“It has been a long war,” said Harune, “and only rarely have mortal men learned of it. And now a great battle comes.”
“The war between the Dominiars and Lord Malden,” said Mazael.
“Hardly,” said Harune. “That will bring suffering and death, doubt not. But it is just a mask, a cover for the real battle.”
“Against Straganis,” said Lucan. “If you wish to kill him, you have my wholehearted approval.”
“Straganis is powerful,” said Harune, “but even he is not our greatest enemy.” He stared at Mazael with inhuman, reptilian eyes. “You know.”
“The Demonsouled,” said Mazael, his mouth try.
Harune nodded. The gesture looked odd, with his serpentine neck.
“And the greatest of the Demonsouled,” said Mazael. “The Old Demon.”
“Aye,” said Harune. “The spirit of the Great Demon lay with mortal woman, and the Old Demon was born, and from him was spawned the race of Demonsouled. He survived the destruction of Tristafel. For three thousand years he has wandered the face of the earth, sowing hatred, reaping misery, ruining souls, moving the kingdoms of men as if they were pieces on a chessboard.”
“But why?” said Mazael. “What does he want? Is he evil or mad? Does he just act out of malice?”
“He does,” said Harune, “but he has a greater goal. He wishes to succeed his father, to claim the Great Demon's empty throne for himself. But to do so he needs power even greater than his own. So he sires children, permits them to wreak havoc for a time, and once they have grown strong, he devours them, adding their might to his own.” Mazael shuddered, remembering the Old Demon’s furious taunts. “The Old Demon has grown strong in this way. Do you know the legend of the Destroyer?”
“A child of the Old Demon will one day enslave the kingdoms of men,” whispered Mazael, “make himself lord of over the earth, and claim the throne of the Great Demon.”
“It will happen,” said Harune, “and then the Old Demon will devour the Destroyer, claim the Great Demon's throne, and make himself king and god over the earth. Why am I telling you this, you asked?” He looked Mazael in the eye, scales reddening. “I know you are Demonsouled, Lord Mazael, a child of the Old Demon.”
Mazael said nothing.
“But I also know that you have, somehow, gained the strength to deny your father, to deny your black heritage,” said Harune. “Your soul and will are your own, and not the Old Demon's. We need your help, if the Old Demon is to be stopped.”
“What do you ask of me?” said Mazael, his voice hoarse.
“Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith is Demonsouled, a child of the Old Demon, just as you are,” said Harune.
Lucan swore.
“He knows what he is,” said Harune, “and unlike you, he has embraced his heritage. He wishes to become the Destroyer, to take the Great Demon's throne, and to impose his vision of order and justice over the world. He does not know that he is but the Old Demon's puppet, that his father will betray and devour him. Amalric wants to remake the world, and he will begin with Mastaria and Knightcastle.”
“Morebeth,” said Mazael, licking his lips. “What of Morebeth? Is she...is she...”
“Fear not,” said Harune. “She is not Demonsouled. Nor does she know the truth about her brother. She hates and fears him for his cruelty, and believes you can protect her from him. She is cold and fearful, but not Demonsouled.”
“Splendid,” said Lucan. “She's but coldly manipulative, not evil. So. What do you require of Lord Mazael?”
“You have to kill Amalric,” said Harune.
Mazael said nothing.
“In all of history, only three children of the Old Demon have rejected him,” said Harune. “That gives you power. Not so blatant as the power usually conferred by Demonsouled blood, but potent nonetheless. You are the only one strong enough to face Amalric and have a chance of...”
The door burst open. Harune whirled, and Timothy shouted something.
Trocend Castleson stalked into the room, robe swirling around him, eyes wide and hair wild.
Lucan swore again.
“So!” said Trocend, glaring at Harune and Lucan. “The Mandragon wizard is in league with the San-keth? I thought so. This treachery ends now!”
“Stop this!” said Mazael. “This isn't a San-keth!”
“Do you take me for a fool?” said Trocend, all trace of his calm demeanor gone. “How else did hundreds of those damned changelings get into the castle? It only remains to be seen, Lord Mazael, if you were merely duped, or an active heretic...”
“I know it is hard to live a lie,” said Harune.
Trocend froze, his face twisting.
“All your life you have labored in the shadows,” said Harune quietly, “working to protect your lord from arcane threats, to keep his people safe. And yet, if they knew what you were, if they learned you were a false monk, they would kill you without mercy. I understand that. So strike me down, if you wish. I have fought to protect your home from the San-keth, but you know nothing of that. So I expect no gratitude, only violence.”
Trocend said nothing, his hands knotting.
“Do you really think I allied with the San-keth to kill Lord Malden?” said Lucan, standing.
Trocend's bloodshot eyes shifted to Lucan.
“I can give you proof that I did not,” said Lucan.
Trocend's lip twisted. “Can you?”
“If I had tried to kill Lord Malden,” said Lucan, “he would already be dead. And you would have never known who had done it.”
Trocend sneered. “You are an arrogant pup.”
“Perhaps,” said Lucan. “But I'm right.”
Trocend stared at them. Mazael adjusted his grip on Lion. If Trocend decided to fight...
“We have not been introduced,” said Trocend, his eyes flicking to Harune. Some his calm returned. “Perhaps you should explain to me why a San-keth with arms and legs is standing in my lord's castle.”
“I am not San-keth,” said Harune, “but Ang-kath.”
Harune told Trocend everything he had told Mazael. He did not, though, mention Mazael's Demonsouled heritage. Trocend listened with a scowl, his gray brows knit, eyes glinting.
“Do you,” said Trocend, when Harune had finished, “really expect me to believe that?”
Harune shrugged, scales rippling. “It is the truth.”
“Is it?” said Trocend, shaking his head. “A fantastical tale, no doubt.” But his voice held no conviction.
“You have heard the tales of Amalric's cruelties, how he waded through rivers of blood,” said Harune.
“And does that make him Demonsouled?” said Trocend. “Men are cruel enough without diabolical influence.”
“Do you believe in the San-keth?” said Harune.
Trocend scoffed. “I have seen the changelings. Do you think me a fool?”
“So, then, if you believe in the San-keth, is it so hard to believe in Demonsouled?”
“No,” said Trocend, sighing. “No, it is not.”
“We need your help,” said Mazael, “to stop Amalric. You helped us against the changelings. Help us against Amalric.”
Trocend said nothing.
“Amalric must be stopped,” said Harune. “Trocend Castleson, your oath and your loyalty is to your lord. If you wish to serve him, if you wish to keep Knightcastle safe, then you must stop Amalric. Otherwise he will destroy Knightrealm with fire and sword, stain the walls of Knightcastle with blood. Lucan Mandragon. You wish to stop the dark powers?”
“How could you know that?” said Lucan, face cold.
“It is written in everything you do,” said Harune. “If you wish to stop the dark powers, if you wish for no one to ever again experience your torment, then you must help stop Amalric. Lord Mazael. You want to keep your people safe from war and harm. Amalric will raze the Grim Marches, if he grows strong enough to become the Destroyer. He will destroy your lands, if he can, slaughter your people, and your betrothed
will never be free of his shadow while he lives.”
“I will do what I can,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria, thinking of the Old Demon, standing atop that altar. “If there is a way to stop him, then I will find it.”
“And I am with you, too,” said Timothy, hands clenched into fists. “I saw enough of that Demonsouled fiend Simonian at Castle Cravenlock."
“Lord Malden must know nothing of this,” said Trocend.
“He would neither believe nor understand,” said Harune. “He thinks the Dominiars came to kill him. When he marches against the Dominiars, we must come with him.”
“We'll stop him,” said Timothy. “By the gods, we will.”
“The gods,” said Trocend, “have nothing to do with the Demonsouled.”
Mazael shuddered.
###
Lucan watched the others make their pact.
He needed power.
He had come so close to defeating Straganis. A little more power, just a little more arcane strength, and he could have rid the world of the San-keth archpriest once and for all. Even a few seconds of extra strength would have proved sufficient.
His eyes strayed to Mazael's bloodstained tunic, lying in the corner.
The blood of even a minor Demonsouled carried tremendous power. The blood of a child of the Old Demon held great might. If Lucan could distill the essence of the blood, work it into an elixir, he could use it to power his spells, if only for a few moments.
As they left for Lord Malden's war council, Lucan pulled his mind-clouding glamour tighter and took the tunic.
He needed the strength. He would face Straganis again, no doubt, but this time he would triumph.
Chapter 9
1
Destroyer
Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith stood on the walls of Castle Caerglamm, watching the sea.
The ancient castle sat on the high bluffs of the Mastarian coastline, its strong walls battered by centuries of storms. The landward walls faced grassy moors, dotted with occasional hills and boulders. A sea of tents now filled the moors, campfires crackling, the black Dominiar banner flapping in the sea breeze. The castle had been a druid stronghold, centuries ago, a nest of pagan worship. But the Dominiar Order had come and purified the castle in an orgy of slaughter.
Amalric watched the sea crash and foam against fallen boulders. He imagined it as a sea of blood, corpses choking the beach.
The vision would become real, soon enough. He would make it real.
The thought thrilled him.
He turned from the battlements, walking along the ramparts. It had begun, and nothing could turn it back. Nothing could stop Lord Malden and Grand Master Malleus from waging war upon each other. Amalric had failed to assassinate Lord Malden, but that didn’t matter. War would come, and swiftly. Castle Caerglamm lay but two days' march from Tumblestone. They would march, and take Tumblestone, and then Knightcastle, and then...
And then...
The dark fire in his Demonsouled blood blazed, making him stronger.
Amalric smiled, closing a gloved hand.
He looked forward to the war, to killing Lord Mazael. Then man had proved an annoyance. He still had Mazael's foolish squire, rotting in a cell beneath Caerglamm. Perhaps he would present Mazael with the squire's head. Or perhaps he would give the boy to Straganis...
Of course, Malleus knew nothing of Amalric's alliance with the San-keth, nor of the changelings. The old man believed the San-keth legendary, a lie told to keep the commoners loyal to the church.
Nor did Malleus believe in Demonsouled.
Amalric laughed. He looked forward to the expression on Malleus's face when the old man leanred the truth. He looked forward to killing his sister.
He looked forward to many things.
“Amalric.”
Amalric turned, annoyed and angry. Who had dared sneak up on him? For that matter, who even had the ability...
A man in a black robe stood on the ramparts, smiling at him.
Amalric's blood roared within him like thunder, power calling to greater power.
The gray-eyed, hawk-nosed man in the black robe had many names. Sometimes he went by the name of Mattias Comorian, a wandering jongleur, and sang songs of woe and death. Sometimes he called himself Simonian of Briault, a feared necromancer, and took the guise of an iron-bearded old man with murky eyes.
He had visited Knightcastle, millennia past, under the name of Marugot the Warlock, and convinced the last Roland king to ride to his death.
The Elderborn of the forest called him sar'diskhar, the Hand of Chaos.
In ancient Tristafel, long ago, they had called him the Malevagr.
But most folk knew him as the Old Demon, the last child of the Great Demon.
“Amalric,” repeated the Old Demon.
Amalric dropped to one knee, head bowed. “My father.”
The Old Demon beckoned. “Rise, my son.”
Amalric obeyed and joined his father. The Old Demon gazed down at the sea. Sometimes a hint of red light glimmered deep in his eyes. Amalric felt the power in his father, the utter irresistible force.
“My son,” repeated the Old Demon. “Tell me of yourself.”
“It is beginning,” said Amalric. “I have convinced Malleus to retake Tumblestone at any cost. And Lord Malden will fight, now that I have tried to murder him and his sons.”
“Did you kill them?” said the Old Demon, indifferent.
“No.”
“It matters not,” said the Old Demon. “All mortals die, soon enough.”
“I will kill them all.”
“Yes,” whispered the Old Demon.
“The war cannot be stopped now,” said Amalric. “We march for Tumblestone very soon.”
“You have done well,” said the Old Demon. “You have proved yourself worthy. Of all my children, you are the strongest.”
Amalric's face twisted with hate. “I am the strongest.”
“The worthiest,” said the Old Demon. “I have something for you.”
He opened his cloak and pulled free a sheathed sword.
Amalric's lips parted in wonder, his hand twitching towards the weapon.
From a scabbard of dark wood rose a hilt and crosspiece of crimson gold. The pommel had been carved in the shape of a roaring demon's head, the ears and fangs sharp as knives. Looking at it made the hair on Amalric's neck stand up. He sensed the power woven into the blade, worked into the very metal.
It called to his Demonsouled blood like a siren's song.
“It's yours,” said the Old Demon, the sword resting on his palms. “Take it.”
Amalric drew the sword from its scabbard, the blade rasping against the leather. The hilt felt like an extension of his hand. Long lines of runes ran down the center of the crimson blade, flashing with ruby light. Power seemed to thrum and crackle within the weapon, woven into the very steel.
The sun glinted off the metal, the blade gleaming like fresh-spilled blood.
“It is marvelous,” said Amalric.
“It is a sword worthy of you,” said the Old Demon. “A sword worthy of the Destroyer.”
Amalric looked up.
“The time has come,” said the Old Demon. “Of all my children, you have are the strongest. The world is yours, my son. You are the only one worthy to become the Destroyer.”
“I am yours to command,” said Amalric.
“Go from this place,” said the Old Demon, “and lead your armies from here. Take Tumblestone. Take Knightcastle. Slaughter anyone who dares oppose you. Every death will make you stronger, make the blood of the Great Demon burn ever hotter within you. You will become the Destroyer. And when you are strong enough, when you are great enough, you can claim the throne of the Great Demon for yourself.”
“But what of you, my father?” said Amalric.
“Myself?” said the Old Demon, distractedly, as if it did not matter a great deal. “Why, I shall watch over you from afar, as I have always done. I would seize
the throne of my father, if I could.” He sighed. “But it is not my destiny to do so. And even I cannot change my destiny.” He glanced at Amalric. “But it is the Destroyer's destiny, your destiny, to replace the Great Demon and rule over the mortal races as a god over crawling insects. And once you have become the Destroyer...why, I shall remain at your side forevermore.”
Amalric did not know, and the Old Demon did not mention, that destinies could be stolen.
“We will make this world anew, you and I,” said Amalric.
“Go,” said the Old Demon, holding out the scabbard. Amalric took it. “You know what to do.”
Amalric bowed low, turned, and began walking away.
“Oh, my son?”
Amalric turned again.
The Old Demon smiled, the red glint in his eyes brightening. “There is one thing I wish to ask of you, just one small thing.”
“Anything, my father,” said Amalric.
“Do you know Lord Mazael Cravenlock?” said the Old Demon, his voice darkening.
“My sister seduced him with her whorish ways,” said Amalric, his own voice hardening.
“He is your half-brother,” said the Old Demon, “my son.”
Amalric stepped back a step, eyes widening.
“I once thought he could embrace his blood, embrace his potential,” said the Old Demon. “I thought to make him the Destroyer. Instead he rejected both me and the gifts of his blood. He has chosen to live as a mortal, as a tame wolf among sheep.” The red gleam spread across the Old Demon's eyes like a bloody glaze. “Kill him.”
“I shall lay his head at your feet,” said Amalric, banging his fist against his breastplate.
“Good,” said the Old Demon. “Now go. Take what is yours by right.”
Amalric blinked, and the Old Demon was gone.
He drew his old sword from its scabbard with his left hand. Grand Master Malleus himself had given Amalric that sword, years ago. Amalric had slain a thousand foes with it, slaughtered pagans and druids alike, won great glory for the Dominiar Order.
He flung it over the rampart wall. It hurtled end over end towards the sea, struck a boulder, and vanished into the waves.
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