Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “My lord dances well.”

  “As do you.”

  “I wonder how you learned, with no lady wife on your arm,” said Morebeth.

  “I have no lady wife.”

  “Nor I a lord husband.” Her voice remained calm, but the muscles near her gray eyes twitched.

  “I am sorry,” said Mazael. “I…heard what had happened to your husband.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She hesitated. “I loved him. It does not often happen between nobles, but I loved him.”

  “I understand,” said Mazael. She looked at him sharply. “I…I, too, lost someone…very dear to me. She was not my wife. We never had the chance. But I loved her no less.”

  “My lord.” Morebeth’s gloved fingers stroked the back of his neck. “I am sorry. I did not know.”

  They moved closer together. Mazael felt her heat through his clothes. His hands tightened about her fingers and hip. He watched her gray eyes watching him.

  “Come with me,” she whispered.

  “I dare not,” said Mazael. The heat vanished, her cold mask returning. Mazael groped for an excuse, something that could convince her, that could convince him. “If…you become pregnant, then…”

  Morebeth leaned against him, her lips brushing his ear. “My shame. My great shame. I cannot bear children.” She stepped back from him, her mouth twitching. “What man would have me?”

  “I am sorry,” said Mazael.

  She titled her chin. “Then comfort me.”

  Mazael kissed her, long and hard, the fire in his blood burning out of all control.

  ###

  They wound up in Mazael’s chambers in the Tower of Guard, together in his bed. Mazael supposed that half the court must have seen them, that Knightcastle would crawl with gossip tomorrow, but he did not care, did not care about anything but Morebeth Galbraith’s eyes and lips and body.

  ###

  Adalar saw them leave.

  He could not put the memory of Mazael’s wounds closing out of his mind, could not stop thinking about what that might mean.

  3

  Shadows in Knightcastle

  Afterwards Mazael fell asleep and dreamed:

  He stood atop the Old Keep, the highest tower of Knightcastle, gazing down on the Riversteel’s valley.

  But now the valley was dead, a desolation of blighted ashes, withered trees clawing at the sky. The burned rubble of Castle Town squatted by the riverbank like an open sore. The Riversteel itself had turned the color of blood, corpses floating in the thick waters. Knightcastle was empty and silent, drained of life and energy, a monumental tomb clinging to the hillside like a dying fungus.

  The red sun glared down at Mazael from the sooty sky.

  Mazael stared in stupefied horror. What catastrophe had befallen Lord Malden’s lands?

  And then in a surge of rage and terror he remembered the dreams of blood and death that had tormented him before…

  “This is a dream!” shouted Mazael at the sky. “I know this is a dream! Show yourself, you damned coward! Show yourself!”

  No one answered. His voice echoed off the stony mountains.

  And then:

  “Such a shame to see a man lose his faith.”

  Mazael whirled, snarling.

  A man walked towards him, a man draped in a simple black robe. He wore the hawk-nosed, gray-eyed face of a wandering jongleur named Mattias Comorian. But the face meant nothing. In dreams he had masqueraded as Lord Adalon Cravenlock. In the waking world he had disguised himself as Simonian of Briault, necromancer and Lord Mitor’s advisor.

  He was Mazael’s father.

  He was the Old Demon.

  “My prodigal son returns,” said the Old Demon, his voice dry. The faintest glimmer of red touched his eyes. “And you have done just as I said. You murdered Mitor, you became Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and now you stand ready to become lord of all the earth.”

  For the briefest instant Mazael remembered murdering Mitor, remembered striding past his brother’s corpse to claim Castle Cravenlock. But that was a lie, a phantasm of the Old Demon’s magic. Skhath had killed Mitor, not Mazael. And this monster, this ancient horror, had killed Romaria.

  “Skhath killed Mitor, not I,” spat Mazael. “And you murdered Romaria, you bastard, you-“

  “It was your fault,” said the Old Demon, smiling. “A son ought to submit himself to his father. If you had but obeyed me, she would be at your side still…”

  “You killed her!” screamed Mazael, stepping towards him.

  The red glaze in the Old Demon’s eyes darkened. “You’ve grown stronger, I see.”

  Mazael said nothing, his fists clenched.

  “You’ve become strong enough to work your will here,” said the Old Demon, waving his hand, “at this place which is no place.” His lips pulled back, revealing jagged, filthy teeth. “But you still have yet to learn that I am the stronger!”

  The Old Demon thrust out his hand, and the world spun around them.

  Mazael found himself in the Hall of Triumphs. The great crystal windows had shattered into razor-edged shards. From the arched ceilings hung the gutted corpses of Lord Malden, Lady Rhea, and their children. Rachel dangled naked from a gibbet, turning slowly.

  The Old Demon lounged in Lord Malden’s throne, black robes like shadow.

  “Do you like it?” he said, flicking a finger at the dead. “Your future. And your choices will bring it about.”

  “You are a liar,” said Mazael, “and always have been.” He stalked towards the throne. “You murdered Romaria, and I swear that one day I will kill you.”

  The Old Demon laughed. “Do you know how often I have heard that, my son? How many men and women have sworn vengeance, sworn my destruction? I sit on a throne of their skulls!” His laughter faded into an amused titter. “You thought Lucan Mandragon strong? You think Straganis powerful? Lift your hand against me and I will show you arcane arts that could shatter their minds.”

  “Theirs, perhaps,” said Mazael, “but maybe not mine.”

  “Fool, fool,” said the Old Demon. He rose from the throne and strode towards Mazael, the red haze in his eyes brightening. “You’re mine, my son. Deny me as you will, but you are still mine. To think I would have made you king of the world.”

  “You would have devoured my soul and added my power to yours,” said Mazael.

  “Then try to strike me down,” said the Old Demon. He glanced at the ceiling. “And this is how it will end for those you love, for you.”

  A bit of Gerald’s blood splashed against the floor.

  “You will die screaming,” said the Old Demon, “and there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  “You lie,” said Mazael, "as always."

  “Your own choices will destroy you,” said the Old Demon. “You’ve dared to rebel against me, and you shall pay for it. You chose your mewling sister over my power? You shall see her die…”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “You repeat yourself,” said the Old Demon. “How tedious. It is not a threat, my son. It is not even a promise. It is a certainty.”

  Mazael growled, his hand going to his hip. He had no sword belt, no weapons. He lifted his hand and wished for a sword. The Hall of Triumphs shimmered about him. He stared at his hand, willed for Lion, and it appeared in his grasp.

  The sword shone with a clear white flame, hot and pure, illuminating the shadowed hall.

  The Old Demon stepped back.

  “I told you,” said Mazael, "to shut up!"

  “Then die!” snarled the Old Demon, his eyes blazing. His human aspect fell away like a shredded mask, and he sprang at Mazael, hooked claws leading.

  Mazael raised his shining sword and set himself.

  The world crumpled around him like a rotten shell…

  Mazael awoke with a shuddering gasp, sweat dripping down his face. For a dreadful moment, he could not remember where he was or what had happened to him. Memory flooded back, and Mazael remembered Knightc
astle, Lord Malden’s ire, and the grand dance…

  Morebeth.

  He looked over to find her gone. Mazael vaguely remembered that she had left before the sun had risen. He closed his eyes and lay back with a tired groan.

  He did not even want to think about what the nightmare meant.

  Mazael stared at the ceiling, his mind swirling and twisting. It was past sunrise, and beams of sunlight slashed across the ancient gray stone. Mazael wondered why Adalar hadn’t awakened him. No doubt the boy had been too embarrassed.

  Mazael sighed, sat up, and blinked in surprise.

  The biggest raven he had even seen sat on the windowsill, ruffling its feathers. Beady black eyes stared it him, dark and glistening. Mazael could have sworn it grinned at him.

  Someone coughed.

  Mazael turned his head. A massive wooden chair stood against the far wall, and in that chair sat Lucan Mandragon.

  “I was wondering,” said Lucan, “if you would ever notice me.”

  “You’re alive,” said Mazael, stunned.

  “Obviously,” said Lucan. He held a skin of wine in one hand and a joint of beef in the other, eating with apparent relish. “You’ll forgive me if I eat as we speak. I haven’t eaten anything for three days.”

  “It’s been a week since you vanished,” said Mazael.

  The raven cawed.

  “Really?” said Lucan, around a mouthful. “I had always suspected that time ran at a different pace in the spirit world.”

  “What the hell happened?” said Mazael. “Is Straganis dead?”

  “Regrettably, no.” Lucan took a long drink of wine. “Straganis possesses greater power than I. His spell drew us both into the spiritual realm. He came quite close to killing me, in fact, but I,” his mouth twisted, “managed to outmaneuver him, and he fled. I spent some time in a stupor, later awoke, and found my way to Knightcastle.”

  “That’s all?” said Mazael. The raven cawed again.

  “That’s it,” agreed Lucan. He glanced at the empty spot in the bed. “I can see why you’re confused. You must be exhausted, after all.”

  “How clever. You should become court jongleur,” said Mazael. He scowled. “Were you sitting there the entire time? Damned degenerate.”

  Lucan laughed. “Hardly. No, I arrived just as your lady was leaving.”

  “Did she notice you?” said Mazael.

  “Of course not,” scoffed Lucan. “You scarcely noticed me. Not surprising, given how utterly spent you must be.”

  “Another word and I’ll hand you over to your brother,” growled Mazael.

  “Such a dire threat,” said Lucan. “But you ought to take pride. The lady looked very satisfied as she left, after all. Who is she, anyway?”

  “Morebeth Galbraith,” said Mazael. He rolled out of bed. “Ah…do you see where my tunic is?”

  Lucan pointed at the corner. “Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith’s sister?”

  “Yes.” Mazael gathered his scattered clothes and began dressing. “How did you know his name?”

  “In his infinite wisdom, my lord father keeps an eye on the Dominiars,” said Lucan, “lest it becomes necessary to use them against Lord Malden. I’m sure Sir Commander Amalric will be thrilled to learn that you bedded his widowed sister.” Mazael glared, and Lucan's smirk widened. “How did she leave, by the way?”

  Mazael blinked. “What?”

  “It was some manner of secret passage. She pressed a stone, part of the wall swung out, and she vanished.”

  “Oh.” Mazael buckled on his sword belt. “The Trysting Ways.”

  “The what?”

  “The Trysting Ways,” said Mazael. “It’s what they call the secret passages in Knightcastle. Supposedly some old lord or another made them so he could tryst unobserved with his various mistresses.”

  “Perhaps you should adapt it for Castle Cravenlock,” said Lucan.

  “I told you, I’ve heard enough on…”

  “So Knightcastle is riddled with secret passages?”

  Mazael paused, a boot halfway on. “It is. Miles of them, I suppose. Crypts and catacombs into the hill, as well. Some of them have probably been forgotten for centuries.”

  “Ah,” said Lucan. “That could pose a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Lucan, “I’m fairly sure Straganis is here.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve sensed his spells,” said Lucan, “but I can’t determine his precise location.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you,” said Lucan. “He’s stronger than I am, and somewhat more skilled. I am strong enough to sense him, though,” he sighed, “not quite strong enough to find him.”

  Mazael began to pace, Lion’s scabbard tapping against his leg. “What is he doing here?”

  Lucan laughed. “That should be obvious. He vowed to kill you and your sister. And he will try to kill me just out of spite, I expect.”

  “But how?” whispered Mazael, thinking of his dark dream. Was Straganis in league with the Old Demon? Or had the Old Demon manipulated Straganis, as he had manipulated Skhath? Had Mazael himself been tricked by the Old Demon, manipulated into his own destruction?

  But he dared not think that way. His doubts and fears could paralyze him.

  “You have a thought?” said Lucan, watching him.

  “Straganis could disguise himself as anything,” said Mazael.

  “Most certainly,” said Lucan.

  “So he could be hiding among Lord Malden’s vassals, or the Justiciars, or the Dominiars?”

  Lucan nodded.

  “If you see him, will you recognize him?” said Mazael.

  “Possibly,” said Lucan. “Or not. You, too, might be able to recognize him. The…ah, potent nature of your blood might give you strength to see past his illusions. Or it may not.” He shrugged. “Divinatory spells are not my strength.”

  Something occurred to Mazael. “But they are Trocend’s.”

  “Lord Malden’s pet wizard?” Lucan sneered. “Certainly he has vast skill at divination. I doubt that you can really trust him.”

  “He would say the same of you,” said Mazael. “And his loyalty is to Lord Malden.”

  “A fine thing,” said Lucan. “Yet I know the truth of you, and your black secret has remained a secret. And our Brother Trocend is very good at finding secrets. Suppose he learns your secret? What do you imagine he will do with it?”

  “He would go to Lord Malden,” said Mazael, closing his eyes, “and then...yet if Trocend can find Straganis, I can endure the risk.”

  “If he learns your true nature, you will have no choice but to kill him,” said Lucan.

  “I…if that happens, I will decide what to do then,” said Mazael. “I will speak with him.”

  Lucan shrugged. “It is your choice, though I think it a foolish one.”

  “I can endure that,” said Mazael. He paused for a moment. “I am glad you survived.”

  “Because you need my help?”

  “Aye, that,” said Mazael, “and I’d wish no man dead at the hands of a San-keth cleric.” He remembered Skhath plunging a black dagger into Mitor’s back. “I’d wish that on no man.”

  “How splendid. As it happens, I agree with you. I’m quite glad I survived.” Lucan’s hard eyes glittered. “I told you what I wish. If a dark power of any sort hides within Knightcastle, then I will work with you to crush it utterly.”

  “Thank you,” said Mazael. He looked out the window, past the raven. “I’d best go. Lord Malden probably wants me at breakfast.”

  “It’s late,” said Lucan. “You missed breakfast.” His smirk returned. “Though you may yet find the Lady Morebeth.”

  “Straganis may not be the only one to kill you out of annoyance,” said Mazael, turning. Lion’s scabbard clattered against the stone wall. “Wait. There’s something else.”

  Lucan finished the beef joint and tossed the bone to the raven. The bird cracked it open and began pecking at t
he marrow. “What is it?”

  “I spoke with Sir Commander Aeternis,” said Mazael. “Where do you think he found Lion?”

  Lucan shrugged. “Weapons of magical power are extraordinarily rare. I assume it was some heirloom from Tristafel, passed down from generation to generation without any understanding of its true worth.”

  “He bought it,” said Mazael. Lucan’s eyebrows climbed higher. “From a merchant named Harune Dustfoot.”

  “Did he?” said Lucan. “The same Harune Dustfoot you rescued?”

  “The very same.”

  Lucan leaned back in the chair. “An astonishing coincidence. In fact, I’d even say it’s far too unlikely for a coincidence. This Dustfoot fellow doesn’t seem the sort to traffic in weapons of arcane power.” He shook his head. “Maybe he simply found it, unaware of its true nature, and sold it for quick profit.”

  “Yes, but where did he find it?” said Mazael. “Try to find him if at all possible. He ought to be in Castle Town, selling those cheeses of his.”

  Lucan glanced at the raven, which cawed and flew away. “Then I had best get started, had I not? What will you be doing? Besides entertaining your lady, of course.”

  Mazael closed his eyes. “I will try to keep Lord Malden from doing anything rash.” He thought of Straganis, of how Blackfang had come within a few heartbeats of killing Rachel. “And try to keep Rachel safe.”

  “I wish you the best of luck,” said Lucan. “After all, we shall most certainly need it.”

  Chapter 5

  1

  Lords’ Wood

  Mazael spent the next two days alternating between boredom and extreme watchfulness. He argued with Lord Malden over trivial wedding details, the coming tournament, and the feasts, since no one else in Knightcastle had the courage to do so. In the evenings he ate dinner in whichever of Knightcastle’s halls happened to catch Lord Malden's fancy. In the mornings he practiced swordplay with the squires and Lord Malden’s household knights, many old friends from his days at Knightcastle.