Mazael blinked. South? Why go south? There was nothing to the south. Only the Great Southern Forest, inhabited by the Elderborn tribes. And Deepforest Keep, somewhere in the Forest's vast heart. But why would Malrags go there, when the Grim Marches lay close at hand?
Mazael turned, watching the Malrag horde, and saw the great black wolf staring at him.
The wolf's blue eyes blazed like Lion's blade, its black fur ruffling in the wind.
"Who are you?" said Mazael.
The wolf made no answer.
"You aided me," said Mazael, taking a step towards the wolf, "against the balekhan."
The wolf backed away, fur bristling, white fangs bared in rage.
And in fear.
"I mean you no harm," said Mazael. "Who are you?"
A voice thundered down from the sky.
"Lord Mazael! Lord Mazael!"
###
Mazael awoke to Rufus's voice, the squire shaking his shoulder.
"Lord Mazael," said Rufus.
Mazael grunted, looked up at Rufus.
"Sir Nathan sends word, my lord," said Rufus. "He needs to speak with you at the inn. Letters have arrived from my father."
Mazael nodded, got to his feet with a grunt. "Aye. Go to tell Sir Nathan I'll be along presently."
Rufus nodded. His face had returned to its usual haughty mask, but there was fear in his eyes.
"Your father," said Mazael. "His letters...they hold ill news?" Castle Highgate guarded the sole pass through the Great Mountains to the lands beyond. If the Malrags had attacked, had broken into the Grim Marches...
Rufus shrugged. "My father must still be alive, to have written the letters. But these Malrags, my lord...I've never seen anything so terrible."
"I have," said Mazael. "I have seen both San-keth and Demonsouled, and faced them. Yet I am still here, am I not?"
That seemed to reassure the boy.
"Go," said Mazael, turning, "go and..."
He saw Lucan Mandragon.
The wizard stood a short distance away, shrouded in his black cloak, cowl pulled up. He leaned heavily upon the sigil-carved staff, both hands wrapped around it. He almost looked like a monument himself, a grave marker carved of black marble.
"My lord?" said Rufus. "Is something amiss?"
The squire couldn't see Lucan. Which meant Lucan was using his mindclouding spell, a kind of magic that let him move unnoticed among crowds.
Which meant he had something unpleasant to tell Mazael.
"Go," said Mazael. "I need a moment to collect myself. Tell Sir Nathan I will attend him presently."
Rufus bowed and ran off.
"That boy," said Lucan, drawing back his cowl, "reminds me of his father. Lord Robert is an arrogant bore, and the boy seems keen to follow in his footsteps."
"He'll make a capable knight one day," said Mazael. "Are you well?"
Because Lucan did not look at all well. Dark rings encircled his black eyes, and his gaunt face was paler than usual. Sweat glittered on his jaw and forehead, pasting black locks of hair to his brow. He looked like a man in the early stages of a terminal fever.
"Not particularly," said Lucan. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, his fingers tightening against the black staff. "Defeating the Malrag shaman took...rather more that I expected. But I'm not dead yet."
"I had a dream," said Mazael.
Lucan blinked. "The Old Demon?" Mazael had told Lucan about his father's dreams, how the Old Demon sometimes sent nightmares to torment Mazael.
"No," said Mazael. "When I fought the balekhan, it almost had me. Yet a great black wolf attacked the balekhan, distracted it, gave me the opening I needed to slay it."
Lucan frowned. "A wolf?"
"I dreamed of that wolf," said Mazael. "Last night, ere the horns woke me. And again just now."
Lucan's frown deepened. "This wolf...did it seem like a dream of the Old Demon?"
"No," said Mazael. "The Old Demon's dreams were different. Full of dread and blood and death. This was different. The wolf simply...watched me. Nothing more. It was angry with me, and afraid of me. It ran when I approached it. And that was the entirety of the dream."
Lucan sighed. "I wished I had more of an explanation for you. At least you may be sure the wolf does not wish you harm. Otherwise it would not have helped you against the balekhan. Which was an impressive feat, by the way. Few have managed to slay a Malrag balekhan in single combat."
"So you know more of these Malrags, then?" said Mazael.
"Aye," said Lucan. His mouth twisted. "Or, rather, Marstan did. Which amounts to the same thing."
"Then tell me what you know," said Mazael. "My dreams mean little, compared with the danger the Malrags bring to my people."
"Little is known about their origins," said Lucan. "There are differing stories. One says that the Great Demon created them, to replace mortal men after he slew them all. Another says the Old Demon bred them, to use them as soldiers to overthrow Tristafel. Still another says they are the consequence of man's sins, wickedness given physical form to punish us." His lip curled. "I think that one unlikely, myself."
"So my father created these things?" said Mazael. The Old Demon had not forgotten about him, he knew. Had the Old Demon sent the Malrags to the Grim Marches in vengeance?
"Possibly," said Lucan. "Or possibly not. The truth isn't known. But what is known is that Malrags will follow a Demonsouled of sufficient strength. They are almost...compelled to do so. The Malrags, you see, are not mortal, not in the way we understand the term."
"Not mortal?" said Mazael. "They died easily enough upon my sword."
"But they will be reborn," said Lucan. "The Malrags are neither men nor women. They do not give birth, or lie together to make children. They are demon spirits, bound in flesh. The Malrags grow in great hives, hidden in deep caverns. When a Malrag is…born, for lack of a better word, one of these demon spirits is bound into the body. The balekhan you slew and the shaman I defeated have probably been killed dozens of times before. Should they be reborn within our lifetimes, no doubt they will try to take vengeance upon us.”
“So if they are immortal, if they can be reborn again and again,” said Mazael, “how can I defeat them?”
“They are immortal, in a sense, but not invincible,” said Lucan. “As you saw yourself. A Malrag might wait decades to be born. And, it is true, they are all exceedingly cunning and clever. Living life after life is an excellent way to acquire new knowledge and skills. And yet, for all their knowledge, for all their skills, the Malrags are…limited.”
“Limited?” said Mazael. “How?”
“They have no free will.”
Mazael frowned. “Then they are like…animals? Or mindless slaves?”
“Not at all,” said Lucan. “You misunderstand me. Mortal men can choose to do good or evil. Even the stupidest and weakest man can choose between good and evil…as can the strongest and cleverest. The Malrags cannot. They are incapable of choosing good. A Malrag only understands pain – the pleasure of inflicting it, and the fear of enduring it. Nothing else.”
“Then how are they able to function?” said Mazael.
“Usually, they do not,” said Lucan. “The Malrags form into warbands under the strongest balekhans, and fight amongst themselves, dying and being reborn over and over. Or the balekhan is slain and replaced by one of the other warriors. There is a reason the Malrags have not been seen in the Grim Marches for over a century. The only thing that can unify them is something stronger than themselves.”
“A Demonsouled,” said Mazael, closing his eyes.
“Aye,” said Lucan. “Usually it is a powerful Demonsouled that forces the Malrag warbands to come together in an army. Not always, though. Sometimes the San-keth have done it, or even a wizard of surpassing magical power. Though it is a dangerous course. If the Malrags sense the slightest trace of weakness in their leader, they will tear him apart.”
“A Demonsouled of surpassing power,” said Mazael. “So someone like Am
alric Galbraith is commanding the Malrags.”
“Or Morebeth Galbraith,” said Lucan. His hand twitched towards his stomach, where Mazael’s Demonsouled half-sister had impaled him. Mazael still had no idea how Lucan had managed to survive such a dire wound. “She was, I think, more powerful than Amalric. But, yes. Almost certainly a Demonsouled of great power is commanding the Malrags. Quite possibly another child of the Old Demon.”
“A dire prospect,” said Mazael, hand closing into a fist. Amalric had almost killed him, and Morebeth had almost corrupted him. He did not relish the prospect of facing another child of the Old Demon in battle.
“But one that offers hope,” said Lucan. “If we find and kill this Demonsouled, the Malrag army will disintegrate. The Malrag warbands shall turn upon each other, and we can hunt them down one by one.”
“Assuming this really is an army,” said Mazael, “and not just a lone Malrag warband.”
Lucan raised an eyebrow. “A lone Malrag warband that managed to penetrate six days’ ride into the Grim Marches, kill all your scouts, and attack Cravenlock Town? That is unlikely. I rather doubt those letters from Lord Robert contain good news.”
“I know,” said Mazael, rising to his feet and adjusting his sword belt. “And I had best attend to them.”
He headed towards the graveyard’s gate, stopped.
“Lucan,” he said. “Could I command the Malrags?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Lucan. “But only if you let your Demonsouled essence consume you. I would not recommend it. The use of Demonsouled power carries a…steep price.” His hands tightened around the black staff. “As I’m sure you know better than I.”
"Yes," said Mazael. "There is a line that I will not cross."
"You still carry that?" said Lucan.
Mazael looked down. His hand was curled around the silver coin on its chain.
"Yes," he said. "So I remember what my Demonsouled blood cost me."
"You don't," said Lucan, "seem likely to forget."
"Nor will I," said Mazael, turning towards the graveyard gate. "Now, come. Let us see what is in Lord Robert's letters."
###
The news, as it turned out, was all bad.
Lord Robert's stronghold, Castle Highgate, occupied the high pass leading from the Grim Marches to the barbarian lands beyond. Three weeks ago a force of ten thousand Malrags had appeared, burning the mountain villages and killing everything in their path. Lord Robert and his forces fell back to the castle, preparing for a siege.
And while they did, Malrags entered the pass. Thousands of them, tens of thousands. More than Robert's men had been able to count. They streamed through the high pass, descending to the Grim Marches like a storm of black-armored locusts, breaking into smaller warbands to spread more chaos. Lucan had been right. This was no mere raid, no band of Malrags looking for blood and plunder.
This was an invasion.
"The militia will remain in service, every last one of them," said Mazael to Neville and Sir Hagen after reading the letter. "Also, I want every man and boy over the age of fifteen and able to hold a weapon enrolled in the militia. Even if they cannot march in the field, we can use them to keep watch over the town."
"But what of the planting, my lord?" said Neville. "Spring is almost upon us. These Malrag devils may have no need to eat, but we do. If we do not get crops into the ground, we'll be boiling our boots for soup come winter."
"We have more arable land than hands to work it," said Mazael. "If necessary, we will put the women to work in the fields. Or we will rotate the militia in shifts."
But as it happened, such plans were unnecessary.
###
The refugees began arriving the next day.
At first a trickle, only a few small bands. Then dozens of them, in larger and larger groups. Terrified children, weeping in fear, or silent with shock. Hollow-eyed women, faces tight with fear and strain. Ragged men, many wounded, faces streaked with dirt and blood. Their stories were all the same. The Malrags had struck in the night. Black-armored devils had forced the walls of their village, or burned their barns and houses. The Malrags had shown no mercy, cutting down men and women and children alike. One weeping man told a story of how a Malrag balekhan had run through his pregnant wife, laughing all the while. Mazael accepted some in the castle, giving them places to sleep in the halls and courtyard, while he lodged others in the town, ordering the townsmen to open their homes to the refugees. He put the refugees to work digging the moat, improving the town wall, and preparing for the sowing.
Some of the villages had held, and sent messengers to Mazael begging for aid. He dispatched what men he could spare, with orders to fortify the villages and raise militias.
And from some villages, no word came at all, whether refugees or messengers. Mazael suspected the Malrags had wiped out those villages, killing every last man, woman, and child.
He vowed to make them pay for that blood.
###
The Malrags did not give up.
Over the next week, Mazael’s scouting parties spotted no fewer than four warbands, all of them heading towards Cravenlock Town. Each time he gathered his knights and mounted armsmen, leaving the castle and town garrisoned with militia, and rode out to face them. Every time he was victorious. The Malrags, for all their ferocity in battle, had no cavalry. Which was not surprising, given how horses hated and loathed the creatures. A Malrag warband, caught in the open upon the plains, was vulnerable to a mounted force a third, even a quarter, of its size.
It was Mazael's only advantage. Each Malrag warband easily outnumbered Mazael’s horsemen. If the creatures gathered together, he would have no choice but to withdraw to Castle Cravenlock and endure a siege.
###
More letters arrived, from other lords.
Every lord whose lands bordered on the Great Mountains faced Malrag attacks. Lord Astor Hawking reported that a force of three thousand Malrags had attacked his castle of Hawk’s Reach and been repulsed. Lord Jonaril Mandrake had faced two thousand with his mounted men and broken them, though he had taken heavy losses.
“We have no choice,” said Sir Nathan to Mazael after the last letter arrived. “The Grim Marches are under attack. You must send word to Lord Richard.”
Lucan scowled at the mention of his father. Lord Richard the Dragonslayer and Lucan the Dragon’s Shadow were not on good terms.
“Aye,” said Mazael. “He’s right, Lucan."
Lord Richard Mandragon kept order among his vassals with a mixture of open-handed generosity and utter ruthlessness. He showered his loyal men with gifts of land and gold…and crushed anyone who betrayed him. Or anyone who might betray him. Mazael had won Lord Richard’s consent to marry his sister Rachel to Gerald Roland last year. But the warning had been clear. If Mazael ever thought of siding with Gerald’s father, Lord Malden Roland, Lord Richard would crush him utterly.
And if Lord Richard ever learned that Mazael was Demonsouled…
“I will write the letter myself,” said Mazael. "And I may need to send word to Lord Malden, as well."
Lucan raised an eyebrow. "And I know my father will not approve of that." Lord Richard Mandragon and Lord Malden Roland were mortal enemies. Lord Malden had never forgiven Lord Richard for the death of Belifane Roland seventeen years past, and Mazael doubted that the old man's hatred had waned.
"It may not matter," said Mazael. "If the Malrags come at us in sufficient numbers, we will need every man able to ride a horse and hold a blade. And Gerald Roland married my sister. The Rolands are tied to me by blood. Lord Malden will send some aid, if I ask."
"Assuming, of course," said Lucan, "that my father and Lord Malden simply do not go to war, the Malrags be damned."
Later that day a messenger in the livery of the Mandragons, black with a crimson dragon across the chest, arrived at Castle Cravenlock. Lord Richard sent word to all his vassals. The Malrags had brought sword and fire to the Grim Marches, and he commanded every lord and
knight to raise every able-bodied man and assemble at Castle Cravenlock. From there the armies of the Grim Marches would march under Lord Richard’s banner to destroy the Malrags.
The Grim Marches were at war.
Chapter 4 - The Lady and the Knight
Rachel, once of House Cravenlock, now of House Roland, began the morning by making love to her husband.
It had been two months since their son had been born, and it was time. Gerald had been so patient with her – he was always patient, always kind – but he still had a man’s needs. And Rachel was ready. She was twenty-five, and they had been married for only a year. Most noblewomen Rachel’s age had been married since the age of sixteen or seventeen, and had three or four children, if not more.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 80
