Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Why, I wish to offer congratulations to your noble son and his fair bride,” said Malleus, “on the upcoming joy of their marriage. And rumor of your most excellent tournament has spread far and wide. I am an old man, and though I cannot take part in such things anymore,” he waved his hand, “my preceptors and commanders are eager for renown and glory. I’m sure you understand, eh?”

  “But of course,” said Lord Malden. “After all, my son Mandor won great glory in the conquest of Tumblestone, did he not?”

  An uneasy rustle went through the Dominiar Knights.

  “I’m sure,” said Malleus, turning his head. “Ah! Sir Commander Amalric! There you are. Come here, my friend.”

  Amalric rode past Mazael, reined up before Malleus, and bowed deep from the saddle. “Grand Master. How might I serve you?”

  His voice was quiet and calm, like a frozen sword.

  “Amalric.” A genuine smile spread across Malleus’s face, and he gripped the younger man’s arm. “How have matters proceeded?”

  “Well, Grand Master,” said Amalric. “All has gone as you wished.”

  “Good, good,” said the old man. “We’ll speak more later.”

  Amalric bowed again.

  “Young Amalric has been a tremendous boon to the Dominiar Order,” said Malleus to Lord Malden, “my strong right arm. Once I am gone, I believe he will make a fine Grand Master.”

  “No doubt,” said Lord Malden.

  Malleus’s eyes fell on Mazael. “And this is Lord Mazael, I take it? Ah…of course. I recognize that sword of Aeternis’s. I suppose Malden has promised you vast lands in Mastaria?”

  Mazael met the old man’s sharp gaze. “Nothing of the sort. I want peace.”

  Malleus laughed. “Don’t we all? Ah, Lord Malden…you must show me Knightcastle. I have heard so much about it, but never have had the opportunity to see it with my own eyes. Lord Mazael saw to that, did he not?”

  “Of course,” said Lord Malden. “Knightcastle is mine, but I have no qualms about letting others see its splendor.”

  “Then let us begin at once,” said Malleus. “And mayhap we can discuss a few…trifling matters of mutual interest, no?”

  Lord Malden’s smile never wavered, not a bit, but his eyes had turned to ice. “Of course.”

  They rode to the castle in silence.

  Chapter 6

  1

  Tournament

  The day of Lord Malden’s grand tournament dawned.

  Armies of workmen descended on the fields outside Knightcastle, raising the lists, assembling benches, and building platforms for the ladies and the great lords. Throngs of peasants from the countryside and townsfolk from Castle Town surrounded the tournament field. Merchants sold food and ale, armor and weapons. Jongleurs wandered the crowd, singing ballads of heroic deeds. A few enterprising fellows set up betting pools, the good money riding on Tobias Roland and Amalric Galbraith.

  Mazael watched the crowd from the walls of the High Court, wondering how many San-keth changelings hid among them. He had heard nothing from Trocend, and Lucan had disappeared yet again.

  “Lord,” grunted Adalar, “I’ll never get this breastplate adjusted if you keep fidgeting.”

  “I’m not fidgeting,” said Mazael.

  “Fine. Then stop sighing. And complaining,” said Adalar.

  Mazael gave him a look.

  Adalar grunted again. “You ought to get a new breastplate. This one looks like a peasant’s cook pot.”

  “It suffices,” said Mazael. He wore a mail coat, gauntlets, a helmet, and a cuirass, all of it well-used. “And it has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

  “It looks bad,” said Adalar, buckling Mazael’s sword belt.

  “That’s what the surcoat is for,” said Mazael.

  Adalar shook his head and helped Mazael don the surcoat.

  “You’re going to the squires’ melee, I hope,” said Mazael.

  Adalar nodded.

  “The prize is substantial,” said Mazael. “A hundred gold pieces, three horses, a suit of plate. If you win, you’ll be quite well equipped once you become a knight.”

  Adalar stepped back and scowled at Mazael’s armor again.

  “Once we return to the Grim Marches, I think it is time you were knighted,” said Mazael.

  Adalar’s head jerked up in surprise.

  “It’s almost time,” said Mazael. “By the time we return home, you’ll be more than old enough. I hope you’ll swear to my service then.”

  “I don’t know,” said Adalar. “I…was thinking about striking out my own…”

  Mazael frowned. “Why? I…”

  Adalar peered at the barbican. “They’re lining up. My lord, we’d better go.”

  Mazael frowned, but followed his squire to the stables. Adalar already had Chariot saddled and waiting. The big destrier stamped his hoofs, eager for combat. Mazael grinned, patted Chariot on the neck, and clambered into the saddle.

  “Eager devil,” muttered Mazael. He remembered feeling that way about battle. Still, it was just a tournament. And he had used more lances in war than in sport. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Mazael and Adalar rode to the barbican, the Cravenlock banner billowing from Adalar’s lance. Hundreds of landless knights, minor lords, and a few greater lords eager for glory waited in the barbican. More than a few Justiciar and Dominiar knights traded barbed glances. Mazael had never seen so many knights gathered for a single tournament.

  Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith sat atop his horse, watching the assembled knights like a wolf overlooking sheep. Sir Garain wove here and there through the knights, lining them up according to rank. Then Lord Malden’s heralds rode to the gate, their banners billowing.

  “The time has come,” they boomed, “and Lord Malden summons you to the Field of Valor.”

  The knights galloped out in a long line, squires riding at their sides, banners flapping overhead. Garain, Tobias, and Gerald led the way, their Roland banners almost bluer than the sky itself. Mazael followed them, Chariot’s hooves pounding the road. Amalric Galbraith rode at his side, eyes lost in thought, and made no effort to speak.

  A dull roar reached Mazael’s ears. He looked up, wondering if the weather had turned sour, and realized it was the cheering of the crowds gathered for the tournament.

  Long wooden lists had been raised, and spare lances stood like a forest around the edge of the field. Beyond lay an empty field for the squires’ melee, and another lined with archery butts. An army of grooms stood ready to manage the horses. A wooden platform overlooked the lists, and Lord Malden sat there, Grand Master Malleus at his side. The heralds thundered the names of the knights, and one by one they rode past Lord Malden’s platform and saluted.

  Mazael took Chariot past the platform, saluted, received Lord Malden’s regal nod in return. Rachel sat in the front row, smiling at Mazael and Gerald. Behind her sat Morebeth, all in black, her cold eyes glinting over the top of her veil. Mazael smiled at her, and she parted the veil just long enough to smile back at him.

  Amalric scowled at Mazael.

  The heralds blew their trumpets, and one climbed the railing of Lord Malden’s platform.

  “Lords noble and ladies fair!” called the herald, his voice ringing, “knights-errant and Knights Justiciar and Dominiar, folk of Castle Town, merchants and travelers, and all the free folk of Knightrealm, my noble Lord Malden bids you welcome to this, his tournament!”

  Lord Malden favored the crowds with a shallow nod.

  The herald waited for the cheers to die. “Many knights have come to compete for glory and renown. Only the noblest, the most valiant, the most chivalrous, the most puissant at arms, the true knight, shall be crowned victor of this tournament!” He swung his fist over the fields. “The squires shall test their skills at the blade, and the archers shall contest their mastery of the bow!”

  The Archbishop of Knightrealm, a timid old man too fearful to breathe without Lord Malden’s express perm
ission, tottered forward and said a prayer to the gods, calling on Joraviar the Sacred Knight to lend his strength to the combatants, for the Holy Lady Amater to lend womanly courage to the knights’ wives and sisters and mothers, and for Amatheon, father of all, to bless the tournament.

  “And now!” said the herald, “Lord Malden bids you to ride!”

  The knights dispersed to their tents and pavilions, save for Sir Tobias and a young Dominiar preceptor, who took their places at either end of the lists. Mazael reined up next to Lord Malden’s platform, slid from the saddle, and bought a goblet of wine from a peddler. Adalar stood stiff and formal at his side, watching the knights.

  The heralds loosed a trumpet blast, and Sir Tobias and the Dominiar galloped at each other. Sir Tobias’s lance caught the Dominiar square in the chest. The black-armored knight fell with a mighty clatter, and Tobias galloped past. A few Dominiar squires and a surgeon hastened the fallen knight from the field.

  Mazael glanced at the platform. Lord Malden clapped and grinned, while Malleus sat still, his face a calm mask.

  Adalar snorted. “That was quick.”

  “Sir Tobias is built like a brick wall,” said Mazael. “That Dominiar could have hit him with a hammer and not made a dent.”

  He glanced back into a nearby tent. Timothy sat cross-legged on floor, eyes closed, hands clutching a wire-wrapped quartz crystal. The wizard kept watch over Lord Malden’s platform with his magic, waiting for any San-keth changelings to approach.

  For the thousandth time, Mazael wondered what had happened to Lucan.

  “It ought to be easy,” muttered Mazael, “to find an old man selling cheese.”

  “Lord?” said Adalar.

  “Nothing,” said Mazael.

  A Justiciar preceptor and a Dominiar preceptor rode against each other next, broke two lances, and succeeded in unhorsing each other on the third. The Justiciar broke his arm, the Dominiar a leg, and the squires carried both from the field.

  “He was holding his lance wrong,” muttered Adalar. “My father would have boxed his ears.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Mazael. As a boy he had suffered many such punishments from Sir Nathan, and the lessons had served him well.

  Next Gerald rode against Tobias. Gerald’s armor gleamed like silver, his shield like a mirror, and an exhausted-looking Wesson stomped after him. A silken lady’s scarf had been tied around Gerald’s right arm, no doubt a favor from Rachel. Mazael leaned forward, watching with interest.

  The trumpets sounded, and the brothers rode at each other.

  They broke lances on the first ride, and the second, both men swaying in the saddle like drunkards. Rachel winced with every blow. On the third lance Gerald caught Tobias’s thrust on his shield and sent the blunted tip of his own lance right into Tobias’s chest. Tobias sailed from the saddle in a smooth arc. Gerald jumped from his horse, helped Tobias up, and the two brothers bowed to each other.

  The crowds loved it. Mazael heard Grand Master Malleus complement Lord Malden on his courteous sons. Rachel’s eyes almost shone with pride. Mazael laughed and bought another flagon of wine.

  Despite his worries, Mazael began to enjoy himself.

  The herald’s called his name. Mazael drained his wine in one gulp and mounted Chariot. The big horse stamped and whinnied in eagerness. Mazael pulled on his helmet, took his shield and first lance from Adalar, and rode to the end of the lists.

  Sir Commander Galan Hawking waited at the other end of the field, resplendent in his armor and blue Justiciar cloak. He lifted an eyebrow, saluted with his lance, and dropped his visor. Mazael saluted back and waited.

  The trumpets sounded.

  Chariot surged forward of his own volition. Mazael dropped the reins and readied his lance and shield, trusting Chariot’s instincts. Sir Commander Galan thundered towards him, faceless in armor and helmet. Mazael set himself and gripped his shield tighter. Galan’s lance exploded against his shield. The blow nearly dislocated Mazael’s arm, but he kept his saddle, his lance skidding off Galan’s breastplate.

  They wheeled around at the end of the lists. Both men snatched up fresh lances. Mazael had Galan’s measure now. The man kept his shield too low.

  The trumpets blew again. Chariot leapt forward, Mazael shifting his balance. Galan came at him, lance high, and dropped the tip at the last minute. Mazael lowered his shield, caught the lance, and sent his own lance arcing over Galan’s shield. It crashed into Galan’s breastplate, just beneath his gorget, and sent the Justiciar tumbling. Mazael reined up and wheeled around. Galan lay supine for a moment, groaned, and then tottered back to his feet.

  “Are you injured?” said Mazael.

  “Nay,” growled Galan, staggering. A Justiciar squire hurried forward and helped him along, while another took the reins of his horse. “Your family never seems to bring me anything but misfortune.”

  He tottered from the field, grumbling.

  “I did save your life,” Mazael pointed out, to nobody. He shrugged and rode back to Adalar, who took the reins.

  “That was good, my lord,” said Adalar, grinning. “You took him in two passes.”

  “He wasn’t trying,” said Mazael, swinging down. “The others will be harder.”

  “Mazael!” Rachel waved at him from the platform. “That was grand.”

  Mazael did a little bow. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “I can’t decide if I want you or Gerald to win,” said Rachel. “Wouldn’t it be splendid if you unhorsed each other simultaneously in the final pass, and both won the tournament?”

  “My back groans at the thought,” said Mazael. He looked up and saw Morebeth smiling at him, felt the familiar jolt, and smiled back.

  Sir Aulus went against Sir Commander Aeternis of the Dominiars next. Sir Aulus lasted for two passes, but went down on the third, and limped from the field with a rueful grin.

  “Are you all right?” Mazael called.

  Sir Aulus nodded. “This is still better than spending time with my wife.”

  More knights mounted, charged at each other, knocked each other from the saddle. The sun climbed higher, and the day began to grow warmer. Mazael wished he could remove his armor.

  Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith rode twice, first against a Justiciar preceptor, the second-time against a hard-looking knight of Lord Malden’s household. Amalric took both men from the saddle in the first pass and broke one of the Justiciar’s legs. Mazael watched Amalric with cold interest. The man was very good. Morebeth sat rigid and unsmiling as Amalric rode.

  Then Mazael had to ride again, this time against Sir Garain Roland. He stifled a wince as he mounted up. Sir Garain was Lord Malden’s chancellor, the glue that kept Knightrealm together, but he was not a skilled fighter. That was Sir Tobias’s task.

  The trumpets sounded, and Mazael let Garain break two lances. On the third pass he knocked Garain from the saddle with the least force he could manage. Garain wobbled back to his feet and bowed to the crowd, which cheered him. Everyone respected Sir Garain. Mazael sighed in relief. Hurting Sir Garain would have not pleased Lord Malden.

  The heralds blew another blast, and the jousting halted for the squires’ melee.

  “My lord, are you coming?” said Adalar.

  “I am,” said Mazael. He turned and saw Trocend standing behind Lord Malden’s platform, beckoning to him. “In a moment. Go! They’ll start without you.”

  Adalar dug through their piled equipment, snatched out his sword, and broke into a run. Mazael pushed past the milling spectators and made his way to Trocend’s side.

  “You’ve ridden well today, my lord,” said Trocend. “The Justiciars are so feared that everyone expected Sir Commander Galan to unhorse you.” He loosed a dry chuckle. “You ought to see the bet-makers scramble to rework their numbers.”

  “Have you found anything?” said Mazael.

  Trocend smiled, reached into his robe, and produced a small glass jar filled with clear liquid. The yellow eye of a changeling floated within
, rotating.

  “A grisly trophy,” said Mazael.

  “A trophy?” said Trocend. “What use has a simple clerk for a trophy?” He shook his head. “It acts as a compass.” He held the jar steady, and the eye rotated to point at Knightcastle. “It points at San-keth changelings.”

  “Then they’re at Knightcastle?” said Mazael.

  Trocend nodded. “Some, at any rate. I’ve had a busy night.” He beckoned again, and walked to a drab tent. Mazael followed him, watching the spinning eye. Trocend lifted the flap of the tent and pointed.

  Six dead changelings lay within.

  “A busy night, indeed,” said Mazael.

  “Two were working in the kitchen,” said Trocend. “One masqueraded as a beggar at the gates of Castle Town.” He shook his head. “A fourth was a servant with the Dominiars.”

  “The Dominiars?” said Mazael. “Do they know?”

  Trocend shook his head. “They’ll assume the servant ran off.”

  “What of the other two?” said Mazael.

  “I don’t know.” Trocend toed one of the corpses. “I found them.”

  “Where?” said Mazael.

  “In the Trysting Ways,” said Trocend. “Someone killed them by magical means.” He shrugged. “A San-keth cleric, most likely. Perhaps there was dissension in the ranks.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael. Or had Lucan killed them? “How did you get the bodies here? Did you move them yourself?”

  Trocend gave him a thin smile. “Well…not entirely by myself. My spirit-servants brought the bodies here, and will dispose of them once we are finished.”

  Mazael suppressed a shudder. “How many changelings are left?”

  Trocend shrugged. “Dozens, probably.”

  “Dozens?”

  “Yes. I see you set Timothy to keep watch over Lord Malden,” said Trocend. “An excellent idea; I taught him a better spell than the one he was using. Best to have him keep watch over Lord Malden at all times, until I can exterminate these changelings. I’ll arrange a watch kept over the kitchens.”

  “No need,” said Mazael, remembering how close Blackfang had come to killing Rachel. “The changelings kill with poisoned daggers, or with their bites, but not food.”