Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mazael spat in furious pain and lurched back to his feet.

  Roger was gone, and he saw none of the other changelings. Mazael rubbed his broken wrist, cursing. Already his flesh writhed as the broken bones began to knit themselves together.

  “Mazael!” Morebeth reined up besides him and jumped from the saddle. “Are you all right? I was sure you had split your skull.”

  “I’m fine,” said Mazael, releasing his wrist. He did not want to draw Morebeth’s attention to his healing ability. “My pride is the worst injury. Gods, but this was foolish. I should have gone back to find Lord Malden.” He scooped up Lion with his left hand.

  “You did as you thought best,” said Morebeth, still holding the hammer. “And suppose you had gone to find Lord Malden? The changelings would have gone by the time we returned.”

  “I suppose,” said Mazael. “Perhaps we ought to track down Roger Gravesend.”

  “No,” said Morebeth. “You’re not a tracker, and neither am I. At best we’ll get lost. At worst, the changelings can set up an ambush. We caught them off guard once, but we’ll not do so again. The best thing to do is to find Lord Malden.”

  “You’re right,” said Mazael He eased his right hand through Mantle’s reins, trying not to wince, and led the palfrey back into the hollow. The bodies of the dead changelings lay strewn about the ground. He severed a changeling’s head, waited for the blood to drain, and wrapped it in a dropped cloak.

  “A trophy?” said Morebeth.

  Mazael shook his head. “Proof. Lord Malden will never believe me otherwise. Or Brother Trocend.” Trocend might discover more than Mazael wished. But he had no other choice. If the San-keth infiltrated Knightcastle, if they plotted to kill Lord Malden and Rachel, then Mazael had to stop them.

  Whatever the cost to himself.

  “Let’s go,” said Mazael. Morebeth nodded and handed him the war hammer. “You’re…quite good with that.”

  “Thank you.” Morebeth plucked at her hair, adjusting her crown of braids. She almost smiled. “Sir Brandon, my husband…showed me. Before he died.”

  Mazael swallowed. “I’m sorry.” Her remembered Romaria’s skill with blade and bow and felt again the grief.

  “The woman you loved,” said Morebeth. “She was skilled with weapons, wasn’t she?”

  “She was,” said Mazael.

  “So was Brandon.”

  They stared at each other in silence.

  Mazael looked away first. “No sense standing about all day.”

  A ghost of smile flickered across Morebeth’s face. “Of course not.”

  ###

  “Mazael, my friend!” said Lord Malden. “Come, sit! I see you had a successful hunt.”

  “Of a sort,” said Mazael.

  They found Lord Malden and Sir Tobias encamped at the edge of the Lords’ Wood. Sir Tobias’s party had claimed a half-dozen stags, while Lord Malden’s hounds had run several foxes to bay. The huntsmen, pages, and squires busied themselves preparing the kills. Both Lord Malden and Sir Tobias seemed in excellent spirits.

  “We had best go at once,” said Mazael.

  “Whatever for?” said Lord Malden, his full attention on Claretta, who sat besides him.

  Mazael pulled free the changeling’s head, the snake-eyes glazed and staring. A stunned silence fell over the hunters. Lord Malden blinked once.

  “My lord Mazael,” he said, “you certainly hunt exotic prey.”

  “There were about thirty of them,” said Mazael, “led by Sir Roger Gravesend, who’s been trying to kill Lady Rachel for weeks. I rode them down, scattered them, killed several, but Gravesend got away.”

  Lord Malden’s eyes flicked to Morebeth. “And you did this all by yourself?”

  Morebeth didn’t blink. “It would be most unbecoming for a lady to take up arms.” Her gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “And Mazael is the mightiest warrior I have yet met.”

  “They were planning to kill you,” said Mazael. “And me, and Lady Rachel, and your sons.” He left out Lord Richard. Lord Malden might approve, after all.

  “Did they?” said Lord Malden, still gazing at the head. “We shall have to increase our guard.”

  Mazael nodded. “We ought to leave at once.”

  “No,” murmured Lord Malden, “no, it’s almost nightfall. No sense blundering about in the dark. We’ll leave at daybreak.”

  Mazael had yet another sleepless night, though less pleasant than those he had spent with Morebeth. He spent all night on guard, watching, waiting for Sir Roger and the changelings to strike.

  But no attack came, and they rode to Knightcastle the next morning.

  ###

  Mazael found Brother Trocend in a forgotten corner of Knightcastle.

  Trocend occupied a warren of mismatched rooms created by successive expansions to the castle. He sat a writing desk in a tower chamber, near a balcony overlooking the Riversteel. Shelves of enormous ledgers occupied one wall, and cages occupied the other wall, pigeons cooing and flapping their wings. Trocend used the birds as messengers, sending Lord Malden’s commands throughout Knightrealm.

  “Ah, Lord Mazael,” said Trocend, clad in a voluminous monk’s robe. He did not look up from the papers on his desk. “What brings you to the home of this humble clerk?”

  “I need your help,” said Mazael.

  Trocend gave him a thin smile. “I am always eager to serve.”

  “You might not be.” Mazael unwrapped the changeling head. The thing had begun to rot, and smelled quite unpleasant, but the black-slit eyes still glared.

  “Damnation.” Trocend sighed. “I rather doubted they would give up.”

  “A group of thirty, in the Lords’ Wood,” said Mazael, “they were plotting to kill Lord Malden. Sir Roger Gravesend was with them.”

  “You really should have killed him,” said Trocend.

  “A mistake I intend to rectify,” said Mazael. “I’m sure there are San-keth changelings in the castle, somewhere. And Straganis might still be alive.” He omitted Lucan’s discoveries. “I want you to use your…special talents to find the San-keth changelings, if you can.”

  “I see,” said Trocend. He folded his hands. “You brought your court wizard. Why not use him?”

  “Timothy’s talents do not lie in divination,” said Mazael.

  “And where do they lie?”

  “In good sense.”

  Trocend smiled. “A rare commodity.”

  “The changelings will try to kill Lord Malden,” said Mazael. “I realize you might prefer Gerald and Rachel to remain unwed...”

  “Do you imply that I would stand by and let the San-keth murder them?” said Trocend. “Yes, I wish Lord Malden would turn his attention from the Grim Marches. But I am Lord Malden’s servant, and I carry out his will. I serve the Lord of Knightcastle.”

  “And if the San-keth kill Lord Malden and his sons, there will be no Lord of Knightcastle,” said Mazael. “I need your help. Lord Malden needs your help.”

  Trocend sighed. “As you wish, Lord Mazael. I will look. Bear in mind, however, that I do not promise success. Divination is not a precise science.”

  “I will,” said Mazael.

  “Leave the head,” said Trocend. He smiled his thin smile. “I will require…components…for my spells.”

  Mazael nodded and tried not to shudder.

  2

  Hammer of the Old Kingdoms

  Mazael awoke well before dawn.

  He had not slept at all well. His nightmares conjured visions of the San-keth slaughtering Lord Malden’s court, Roger Gravesend slamming a dagger into Rachel’s back, yellow eyes staring at him from the darkness.

  He yawned, turned his head, and almost screamed.

  Morebeth’s head lay in a pool of blood.

  But it was only her hair spread out across the pillow. Mazael stared at her sleeping face, feeling both foolish and guilty. Suppose the San-keth killed her to get at him? Suppose she died just for having known him?
r />   Mazael rolled out of bed, trying to push aside the dark thoughts.

  He walked onto the room’s small balcony. It had a splendid view of Castle Town and the Riversteel. Stars blazed overhead, the eastern sky beginning to brighten. The maze of tents and pavilions surrounding Castle Town had doubled.

  Mazael stared at the tents. Lord Malden’s tournament began tomorrow. Hundreds of minor lords, landless knights, and their followers had swarmed to Knightcastle, eager for wealth and glory. How many San-keth changelings hid amongst them? Or, for, that matter, how many hid in Knightcastle itself, waiting for a chance to strike?

  The prospect of his own death did not faze him. He worried for too many other people.

  “Cannot sleep?”

  Morebeth walked naked on the balcony, the faint dawn turning her pale skin rosy. The sight sent a pleasant shock down Mazael’s nerves, but only added to his burdened mind. He had spent almost every night with her since returning to Knightcastle. It had been nothing more than desire at first, nothing more than a yearning for her in his arms, but that had begun to change. He was not in love with her, not by any means, but he had begun thinking of her as an ally, and perhaps even as a friend.

  Sometimes he wandered what she really thought of him. It was hard to read anything through her usual cold mask.

  “Nothing to say?” she said, amused. “Or will you simply stand there and stare?”

  “You’re unclad,” said Mazael.

  “Observant. And so are you,” said Morebeth.

  “Someone will see us.”

  Morebeth yawned, hair sliding against her back and shoulders. “Let them. I care nothing for what they think. I was a proper lady all my life, and it has brought me nothing but misery.”

  Mazael thought of Rachel. “I think I understand.”

  Morebeth laughed. “You are a man, so you do not, but I forgive you.” She wrapped her hands around the balcony’s rail. “Will you ride in the tournament tomorrow?”

  “I will,” said Mazael. “Lord Malden would take it amiss if I do not.”

  “You worry a great deal about what he thinks,” said Morebeth.

  Mazael found himself staring at her and forced himself to look away. “I do. He could, if he chose, bring ruin and war to my people. I cannot let that happen.”

  “So you will instead carry war and ruin to the Dominiars?” said Morebeth. Her tone conveyed neither anger nor approval.

  “If I must.” Mazael watched her eyes. “Does that anger you?”

  “It should.” Morebeth looked at the valley, hair blowing across her face like a veil. “Yet it does not. I have lived in Mastaria all my life, yet I care nothing for the Dominiar Order.”

  “What do you care about, my lady?” said Mazael.

  Morebeth’s slim shoulders rippled. “I don’t really know, any more.” She pushed aside her hair and looked at him. “But what of you, my lord? What do you care about? You seem as if you know.”

  Mazael looked back at her. “I want to keep my sister safe. I want peace. I don’t want my people, my lands, to suffer the horrors of war.”

  “Why not?” said Morebeth. “Do not knights glory in war?”

  “Most do,” said Mazael. “I did, once. But that was long ago.” He stared at her, and almost told her everything. Only Lucan knew his secret, the truth of his nature, and he offered Mazael no comfort. “It…I…”

  “Shh.” She pressed up against him and put her fingers over his mouth. “You are nobler than most lords, I think. You will have peace. I think you are strong enough to make your own peace, force the others to follow you.” She took his hand, drawing him back into bedchamber. “Come. I know what will drive these shadows from your mind.”

  “You always say that,” said Mazael, letting her lead him.

  She smiled and sat on the bed, legs curling beneath her. “And I am always right, am I not?”

  And as it turned out, she was right yet again.

  “Shall you carry my colors when you ride tomorrow?” she murmured into his chest, after they had finished

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael. “I wonder what they’ll say.”

  “That Lord Mazael rides with his mistress’s colors,” said Morebeth. “What matter what they think? Even Lord Malden spends more time with his mistress than…”

  Someone hammered at the door.

  Mazael growled. “What?”

  “Lord Mazael!” It was Adalar. “Lord Malden wants you at once.”

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  There was a pause. “Is Lady Morebeth…with you?” His voice crackled with disapproval.

  “I’ll ask once more. Why?” said Mazael.

  “A group of Dominiars are riding for Knightcastle’s gates, flying a banner of parley” said Adalar. “Lord Malden’s going to ride out and meet them himself, and he wants you with him. And…Sir Commander Amalric wants Lady Morebeth to join him.”

  “Damn him,” muttered Morebeth. “I had best go. And so should you.” She rolled from the bed in a lithe motion, scooped up her clothing, and vanished through the hidden door to the Trysting Ways.

  Mazael walked to the door and unbarred it, letting Adalar inside. “Help me dress.”

  Adalar’s mouth was a tight line of disapproval, but he nodded and helped Mazael don his formal clothes.

  “You seem distressed,” said Mazael.

  Adalar adjusted Lion in its scabbard. “I am happy to serve my lord.” He stepped back. “And his lady, should he have one.”

  “Not this again,” said Mazael. “Don’t you have any urges, boy?”

  Adalar said nothing.

  “Well?”

  “My father would not approve of what you are doing,” said Adalar.

  “I’ve done a lot of things Sir Nathan would not approve,” said Mazael. “Yes, I suspect this to be one of them. Your father is a great man, Adalar, but he’s not always right. Lady Morebeth is willing, am I willing, she lost her husband, and I…I lost…” Mazael shook his head. “We comfort each other. Gods damn it, Adalar. I wouldn’t tolerate these questions from anyone else. Well, maybe Sir Gerald, but he would know better than to ask. Listen to me. I don’t want to talk about this again. Understand?”

  Adalar nodded. Some of the rancor faded from his face. Yet…yet something in his eyes…

  Adalar was afraid of him. Over Morebeth? That made no sense.

  “Is there anything else?” said Mazael.

  Adalar shook his head, too quickly. “No. Nothing.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Lord Malden said we should make haste,” said Adalar.

  “As you will,” said Mazael. “But we will talk later.”

  He followed Adalar to the High Court, where Mantle stood saddled and waiting. Mazael swung up into the saddle. Adalar mounted and picked up a lance flying the Cravenlock banner.

  “Lord Malden awaits us in the lower barbican,” said Adalar.

  Mazael nodded, adjusted his cloak, and kicked Mantle to a trot, riding through Knightcastle’s maze of courtyards and ramps until he came to the great barbican. There Lord Malden sat atop his stallion, surrounded by his household knights. Sir Garain waited by Lord Malden’s side, yawning, and Trocend sat sunk in his monk’s robe. Mazael wondered if Trocend had found any trace of the San-keth.

  On the far side of the barbican waited a group of Dominiar Knights, Sir Commander Amalric at their head. Morebeth sat at his side, in her mourning veil again. Near them stood the Justiciars with Sir Commander Galan at their head, scowling at the Dominiars, who scowled right back.

  “Ah, Lord Mazael,” said Lord Malden. He seemed indifferent to the tension. “I will be glad for your counsel.”

  “Have the Dominiars sent another embassy?” said Mazael.

  “Not at all,” said Lord Malden. “Grand Master Malleus is coming here himself.”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “I rather expect he has come to offer congratulations and gifts on the occasion of my son’s wedding,” said Lord Malden.
“Or maybe he wishes to ride in the tournament. And, perhaps, to discuss the minor matter of Tumblestone, which has caused some petty quarrels in the past.”

  Mazael said nothing. Malleus would not come to Knightcastle to celebrate a wedding, or to ride in the tournament. Only one thing would bring the Grand Master of the Dominiar Knights to Lord Malden’s castle.

  Malleus had come to demand Tumblestone back.

  And when Lord Malden refused, war would begin.

  “No sense in keeping our illustrious guest waiting eh?” said Lord Malden. “Let us ride out and meet him. “

  They rode out the gate and down the road towards Castle Town, the Justiciars and the Dominiars flanking Lord Malden’s party. A group of black-armored horsemen waited below Castle Town's gates. They carried the banner of the Dominiars knights, a silver star on a black field, and the personal banner of Malleus, a golden hammer on black. Lord Malden raised his hand, and his party reined up.

  One man rode out from the newcomers. He wore well-crafted black plate armor, the breastplate adorned with a relief of two crossed hammers. Above his breastplate, the man had a leonine mane of white hair and an enormous white mustache. Mazael had never seen the man before, but knew him at once.

  Malleus, Grand Master of the Dominiar Order. The man who had led a triumphant crusade to distant lands, who had conquered the Old Kingdoms, who had almost defeated Lord Malden and conquered Knightcastle. Some believed him the greatest living commander of armies. Mazael believed it. If he had not defeated Aeternis outside Tumblestone, nothing could have stopped Malleus.

  Lord Malden and Malleus stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

  Sir Garain spurred forward, breaking the silence. “Grand Master Malleus, I am Sir Garain Roland. Permit me to welcome you to Knightcastle, and to introduce my illustrious father, Lord Malden Roland.”

  Malleus smiled beneath his mustache. “An honor, Sir Garain.” He had a voice like a booming drum. “Your son is fairly spoken, Lord Malden. A worthy heir to the throne of Knightcastle.”

  “He does my house honor,” said Lord Malden, with a smile that did not reach his eyes, “as do you, Grand Master. Knightcastle has not hosted such an illustrious guest for quite some time.”