Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I know,” said Amalric. He glanced back. “Trust me, please.”

  Amalric led them into a portion of the Trysting Ways Adalar had never seen. Dust coated the floors, and mold stained the walls. The stale air smelled of decay and something foul.

  Amalric stopped before a massive door bound with rusted iron. He knocked in a complex rhythm and stepped backward. The door swung outward with a squeal of rust. Amalric nodded to someone and stepped through the door.

  Adalar followed and came to a shocked halt.

  Dozens of San-keth changelings filled the vault. Sir Roger Gravesend, who had betrayed Lord Mazael, stood nearby, a bared sword in his hand. Something creaked in the shadows, a ghastly stench flooding Adalar’s nostrils.

  Straganis skittered out of the darkness, his spider-legs creaking, his human torso and arms the color of a dead fish.

  “Well,” hissed the San-keth archpriest, “you have come.” His dull eyes swiveled to face Adalar. “And you have brought a guest.”

  “Sir Commander!” shouted Adalar. “Run!” He fumbled for his sword.

  Strong hands closed about his arms, wrenching them behind his back. Adalar jerked and twisted, trying to tear free, and realized that two of Amalric’s grim-faced knights had seized his arms.

  “Sir Commander!” said Adalar, confused, “what…”

  One of the knights struck Adalar across the face. “Silence.”

  Amalric walked across the room, the changelings parting before him. He stopped before Straganis and gave a curt nod.

  Straganis bowed in return, his misshapen body creaking. “Welcome, Sir Commander.”

  “Archpriest,” said Amalric. “Is everything ready?”

  “All is ready,” said Straganis. “We shall win great glory for Sepharivaim this night.”

  “That is no concern of mine,” said Amalric, “but our purposes happen to coincide.”

  Adalar stared at Amalric and Straganis in horror.

  “What of the wards?” said Amalric. “Knightcastle crackles with divinatory magic. Malden has at least one wizard hidden away someplace. He will know the minute we strike. Can you defeat him?”

  “Fear not,” said Straganis. “The arts of great Sepharivaim shall crush this interloper.”

  “Good,” said Amalric. “Lord Malden and all three of his sons must die. Kill any Justiciar officers you can find. Knightcastle will be leaderless, and shall fall easily to Grand Master Malleus.”

  “And Mazael and Rachel Cravenlock must perish,” said Straganis, his head swaying. “He has murdered the servants of great Sepharivaim, and she is an apostate. Both will die screaming for their crimes.”

  Amalric shrugged, indifferent. “As you will.”

  “You liar!” shouted Adalar, struggling against his captors. Another blow bounced off his jaw, but he ignored the pain. “You’d consort with the San-keth just to defeat Lord Malden. Are you insane? They’ll kill you!”

  Sir Roger strolled towards Adalar, grinning. “Well. Mazael’s squire. Quite a present you’ve brought us, Sir Commander.” He lifted his sword, tapping the edge against Adalar’s throat. “Let’s take his ears, or his eyes and nose, and send him back to that bastard Mazael as a warning.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Amalric. “Lord Mazael is formidable, and must die without warning.” His cold face tightened. “Unless you’d prefer to face him yourself?”

  Sir Roger stepped back. “Let me kill the boy.”

  “No,” said Amalric. “He may prove useful later, I think. Perhaps as a hostage, should things go awry.”

  “You bloody-handed coward,” said Adalar. “If Lord Mazael dishonored your sister, then challenge him to a duel like an honorable man…”

  “My sister is an annoyance. Lord Mazael is an obstacle to be removed, and nothing more,” said Amalric, voice cold. He looked to Straganis.

  “Prepare yourselves,” said Straganis.

  The changelings stood. As Adalar watched, their features flowed and changed, rippling like clay beneath a potter’s hands. The changelings, one and all, took the shape of dark-haired Mastarian men. They donned black mail and black tabards adorned with the silver Dominiar star.

  “Make certain you are seen,” said Amalric. “It is my wish that the survivors tell tales.”

  “My servants know their business, Dominiar,” said Straganis, turning his baleful glare on Amalric.

  Amalric looked back without flinching. “See that they do.”

  Straganis hissed and looked away first.

  “I might have a use for the boy later. Make certain he doesn’t cause trouble,” said Amalric.

  Adalar struggled against the knights’ iron grip. Something hard smashed into the back of his head, pain exploded through him, and everything went dark.

  ###

  “What is it?” said Mazael. “Speak.”

  Harune opened his mouth, then Timothy hissed and fumbled in his pocket. The wire-wrapped quartz crystal in his hand shimmered and pulsed.

  “Lord!” said Timothy. “Changelings!”

  “Are you sure?” said Harune.

  “Absolutely,” said Timothy. “They’re nearby…they’re moving towards Lord Malden’s chambers.” His eyes widened. “Gods, there are hundreds of them, they’re everywhere…”

  “We have to go now,” said Mazael. He looked at Harune. “We can talk later. Are you armed? We’ll need help.”

  Harune nodded and drew his short sword.

  Mazael pushed past them, into the corridor, and almost ran into Trocend Castleson.

  “Lord Mazael!” hissed Trocend. His hair was unkempt, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He held a glass jar clutched in one hand. Within the jar a changeling’s eye spun like a child’s top. “The changelings are coming! We must move at once!”

  “I know,” said Mazael, stepping past him. “For the gods’ sake, let’s…”

  “Lord Mazael.” Lucan Mandragon appeared out the shadows, raven perched atop his shoulder. “The changelings are moving. We had best get to…” He stopped, and then Trocend saw him.

  “You!” said Trocend, raising his hands. “Did your father send you to work mischief? Or perhaps you were in league with the San-keth all along?”

  “Don’t be a fool, old man,” said Lucan. “I’ve been here all along. You simply lacked the wit to notice.” He lifted his hand, the fingers working. “And do you really think yourself strong enough to overcome me?”

  Mazael shoved between them. “You damned fools! You can butcher each other after we stop the changelings. Now…”

  Something clicked, quite loudly. Mazael turned just in time to see the door to the Trysting Ways swing open, and a dozen men in the tabards of Dominiar footmen swarm into his bedchamber.

  For a moment they gaped in confusion. Mazael saw their eyes flicker, saw the black-slit serpent gaze of San-keth changelings.

  Then they sprang forward, drawing their swords, and swarmed at Morebeth.

  Mazael raced forward, shoving Trocend out of the way. Harune scrabbled for his short sword, and Lucan began an incantation. Mazael yanked Lion free, his heart racing. He couldn’t reach them in time, couldn’t keep them from killing Morebeth…

  But Morebeth wheeled aside, cat-quick, her free hand seizing a changeling’s hair. Her other hand brought up the dagger in a quick slash, and the changeling fell with blood bubbling from a slashed throat. Another changeling stabbed at her, but Morebeth dodged aside, ducking towards the bed.

  Then Mazael crashed into the changelings, Lion a steely blur. He took the head from one, slashed the arm from another, and gutted a third. His Demonsouled rage boiled beneath his mind, but he kept a tight focus. A few sword points skidded off his cuirass, but he blocked most of the blows, driving deeper into the changelings.

  But still more rushed out of the Trysting Ways. Mazael hacked at another, saw Harune slashing with his short sword. Another changeling dashed at Morebeth, and she seized his arm, using his momentum against him. The changeling shot past her, slammed i
nto the wall, and Morebeth drove her dagger through the back of his neck. Despite the mayhem, Mazael felt a brief flash of admiration for Morebeth’s cold-eyed calm.

  Then Trocend stepped forward, purple witch-light flashing around his raised fingers, and thrust out his hand. The air shimmered, and a ghastly specter appeared, a gruesome cross between a misshapen ape and a vulture. The creature loosed a warbling cry and ripped a changeling in half, its fangs tearing out the throat of another. Lucan made a chopping motion with his hand, and an unseen force seized three changelings and slammed them against the wall with bone-shattering force.

  Mazael parried a blow, raised his free hand, and knocked a changeling back with a ferocious punch. The changeling staggered back with a wail of pain, and Trocend’s winged monster tore it to shreds.

  The last changeling fell, the rest fleeing into the Trysting Ways. Blood covered the floor in a sticky coat. Mazael stepped towards the secret door, sword raised, but no further changelings appeared.

  “Timothy, Harune,” said Mazael, kicking the secret door shut. “Push the bed in front of the damned door.” The two men hastened to comply. “We’ve got to rouse the castle. Come on, move!”

  “But the lady,” said Trocend, squinting at Morebeth, “we cannot leave her here!” The bed slammed against the door.

  “I will stay with you,” said Morebeth, wiping her dagger clean on a dead changeling’s tabard.

  “Go!” said Mazael. “Lord Malden could lie dying as we speak!” He felt a surge of twisting fear. Had they gotten to Gerald already? Had they murdered Rachel? “Timothy! Rouse the castle. Get to the barracks and ring the alarm bells. Go!” Timothy turned and sprinted away in a swirl of black cloak. “Come!”

  They hastened into the corridors of Oliver’s Keep, which stood dark and silent. Mazael saw nothing, and heard nothing but the raspy breathing of his companions.

  “We must go to Lord Malden’s rooms,” said Trocend, “if the Dominiars have come to kill him. He is lodging in the Tower of Guard tonight, with Lady Claretta…”

  “But what of my sister?” said Mazael. They clattered through the gates of Oliver’s Keep and into the Court of Challengers. “Or Sir Gerald, or Sir Tobias? They’re all in the Old Keep! We can’t…”

  “Trocend can warn Lord Malden,” said Lucan. “Lord Mazael and I will see to Lord Malden’s sons.”

  “I cannot go alone,” said Trocend. “I am but an old man…”

  “Don’t play me for a fool,” said Mazael, running for the ramp to the High Court. “You’re hardly helpless. And get some of Lord Malden’s armsmen, if you need aid. Now go!”

  Trocend scowled at Mazael, but nonetheless ran off with surprising speed. Mazael raced through the barbican to the High Court. The armsmen standing guard at the gate stared at him.

  “We are under attack!” said Mazael. “Get to the Old Keep and defend your lord, now!”

  They gaped at him. Mazael didn’t bother to see if they had obeyed. He cursed under his breath, wishing he had insisted that Rachel stay in Oliver’s Keep. Lord Malden had lodged Rachel in the Old Keep, in the quarters of the Rolands’ most honored guest, since she would soon become a Roland.

  She might well die in comfortable luxury, if Mazael didn’t get there in time.

  Four household knights stood on guard before the gates of the Old Keep. They moved to block Mazael’s approach.

  “Move, you damned idiots,” roared Mazael.

  “Lord Mazael,” said one the knights, “no one is permitted to enter the Old Keep without Lord Malden’s…”

  Mazael shoved aside the knight and kicked open the door.

  The knights yelled, stepped forward, and came to a stunned halt when they saw the two dozen changelings or so standing in the keep’s great hall.

  Mazael bellowed and sprang at them, Harune a half-step behind him. Mazael took the arm from a changeling, wheeled, killed another. He heard Lucan chanting something, saw Harune chopping and stabbing.

  Lord Malden’s knights stared in shock.

  “Fight, you cowards!” said Morebeth, her voice ringing. “Fight and defend your lord!”

  The knights ran forward, drawing their swords, and the armsmen dashed through the opened doors. Mazael tore into the changelings with abandon, blood running down Lion’s blade. Rachel and her maids had been lodged on the second floor of the Old Keep. If he could just cut his way through …

  Two changelings came at Mazael, screaming, swords raised high. Mazael parried the first blow, twisted around the second, and sidestepped the third. His sword crashed through a gap in the changeling’s armor, sent it sprawling to the ground.

  He wheeled to face the second one, Lion arcing in a crimson blur, and Lucan cast a spell.

  The air crackled with energy. A half-dozen glowing, translucent wolves appeared out of nothingness, ripped from the spirit world by the force of Lucan’s magic, and pounced upon the changelings. Fangs and claws shredded changeling flesh, blood staining the ancient flagstones of the Old Keep. Mazael cut his way through the melee, his teeth clenched. Another few steps, a few more changelings, and he could race to the stairs…

  A high keening sound sliced into his ears, and then something hard and invisible slammed into Mazael with a thunderclap. He went sprawling to the ground, as did a dozen changelings and most of Lord Malden’s men. Mazael groaned and went to one knee, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears. Had Lucan lost control of his spell?

  He looked up, and saw Straganis.

  The San-keth archpriest skittered towards him, spider legs creaking, green fires crackling around his ghastly hands.

  “For your crimes,” hissed Straganis, hands lifting, “for your murder of the cleric Skhath, I sentence you to death!”

  Mazael lurched to his feet, his trying to regain his balance. He heard Morebeth shout something, heard the groans of wounded men, Straganis’s voice droning in a necromantic incantation. He took a staggering step towards Straganis, but he knew could not reach his enemy in time…

  Then a rushing roar filled the air. Straganis lurched back, the fires around his hands winking out, his spidery legs buckling with stress. Mazael saw Lucan running towards the San-keth archpriest, hands out, lips twisting in a spell. Straganis snarled and thrust out his hands. Part of the wall exploded in a spray of debris, and the rushing sound ended.

  “So!” said Straganis, straightening up, “you dare to face me again, maggot?”

  “I defeated you once before, did I not?” said Lucan, circling Straganis.

  “You escaped because of chance,” said Straganis. “And you will not escape again.”

  He thrust out his hands, and a half-dozen wraith-like tigers appeared from nothingness and sprang at Lucan. Lucan gestured, and his translucent wolves leapt from the mauled corpses of the changelings and intercepted Straganis’s tigers. Both Lucan and Straganis began new spells, gesturing like madmen, their voices thundering with arcane power.

  Mazael raced for the stairs.

  ###

  Adalar blinked awake.

  He had a gag in his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes. Rough hands dug into his shoulders, half-dragging, half-pushing him forward.

  “Ah,” he heard Amalric say, “here we are.”

  The click of a secret door opening seemed very loud in Adalar’s ears.

  ###

  A ghostly beast, like a lion with kraken's tentacles, fell from the ceiling, jaws snapping for Lucan's head. One of his wolves leapt up and intercepted the creature. Another of Straganis's tigers seized the opportunity and charged at Lucan. Lucan cast another spell, the arcane energies thrumming through his bones, and banished the creature back to the spirit world.

  Straganis hissed, venom dripping from his fangs, and began another spell. The hall of the Old Keep thundered with the opposing magic, echoing with screams of pain and the ring of steel as changelings and armsmen battled.

  Lucan gritted his teeth, spread his fingers, and made a lifting motion. Three dropped swords floated off th
e floor. He made a slashing gesture and sent the weapons spinning at Straganis. One of Straganis's tigers jumped, caught a sword in the throat, and vanished. Straganis crossed his arms, a silvery mist shimmering around his misshapen form. The remaining swords crumbled into a cloud of orange rust.

  Straganis struck again, with a spell that made the floor tremble and the air ring, and Lucan barely turned it aside. The effort made knives of pain dig into his head.

  Once again, he was overmatched. He had enough power to turn Straganis's spells, and even to strike back, but he had nothing to pierce Straganis's protections. Their struggle would become a battle of attrition, and Straganis would outlast him.

  But he had expected that.

  Straganis sent a chunk of shattered masonry hurtling towards Lucan's head. He gathered his will and flung it into a changeling. Straganis's will struck at Lucan again, and again, and the third strike sent Lucan flying.

  He smashed hard into the wall, his head ringing, blood splashing across his lips. Lucan spat a curse and rolled to one knee, saw his spirit-minions fleeing in all directions, Straganis's creatures overwhelming them.

  Lucan had landed next to one of the doors into the Trysting Ways.

  He scrambled to his feet, triggered the door, and slipped inside.

  He heard the skittering clicks as Straganis followed in pursuit.

  ###

  Mazael dashed up the stairs, the noise of the melee below ringing in his ears. He wanted to turn and fight, wanted to plunge into the battle below. How could he leave Lucan and the others to fight alone? But he could not stand against Straganis's magic. And if he stayed, if he fought, Rachel might die.

  If she hadn't died already.

  He raced around a corner and came to her door.

  It was locked.

  Mazael spat a curse and rammed his shoulder against the door, all his strength behind it. The wood shattered and Mazael half-jumped, half-fell through the door. Rachel lay sleeping in the great bed, dark hair fanned across the pillows. Her maids and ladies-in-waiting slept on cots around the bed.