Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mazael tried to keep an eye on Rachel, fearing changeling assassins in every shadow. He stared at every servant, every lord, every knight, trying to determine if they were changelings, or even Straganis in disguise.

  Mazael’s nights were much more pleasant.

  Morebeth came to his room, slipping through the Trysting Ways, and left before dawn.

  They neither spoke nor slept much.

  And on the third day, Lord Malden decided to go hunting.

  ###

  Of course, when Lord Malden went hunting, he took a small army.

  His pages and squires rode with him, bearing his weapons. Lord Malden offered knights and lords the honor of hunting with him, and none refused. Mazael received an invitation, and accepted, if only to escape from the boredom.

  Even some of the ladies of the court came, clad in riding gowns, bearing bows and hooded falcons. Lady Claretta was a steady hand with a bow, and rode at Lord Malden’s side, laughing at his jests.

  Mazael suspected Lord Malden wanted a day alone with his mistress, without Gerald’s disapproving glares.

  And to his surprised delight, Morebeth came as well.

  She had asked Lord Malden at dinner the evening before.

  “My Lord Malden,” she said, sweeping into a deep curtsy. “Is it true you hunt tomorrow?”

  Lord Malden smiled and kissed her hand. “It is. Perhaps I’ll bring back a stag for the tournament feasts, eh?” He seemed entirely charmed by her presence. Mazael understood.

  Morebeth glanced at Mazael, smiled, and turned back at Lord Malden. “Might I ride with you, my lord?”

  A stunned silence went over the hall. Lord Malden extended invitations to hunt. No one ever dared ask him.

  “Might you?” said Lord Malden, caught between affront and amusement.

  A smile spread across Morebeth’s lips, and she answered in her cold voice. “Aye, I would, my lord. In Mastaria, we enjoyed hawking, my lord husband and I. He is gone now, and I have not hawked since.” She looked him square in the eye. “I would like to begin again, I think.”

  “I would be honored to have you join us, lady,” said Lord Malden. He glanced across the hall, to where a scowling Amalric Galbraith stood, surrounded by his Dominiar Knights. “Assuming your brother doesn’t object, of course.”

  Amalric’s scowl deepened, but he gave a sharp nod.

  A tiny smirk crossed Morebeth’s lips.

  An uninvited knight was bold enough to ask to accompany Lord Malden, and received only a frosty glare in answer.

  ###

  A hundred horsemen stood at the edge of the Lords’ Wood.

  The Lords’ Wood lay a half-day’s ride from Knightcastle. While almost all of Knightrealm had been cultivated and farmed for centuries, the Lords’ Wood remained still, a remnant of the ancient forests that had once covered the land. First the Kings and later the Lords of Knightcastle had hunted among the looming trees for generations.

  Sometimes bandits set up their lairs among the trunks, and the Lords had fine sport driving them out.

  Lord Malden and Claretta rode at the party's head, alongside a pack of Lord Malden’s prized hounds. Mazael rode in the back, alongside Morebeth. She sat upright in the saddle, her blood-red hair done in an ornate crown of braids, stark against her black gown. A heavy leather glove encased her left hand and forearm. A hooded hawk named Striker rested on the glove, claws digging into the leather.

  “Does not your arm grow weary?” said Mazael.

  “Not in the least,” said Morebeth. She raised her free hand and stroked the hawk’s neck. “I am stronger than I look.” She turned gray eyes towards him. “As you well know.”

  They reined up at the edge of the trees.

  “My hounds are eager!” called Lord Malden, reining up. “I will ride after them. Sir Tobias will lead those who wish to hunt with the bow.” Sir Tobias galloped to his father’s side, a short bow resting in his arms. “And Lady Morebeth wishes to hawk. My lord Mazael! I trust you will escort her?”

  Someone snickered.

  “It would be my honor,” said Mazael. Morebeth’s eyes glinted.

  Lord Malden’s party rode off in one direction, as did Sir Tobias’s. Mazael sat on Mantle’s back, alone with Morebeth and her mare.

  “They laugh at us, you know,” said Mazael.

  “That troubles you? Let them,” said Morebeth, still stroking the hawk’s neck. “Let them. What are their snickers to us? You are Lord of Castle Cravenlock, and I am a noble lady of Mastaria. We are stronger than they.” She gave him one of her rare smiles, a smile with heat behind it. “We may do as we wish.”

  “And you wish to go hawking?” said Mazael.

  “Aye. Very much so.” A small, distant smile played over her lips. “Do you know much of falconry, my lord Mazael?”

  “Little, I’m afraid,” said Mazael. “My lord father devoted most his attentions to my older brothers. And I spent fifteen years wandering as a landless knight. I had little time or wealth for falconry.”

  “A pity.” Morebeth turned her cool eyes back to him. “It is an art, as much as sword work.”

  “You enjoy it?”

  “I do.” Morebeth nodded. “Falcons and hawks are solitary birds, you know. Isolated and selfish. They care nothing for others, and Striker here certainly cares nothing for me. Yet if they are trained properly, raised well from the beginning, they are the deadliest of hunters. The training of a hawk…it is something I take great pride in, something I enjoy very much.” She paused. “Would you like to see Striker at hunt?”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “I would.”

  They rode into the Lords’ Wood. The trees had begun to bud, some even showing leaves. A quiet silence hung over the forest, broken only by the rustling leaves and the creaking branches.

  “How will you follow the hawk?” said Mazael. “Won’t the leaves block your vision?”

  “For a falcon, yes,” said Morebeth. “They usually prey on birds, sometimes chase them over long distances. But Striker is a goshawk, and goshawks usually take rabbits, turkeys, sometimes pheasants.” She shook her head, a red braid sliding across her black-clad back. “Amalric prefers falcons, but I favor hawks.”

  “You hate him, don’t you?” said Mazael.

  Morebeth said nothing.

  “I understand it,” said Mazael. “My brother…well, he tried to have me killed several times.”

  Morebeth looked at him. “Clearly he failed. But, yes, I hate Amalric.” She sighed. “It wasn’t always that way. I loved him once. But he has changed. Yes. I hate him. Your brother. How did you end your conflict?”

  “He died,” said Mazael. “A San-keth cleric killed him.”

  Morebeth stared at him.

  “Most folk think I killed him,” said Mazael.

  “I believe you,” said Morebeth.

  “You do?”

  Morebeth nodded. “I cannot see you raising your hand against kin.”

  Mazael felt an absurd surge of gratitude. Most people believed he had murdered Mitor and seized Castle Cravenlock for himself. But to meet someone who believed him…

  Morebeth raised her free hand. “Shh.” She pointed.

  A small group of pheasants stood at the base of a massive oak, pecking at the ground. Morebeth smiled and undid Striker’s hood. The hawk lifted its head, its eyes like amber knives. Morebeth remained still, and Mazael followed suit. Striker did not move. Mazael wondered if the hawk had seen the pheasants. Or smelled them, if that was how hawks hunted…

  Striker moved so fast Mazael scarce followed the movement. One moment the hawk sat on Morebeth’s gloved fist. The next it stooped over one of the pheasants, claws raking, beak rending. There was an agonized squawk, and the pheasant went still. The others fled in all directions.

  “Gods,” said Mazael, “that thing is fast.”

  “Nothing can match the speed of a goshawk over a short distance,” said Morebeth, “nothing at all. Come with me, but stay back.” She slid from the sa
ddle, skirts rustling, and pulled some shredded meat from one of her saddlebags. Striker kept worrying at the dead pheasant with his beak. Morebeth moved towards the goshawk, then crouched besides the pheasant, black skirts pooling around her, and held out her fist. Striker hopped up onto the leather glove and began eating the meat.

  “Why didn’t you just pick him up?” said Mazael.

  Morebeth laughed. “It is never wise to separate a hunting bird from his food. He would probably have tried to kill me. But he has been trained to eat from my fist, and will abandon a kill for that. Can you take care of the pheasant?” She watched Striker eat. “It’s rather hard to do so with one hand.”

  Mazael laughed. “I imagine.” He dressed the pheasant and lashed the bird’s legs to Mantle's harness. Striker finished the meat, and Morebeth hooded the bird again, settling him on a little wooden perch attached to her saddle.

  “I wonder where Lord Malden and Sir Tobias are,” said Mazael.

  Morebeth shook her head. “We won’t see them again until tonight. Is something amiss?”

  “I dislike them being alone,” said Mazael.

  “Ah,” said Morebeth. “The San-keth, I presume.”

  Mazael frowned. “How did you know about that?”

  “I was there when you told Lord Malden about them, remember?” said Morebeth. “They ought to be fine for a few hours.”

  “We should find them,” said Mazael, turning towards Mantle.

  “Really? You surprise me,” said Morebeth.

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “We are alone, and you are so eager to find the others?” said Morebeth. She took him in her arms. “Why?”

  Mazael found himself speechless.

  Morebeth kissed him and laughed into his mouth. “Unless you are afraid, of course?”

  He wasn’t. It was cool out, the ground strewn with damp leaves, but they lay atop Mazael’s cloak and beneath Morebeth’s, and warmed each other.

  Afterwards Mazael lay in a doze, Morebeth’s head resting on his shoulder. The worries and dark thoughts had fled his mind. He felt no particular urge to rise. Morebeth’s breathing, slow and steady, lulled him towards sleep.

  A dull thud broke his reverie.

  Mazael looked up, wondering if Striker had fallen from Morebeth’s saddle. Another thud came, then another, and another.

  “What’s that?” said Morebeth, lifting her head.

  “A drum,” said Mazael.

  “Here?” said Morebeth, frowning. “Lord Malden didn’t bring one, did he?”

  “Bandits, most likely,” said Mazael, scowling in alarm. He had brought Lion, and his old Mastarian war hammer, but no armor and no other weapons. “We’d better get dressed.”

  Morebeth sighed and stretched against him, sending tingles down his nerves. “Pity, that.”

  “It is,” said Mazael, but he managed to stand anyway. It took him only a short time to dress. Morebeth‘s more complex garments took longer, and Mazael had to help her.

  The drumbeat came louder, harder.

  “Damn this frippery,” said Morebeth. “I’d wear trousers and a tunic and damn what they think, even my brother. Sometimes I wish I had been born a man.”

  Mazael grunted. “I’m grateful you weren’t, just now.”

  Her cold stare cracked just long enough to flash him a wicked grin.

  They climbed back into the saddle.

  “Let’s find Lord Malden,” said Mazael.

  “Why don’t we find that noise instead?” said Morebeth.

  “You must be kept safe,” said Mazael, “and I’ve only my sword and hammer, and no armor.”

  Morebeth’s cold smile returned. “I’m quite safe, my lord. After all, I am with you, am I not?”

  “All right,” said Mazael. “We’ll look. Maybe it’s nothing.”

  They rode off, following the drumbeat. The land rose, becoming hilly. In places ancient, moss-cloaked boulders jutted from the ground. The drumbeat grew louder, accompanied by a strange, droning noise.

  “What the devil is that?” said Mazael.

  Morebeth titled her head to the side. “Chanting, I think.”

  “Chanting?” said Mazael.

  Morebeth nodded, pointing at a steep hill. “It’s coming from over the next hill.”

  “Your ears must be better than mine,” said Mazael. He dropped from the saddle and drew Lion. “Wait here. I’m going to climb up and take a look.”

  Morebeth dismounted besides him. “Don’t be foolish.”

  Mazael stared at her, trying to phrase a refusal. She reminded him of Romaria’s bravery. He felt a surge of sorrow, and could think of nothing to say.

  They climbed the hill together. Morebeth’s skirts didn’t hinder her, and she made less noise than Mazael. She even seemed to keep her balance better than he could. Mazael wondered at this, and shrugged it off. She was almost ten years younger than he was, after all.

  Mazael dropped to his stomach and crawled to the edge. Beyond the hill the land dropped down into a bowl and a small, mirror-bright pond. A crowd of thirty people stood at the edge of the pond, and a black-bearded man and a woman in peasant clothes stood atop a boulder. The woman had the black-slit yellow eyes of a San-keth changeling.

  The man was Sir Roger Gravesend.

  “Damn,” breathed Mazael.

  Morebeth crawled to his side and whispered in his ear. “San-keth, aren’t they?”

  “Aye,” hissed Mazael, clenching Lion’s hilt. “And the black-bearded fellow? Sir Roger Gravesend, once one of my sworn knights. He tried to kill me and Rachel. Twice. Gods damn it all. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  “A lord can live to regret mercy,” said Morebeth. “What are they doing here?” She paused, steely eyes narrowed. “Some of them are human.”

  “Followers of the San-keth way, no doubt,” said Mazael.

  The changeling with the drum stopped, and the chanting ended.

  “People of great Sepharivaim!” said the woman atop the stone, “hear me!” A frightening madness lit her face. “Our time draws close. Soon the castles of the mighty will fall. Soon the rivers will run red with the blood of the infidels!” The changelings’ cheers punctuated her remarks. “And the infidel lords will pay from their crimes against the people of Sepharivaim. Lord Malden Roland will die. Lord Richard Mandragon will beg for mercy before he perishes! The Grand Master of the wretched Dominiars will die screaming! And Lord Mazael and his apostate sister will hang from the highest tower of the castle they stole from us!”

  The changelings howled, and Roger grinned.

  Morebeth scoffed. “Rabble. I should like to see them try.”

  “We need to get Lord Malden,” said Mazael. “If they catch us here it will be our deaths.”

  “Why?” said Morebeth.

  Mazael beckoned her away from the edge of the hill. “There’s thirty of them. I can’t take them by myself.”

  “You need not,” said Morebeth. “There’s two of us, after all. And we’ll be mounted.”

  Mazael gaped at her. “You?”

  Morebeth nodded, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Me.”

  “You don’t have a weapon.”

  “I’ll borrow your hammer.”

  “Do you even know how to fight from horseback?”

  Morebeth shrugged, shoulders rippling beneath black fabric. “You raise the hammer and bring it down on a foe’s skull. And I have ridden since I was a small child.”

  “You must be mad,” said Mazael.

  “No more than you, my lord,” she said.

  Mazael met her unwavering eyes for a long moment. “Why not? You, my lady, are at least as fearsome as they. Come.” They crept back down the hill, and Mazael pulled the Mastarian war hammer from his saddle. It had a solid head of black steel and an oak handle worn from much use. He handed it to Morebeth, who took it without flinching or staggering. Mazael climbed back up into Mantle’s saddle. He wished he had Chariot, but Mantle was sturdy enough.
r />   “Ready?” he said.

  Morebeth hefted the hammer easily in her right hand. “I am.”

  “Then let’s go,” said Mazael, “and settle my debts with Sir Roger.”

  Mazael rode around the hill, Morebeth at his side. He heard the changeling woman shrieking, her voice ringing over the hollow. Mazael came around the hill, saw the changelings standing before the stone, and kicked Mantle to a gallop.

  The changelings, rapt in their ecstasy, did not see him until Lion came down and ripped through the nearest man's neck. Mantle raced through their ranks, Mazael striking right and left, Lion’s blade running with blood. Untrained for war, Mantle did not try to bite and trample as Chariot would have. Nevertheless, the changelings and the snake-kissers reacted with panic, turning to flee.

  Roger blanched, almost falling from the stone. Mazael risked a quick glance at Morebeth. She swung the hammer with cool ease, leaving a trail of dead changelings in her wake.

  “Kill them!” screamed the changeling woman. “Kill them now!”

  Roger jumped from the stone and started running as fast as his legs could carry him. The woman stared after him and snarled . Mazael galloped through the mass of changelings and wheeled around, Lion clenched in his fist. A heartbeat later Morebeth brained a changeling and reined in besides him. A dozen dead changelings marked their path.

  The survivors fled in every direction. One made the mistake of dashing past Mantle, and Mazael took off his head. He caught a glimpse of Roger dashing for the trees on the far side of the pond.

  “Morebeth!” he yelled. “Stay with me!” He did not wait for an answer, but booted Mantle to a gallop. Roger glanced over his shoulder, cursed, and redoubled his pace. Mazael gritted his teeth, raising. If he could just catch the traitor before he reached the trees…

  Sir Roger raced into the forest, and Mazael spurred Mantle after him, ducking low to avoid an overhanging branch. But the wrist of his sword hand slammed hard into the branch, the crack of bone filling his ear, Lion tumbling from his grasp. Mazael hissed in pain, just as his forehead smacked into another branch. He fell backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard.