Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Lord Malden sat slumped in the pew before the bier, head bowed, face hidden beneath his unwashed gray hair. He had not even bothered to put on a hat.

  Mazael walked to his side. “My lord.”

  Lord Malden did not move. For a fearful instant Mazael wondered if the old man had died of grief.

  “My lord.”

  Lord Malden looked up, tears glittering on his cheeks. “I wish to speak with no one. Leave me.”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “Leave me!”

  “No,” repeated Mazael.

  Lord Malden's bloodshot eyes narrowed, and for a moment his old glare returned. Then looked away and slumped back into the pew. “Do as you wish. I care not.”

  “You have to hold court,” said Mazael.

  Lord Malden said nothing.

  “The Dominiars have marched,” said Mazael. “They’re probably laying siege to Tumblestone as we speak. If Tumblestone falls, there will be nothing to stop them from marching into Knightrealm, maybe even to Knightcastle. You must act now.”

  Still Lord Malden said nothing.

  “Are you listening to me?” said Mazael. For a moment he wanted to strike the other man. He fought the urge down, fearing that it came from his Demonsouled blood.

  “You were right,” said Lord Malden.

  Mazael blinked.

  Lord Malden looked up. He seemed to have aged twenty years in the last three days. Mazael had seen Lord Malden angry and sad, exultant and mournful. But never had Lord Malden looked so weary.

  For the first time that Mazael could remember, Lord Malden looked genuinely old.

  “You warned me, didn't you?” said Lord Malden. “I already lost both Belifane and Mandor to my wars. You said that if I went to war again, more of my sons would die.”

  “I did,” said Mazael. He had forgotten that.

  “Now war comes,” said Lord Malden. “And my son lies dead on this bier. He should have been the Lord of Knightcastle after me. He would have made a good Lord. A better Lord than I, I think. My folly has slain him. Now leave me.”

  “You yet have two sons,” said Mazael. “Fight for them. And you have Knightcastle, and your lands, and your people. They need you to defend them.”

  “Power and lands?” snarled Lord Malden, his voice shaking. “Those things are empty and meaningless. I thought you knew that already. Well, you'll learn it soon enough.”

  “Are your oaths to your people meaningless?” said Mazael. “A lord swears to defend his people?”

  “How many other fathers will see their sons die in the coming months?” said Lord Malden.

  “And how many more will die if you do not act?” said Mazael.

  “Leave me!” said Lord Malden. “I am weary of life. Go!”

  “With or without Tumblestone, this war still would have come,” said Mazael.

  “Then should I have simply given up Tumblestone?” said Lord Malden. “Should I have made Mandor's sacrifice meaningless?” He laughed, his voice shrill and unsteady. “But it seems I have, haven't I? Garain is dead, for nothing, and once the Dominiars take Tumblestone, Mandor will have died for nothing, too.”

  “Even if you had given up Tumblestone, war still would have come, in the end,” said Mazael. He hesitated. “Amalric Galbraith is Demonsouled.”

  “There's no such thing,” said Lord Malden.

  “Don't be a fool,” said Mazael, his anger growing. Lord Malden flinched as if slapped. “I've seen San-keth and Demonsouled with my own eyes. And you have, too, at least the San-keth. Keep lying to yourself if you wish. It's Amalric who convinced Malleus to retake Tumblestone, Amalric who allied with the San-keth, and Amalric who is coming for your people. Perhaps it would mean nothing if Malleus conquered Knightcastle. Perhaps one lord is much the same as another, at least to the peasants. But a Demonsouled, Lord Malden...would you give your people over to his hands? You've heard the stories of what Amalric did the Old Kingdoms...will you let him do the same to Knightrealm?”

  Lord Malden stared up at Mazael.

  “You might,” said Mazael, “but I will not. If you will not defend your people then I will.” He turned to go.

  “Wait.”

  Mazael looked back.

  Lord Malden rose. “I will hold court.”

  ###

  A dusty, weary messenger knelt before Lord Malden.

  Lord Malden sat on his throne in the Hall of Triumphs. The banners, the statues, the shields, the triumphs of long-forgotten wars, seemed to mock the grief-stricken man slumped on the throne. Mazael, standing by Lord Malden's side, wondered if he was paying attention.

  “Rainier Agravain, Lord of Tumblestone, and your loyal vassal,” said the messenger, “sends word to you, Lord Malden, begging for your aid.”

  Lord Malden stared down, his faced etched with despair.

  “The host of the Dominiars has marched,” said the messenger. “They have burned every village in their path, seized all the crops.” He swallowed and made a sign to ward off evil. “They...slaughtered all the peasants in their path. Even the women and the children. The Dominiars...they impaled them. Mounted them on stakes ringed around the burning villages. I saw it with my own eyes, my lord. It was like a scene out of hell.”

  A muscle in Lord Malden's face twitched, but he did not speak.

  “Who commands the Dominiars?” said Mazael. “Malleus?”

  “No, Lord Mazael,” said the messenger. “According to the rumors,” he glanced at Lord Malden, “our lord Malden sent San-keth assassins to murder Malleus and most of the Dominiar commanders. The Dominiar heralds call out the name of Grand Master Amalric Galbraith.”

  Mazael saw Morebeth's lip curl into a sneer.

  “They were marching up the coast,” said the messenger, “destroying every village in their path. Lord Rainier has only two hundred knights and a thousand militia from the city. The Dominiars have at least ten thousand men, a great host. Perhaps fifteen thousand, and maybe even twenty thousand. Lord Rainier dared not stand against them. He withdrew behind the walls of Tumblestone, along with many peasants fleeing the Dominiar armies.”

  “Have they laid siege yet?” said Mazael.

  “They had not when Lord Rainier sent me,” said the messenger, “though they were preparing to do so.” He shook his head. “Tumblestone will have fallen under siege by now. Lord Malden, you must not let the city fall. The Dominiars will slaughter everyone within the walls, if they can.” His eyes darted to Mazael, then back to Lord Malden. “My lord, we must march at once, if we are to lift the siege.”

  “What hope is there?” said Lord Malden, his voice soft and cracked. “More death, more slaughter, more ruin...that is all that awaits us.” He lapsed into a grim silence.

  An uneasy rustle went through the assembled lords and knights. Mazael scowled. If they fled back to their castles, there would be no way to stop the Dominiars, no way to turn back Amalric.

  “Lord,” said Mazael. Lord Malden turned watery eyes towards him. “You must ride out. There is no else who can lead your vassals, your knights. Knightrealm will fall, unless you can find the will to defend it.”

  “I am an old man,” whispered Lord Malden, “why will they not leave me in peace?”

  “The Justiciar Order will ride to defeat the Dominiars,” said Sir Commander Galan Hawking, stepping from the Justiciar Knights. “With or without Lord Malden's help. The Dominiars are our ancient enemies, and once they enter Knightrealm they will come for us. We have five hundred knights and a thousand footmen here with us. Our Grand Master at Swordor will send more, but they will not arrive for at least a week. The Dominiars are stronger than us. We will have a better chance of victory if Knightcastle and Swordor stand together against the Dominiars.”

  Lord Malden's mouth twitched.

  “If you will not go yourself,” said Mazael, “then appoint someone to lead your army. Give the command to Sir Tobias, or Sir Gerald, or one of your vassals.” He scowled. “Even give it to the Justiciars. Someone
must defend your lands.”

  “Tobias,” said Lord Malden, his voice a thick rasp. “Come here.”

  Sir Tobias approached the dais, his jaw set.

  “You are my eldest son now,” said Lord Malden, “the heir to Knightcastle. I...cannot lead our host against the Dominiars. I no longer have strength or will. You must take command, my son, and defend our lands and people.”

  “Father,” said Tobias, swallowing. “I cannot.”

  “Why not?” said Lord Malden, scowling. “You have led men in battle before. You have ridden well in tournaments across the land. And more, you are a Roland. The right to command is in your blood.”

  “I have never led the whole host of Knightrealm,” said Tobias. His face worked. “It...I am not ready. If I take command...we could very well be defeated. What would then become of our lands and people?”

  Lord Malden snarled. “If you will not do your duty...”

  “Give Lord Mazael the command,” said Tobias.

  Mazael flinched. Morebeth smiled.

  “He defeated the Dominiars once before at Tumblestone,” said Tobias. “We always claimed that Sir Mandor had won the victory...but he had been dead for days by then. It was Mazael who took command, Mazael who won Tumblestone for us. He defeated his brother and became Lord of Castle Cravenlock. And he won the great tournament, did he not? Give him the command.”

  “I will follow Lord Mazael,” Sir Gerald, stepping forward. “It would be nothing new, after all.”

  “If Lord Mazael takes command,” said Sir Commander Galan, “then I will follow his will. He is the best commander among us all.”

  “I know my brother,” said Morebeth, her voice ringing like a trumpet. All eyes turned to face her. “He is a hard and ruthless man. He will not stop until the Dominiar banner flies over Knightcastle and the people of Knightrealm have been made his slaves. Lord Mazael is strong enough to defeat Amalric. You must give him this command, Lord Malden. It is your only hope.”

  Lord Malden bowed his head, chin almost touching his chest. For a long moment he sat that way. Mazael wondered if he would ever look up again, or if the despair and grief had crushed his heart.

  He looked up.

  “Go, Lord Mazael,” Lord Malden said, his voice little more than a faint rasp. “I name you the Lord Champion of Knightcastle, and give you authority to lead my armies in battle and to defend Tumblestone from the Dominiars. Go and do as you will. It matters very little to me, any more.”

  “I will, my lord,” said Mazael.

  Lord Malden said nothing.

  Mazael turned, saw the assembled court of Knightcastle staring at him.

  “We fight,” he said.

  ###

  The fields between Knightcastle and Castle Town rumbled with the clap of hooves, the tramp of boots, and the groan of cartwheels. Clouds of dust rose high, staining the blue sky. Mazael rode on Mantle, a squire leading Chariot by the reins.

  He wondered if Adalar yet lived.

  Behind him rode a gaggle of lords and knights.

  “Lord Tancred,” said Mazael. The stout lord rode up. “Sir Garain was in charge of the train and supplies. Take over for him. Have the wagons and the mules ready by midday.”

  Lord Tancred bowed and rode away.

  “Gerald!” said Mazael. Gerald joined him, Wesson jogging after. “Take charge of the footmen. Get them ready to march. Again, I want to be gone by midday.”

  Gerald nodded, then sighed. “Off to war against the Dominiars again, Mazael. You'd think the last time would have settled it.”

  “You'd think,” said Mazael. Of course, five years ago the Dominiars had not been led by a Demonsouled, nor had Mazael known of his own dark nature. Life had been simpler. “Get going. We'll have plenty of time to reminisce on the march.” Gerald nodded again and rode off, Wesson racing after.

  “Sir Tobias!” called Mazael. Tobias looked happier already, now that the burden of responsibility had been lifted from him. “Take charge of the household knights and the vassals. Terrorize the proud fools into obedience if you must, but get them ready.” Lord Malden's household knights, reliant upon Lord Malden's goodwill, were reliable, well-trained, and obedient. Lord Malden's vassals, each proud, ruthless, and commanding a band of knights and armsmen, were not. In the face of the disciplined Dominiar footmen and knights, an ill-timed charge from a glory-hungry vassal might get them all killed. “Have them ready to ride...”

  “By midday,” said Tobias.

  “Glad someone was listening,” said Mazael. “Go. Amalric will not wait upon our convenience.”

  Tobias galloped away. Mazael put heels to Mantle and rode for Knightcastle's barbican. Sir Aulus rode before him, the Cravenlock and Roland banners streaming from his lance. Four other horsemen rode below the walls of Knightcastle, and Mazael saw Timothy, Lucan, Trocend, and Harune Dustfoot riding toward him.

  “We are with you, my lord,” said Timothy, closing his fist. “I've seen tyrants like this Amalric before, and I won't let another one rise.”

  “Yes,” said Lucan. He had abandoned his glamour of mind-clouding, choosing instead to disguise himself as a common armsman. Perhaps he wished to conserve his power. “And if Straganis comes for you again, you will need me.”

  “Everything is at stake here,” said Harune, again hidden in his magical disguise. While Trocend had accepted the Ang-kath, Mazael doubted that anyone else would have done so. “We cannot fail. The cost would be to great.”

  “Rather understating things, I daresay,” said Trocend.

  “Good,” said Mazael, reining up. “Wait here. We'll join the rest of the host after I'm finished here.” He slid from the saddle and walked to the great arch of the gate. Many noble ladies stood there, watching their husbands ride off to war.

  Rachel came up, hugged him. Mazael wasn't worried for her safety. The San-keth had tried to kill her, but the San-keth had been tools of Amalric. And Amalric's attention was focused upon war.

  “Be safe,” she whispered. “Come back to us.”

  “I will,” said Mazael. “And I'll bring Gerald back, too.” He hoped to the gods he found a way to do it.

  She smiled, blinking back tears. “I...should be worried about Gerald. But I know he'll come back. I just know it.” She bit her lip. “It's you I'm worried about. I'm worried that you won't come back at all. Or that something terrible will happen to you.”

  “I will come back,” said Mazael.

  Rachel kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful.” She smiled again, sadly, and walked away.

  Mazael watched her go, then saw Morebeth standing in the shadow of the arch. She came to him and gave him a forceful kiss that lasted for a long time.

  “I think,” said Mazael, “that they can spare me for a few minutes.”

  “No,” she said, eyes glinting, “they can't. But I'll be waiting for you when you come back. Make that bastard Amalric regret that he ever met you.”

  “I will,” said Mazael, “if I can.”

  “Of course you can,” said Morebeth. “You're stronger than he ever will be. You'll defeat him and the Dominiars.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps we'll have our wedding in the great hall of Castle Dominus.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael. He gave her one last kiss, then went to rejoin his army.

  2

  The Battle of Tumblestone

  They left at midday, crossing the Riversteel at Castle Town’s great bridge, and swung to the south. Lord Malden's household knights rode in the van, along with the vassals and their knights, followed by a long column of footmen. Behind the footmen came the rumbling chaos of the supply train, wagons with cursing drivers, mules burdened with supplies. The Justiciar Knights rode in their own columns, knights at the front, footmen marching behind.

  Mazael rode back and forth along the host, watching the men. The knights were battle-ready and skilled with weapons, though lacking in necessary discipline. Most of the footmen were peasant conscripts, and Mazael saw some men who carried t
heir weapons well, veterans of Lord Malden's last campaign against the Dominiars. He even recognized some.

  But he saw far too many young men, little more than boys, too young to have marched against the Dominiars five years past. He doubted that any of them had ever seen a serious battle. How many knew how to use a spear?

  For that matter, how many would lie dead in a week's time? How many more would lose a hand or an arm, maimed for life? But if Amalric conquered Knightcastle, if he became the Destroyer, all these men would die, and many more besides. Mazael steeled himself. Mazael had fought to stop this war, but if war was the only way to stop Amalric, then he would wage it.

  The Justiciars, at least, were disciplined, their footmen well-drilled and well-trained, the Knights riding in lockstep. Mazael might have no choice but to rely on Galan Hawking's men. The Dominiars were at least as disciplined as the Justiciars, if not more so.

  They managed ten miles and made camp by the banks of the Riversteel. Mazael gave orders for the men to dig ditches for defense and for latrines, forbidding them from relieving themselves into the river. He did not want the army dying of dysentery before they even reached Tumblestone. A few judicious whippings of offenders emphasized his point, and the Riversteel remained mostly clean. Mazael left watch duty to the Justiciars and the household knights and went to sleep, half-expecting to dream of the Old Demon.

  But if Mazael dreamed, he did not remember it.

  They resumed their southward march the next day, pulling away from the valley and into hillier country. The terrain, at least, did not hinder them. Generations of Roland lords had devoted themselves to road-building, reaping vast income from tolls, and Lord Malden had been no exception. The march remained smooth, despite the hills rising into the low mountain ridge that divided Knights' Bay and Tumblestone from the rest of Lord Malden's domain.

  On the third day they saw standing-stones crowning some of the hills, ancient rings of weathered monoliths. The pagan druids of the Old Kingdoms had once worshiped in these hills, praying to their gods of earth and wind. The Rolands, the Dominiars, and the Justiciars had all set themselves to exterminating the druids, and now only their menhirs remained. Mazael gazed up at the ancient stones, lost in thought. Romaria would have hated the long-ago butchery, just as she would have hated Amalric's cruelty.