Do you think yourself triumphant?
The hellish red light in his eyes brightened. The archbishop kept droning. Gerald and Rachel smiled at each other, holding hands.
Do you think yourself victorious? The Old Demon stepped towards Mazael. You have slain two of my children. There are others. There are many others. One of them will become the Destroyer, and I will seize his destiny for my own and destroy you. His lips pulled back, revealing fangs both jagged and yellowed. I have forces at my command that you can neither understand nor resist. Throw yourself down and die, foolish boy. Struggle as you will, but in the end, I will have you.
For a moment Mazael saw the futility of his life, the endless succession of battles against Demonsouled and San-keth that would lead to nothing but death and ruin. Sooner or later one or another would take his life...
Then he laughed, quietly, drawing an annoyed glance from the archbishop.
That was what the Old Demon wanted him to think, was it not?
Mazael focused and found that he could speak to the Old Demon in the same way the Old Demon had spoken to him.
I don't care. The Old Demon's snarl tightened. I denied you once before, and I deny you now. Something like white fire, bright and pure, rose up in Mazael's mind. So come here before me, and we'll settle this, once and for all!
The Old Demon's eyes blazed like orbs of hellfire. I will crush you!
Mazael let his hand fall to Lion's hilt. Then come and crush me, father.
The Old Demon snarled once more. For a moment he loomed like a vast shadow, wings rising up against the vaulted arches, a mountain of darkness that would fall and crush Mazael.
Then he vanished and did not return.
Mazael stood, and watched Rachel leave his family and become Gerald's wife.
###
Days later, after the celebration and feasting had finished, Mazael walked at dawn to the stables near Oliver's Keep. Mantle waited for him there, along with three new destriers, gifts from Lord Malden. None of them were as good as Chariot, but perhaps they would grow better, in time.
Sir Adalar waited for him at the stables, leading out Mantle and the destriers. All four horses had been prepared for travel.
Adalar bowed. “Lord Mazael.”
Mazael smiled. “Sir Adalar.” He walked over, gripped the young knight's shoulder. “You're not my squire any more.”
Adalar shrugged. “No one else would have done it properly.”
Mazael laughed.
Adalar straightened up. “My lord...I'm not going back to Castle Cravenlock.”
“I know,” said Mazael.
“You did?”
Mazael nodded. “I heard Tobias and Gerald talking about it.”
“Sir Gerald offered to let me ride with him when he returns to the Mastarian campaign,” said Adalar. “We've already taken the northern third of the country and Castle Dominus itself.” Adalar shook his head. “The Dominiar Order has collapsed. What's left of their commanders are warring amongst themselves. And the people are glad to see us. Lord Malden is not a lenient lord, but he's still kinder than the Dominiars.” He shrugged. “Though the Mastarians do not like the Justiciars very much. Amalric Galbraith and the Dominiars betrayed me badly. I...would like to see this through to the end, my lord.”
“Plus there are lands and castles a bold young man can claim for himself, eh?” said Mazael.
Adalar nodded.
“Good luck,” said Mazael. “Find yourself a castle and a good woman.”
Adalar sighed. “A good woman. I always thought a true knight slept only with his lady. And I thought Amalric a true knight. Maybe...you have the right of it, my lord. Maybe I was wrong.”
“No,” said Mazael, swinging up into Mantle's saddle. “No. Do not betray yourself, Adalar. You're going to be a lord yet, I think. And there are far too many corrupt lords and false knights.”
“Thank you,” said Adalar. Mazael nodded and urged Mantle to a walk, leading two of the destriers behind him.
“My lord!” said Adalar. “Your third horse?”
“My horse?” said Mazael, glancing back. “That's yours, sir knight. Ride him well.”
“Thank you, my lord!” said Adalar, grinning.
Mazael grinned back and rode off.
###
His knights waited for him at the barbican. Sir Aulus sat at their head, the Cravenlock banner dangling from his lance. He looked distraught at the prospect of returning home to his wife. Timothy leaned back in his saddle, yawning. The rest of the knights seemed eager to be off.
A single horseman, wrapped in a dark cloak, turned to face Mazael. None of the others paid attention to him.
“You appear grieved,” said Lucan. He looked to have aged ten years since the battle in the chapel, though his sardonic matter had reasserted itself. Mazael wondered what manner of dire spell had permitted him to survive Morebeth's killing blow.
“Perhaps I am,” said Mazael. “Why should I not be? I came to Knightcastle with my sister, my armsmaster, and my squire. I expected to ride home in the company of my new wife. Now I am going home without any of them. I've every right to be grieved.”
“You're alive, aren't you?” said Lucan.
Mazael nodded.
“And a dark power has been destroyed,” said Lucan.
“One dark power,” said Mazael. “And there are many, many more.”
“Then you still need my help, do you not?” said Lucan.
“I would have died a dozen times in the last four months without your help,” said Mazael. “I still need your aid.”
They gripped hands briefly.
“A mad necromancer and a child of the Old Demon allied against the powers of darkness,” murmured Lucan. “Who would have thought it?”
“Who indeed?” said Mazael, riding to the head of his men. He looked out the opened gate, towards the road home.
He had never thought he would look forward to seeing the grim towers of Castle Cravenlock.
“Let's go home,” said Mazael, urging Mantle forward.
They rode out the gate and left Knightcastle behind.
THE END
Thank you for reading "Soul of Tyrants". Turn the page for the first chapter of Mazael's next adventure! For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.
Soul of Serpents Bonus Chapter
Here is the first chapter of Soul of Serpents, the next book in the series.
Chapter 1
1
Warband
Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of a great black wolf.
For a moment the wolf's howls still seemed to echo in his ears.
He sat up in bed, blinking.
The howls continued.
Those weren't howls, he realized. They were horns, the horns carried by the night guards posted upon the castle walls.
Castle Cravenlock was under attack.
Mazael surged to his feet just as his bedroom door burst open. A boy of twelve years stood in the doorway, clad in the black-and-silvery livery of the Cravenlocks. Usually the boy's expression was cold, chilly arrogance, but now his eyes were wide with fear.
"My lord," said Rufus Highgate, "my lord, the sentries, the horns..."
"I know," said Mazael. "Find one of the pages, send him to Sir Hagen. Tell Sir Hagen to rouse the garrison. Then get back here and help me with my armor. Go!"
Rufus sprinted off. Mazael paced around his bed, his bare feet sinking into the carpet. His rooms atop the King's Tower were sparse, the way he preferred. A bed, a desk for writing, a wardrobe for his clothing and racks for his armor and weapons. The only concession to comfort was the thick carpet - the floors got rather cold in winter.
And the rooms had a superb view of the castle and the surrounding countryside.
Mazael hurried onto the balcony, seventy feet above the courtyard below. He saw the night guards upon the curtain wall, crossbows in their hands. Torchl
ight blazed in the courtyard as men raced back and forth. Sergeants bellowed commands to armsmen, while knights ran for the stables, their squires hurrying after. Good - Sir Hagen had already raised the garrison. Yet where was the attack?
Light flashed in the darkness, beyond the curtain wall. Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of perhaps four thousand people, lay a half-mile or so in that direction. Mazael saw firelight from the town, and realized he could hear the distant sound of steel on steel, the shouts and screams of men and women.
The town was under attack.
His hands tightened into fists, rage curling within him. These were his people, his lands. And someone dared to attack them? He would make these attackers pay, he would sweep them like straw before him, he...
Mazael closed his eyes, throttled back his rage.
Fury was not a luxury that a child of the Old Demon could afford.
For a moment he remembered a blue-eyed woman lying sprawled on the cold stone floor, black hair pooled around her head.
He knew where such rage ended.
Rufus hurried into the room, breathing hard from his run up the tower stairs.
"My lord," he said, "I've sent the message..."
"Good," said Mazael, turning from the balcony. "Help me with my armor."
He'd worn the same armor for years, but it had been destroyed last year during the great battle below the walls of Tumblestone. Lord Malden had given Mazael a new set. A chain mail hauberk, with a steel cuirass, and plates for his shoulders. Gauntlets backed with steel plates, and armored boots. Mazael pulled on the armor with Rufus's help. The boy was nervous, but his hands did not shake, and he worked quickly. That was good. He would make a capable knight.
Assuming he lived through this attack.
Mazael tugged on a black surcoat adored with the sigil of the Cravenlocks, three crossed swords, blades pointing down. Rufus fetched his sword belt, and Mazael buckled it about his waist. A dagger hung on his left hip, and a longsword on his right. The longsword's pommel had been forged in the shape of a golden lion's head, with glittering rubies for eyes. Lion, Mazael named the sword, and it was worth more than his castle and everything in it.
Older than his castle, too.
He took one last thing. A silver coin, the size of his thumb joint. A small hole had been drilled in the coin, threaded with a fine chain, and Mazael tucked it into his belt.
"Come," said Mazael, and he left his rooms, Rufus following. He hurried down the spiraling stairs of the King's Tower and into the courtyard. Chaos still reined in the courtyard, but it was an ordered chaos. Mazael's knights sat atop their horses, lances and shields in hand, their armor flashing red in the torchlight. His armsmen had also been mounted, each man carrying a torch, sword and mace ready at their belts.
Two hundred men. Mazael hoped it was enough.
"My lord!"
A grim-faced man, built like a boulder and just as solid, strode to Mazael's side. He wore a Cravenlock surcoat over a mail hauberk, eyes flashing over a close-cropped black beard. One hand rested on his sword hilt, and the other bore a shield adorned with the sigil of a burning bridge.
"Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "What news?"
"The town lit the alarm beacon in the church tower," said Sir Hagen Bridgebane, Mazael's armsmaster. "The night guards saw it and once, and summoned me." He scowled, shook his head. "It's too dark. We can't see any details. But I think the town militia is holding. For now."
"Who is attacking?" said Mazael. "Bandits?" But it would take a daring band of bandits indeed to attack a walled town. Who else, then? The Elderborn tribes? But they rarely left the Great Southern Forest. One of Mazael's vassals? Some of Mazael's knights and vassals hated him, but none would be bold enough to stage such a raid.
Was it Lord Richard Mandragon? Mazael thought he remained in his liege lord's good graces. But Lord Richard the Dragonslayer was feared for a reason. If he decided that Mazael was an enemy, he would not hesitate to strike.
"I don't know, my lord," said Hagen. "But they've no horses, I'm sure of that. We're ready to ride when you give the command." A grimace flickered over his face. "But the wizards want to speak with you first."
"Good work," said Mazael. "We'll ride when I give the word. Leave the squires here. I don't want any of them killed fighting in the dark."
Hagen bowed and hurried to his horse, shouting commands.
Rufus brought out Mazael's war horse, a vicious-tempered destrier Mazael had named Challenger. The huge horse looked as eager for blood as any knight. Mazael swung up into the reins, accepted a lance and a shield marked with the Cravenlock sigil from Rufus.
"I should accompany you, my lord," said Rufus. "It is only honorable."
"No," said Mazael. "Stay here with the other squires. I'll not explain to your father why I got you killed in a night battle."
Rufus scowled, but obeyed. Mazael kicked Challenger to a walk, steering the beast with his knees. Sir Hagen waited near the barbican, along with three other men. The first was old and tough as an ancient oak tree, clad in mail and leather. The hilt of a greatsword jutted over his shoulder, and a mace and war axe waited at his belt. Sir Nathan Greatheart claimed to have retired, but the old man still fought with the skill of a much younger man.
The other two men wore black cloaks and black coats adorned with a number of metal badges. The older of the two was in his middle thirties, with tousled hair and a pointed brown beard. The second was barely over twenty, the cowl of his cloak pulled up. A black metal staff rested across his saddle's pommel.
None of Mazael's men went close to the two wizards. Especially the younger one.
"Lord Mazael," said Timothy deBlanc, the older wizard. "My war spells are at your command."
The younger wizard looked up, black eyes glittering in the depths of his cowl.
"And you'll need them," said Lucan Mandragon. Younger he might have been, but he was the more powerful by far. Men called him the Dragon's Shadow, and dared not meet his eye as he passed. "My wards were triggered. At least one of the attackers is using magic. Possibly more."
"Can you take them?" said Mazael.
"We shall do our best, my lord," said Timothy.
Lucan's contemptuous sneer expressed more confidence than any words.
"Good," said Mazael. "Sir Hagen!"
The armsmaster spurred his destrier forward, lance and shield ready. "My lord?"
"Tell the armsmen to keep watch," said Mazael. "They're to close the gate after we leave, and not to open it until we return. The knights and mounted armsmen are to stay in formation. Any fool rides off on his own, I'll have his hide." Hagen nodded and bellowed the orders to the sergeants. "Sir Nathan!"
The old knight turned his horse. "Lord?"
"Take command of the knights," said Mazael.
Nathan frowned. "I am no longer armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, and I..."
"Yes, yes, I know," said Mazael. "Do it anyway."
A flicker of a smile went over Nathan's seamed face. "As you bid, my lord."
"Sir Hagen!" said Mazael. "We ride."
Hagen gave the orders. The portcullis slid open with a metallic groan, the chains rattling. Mazael kicked Challenger to a trot and rode through the gate, the drum of hooves filling his ears as the knights and armsmen fell in around him. Sir Aulus Hirdan, Mazael's herald, rose at his side, the Cravenlock banner fluttering from his lance. Though Mazael doubted anyone could see it in the dark.
The road to Cravenlock Town sloped down the side of the castle’s crag, the torches light throwing back the darkness. The sounds of fighting grew closer, along with a strange, bestial roars. Had the attackers brought war dogs? Timothy shifted in his saddle, fumbling with a chunk of quartz crystal wrapped with copper wire. Mazael had seen him use that spell before. It bestowed a sort of limited clairvoyance, letting Timothy sense the presence of enemies. Timothy held up his fist, and the crystal flashed with a pale white light.
“Timothy!” said Mazael. “How many?”
“I…I do not know, my lord,” said Timothy, shouting over the drum of the hooves. His eyes darted back and forth, tracking things unseen. “At least…two hundred. Probably three hundred. They’re held at the town gates for now. But…my lord…”
“What is it?” said Mazael. “Are they in the town already?” Gods, he hoped not. Street fighting would negate the advantage of his horsemen.
“No,” said Timothy. “But…I’ve never sensed anything like them before. It’s as if…it’s as if they’re not human…”
Lucan gave Timothy a sharp look, hand tightening around the black length of his metal staff.
“The San-keth?” said Mazael. “Or the changelings?”
“No,” said Timothy. “No, I know what their sense is like. This is…different. Darker, considerably.”
Demonsouled, then? The thought of three hundred Demonsouled gathered in one place made Mazael’s blood run cold. But Mazael doubted that any number of Demonsouled could cooperate on anything.
He knew very well the sort of homicidal madness brought by Demonsouled blood.
“Whatever they are,” said Mazael, “they’re still flesh and blood, and we’ll sweep them away. They’re massed near the town gates?”
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 75
