Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Lord Mazael.”

  Mazael turned his head and saw a Justiciar knight with a crooked nose. The Justiciar’s dark hair had streaks of premature gray, and his eyes looked haunted.

  “Sir Commander Galan,” said Mazael.

  Galan Hawking had once been Lord of Hawk’s Reach in the Grim Marches. He had fought against Lord Richard, been stripped of his lands and titles, and sent into the Justiciar Order. Years later he had led the Justiciars of the Grim Marches to war against Lord Richard. For that, the Justiciars had been expelled from the Grim Marches. And Galan himself had been betrayed by Mitor and the San-keth. Mazael had rescued Galan from the San-keth temple under Castle Cravenlock, but the experience had left Galan Hawking a broken man.

  “A joyous occasion, this,” said Galan, folding his arms. “The union of Cravenlock and Roland.”

  “And perhaps the beginning of a new war,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Galan, shaking his head. “I am tired, of war, of battle. I have seen far too much. The San-keth…I never though them real.”

  “Your point?” said Mazael.

  “My hopes have long been dashed,” said Galan. “Yet it was my folly that led to the Justiciars’ expulsion from the Grim Marches. The Justiciar Order has become my home, and I would see that damage undone.”

  “So war with the Dominiars,” said Mazael. “Take their lands to replace your order’s lost ones.”

  “Hardly,” said Galan. “The Dominiars can match our strength, and they are just as eager for war. We would have been content to launch a crusade overseas, seize some pagan desert for our own. But the Dominiars want Tumblestone back, and are willing to use force when words fail.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “I thought Malleus had accepted his defeat.”

  “He did,” said Galan, “and was occupied with revolt in the Old Kingdoms. But that was before Amalric Galbraith rose to prominence within the Dominiar Order.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” said Mazael.

  “Not surprising,” said Galan. “He’s a young man, but six and twenty years old. And he has spent almost all of his service in the Old Kingdoms. After you won at Tumblestone, Malleus made Amalric Galbraith a commander in the Old Kingdoms. Since then he has crushed every revolt, usually by slaughtering all the druids of the old faith, for they often lead the rebellions. During the siege of a rebel city, he impaled five hundred druids and mounted their corpses on stakes around the walls. Once the city surrendered without a fight, he did the same to every tenth citizen, whether man, woman, or child.”

  “Gods,” said Mazael. Both the Justiciars and Dominiars had reputations for brutality, especially to pagans, but that was unusually cruel.

  Galan shrugged. “It worked. The Dominiars’ subject kingdoms are little more than slave states now, and dare not rebel.”

  “And this Sir Commander Amalric,” said Mazael, “he’s the one encouraging Malleus to reclaim Tumblestone.”

  “Aye,” said Galan. “Amalric is now Grand Master Malleus’s strong right hand. Malleus would have been content to leave Tumblestone to Lord Malden. But Sir Commander Amalric thinks differently.” Galan blew out a long sigh. “This war…this war will be bloody.”

  “It might not be so bloody,” said Mazael. “Tumblestone is well-fortified, well-provisioned. Lord Malden made Rainier Agravain lord of Tumblestone, didn't he? Rainier was never the sort of man to surrender anything. If the Dominiars lay siege to the place, Lord Malden can sweep them away.”

  “Lord Malden laid siege to Tumblestone,” said Galan, “and Malleus defeated him.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “but who has Tumblestone now?”

  A tired smile spread over Galan’s face. “Lord Malden, of course. But that was your doing, not his. If you had not been there, I think a Dominiar banner would fly over Knightcastle now.” The herald called Galan’s name. The Justiciar knight sighed again. “And you are here again. Maybe things will turn out well for Lord Malden. Perhaps I’ll see you at the feast.”

  Mazael nodded and Galan marched off, blue cloak swirling behind him.

  The heralds called more and more of the lords and ladies. The small court behind the chapel emptied. Mazael brooded, for lack of anything better to do. His mind turned over Lucan, Straganis, Lord Malden, and wondered what dire things lay ahead. Did the Old Demon’s hand drive this war?

  Or maybe Mazael worried too much. Maybe it would all come to nothing in the end.

  Gerald and Rachel left, arm in arm, the herald’s voice echoing their names over the Court of Challengers. Mazael was the last one left in the little courtyard. Had he missed his name, lost in thought?

  “Well, my friend, do you intend to scowl at the wall all night?”

  Lord Malden entered, his army of pages and squires trooping behind. On Lord Malden’s arm rested his wife Lady Rhea, a lean woman in her mid-fifties, long brown hair streaked with gray. Lady Rhea’s expression looked just as haughty as Lord Malden’s.

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael, doing a brief bow. “I presume you intend to eat sooner or later, my lord? Or did you wish to go hungry while keeping your vassals waiting for your august presence?”

  Lady Rhea laughed, eyes flashing. “Candid as ever, my lord Mazael. Refreshing to hear frank speech, I daresay.”

  “Believe me, it soon grows wearisome,” said Lord Malden. “But what better way to show our newfound amity and the joining of our two houses? My son and your sister enter together.” He shook his head. “A pity you have no wife of your own. I have several suitable candidates in mind, but we can discuss that at a later date.”

  “Yes,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria. All at once he felt tired and cold. “A pity.”

  “Lord Mazael!” thundered the herald, “Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and Lord Malden’s close friend! Now, all hail the wise and noble Lord of Knightcastle, Malden Roland, and his gracious lady wife, Rhea Roland!”

  Lord Malden and Lady Rhea strolled with a slow, lordly gait into the Court of Challengers, Mazael following after. All the guests stood, bowing to the Lord and Lady of Knightcastle. Mazael took his place at the high table, among the Rolands and the Justiciar officers. Lord Malden and Lady Rhea sat, and everyone began to eat.

  Mazael ate with some relief, washing down the food with ample quantities of wine. Adalar waited by his chair, ready to serve. Mazael’s eyes wandered over the packed Court of Challengers. Jongleurs and dancers moved among the trestle tables, singing and cavorting, jugglers flinging daggers and torches into the air. Against the far-wall stood a table of black-cloaked and black-armored forms, the Dominiar knights.

  At their head sat a tall young man with dark hair and eyes, the the same man who had scowled at Mazael in the Hall of Triumphs. All the other Dominiars seemed to wait on his words, nodding when he spoke. Mazael supposed this was Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith, Grand Master Malleus’s right-hand man, the conqueror of the Old Kingdoms. Romaria had often spoken of the Old Kingdoms, had admired their people and druids.

  She would have loathed Amalric Galbraith, and for that reason, Mazael found himself disliking the man.

  At Amalric’s side sat the blood-haired woman in the black gown. She had pulled back her mourning veil to eat, revealing a pale, cold face, just as haughty as Lady Rhea’s, and though she talked, she never seemed to speak to Amalric. In fact, Mazael thought that she hated Amalric, and he hated her. Was she his sister? Or his wife?

  “My lord?” said Adalar.

  Mazael blinked. “Adalar?”

  “Is something amiss?” said Adalar.

  “No,” said Mazael. “I’m well.”

  “You looked wroth,” said Adalar.

  “Just distracted,” said Mazael, glancing at the Dominiars.

  “My father spoke highly of the Dominiars,” said Adalar.

  Mazael frowned. “He did?”

  Adalar nodded. “Well, at least compared to the Justiciars. He said both Orders were corrupt, hypocritical, greedy, and more concerned with power and wealth
than doing the gods’ work. But, he said, at least the Dominiars can speak to a woman without burning her.”

  Mazael laughed. “True enough, I suppose. Of course, the Justiciars call the Dominiars corrupt for that. It’s one the reasons why there is a Justiciar Order. They thought the Dominiar commanders had grown too corrupt and split away.”

  “I know the history,” said Adalar.

  “Are you all right?” said Mazael. “You’ve seemed distracted since Tristgard.”

  “It…” Some of the blood drained from Adalar’s face. “It…well, I saw some terrible things there.”

  “We all did,” said Mazael, staring into his wine. “I thought it horrible what the common San-keth clerics did, riding on an undead skeleton. But Straganis…gods, a body built out of stolen limbs and a giant spider? If he wasn’t mad before, he certainly is now, I’d wager.”

  Adalar looked about to say something else, but fell silent.

  “Go,” said Mazael, waving his hand at the squires gathered in the corner of the Court. “Go and enjoy yourself.”

  “My place is to serve you,” said Adalar.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Mazael. He snorted. “I wish I could go. The high lords are hardly enjoyable company.”

  Adalar still looked dubious, but bowed again. “My lord.”

  Mazael drank some more and watched the high lords scheme. Lord Malden sat with his favorite mistress, a minor noblewoman named Claretta, and fed her bits of meat off the tip of his dagger. Gerald glared at his father. He had never approved of Lord Malden’s many affairs. Lady Rhea appeared not to mind, though, and spent most of her time speaking with a crowd of Lord Malden’s young knights. No one ever dared accused of Lady Rhea of infidelity; those who did soon found themselves swinging from the gallows in Castle Town.

  The feast ended, the servants pushed the tables to the walls, the jongleurs struck up sprightly tunes, and people began to dance. The armsmen and landless knights joined with the servant girls in a dance that involved much stomping and laughing. The lords and ladies moved in slower, revolving dances. Mazael wished to slip away, but didn’t, for fear of further irritating Lord Malden. The old lord loved to dance. Even the Dominiars danced.

  The Justiciars did not approve of dancing, or music, but slipped away without protest, lest they offend Lord Malden.

  The song ended, and Mazael found himself face to face with Lady Rhea. He had no choice but to bow to her. She bowed back, and he took her hand and hip and led her in the next dance.

  “It is so good to see you again, Mazael,” she said. “You were always Malden’s favorite.”

  “I am pleased to have his lordship’s confidence,” said Mazael.

  Rhea laughed, and pressed her hand tighter against his neck. “So formal, now that you’re a lord? Why don’t you come to my rooms after we’re done, and see if you can be formal then?” Her other hand came down and brushed Lion’s pommel. “You can show me that fine sword at your belt.”

  Mazael felt himself gape at her.

  She laughed again, a wicked smile at her lips. “You never were so hesitant before, or so I hear.”

  “Things are different now,” said Mazael. She was shapely enough, despite her age, and for just a moment Mazael was tempted. “Lord Malden’s already annoyed with me. I doubt sleeping with his wife will help.” And, gods, what would Gerald say?

  “My lord husband and I haven’t lain together for years,” said Rhea, “not since I had my change, and could no longer bear him sons. He amuses himself with his pretty young ladies, and, well…I can seek out my own entertainments.”

  “Thank you,” said Mazael, “I am honored, but…”

  “Ah, well,” she said. The dance ended, to Mazael’s immense relief. They bowed to each other, and Rhea said, “Still, if you ever change your mind…” She winked and swirled back into the dance with stout Lord Tancred.

  “Gods save me,” muttered Mazael. He started walking towards Oliver’s Keep, determined to escape before he started a war, and stopped.

  Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiar Order leaned against the Court wall, watching. Aeternis had offered up Lion in surrender after the Dominiar defeat at Tumblestone. Lion was a weapon of magical power, and Mazael had often wondered how a Dominiar Knight had acquired it.

  And perhaps Aeternis might be willing to tell him about Amalric Galbraith.

  Aeternis straightened as Mazael approached. A stocky, powerful man, he had a close-cropped black beard and numerous faded battle scars.

  “We meet again,” said Aeternis, his voice gravelly.

  “So we do,” said Mazael.

  “A lord now, I hear,” said Aeternis. “I always thought you’d be dead by now, on some fool errand for Lord Malden.”

  “And I always thought you’d be dead, too, from Grand Master Malleus’s orders,” said Mazael.

  Aeternis scoffed. “It came close, a few times.” He grinned. “I might get another chance at killing you.”

  “You came close, the last time,” said Mazael.

  “Hardly,” said Aeternis. “You had us. It was only your mercy that kept Lord Malden’s men from slaughtering us all.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to repay that mercy,” said Mazael.

  Suspicion touched Aeternis’s face. “How?”

  Mazael turned, showing the scabbard dangling from his left hip. “Remember this?”

  “All too well,” said Aeternis. “Best sword I ever had. It looks like a showpiece, I know, but by holy Joraviar, I never had a sword so sharp, or so sturdy.”

  “Where did you find it?” said Mazael.

  “Does it matter?” said Aeternis. “Do you want another one?” He laughed. “If I could find another, I would take it for myself.”

  “Idle curiosity, nothing more,” said Mazael.

  “Curiosity is never idle for a lord,” said Aeternis. He shrugged. “But why not? I bought it from a wandering merchant…oh, five, six years ago. Right before your Lord Malden tried to seize Tumblestone. It was in Cateron, I think, in the Old Kingdoms.”

  “Do you remember the merchant’s name?” said Mazael.

  Aeternis thought for a moment. “Tall fellow, polite as a scared maid.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah! Harune Dustfoot, that was it.”

  Mazael felt a chill. “Harune Dustfoot?”

  “You know him?” said Aeternis.

  “I rescued his caravan from bandits in eastern Knightrealm,” said Mazael.

  “Did you?” said Aeternis. “Small world. Not surprising. All the trade’s dried up in the Old Kingdoms, now that Amalric has killed most of the folk living there.”

  “You don’t approve?” said Mazael.

  Aeternis shrugged. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove. I fight who the Grand Master tells me to fight, and that’s that.” He rubbed his scarred temple. “But when I served in the Old Kingdoms, we tried to leave a peace, or at least a truce, with the folk of the Old Kingdoms. It worked, too, for a while.” He shook his head again. “Then Amalric came…and that was the end of any peace.”

  “What do you think of him?” said Mazael.

  “Scouting the enemy, eh?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing here?”

  Aeternis laughed. “It is, after all.” He shrugged. “All right. Amalric has no fear, is deadly with a sword, and can command an army better than almost any other man. And he’s as haughty as a lion, hates the other commanders, and only listens to the Grand Master.” Aeternis shrugged again. “He’ll either become Grand Master of the Dominiars, or he’ll get himself killed. But he’s old Malleus’s favorite these days, and what I think doesn’t matter.”

  “His wife seems to hate him,” said Mazael.

  Aeternis snorted. “His wife? You mean the woman in widow’s black? That’s his sister. The lady Morebeth Galbraith. Though you’re right that she hates him. Her husband served under Amalric’s command in the Old Kingdoms, got killed fighting in the front line. Lady Morebeth never forgave Amalric for that.”


  Mazael said nothing.

  “You were always a worthy foe. It was good speaking to you again,” said Aeternis. He held out his hand. “Perhaps we won’t have to fight after all.”

  “Let us hope not,” said Mazael. They shook hands, and Aeternis wandered away, black Dominiar cloak swaying behind him.

  The music began again, slow and high, a ballad about some long-dead Roland’s lost love. The song reminded Mazael of Romaria, made him melancholy. He decided to find Rachel, dance with her, and then go to bed.

  A warm hand brushed his arm.

  Mazael stopped, something like lightning surging through his blood.

  Morebeth Galbraith stood besides him, hair shimmering like flame beneath her hat. She stood only a few inches shorter than him, her gray eyes glinting like sword blades.

  Yet Mazael saw something of the fire he felt reflected in her cold eyes.

  “Lord Mazael Cravenlock?” she said, voice precise and cold. “Forgive my presumption, but I had heard much of you, and wished to meet you.” She stepped back, releasing his arm, and did a deep curtsy. “I am Morebeth Galbraith, of Mastaria.”

  “My lady,” said Mazael. He took her hand, kissed it, and stared back at her. She was not as beautiful as Romaria had been. No woman could ever be, yet she was a close second.

  He had not felt such powerful desire in a long time.

  “You are famous in Mastaria, among the Dominiars,” Morebeth said.

  “Infamous, more likely,” said Mazael. Something about her voice made his heart race, his blood pulse.

  “They are often one and the same,” said Morebeth. A smile, like a flower of frost, touched her pale face. “Would my lord consent to dance with a poor widow?”

  “He would,” said Mazael, taking her hand. “Nothing would please him more.”

  Mazael glimpsed Sir Commander Amalric glaring at him from across the Court, but did not care. He and Morebeth danced in silence for a long moment, circling around the Court of Challengers. The hems of her black skirts whispered against the stone-paved ground, brushed against his boots. His heart beat ever faster, and he felt the pulse in her wrist quicken.