Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Trocend nodded. “One less worry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must continue. Best if we are not seen together more than necessary.” He wrapped himself again in his cloak and vanished into the crowds. Mazael stared after him, scowling.

  Where the devil had Lucan gone?

  He shook aside the thought and jumped back into Chariot’s saddle. Brooding achieved nothing, after all. Mazael walked Chariot through the crowds, who hastened to get out of the big horse’s way, and came to the squires’ melee.

  The four hundred squires attending the tournament had been divided into four teams. A ring of Lord Malden’s heralds surrounded their field, accompanied by archers. As the squires battled with wooden weapons, the heralds called out the names of those who had been eliminated, who then left the field. Failure to comply earned a blunted fowling arrow from the archers.

  Mazael spotted Adalar, who fought side by side with Wesson. Adalar caught a descending slash, twisted around, and struck his attacker across the back of the legs. The bigger boy went down with a howl. Mazael grinned; he had taught Adalar that move. The defeated squire rose with a growl, stalking towards Adalar, and caught a blunted arrow in the rump for his efforts.

  Wesson went down with a blow across the knee and shuffled from the field, muttering. Adalar remained fighting, wheeling, ducking, dodging slashing. Mazael watched with some pride. The boy was good, very good, and Mazael knew he would only become better. Adalar parried, took his wooden sword in both hands, and knocked another squire over.

  The melee raged on. One by one, the squires walked from the field. In few cases the fallen squires had to be carried. Adalar remained in the melee. Sweat poured down his face, his chest heaved, and his face was locked in a grimace, but Adalar remained untouched.

  Finally it came down to Adalar and another squire, a young man in Dominiar black. The two youths circled each other, feinting, wooden blades licking out. Both combatants were winded. The Dominiar squire lunged forward, feinted high, and swung low. Adalar caught the blow and hopped back, trying to circle around the Dominiar squire. The Dominiar rushed at him, slamming hard on Adalar’s sword. Adalar stumbled back, fighting for balance, and the Dominiar sprang. Mazael winced, thinking it over.

  But Adalar twisted in a feint even Mazael had not seen, and came up behind the Dominiar. His sword smacked across the Dominiar’s back, the other squire fell, and Adalar stood victorious.

  For a moment silence reined, and then the crowds cheered in delight, Mazael’s voice raised with theirs. A herald came onto the field, lifted Adalar’s arm, and proclaimed him the victor. Others came out leading three horses loaded with a full suit of plate and a hundred gold pieces. Some of the squires swarmed around Adalar, slapping him on the back and offering him congratulations, while some of the others stalked away, scowling. Adalar took the reins of the lead horse, wooden sword dangling from his free hand, and looked about in weary bewilderment.

  “Well done, Adalar,” said Mazael, riding to his squire’s side, “well done.”

  Adalar wiped sweat from his brow and smiled. “Thank you, lord.”

  Wesson appeared, bearing a pitcher of mixed wine. “Here.” He grunted. “You look thirsty.”

  Adalar grinned and drained off most of the pitcher in one gulp. “Thank you. Lord, we had best go, you’ll need to ride again soon…”

  “Rest,” said Mazael. He glanced at the horses. “Take care of your loot first. Once you’re ready, come help me. I can manage well enough until then.”

  “But…”

  Mazael pointed. “Rest.”

  “You heard him,” said Wesson.

  Adalar nodded, sweaty hair falling across his eyes. “All right. If you command.”

  “I do,” said Mazael. “Now rest.”

  “If you ride back to the lists now, so you’re not late,” said Adalar.

  Mazael laughed. “As the champion commands.”

  He steered Chariot through the crowds and reined up besides Lord Malden’s platform. The jousting had begun again some time earlier. Mazael arrived just in time to see Sir Commander Aeternis unhorse a young Dominiar Knight.

  “By the gods!” roared Aeternis, shaking his head. “I taught you to ride when you were a boy! When did you start holding your shield so low?” The young Dominiar retreated under a hail of withering criticism.

  Then it was Mazael’s turn to ride against Aeternis. He rode to the end of the lists and snatched up a lance. Chariot bared his teeth, recognizing to the Dominiar commander.

  “So we face each other again, eh?” called Aeternis.

  “So we do,” said Mazael.

  “Let’s hope it’s not another Tumblestone,” said Aeternis.

  Mazael said nothing, Chariot pawing at the earth. The heralds blew the trumpets, and Mazael and Aeternis rode. Mazael caught Aeternis’s blow on his shield, but the force of it nearly dislocated his arm. His own blow cracked into Aeternis’s shield. The other man reeled, black armor clanking, but managed to keep his seat. One of Lord Malden’s squires brought Mazael a fresh lance. The trumpets sounded again, and Chariot’s hooves tore at the trampled grass.

  Both lances exploded in a spray of splinters. Mazael grunted, threw the ruined lance down to one of the waiting squires, and flexed his aching hand. Aeternis was very good.

  Then the trumpets sounded again, and Mazael had no time to think, only to do. Mazael’s lance broke again against Aeternis’s shield, and Aeternis’s lance hit Mazael’s shield and slid down to shatter against his breastplate. A roaring cheer went up from the spectators. No joust had yet lasted more than three passes. Mazael pulled off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow, saw Lord Malden and Malleus whispering to each other, saw Morebeth watching him with interest. Mazael set his helmet back on, his mind racing. Aeternis was strong and fast, but Mazael thought Chariot a little faster than Aeternis’s destrier.

  The trumpets rang for the fourth time. Aeternis came forward at a full gallop, lance angled for Mazael’s chest, while Mazael only kicked Chariot to a rapid trot. Chariot whinnied in displeasure, but obeyed. Aeternis leaned ahead, aiming for Mazael’s breastplate. At the last second, Mazael booted Chariot to a full gallop, and the big horse surged forward. Aeternis’s lance caught the edge of Mazael’s shield, nearly twisting it from his arm, but Mazael had just enough time to slam his lance into Aeternis’s chest. For a moment the Dominiar commander teetered, but he fell with a clattering crash. An exulting cheer went up from the crowds, and Mazael saw Lord Malden applaud, Malleus’s face settling into a calm mask. Aeternis grunted, wheezed, and marched off the field with a rueful shake of his head.

  Mazael rode back to Lord Malden’s platform and found Adalar waiting for him.

  “I told you to get some rest,” said Mazael, swinging down from the saddle.

  Adalar handed him a flagon of mixed wine. “I did. And Wesson took care of the prize for me.”

  “If you insist,” said Mazael, drinking the entire flagon in three gulps. “Gods, it’s getting hot out.”

  “Mazael!”

  He saw Rachel hurrying towards him, a wide smile on her face. “You missed it! Gerald defeated a Justiciar commander, unhorsed him on the second pass. And you were magnificent. I thought Aeternis had you on the third pass.”

  Mazael laughed and caught his sister in a rough hug. “Come, now! You think I’d let him unhorse me? I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “And young Adalar,” she said. Adalar bowed. “I heard you won great honor in the squires’ melee."

  “My lady,” said Adalar. “I was but fortunate.”

  “A squire like you makes his own fortune, I think,” said Rachel. “Mazael, might I speak with you for a moment?”

  Mazael frowned. “If you wish. Adalar, keep an eye on Chariot.”

  They walked off a small distance, found a quiet corner behind a tent where they could speak.

  “What’s wrong?” said Mazael.

  “I had an interesting conversation this morning, while watching the tourney,” s
aid Rachel. “I made the acquaintance of Lady Morebeth Galbraith.”

  Mazael stifled a wince, bracing himself for the sermon on the evils of keeping a mistress.

  “She seems a gentle lady,” said Rachel. “Did you know her husband died while under her brother’s command?”

  “I…heard a rumor of that nature,” said Mazael.

  “She never said it,” continued Rachel, “but I wonder if Sir Commander Amalric made sure that Lady Morebeth’s husband died in the battle.”

  “Possibly,” said Mazael, shaking his head. He remembered what Aeternis had told him about Amalric, tales of women and children dying atop stakes. “He…seems a hard man.”

  “He does,” said Rachel, staring at the ground for a moment. “I think you ought to marry Lady Morebeth.”

  Mazael coughed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I think she would make you a good wife,” said Rachel. “Mazael…you cannot stay unwed forever. I…I know Romaria’s death was…hard…”

  “It was.”

  “A man needs a wife,” said Rachel. “You do. Else…otherwise why would you take up with so many mistresses?” Mazael said nothing. “You…should have a wife, Mazael. The Lord of Castle Cravenlock should have one.”

  “Since you’re soon to be wed yourself, I assume you’ll be playing the matchmaker of Castle Cravenlock for the rest of your days?” said Mazael.

  Rachel grinned. “It would fill my time, would it not?” The smile faded, and she took his hand. “Mazael…I know you are not happy. You hide it well, but I can see that many things trouble you. I think…maybe Morebeth could make you happier.”

  “Lords wed for alliance and power,” said Mazael. He stared at Rachel. What could he tell her? That he was Demonsouled, and feared falling to his heritage’s corrosive power? That he suspected the Old Demon stood behind the coming war, controlling men like puppets? That the San-keth still plotted to kill her? Still, it cheered him to know that she worried for him. It was good to know somebody did. “I’ll think it over.”

  “I can introduce you after the tournament, if you like,” said Rachel.

  “Oh,” said Mazael. “We’ve met.”

  “You have?” said Rachel. “Did you like her?” Mazael tried to keep his face neutral. “You…” She peered at him, and Mazael felt a surge of alarm. He kept quite a few secrets from Rachel, but she sometimes had an uncanny ability to guess his thoughts.

  Rachel’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, gods,” mumbled Mazael.

  “You didn’t!” said Rachel.

  “What of it?” said Mazael.

  “She’s a widow!”

  “So she’s not married,” said Mazael. He sighed. “If she’s willing, I’m willing…gods, I made this speech already to Adalar, I’ve made it to Gerald a hundred times in the last ten years, and now I’m making it to you.”

  “If you’ve bedded her, it is only honorable to marry her,” said Rachel. “Suppose you got her with child?”

  Mazael opened his mouth to say that wasn’t possible, but fell silent. He would not betray Morebeth’s trust that way.

  “I’m mindful of the danger,” he said, finally.

  “Well, good,” said Rachel. “It wouldn’t do for you to have a bastard son. It wouldn’t do at all.”

  “I agree,” said Mazael, remembering his previous worries. “You have no idea how much I agree.” He glanced up at the lists. “I have to ride soon.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows lifted over her green eyes. “To your vast relief, I’m sure.”

  “Vast.” Mazael laughed and kissed her on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”

  “I’m not sure I can,” said Rachel. “You’re riding against Gerald, after all.”

  “I am?” said Mazael. “This ought to be interesting.”

  He hurried back to Adalar, who stood speaking with Wesson.

  “I’m sure,” said Wesson, his voice cracking, “that Sir Gerald will unhorse Lord Mazael.”

  “Care to make a wager?” said Adalar.

  “Boys!” Gerald strode up, armor gleaming, helmet under one arm. “Wagering is an uncouth practice, to be sure.” He smiled at Mazael. “So we are to ride against each other, I suppose?”

  “We are,” said Mazael. “Remember what I told you when you were my squire?”

  Gerald nodded. “Keep your shield up, hold the lance steady, and lean into it. I ought to remember it. You repeated it often enough.”

  “He does repeat things,” said Adalar.

  Mazael gave them both a look. “You both remembered it, didn’t you?”

  “Let’s see how well I learned, shall we?” said Gerald, holding out his hand.

  Mazael gripped it. “I guess we will.”

  They rode to either end of the lists. Mazael took yet another lance from Adalar, while Wesson handed one to Gerald. Rachel sat on the dais by Lord Malden, her eyes darting from Gerald, to Mazael, and then back again. The trumpet blast rang out, and Mazael and Gerald rode at each other. They broke lances on the first and second passes. On the third Mazael sent Gerald tumbling in a clean arc to the ground. He wheeled up and rode back as Wesson helped Gerald to rise.

  “Are you all right?”

  Gerald coughed, rubbing his arm. “Well enough. My pride is bruised, and perhaps my backside.”

  They shook hands, to the cheers of the crowd, and Gerald rode from the field and joined Rachel.

  The day drew on. The afternoon passed, and the sun began to sink into the west. Mazael rode twice more, both times against skillful household knights, and knocked them both from the saddle. Sir Tobias rode thrice more, and won, to his father’s obvious delight.

  Amalric Galbraith won again and again, to the clear annoyance of Morebeth, and the pleasure of Grand Master Malleus.

  Mazael wandered to the tables where the heralds toiled, keeping track of the victors and the defeated. To his astonishment, he realized he had a good chance of winning the tournament. He had not been defeated once, and neither had Sir Tobias or Sir Commander Amalric, though Mazael had unhorsed more knights. Consequently Sir Tobias and Amalric would face each other, and then Mazael would ride against the winner.

  He found himself hoping Sir Tobias lost.

  He very much wanted to ride against Amalric Galbraith.

  The penultimate match came, and Sir Tobias and Amalric faced each other across the lists. Mazael watched as the trumpets blared, watched as the two destriers thundered as each other.

  They came together with a crash. Amalric caught Tobias’s lance on his shield, shoved down, and rammed his lance into Tobias’s stomach. The blow knocked Tobias from the saddle, and his horse staggered to a halt, dragging Tobias from the right stirrup. The squires hastened out and helped Tobias up, who staggered to the platform, reeling.

  Mazael watched Amalric. He had not seen anyone move so fast in quite some time, and no one had ever unhorsed Tobias in one pass.

  Then the heralds called his name, and Mazael led Chariot to the lists for the last ride of the day.

  2

  Black Knights

  “Be careful,” whispered Adalar, handing Mazael his lance and shield. “He’s as fast as you.”

  Mazael stared at Amalric. The Dominiar commander wore fine black plate, his features hidden beneath a black helm crowned with sweeping eagle’s wings. Dominiar squires swarmed around him, adjusting his armor, his horse’s traces, his shield, lance, and black cloak with the Dominiars’ silver star.

  “I think he wants to kill you,” said Adalar.

  Mazael glanced at his squire. “It’s a tournament. Sometimes knights get killed.”

  “Aye,” said Adalar, “but accidents are one thing, and malice another. I think he wouldn’t have minded killing Sir Tobias. And I don’t think he’d mind killing you.” He hesitated. “You did bed his sister.”

  “I told you,” snapped Mazael, “I don’t want to hear…”

  The trumpets blasted, and Amalric surged forward. Mazael cursed, caught his balance, and kicked Chariot to
a gallop. The Dominiar commander seemed like a statue of black iron atop his horse, immutable and invulnerable. Mazael gritted his teeth, set himself, and brought his lance around.

  Amalric shifted his shield, caught Mazael’s lance, and leaned forward. His lance slammed hard into Mazael’s chest, skidding past his shield. It exploded in a spray of splinters, Mazael’s breastplate ringing like a gong. The force knocked Mazael back, almost tearing him from Chariot’s saddle. He flung aside the shattered lance, seized his saddle horn, and managed to keep his balance.

  “Gods, that hurt,” muttered Mazael, brushing splinters from his armor.

  Adalar sprinted up. “Are you all right? I was sure he cracked your breastbone.”

  “No,” said Mazael, trying not to cough. His chest hurt, and he wondered if Amalric’s blow had in fact cracked something.

  “I think he’s faster than you,” said Adalar.

  “I know,” said Mazael.

  “You’ll have to keep your shield up, try to hit him as he hits you,” said Adalar, handing up another lance. “Otherwise he’ll unhorse you before your lance even gets near him.”

  The trumpets blared again.

  Chariot sprang forward. Mazael set himself, kept his shield up, and rode at Amalric. Their lances exploded against their shields, splinters flying in all directions. The blow slammed Mazael’s shield back, his hand cracking hard against his chest, the rim smacking against his chin. Both men rocked in the saddles, flailing for balance, but neither one fell. Amalric reined up, black cloak billowing like a flock of ravens. Mazael let Chariot come to a halt, shaking his shield arm. It hurt like the devil, and the shield had splintered. Gods, Amalric hit hard! He tossed it aside, and Adalar provided him with a fresh shield and a fresh lance.

  They rode again, breaking a third lance.

  And then a fourth.

  The cheers from the crowds rose to a roar. Mazael and Aeternis had broken three lances against each other, but Mazael had knocked Aeternis from the saddle on the fourth pass. No one had yet broken four lances.