Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mazael pulled off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his brow, and glanced over the crowds. It seemed as if all of Knightrealm had arrived to watch the final ride of the tournament. Both Lord Malden and Malleus leaned forward, watching keenly. The Justiciar Knights and Lord Malden’s vassals cheered for Mazael. The Dominiar Knights clustered around Amalric like a flock of black-armored ravens. The throngs of common folk looked enraptured.

  Rachel and Morebeth stood behind Lord Malden’s chair, watching.

  “Gods,” mumbled Mazael. He might start a war right here, if he wasn’t careful. Amalric’s squires signaled readiness. Mazael slammed his helmet back on, gripped his lance and shield, and readied himself. The trumpets rang like a thunderclap. Amalric’s stallion whinnied, tossed its black mane, and rolled forward like a black flood. Chariot leapt forward, breathing hard. Mazael gritted his teeth and leaned forward in the saddle, lance reached for Amalric’s chest. The point shattered against Amalric’s left shoulder, knocking him back.

  Yet despite the force of Mazael’s blow, Amalric’s lance still struck true, sliding past Mazael’s shield. Mazael’s breastplate clanged, splinters spraying across his legs, and the stump of Amalric’s lance stabbed into his left calf. The blow nearly tore him from the saddle, and only by jamming his feet into the stirrups did he keep from falling.

  The effort sent a stab of agony shooting up his left leg. He seized the saddle horn, grinding his teeth in pain.

  A bit of rage stirred in his mind.

  “My lord!” shouted Adalar, running to his side. “My lord, are you…”

  Mazael growled, yanked the bloody shard from his leg, and flung it aside. Blood stained his boot and stirrup. Beneath the pain, he felt a deep itch as the torn flesh began knit itself together, but he didn’t care.

  “The tournament is over!” Grand Master Malleus stood up. “They have ridden five times, and Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith has wounded Lord Mazael. Amalric is the victor!” A cheer went up from the Dominiar Knights, but no one else.

  “It most certainly is not!” said Lord Malden, rising. Amalric’s black helm turned to face Lord Malden. “Lord Mazael has not yet been unhorsed!”

  “They have ridden five times,” said Grand Master Malleus. “It is customary for knights in tourney to only ride against each other five times.”

  Lord Malden’s heralds began to confer in anxious voices.

  “It is only customary because most knights are unhorsed in the first or second pass!” said Lord Malden. “Both Sir Commander Amalric and Lord Mazael are most skilled, and neither one has yet been victorious. Shall we cut this contest short? Shall we not see a rightful victor?”

  “But Sir Commander Amalric is the rightful victor,” said Malleus. “Lord Mazael was wounded in the leg. He cannot ride again, and so Amalric triumphs.”

  Mazael stood in his stirrups, ignoring the agony in his leg. “I can yet ride, Grand Master!” His knee only twitched a little.

  “If Lord Mazael says he can ride, then let him ride!” shouted Gerald. “Will we deny Lord Mazael and Sir Commander Amalric the chance to strive honorably for the victor’s title?”

  “Aye!” A woman’s voice rang over the field, commanding and full of fire. Mazael watched in surprise as Morebeth stood, adjusting her skirts. “Lord Malden and Sir Gerald are correct! The tournament must finish. And if Lord Malden awards the victory to Sir Commander Amalric,” Amalric’s black helmet swiveled to face her, “then all men will say he stole this triumph.”

  Amalric shifted, hand closing about the hilt of his sword, every gesture radiating hatred. Malleus’s calm mask cracked, and for just an instant he glared at Morebeth. One of the heralds approached the platform and cleared his throat.

  “My lords,” he said, “while knights rarely ride after five broken lances, that is because very few men have the necessary skill at arms.” He turned an admiring glance Mazael and Amalric’s way. “If Lord Mazael is yet able to ride, then our consensus is that the joust should continue.”

  Mazael felt fine. The aches from Amalric’s battering had failed, and the blood from the wound in his calf had slowed to a trickle. Adalar stared at the wound with a fixed expression, but Mazael paid him no heed.

  He could not think through the growing anger.

  Lord Malden sat back down, the pages lifting his cloak. “Then let them ride!”

  "So be it!" said Malleus, seating himself once more.

  Mazael turned Chariot, reaching for still another fresh lance. Adalar said something, but Mazael didn’t hear it. The anger hammered in his head, louder and louder. He thought of what Aeternis had told him, how Amalric had ground the Old Kingdoms into the dust. Romaria would have hated Amalric for that. Perhaps she had even fought against his armies, before she came to the Grim Marches. And Mazael remembered the pain and hate in Morebeth’s eyes whenever she spoke of her brother…

  The heralds’ trumpets sounded, and Chariot raced forward, sensing Mazael’s eagerness. Amalric kicked his destrier to a gallop, lance leveled, shield raised. Mazael gritted his teeth and leveled his own lance.

  The anger raged through him, and he flung aside his shield.

  Astonished silence fell over the crowds.

  Amalric hesitated, then leaned forward, all his strength and the speed of his horse behind the lance.

  Everything happened very fast.

  Mazael’s left hand snapped up and caught the shaft of Amalric’s lance just behind the head, shoving it aside. His own lance stabbed under Amalric’s guard and exploded into the black breastplate. Amalric bellowed, rocking back, and the shaft of Mazael’s lance smacked hard across his arms.

  Amalric hit the ground with a clatter of armor. His helmet rolled away across the trampled grass. Mazael tore past and managed to rein up, his blood racing through his ears.

  For a moment silence hung in the air.

  Then the field exploded with cheers. Lord Malden stood, smiling. Grand Master Malleus remained sitting, and did not smile. Gerald and Tobias pumped their fists in the air, and Rachel had a wider smile than Mazael had seen in years. His anger drained away, replaced with weariness and faint nausea. The rage had almost mastered him again. Romaria had died to keep him from succumbing to his Demonsouled spirit, and yet he had almost gone mad to avenge a wrong that may or may not have been done to her.

  If his weapon had not been a flimsy jousting lance, he might have killed Amalric Galbraith.

  Amalric Galbraith stood, brushing the grass from his black hair. He looked to Mazael and made a small bow, but his black eyes burned with hatred. With that, Amalric turned and joined the waiting Dominiars, who walked from the field without a word.

  “The winner of this tournament!” boomed one of the heralds, “Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock!” The common folk screamed cheers, and the Justiciars saluted.

  Chariot, to Mazael’s annoyance, began to prance.

  He reined up before Lord Malden’s platform, dismounted, and knelt.

  His leg did not hurt at all.

  “Well done, Lord Mazael,” said Lord Malden. Grand Master Malleus had departed with the other Dominiars. “Well done indeed.”

  “My lord,” said Mazael, rising. “Thank you.”

  Lady Rhea came forward, winked at him, and wrapped the white victor’s cloak around his shoulders. Mazael tried to ignore the invitation in her eyes. “You have brought great honor to our house this day, Lord Mazael.” She held out her hand for him to kiss.

  He did so, catching a glimpse of Morebeth over Lady Rhea’s shoulder. She looked amused, damn her.

  “My lord!” Timothy hastened up. “My lord, are you hurt? I saw that lance pierce your…” His eyes widened at the blood on Mazael’s boot.

  “It was but a glancing hit,” said Mazael. “I’m fine…”

  Gerald and Tobias and Garain and Aulus and dozens of other knights and lords swarmed around him then, offering congratulations. Rachel kissed him on the cheek.

  “A feast, of course,” said Lord Malden, “
to celebrate the grand honor you have won for your sister and the house of Roland.” A small smile flickered across his thin lips. “And for the house of Cravenlock, of course.”

  Mazael wondered if Lord Malden had planned that from the beginning. Squires came forward, bearing horses, and the knights and lords mounted up and began riding back to Knightcastle.

  As Mazael turned, Morebeth stepped before him.

  She bowed. “My lord has won great honor for himself this day.”

  Mazael kissed her hand with more enthusiasm than Lady Rhea’s. “My lady.”

  “I am glad,” she said. Her gray eyes glittered as she glanced at the dark mass of the Dominiar Knights. “I am very glad.” The setting sun touched the braided red hair beneath her feathered hat, transforming it into a crown of bloody gold. “Would my lord accompany me to the feast?”

  Mazael hesitated, and then took her arm. Let them gossip; he no longer gave a damn. “I would be honored.”

  He looked around and wondered what had happened to Adalar.

  3

  Thrown Gauntlets

  Adalar wandered towards Knightcastle, his mind whirling.

  He had seen the lance shard sink deep into Mazael’s leg. The wound ought to have left Mazael in crippling pain, left him unable to endure the jouncing gallop of the joust. Instead he had ripped the shard from his leg, knocked Amalric from his horse, and ridden to victory.

  Adalar had seen that wound close, watched the torn flesh flow back together. It had been a raw, gaping pit of blood when Mazael tore the shard free. A few moments later it had been a gash.

  When Mazael rode to Lord Malden’s platform, the wound was gone.

  Adalar raked shaking hands through his sweaty hair. He remembered Mazael lying on the pew in Tristgard’s church, the shredded flesh of his chest writhing as it knitted back together.

  “Holy gods,” mumbled Adalar. What had happened to Lord Mazael? Adalar remembered Mazael’s vow to defeat the San-keth cleric Skhath and the necromancer Simonian a year ago. Had Mazael sold himself to dark powers in exchange for battle prowess and unnatural health? Skhath had used his unholy arts to masquerade as a mortal man. Had some dark creature killed Mazael and taken his place?

  Adalar walked alone through Knightcastle’s gates. The armsmen congratulated him for his victory. Adalar nodded, his mind far away. He wandered past Knightcastle’s looming towers, the statues of Roland lords long dead and forgotten, up the ramps and barbicans until he came to the stables. He crossed to a pile of hay, sat down, and buried his face in his hands. He did not know what to do. His father would have known, but Sir Nathan was far away in Castle Cravenlock. Adalar might have turned to Timothy, or Sir Gerald, or Sir Aulus, but they would not believe him. And suppose Adalar spoke to Mazael? If Mazael had truly sold himself to dark powers, or been replaced by a wicked creature, he would not hesitate to kill Adalar…

  “What am I going to do?” he whispered.

  A soft voice answered. “Do you not know?”

  Adalar’s head looked up. Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith stood before him.

  He did not look at all tired from the tournament.

  Adalar jerked to his feet and bowed. “Sir Commander.” He remembered all the dark tales that hovered over Amalric Galbraith like ravens circling over a gallows, stories of slaughtered peasants and crucified women. “Are…are you well, Sir Commander?”

  A thin smile split Amalric’s pale face, black eyes glittering. “You are afraid, squire, are you not? You think, perhaps, that I have come to slay you, in vengeance for my defeat?”

  Adalar stared at him. “The thought crossed my mind.”

  Amalric scoffed. “Did it? Your Lord Mazael won fairly. In truth, I was irritated when Grand Master Malleus declared premature victory.” He shook his head, black hair brushing against his shoulders. “I wished to win, of course, but fairly.”

  “Noble,” said Adalar.

  Amalric nodded. “I saw you in the squires’ melee. You fought most skillfully, most valiantly.”

  “Thank you, Sir Commander,” said Adalar.

  “I suppose Lord Mazael plans to knight you, once you return to Castle Cravenlock?”

  Adalar nodded. “He said as much.”

  Amalric paced to one of Adalar’s newly-won horses and rubbed the mane. “And then you will swear to his service?”

  “I might,” said Adalar. “I don’t know yet.”

  “You might?” said Amalric. “The life of a landless knight is a hard one, and Lord Mazael would feed and clothe you. Why turn down such a generous offer?”

  Adalar licked dry lips. “I don’t know.”

  “I suppose not,” said Amalric. “Young men often do not know their own hearts, or their minds.” He turned to face Adalar. “You ought to consider joining the Dominiar Order.”

  “Sir Commander?” said Adalar.

  “Consider, squire,” said Amalric. “Suppose you take up the life of a wandering knight? You will spend your days scraping along, fighting in petty wars, guarding the caravans of greedy merchants. Your life will be little better than that of a common mercenary. Or suppose you do swear to Lord Mazael? How then will you spend your days? You will fight in his wars, for the glory of his name, to make his lands richer, and you will spill the blood of men for his power. What purpose in such a life? Meaningless and futile, a crass scrabbling for gold and power.”

  Adalar said nothing.

  “But the Dominiar Knights, our Order…we have duty. Purpose and meaning,” said Amalric. “It is our mission to spread the light of the Amathavian gods throughout the world, to defeat the forces of darkness and idolatry.”

  “My father said your Order slaughters innocents and rules as tyrants,” said Adalar, shocked at his own boldness.

  “Some of my brothers do,” said Amalric. “Some are overzealous, and oppress godly folk in their determination to root out evil. Sometimes it has happened under my command, I am ashamed to admit, though I do not permit it any longer.”

  “I have seen real evil, Sir Commander,” said Adalar. “I have seen San-keth clerics and walking corpses and a Demonsouled necromancer. Every Justiciar or Dominiar I have ever spoken to says that neither San-keth nor Demonsouled exist, that they are the superstitions of fearful peasants. At least,” he added, thinking of Galan Hawking, “until they see the San-keth with their own eyes.”

  “The San-keth are very real, squire,” said Amalric quietly. “I have killed them with my own blade. And the Demonsouled…the Demonsouled creep through the realms of men like a cancer, masquerading as mortal men. They could be anyone, anywhere.” He glanced at Adalar. “Perhaps even your Lord Mazael.”

  The words struck Adalar like a hammer. Something clicked within his mind. He thought of Lord Mazael’s rages, his speed and strength, his unnatural healing, and his apparently endless lust for mistresses.

  “That’s impossible,” said Adalar, mouth dry.

  “Is it?” said Amalric. “His mother Lady Arissa was a notorious adulteress. And Simonian the necromancer was rumored to be Demonsouled.”

  “Simonian was,” said Adalar. “He told Mazael himself. But Simonian didn’t come to Castle Cravenlock until after Lady Arissa had died…”

  “And how do you know that?” said Amalric. “Were you there? Simonian could have visited Castle Cravenlock, and Lady Arissa, long before you were ever born.”

  “No,” said Adalar. “Lord Mazael is not Demonsouled.” Yet his voice held no sincerity.

  “Perhaps not,” said Amalric. “But suppose he is. The Demonsouled always go mad, always try to make themselves tyrants of men. And here Lord Mazael is surrounded by the great lords of Knightrealm, men he could overthrow with ease.” He stepped towards the doorway. “Perhaps, squire, you should think on that.”

  He left, leaving Adalar in confused turmoil.

  ###

  “Mazael.”

  Mazael opened his eyes. Pale dawn sunlight streamed through the windows. Morebeth lay against him, head on his shoulder
, her hand tracing slow circles across his chest. She had a sleepy smile on her lips.

  “The great champion awakes,” she whispered. She had looked happy ever since Mazael had knocked Amalric from the saddle. The expression seemed alien on her cold face. It almost suited her.

  Mazael titled her head up, kissed her. “You seemed pleased.”

  “The expression on his face,” she said, eyes glinting, “when you unhorsed him.”

  “He looked calm enough,” said Mazael.

  “He was furious,” said Morebeth. “I know. I’ve known him all my life, have I not? He was enraged.” She laughed a little. “He would have killed you, if he could have gotten away with it.”

  Her glee unsettled Mazael, but only little. Amalric had led Morebeth’s husband to his death, after all.

  “A victory for you, my lady,” he said, kissing her again.

  “And a triumph for you, my lord,” she answered. “We ought to go to court. I wonder what Malleus will do, now that his pet has lost the tournament.”

  Mazael sighed and dragged his mind to more serious matters. “Nothing good.” Morebeth rolled away, got up, and began to dress. She never brought any of her maids with her through the Trysting Ways, though that failed to deter the gossip.

  Mazael sighed again. “We don’t have to go right away.”

  She gave him a wicked grin. “Eager man. You seemed so weary before.”

  “You have a way of waking me up.”

  Morebeth’s eyes glittered. “Wait until tonight, my lord. You’ll beg for sleep, before we’re done.”

  Mazael grinned back. “As my lady commands.” He climbed out of bed and began gathering his clothes.

  “Where is your squire?” said Morebeth, fiddling with some hideously complex undergarment. “Should he not help you dress?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael. “I haven’t seen him since the tournament.”

  “Mayhap he took after his lord,” said Morebeth, “and found some eager lass who wanted to celebrate his victory.”

  “You are in a good humor,” said Mazael.

  “Quite.” She finished dressing and gave him a quick kiss. “I shall see you at court, then.” With that she turned and vanished into the Trysting Ways. Mazael grunted, adjusted his cloak, and stepped into the corridor.