars always had dire consequences no one foresaw. How would the Old Demon manipulate such a war? Or the San-keth, for that matter? Even if Lucan had killed Straganis, Mazael doubted that the misshapen creature was the only San-keth archpriest.

  Still, Mazael had no other choice. If he refused Lord Malden, war would come to the Grim Marches. But if he offered his help, he might yet have a chance to keep the peace.

  “If it comes to war with the Dominiars,” said Mazael, “then I will help you.”

  “Good!” said Lord Malden. “Very good. I knew you would see some degree of reason, if not as much as I might hope.” He rose, brushing some dust from the hem of his cape. “Now let us speak of happier matters. My son is getting wed, after all.”

  Mazael stood. He drained the rest of his wine. “And my sister.”

  “Tonight, we shall have a great feast,” said Lord Malden, “to celebrate the union of our two families.” He walked to the edge of the parapet, beckoning Mazael to follow. “And a grand tournament in a week’s time, I think.” He waved his hand at the ring of tents encircling Castle Town. “A prize of ten thousand crowns for the victor at the knights’ tourney. Five thousand for the swordsmen’s tourney, and another five thousand for the victor of the squires’ melee.”

  Mazael squinted at the tents. He saw the banners of many lesser noble houses, as well as the ragged leather tents of landless knights and even mercenaries. “You’ve had this planned well in advance, haven’t you?” He looked at the older man. “Did you know I would say yes?”

  Lord Malden gave him a sly grin. “And in…a month’s time, yes. In a month’s time we shall have the ceremony in the Hall of Triumphs, conducted by the Archbishop of Knightrealm himself. We can’t have the ceremony at Castle Cravenlock, after all.”

  There was no archbishop, or even any bishops, in the Grim Marches. Lord Richard was a man to brook any challenges to his authority.

  “A month?” said Mazael. “Why not now?”

  “Why, we must give the guests time to arrive,” said Lord Malden. “Brother Trocend will send messages at once with his, ah, special contacts. But if we want sufficient guests for this joyous occasion, we must give them time.”

  “As you wish,” said Mazael. He wondered if Lord Malden meant to war against the Dominiars immediately after the wedding.

  “And now,” said Lord Malden, striding back onto the Arcade of Sorrows, “let us meet my son’s bride, she who is to be my daughter.”

  They walked back into the High Court. Gerald and Rachel stood by the great bronze statue of old King Roland, speaking to Tobias and Garain. They fell silent as Lord Malden and Mazael approached.

  Gerald bowed from the waist. “My lord father. I am glad to be at home once more.”

  “And I am glad that you have returned, my son,” said Lord Malden, his eyes on Rachel. “So this is the lady who thinks herself worthy to marry a scion of the great King Roland?”

  “My lord,” said Rachel, dipping into a deep curtsy, the hem of her riding gown sweeping the floor, “it is a great honor to be here.”

  “Do you think so?” said Lord Malden, tapping his stick against the stones. “I have heard some most dire stories about you, my lady Rachel. Rumors that would positively chill your blood.”

  “Lord Mazael saved me from all of that,” said Rachel. “And it is an honor to be here, truly. I have heard so much of Knightcastle all my life, in songs, in tales…and now that I have seen it, I think it grander than any song. I have never been away from the Grim Marches before. If… nothing else, my lord, if you send us away, I will still be glad I had the chance to see Knightcastle.”

  “Well,” said Lord Malden, his haughty face softening. “Well spoken indeed, my daughter.”

  Mazael stifled a laugh. Rachel had said exactly the right thing. Lord Malden was proud, arrogant, and often hard and ruthless.

  Yet he loved his home, and his sons.

  Rachel did another curtsy again, flushing. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Come,” said Lord Malden, taking her arm. “If you are to wed into the house of the Rolands, then it is only fitting that you know the history of our home. Let us take a walk together, shall we?”

  “I would be honored, my lord,” said Rachel. They walked off together, Gerald and most of the court trailing behind.

  Mazael shook his head and went to find Timothy and Sir Aulus.

  ###

  Bit by bit, Lucan’s mind crawled towards awareness.

  He dreamed of killing his father and brother, and striding over their bodies to seize the lordship of the Grim Marches, setting a crown of dragon teeth on his head, proclaiming himself king of the restored kingdom of Dracaryl…

  Lucan awoke, coughing and laughing.

  Marstan’s memories were always strongest when he lay sleeping.

  Lucan lay on damp ground, a foul stench filling his nostrils. He groaned and sat up, working moisture into his dry mouth.

  Two dozen rotting corpses stood in a ring around him. A dark, misty forest rose around them, pale shafts of light shining through the mist. The memory of Straganis, Tristgard, and the changelings came back to Lucan in a rush.

  “Damnation” murmured Lucan. It seemed he had won the duel. He groaned and stood up.

  But he had no idea how to return to the material world.

  He looked around, rubbing his cold hands. For the matter, he had no idea how Straganis had brought him here in the first place. Lucan hadn’t though it possible for a material
body to physically enter the spiritual plane. Clearly, it was possible to pull a material object to the spiritual realm from within – the presence of the changelings’ corpses proved that – but Lucan didn’t know how to reverse the process.

  He looked at the animated corpses. They stared back at him with rotting eyes. “Guard me.”

  The corpses shuffled around him as he moved.

  Lucan stared at the flickering, shadowy images of Tristgard and its wall, and glimpsed the villagers going about their business. It seemed Mazael had won the day, despite his wounds. Lucan wasn’t terribly surprised, and pushed the matter from his mind. More immediate problems demanded his attention.

  He watched flickers of light drifting through the forest, red and green and white. He glimpsed the outlines of men and women and children, some smiling and joyful, others writhing with torment. The souls of the dead passed through this place before moving to their final destination, whether heaven or hell or rebirth. And, of course, the spiritual realm was home to many immortal creatures, some benign, some dangerous, and some downright malevolent.

  He considered that for a moment, then began muttering a summoning spell. While such a spell usually pulled a spiritual creature to the material world, it ought to work here. Lucan spoke the name of a spiritual creature, one he had learned from Marstan, and finished the spell. He waited.

  Then something stirred in the forest. A short, wizened figure strode out, a shriveled dwarf-shape with an enormous gray beard. It stopped a short distance away, staring at Lucan.

  “So,” said Lucan, “you have come?”

  “Come at thy call, have I” said the creature in a rasping voice, “and a service to thee I will perform, should the price offered be…”

  “Spare me,” said Lucan. “I know the doggerel.”

  The dwarf-creature shimmered and disappeared. In its place stood a tow-headed boy of about nine, clad in ragged garments, identical to any orphaned urchin in the great cities.

  “But, squire!” said the boy, “I right enjoy the speech, so I do!”

  “I’m sure,” said Lucan, “but my patience is short. Who are you?”

  The boy shimmered and vanished. In his place stood a girl of about seven years, clad in noble garments, and clutching a ridiculous parasol. “Sir!” she said, blue eyes wide, doing a fumbling little curtsy, “but, sir, you called me, unless I am ever so mistaken.”

  “Your name,” repeated Lucan. Best to establish some sort of authority right away.

  The creature changed shape again, taking the form of the boy-thief. “Mocker-Of-Hope they call me around here, squire, so they do.” He winked at Lucan. “It’s cuz I mock their hope, I do, before I eat their souls.”

  “How fascinating,” said Lucan. “I require a service…”

  “Nope,” said the boy.

  Lucan raised an eyebrow. “You refuse me?”

  “You look like a bright gent, squire,” said Mocker-Of-Hope. “Thought you’d know how this would work. You see, if you call me to the mortal world, why, I have to perform a service for you. But, here…you’re in my haunt, squire.” The boy’s eyes flickered. Something entirely inhuman twitched across his face. “I’d really like to eat your soul.”

  Lucan lifted his hand. “You could try.”

  Mocker-Of-Hope again took the girl’s form. “But, sir! You wouldn’t strike a helpless girl, would you? One who had never done anything in the world to you?”

  “So we bargain, then,” said Lucan.

  Mocker-Of-Hope again became the boy-thief. “Now you’ve got it, squire.” He cleaned his fingernails on his tunic. “I provide all sorts of useful services for the gent in need of…discretion, eh?”

  “You will conduct me to a place called Knightcastle, in the mortal realm,” said Lucan.

  “I will, will I?” said Mocker-Of-Hope. “Why, that’s news to me, so it is! Course, I have to be compensated for my efforts.”

  “Price?” said Lucan.

  “Your soul.”

  Lucan rolled his eyes. “Please.”

  “Fine, fine,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, “I admit maybe that was a little…eh, extravagant? A part of your soul, then. Maybe a third?” He snickered. “Why, your soul’s so black, I’d be doing you a favor, taking a part of it off your hands.”

  “How terribly generous,” said Lucan, his eyes wandering over the mist-choked woods. One of the reddish flickers caught his gaze. “Perhaps an entire damned soul, then? Would that prove sufficient payment?”

  Mocker-Of-Hope again took the little girl’s shape. “But, sir, that’s ever so rude. Unless I am terribly mistaken, you refused to part with your soul.” She giggled. “Even though it could use a good cleaning.”

  Lucan pulled a ring from inside his tunic, a golden circle set with a single clear gem, the band marked with a dozen arcane glyphs. He slipped it on his finger, focused on one of the flickering red outlines, and began an incantation. Mocker-Of-Hope watched him, head titled to one side, golden curls sliding. Lucan’s necromancy could not touch the souls on their way to paradise, no spells could, and he could not claim one of the souls on their way to rebirth without consent.

  But the damned souls…

  Lucan finished the spell, gathered his will, and made a clawing motion. One of the reddish outlines flickered, shuddering. Lucan heard a keening scream in the depths of his mind. He closed his fist, and the outline vanished.

  The stone on the ring flared with red light, pulsing with the rage and terror of the trapped soul.

  “Perhaps,” said Lucan, sliding the ring off his finger and laying it on his palm, “this might prove a worthy price?”

  An ugly lust came over the girl’s face. The edges of her form blurred and shimmered. She reached for the ring with her mouth. Lucan pulled back his hand, and the girl’s teeth, suddenly sharp, closed on air.

  “Give that to me,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, the human veneer of its voice thinning. “Give that to me now.”

  “Why?” said Lucan. “Will you guide me to Knightcastle?”

  “I will, I will,” said Mocker-Of-Hope. “Now give it to me!”

  “Swear it,” said Lucan. The spirit-creature’s eyes remained fixated on the ring. “Swear by your name that you will guide me, safe from all forms of harm, to Knightcastle.”

  “I do,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, lips peeling back from jagged teeth.

  The creature’s slow transformation was unnerving, yet Lucan held his ground. “Swear, I said!”

  “Fine!” spat Mocker-Of-Hope. “I, Mocker-Of-Hope, swear by my name that I will take you to Knightcastle without harm. Now give me that!”

  “As you wish,” said Lucan, flipping the ring away.

  Mocker-Of-Hope caught it in midair, a terrible expression of glee on a face no longer human. For an instant Lucan glimpsed a creature of nightmare, a thing hideous and near-blasphemous. Then it vanished, and the street urchin returned, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face.

  The ring rolled across the ground, its gem clear once more. Lucan scooped it up and tucked it away.

  “Right tasty, that was,” said the boy, belching. “Right tasty.”

  “I share your joy,” said Lucan. “Now. No further dithering. To Knightcastle.”

  Mocker-Of-Hope became the noble girl. “So impatient, sir, so terribly impatient. Why, impatience is so dreadfully rude.” She gazed off into the distance, brow furrowing with intense concentration.

  The mists stirred, writhing in sudden agitation. All at once they parted into two walls, towering up into oblivion, a narrow lane between them.

  Mocker-Of-Hope shimmered, the girl disappearing. In her place appeared a large raven. The bird flapped its wings, and settled on Lucan’s right shoulder, claws digging into his cloak.

  “Forward,” croaked the bird, jutting its beak into the lane. “To Knightcastle.”

  “Very good,” said Lucan, striding into the misty lane. “You realize, of course, that if you lead me astray, you will dearly regret it?”

 
; Mocker-Of-Hope cawed with rusty laughter.

  Lucan kept walking.

  2

  Fires in the Blood

  Lord Malden held the grand feast in the Court of Challengers.

  The Court sat on Knightcastle’s second tier, ringed on one side by Oliver’s Keep, on the other by Marelle’s Chapel. Here, legend held, the Roland kings of old had sat one day a year, and anyone of noble birth could challenge them to single combat.

  Now the porters raised long tables and rows of benches. Torches and bonfires blazed, throwing back the dusk. Armies of servants hastened from the kitchens, bearing platters of food and casks of wine. The Court already held Lord Malden’s armsmen and household knights as they drank and laughed. From Castle Town below came the distant echoes of revelry as the townsfolk feasted on Lord Malden’s largesse.

  The lords would later in stately procession, each escorting a noble lady.

  This meant Mazael had to wait to eat, which annoyed him to no end. His courtly clothes further aggravated his mood. His fine linen tunic itched damnably, his gleaming boots gripped his feet uncomfortably, and his great black cloak, adorned with the three crossed swords of the Cravenlocks, was too warm.

  The lords and ladies milled behind Marelle’s chapel, waiting for the heralds to call their names.

  “Lord Tancred and Lady Chrisiana, Lord and Lady of Stillwater!”

  Wesson's father, who did indeed resemble a tankard, stomped around the chapel, his much younger wife on his arm.

  “Damn this,” said Mazael, scowling.

  Gerald laughed. “Patience, Mazael, patience. You know how my lord father loves his pomp.”

  “I’ve nothing against pomp,” said Mazael.” Unless it keeps me from eating.”

  Rachel laughed and hooked her arm around Gerald’s. “And you will have to wait longer, I fear. We are Lord Malden’s honored guests, so the heralds will call us at the very end.”

  Rachel and Gerald wandered off to speak with Tobias and Garain. Mazael leaned against the stone wall and watched the milling lords and ladies. He saw many blue Justiciar cloaks, but no black Dominiar ones. Lord Malden had seated the Dominiar knights with the armsmen and landless knights, though the officers could sit with the lords. No doubt Lord Malden intended it as an insult. Mazael sighed and rubbed his temples. Lord Malden wanted war with the Dominiars, the Justiciars wanted war with the Dominiars, and Mazael could think of nothing…