Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “He would have conquered the world,” said Ultorin, the hatred in his eyes shining brighter. “And we would have built a new world, a world of order, of peace, a world purged of weakness and corruption. All that we could have had…had you not murdered Grand Master Amalric.”

  “So that’s what this is about?” said Mazael, waving his hand at the Malrags. Was Ultorin the Demonsouled? Or Malavost? Or both of them? “Vengeance for that butcher Amalric?”

  “Not at all,” said Malavost with his thin smile. “I’m afraid, Lord Mazael, that our true purpose is quite beyond your comprehension. Vengeance is merely a bonus for Ultorin here. Which he shall take presently.”

  Ultorin drew his greatsword from over his shoulder, holding it in one hand. The black blade was massive, as wide as Mazael’s hand, the razor edges glimmering. Sigils had been carved down the length of the blade, jagged, irregular symbols that seemed to speak of death and madness.

  Lucan flinched.

  The sigils in Ultorin’s sword brightened with blood-colored light, a haze of darkness shimmering around the blade. It looked as if Ultorin held a thunderhead in his fist, a storm illuminated from within by crimson lightning. Mazael felt power washing off from the blade in waves, and he yanked Lion from its scabbard. At once the sword jolted in his hand, azure flames running up the blade.

  Lion only reacted that way to things of dark magic. Whatever power filled Ultorin’s sword, it was not benevolent.

  “You’re going to die, Lord Mazael,” said Malavost. “Here and now. Along with the Dragon’s Shadow. You will not impede our plans.”

  He lifted his hands and began a spell, green light flickering around his fingertips.

  Ultorin roared and spurred his horse towards Mazael, greatsword lifted for a two-handed blow.

  ###

  Lucan saw Malavost lift his hands in the beginnings of a spell.

  He gestured and muttered a spell of his own, unleashing a blast of psychokinetic force. Malavost flinched as the spell struck him, his cloak billowing about him, but his wards absorbed the worst of the spell.

  Malavost turned his horse in a circle, eyes falling on Lucan.

  “Ah,” he said, as Ultorin charged at Mazael. “The Dragon’s Shadow. Marstan’s little apprentice. Let us see if you are everything your reputation claims.”

  He lifted his left hand, wisps of darkness churning around his hooked fingers. Lucan felt the power of the spell, its raw potency, and began a defensive spell, strengthening his own protective wards.

  He finished an instant before Malavost did.

  A black shadow leapt from Malavost’s hands to strike Lucan, tentacles of darkness wrapping around him and stretching into his horse. The horse reared up, screaming in agony, and collapsed dead to the ground. Lucan’s wards absorbed the spell, protecting him from harm, but the backlash of struggling energies flung him from the saddle.

  He struck the ground and heard Malavost begin another spell.

  ###

  Ultorin galloped at Mazael, snarling in fury. Mazael booted Challenger to a run, gripping Lion for a thrust, intending to stab below Ultorin’s raised arms. No – Ultorin was moving too fast. Mazael shifted, bringing his shield around to block Ultorin’s attack.

  It just barely saved his life.

  The black greatsword hammered down in a blaze of red light, and Mazael’s shield exploded in a spray of oaken shards. Pain burned up his arm, and the force of the blow almost knocked him from the saddle. Only by plunging his boots into the stirrups did he keep his seat. Challenger and Ultorin’s black horse galloped past each other, and Mazael seized the reins with his aching left hand, spinning his destrier around.

  Ultorin reined up, stood in his stirrups, waving his greatsword overhead.

  The Malrags loosed their war cry and leapt forward, their line dissolving as they charged. A horn blast rang over the plains, and Mazael’s horsemen charged forward with a shout. A thunderclap and a flash of green light, and Mazael saw Lucan go sprawling, Malavost wreathed in ghostly green flames. Ultorin urged his horse to a gallop, the massive greatsword spinning in his right hand as if it weighed nothing at all.

  Mazael gritted his teeth and put his spurs to Challenger's flanks, moving to meet Ultorin's charge.

  ###

  Lucan scrambled back to his feet, leaning upon his staff, free hand gesturing as he muttered another spell. Power surged through him, his will plunging into the spirit world and opening a passageway.

  Two creatures answered his call. They looked like great lions, albeit lions with scorpions' wings and tails, and a mass of barbed tentacles for manes. The spirit beasts screamed with piercing, unearthly wails and raced forward, mouths yawning wide as they closed on Malavost.

  But Malavost was already casting another spell. He flung out his hands, and a shimmering corona of blue light enveloped both him and his horse. The lions flinched away from the light, snarling. Malavost gestured again, and the blue light pulsed. Then the glow vanished, and the lions with it, banished back to the spirit world.

  "Competent enough, I suppose," said Malavost, smirking. "But still elementary. Were you really Marstan's student? Marstan would never have attempted anything so utterly pedestrian against..."

  "Stop talking," said Lucan, and lifted his staff.

  The staff answered his need. Demonsouled power flooded into Lucan, easing his weariness, filling him with fresh strength. The sigils carved into the staff flared and pulsed with blood-colored light.

  With light, he realized, exactly the same color as the sigils upon Ultorin's sword.

  Malavost's pale eyes narrowed in alarm, his smile vanishing for the first time, and he began a defensive spell.

  But this time Lucan had the initiative. He poured his will into the staff and unleashed a blast of invisible force. It caught Malavost in the chest and flung him to the ground. Malavost scrambled to his feet, scowling, and Lucan struck again. This time Malavost crossed his arms before him and snarled out a short spell. A fresh ward crackled into existence around him, and Lucan's spell crashed into it. For a moment snarling force surrounded Malavost, his cloak snapping in the sudden gale, and then Lucan's spell faded away.

  Malavost's ward had held.

  Lucan began another spell, but Malavost's words cut him short.

  "You little fool," he said, amused. "A bloodstaff? Infused with the blood of some hapless Demonsouled you slew, no doubt. I'm sure it provides you with quite a power surge...but is it really worth the cost?"

  Lucan hesitated. The staff's power screamed through him, urging him to destroy Malavost, to crush him utterly, and then to start butchering the Malrags.

  "Ah," said Malavost. "You don't know. Do you have any idea what that staff is doing to you? I thought not." He laughed. "Ultorin doesn't know what his bloodsword is doing to him, either. And if he did...he would not have dared to come within a mile of it."

  Lucan risked a glance to the side, where Ultorin and Lord Mazael dueled each either, Lion sheathed in azure flame, Ultorin's greatsword cloaked in darkness and crimson fire. The Malrags ran at them, screaming, while the horsemen of Castle Cravenlock thundered towards the duel...

  And in that moment of distraction, Malavost unleashed his full power at Lucan.

  ###

  Ultorin and Mazael dueled, their horses circling around each other.

  Mazael swung and stabbed, shifting his grip on Lion's hilt from one-handed to two-handed as his blows demanded. Ultorin was strong, as strong as Mazael, and his massive greatsword gave him a longer reach. Yet the magic of Lion's blade proved capable of blocking the dark power in Ultorin's sword, and Mazael's lighter longsword was quicker than Ultorin's heavy weapon. Again and again Lion slipped past Ultorin's guard, leaving scratches in the Dominiar's massive black armor. If only Mazael could get Lion's point into the armor's weak points, he could end this fight.

  And he could break the Malrags. Ultorin was their Demonsouled leader, he was sure of it.

  An explosion rang out, a column of
dirt shooting into the air. Mazael risked a glance to the side, saw Malavost wreathed in swirling darkness, saw Lucan gesturing with his black staff, its sigils ablaze with fiery light. Lucan looked exhausted, his face pale, his hands trembling, while Malavost...

  Malavost only looked amused.

  Ultorin took advantage of Mazael's distraction. His black horse spun around, his blade looping for Mazael's head. Mazael ducked, the edge of the greatsword scraping along the top of his helm. A deathly chill radiated from the weapon, and the force of the blow nearly snapped Mazael's neck. But he kept his seat, and lunged forward, all his strength behind Lion.

  His sword's point crunched into Ultorin's right shoulder, the azure flames blazing hotter. If Ultorin was Demonsouled, no doubt he could heal wounds in a matter of moments. But those moments counted, and if Mazael could drive home his advantage and land a killing blow...

  At that moment his horsemen and Ultorin's Malrags crashed together around them.

  A pair of Malrags attacked Mazael, cutting him off from Ultorin. He spun Challenger, trying to avoid their blows, wishing he still had a shield. A black axe missed his leg, while a spearhead dug through his armor, digging into his calf. Mazael snarled in pain and lashed out with Lion, ripping open a Malrag’s neck. The second Malrag sprang forward, raising its axe for a blow, only to lose its head to the sword of a passing knight. Mazael pressed his knees to Challenger’s flanks and the horse started forward, moving in pursuit of Ultorin.

  His leg hurt, badly, but he already felt the pain subsiding as his Demonsouled essence healed the wound.

  A pair of armsmen in Cravenlock tabards attacked Ultorin, each man wielding a shield and a heavy mace. Ultorin bellowed, his black sword whipping about in a sideways cut. The blade smashed through a heavy shield and ripped into the unfortunate armsman's chest, the bloody light from the sigils shining ever brighter. Ultorin wheeled his horse around, turning to face the remaining armsman, lifting his greatsword for a deadly blow.

  It was the perfect opportunity. As Challenger galloped past, Mazael struck out, all his strength and his horse's speed behind the blow. Lion's point struck below Ultorin's upraised left arm, sinking deep into his armpit. Ultorin howled in rage and pain, sagging in the saddle, his horse carrying him towards the Malrags. Blood streamed down his armor, dark against his darker cuirass. The wound was mortal - Mazael had seen enough mortal wounds, and dealt enough of them, to know one when he saw it. Ultorin would bleed out in a matter of moments.

  Strange that it had been so easy. Malavost must have been the Demonsouled, not Ultorin. Mazael struck down a passing Malrag, and then another, looking for the wizard...

  Ultorin screamed.

  Mazael turned and saw Ultorin plunge his greatsword into a Malrag's back. The carved sigils blazed, the darkness surrounding the blade thickening. The Malrag thrashed and heaved, colorless eyes bulging, its fanged mouth open in a silent scream.

  And then the Malrag...withered. There was no other word to describe it. The Malrag shrank into a desiccated skeleton, draped in leathery skin. Then it crumbled into smoking black ash, chunks of disintegrating bone raining to the earth. Ultorin whipped his sword free from the ruin, lifted his face to the sky, and howled like a maddened beast. His face was flushed with fresh vitality, and he even looked slightly younger.

  The black sword, Mazael realized. It had drained the Malrag's life, pouring the energy into Ultorin...and healing his wound in the process.

  And then there was no more time for thought.

  Ultorin galloped towards him, still roaring in fury, and Mazael rode to meet his attack.

  ###

  Malavost's full power drove at Lucan, a psychokinetic hammer that tore at the earth. Yet Lucan gripped both hands around his staff, the burning Demonsouled power filling him with might, and his ward turned the worst of the attack. With a howl of rage, he flung out his hands and shouted a spell. Malavost's attack dissipated, and Lucan's own will lashed out. A jet of blood-colored flame burst from his staff, drilling towards Malavost.

  Malavost snarled, both his hands held out before him, shouting a spell of his own. A ward shimmered into existence before him, and Lucan's fire parted a few inches before Malavost, flowing around him like a river around a stone. The blast of magical flame killed two Malrags and sent a third fleeing, its armor melted to its skin, but left Malavost untouched.

  Still Malavost laughed.

  "Fool," he said. "All that power, and you still can barely touch me? Shameful! If Marstan had wielded that kind of power, he would have ripped me to shreds."

  Lucan spat in fury, his mind pulsing with rage, every instinct screaming for him to rip Malavost to shreds, to dance laughing in his blood. But a small part of his mind, the part still sane, knew that Malavost was right. Malavost could not match his power with the staff, but Lucan could not match Malavost’s skill. No matter how much raw magical force Lucan flung at Malavost, the older wizard managed to deflect it, or turn it back upon Lucan.

  He needed a distraction.

  And even as the thought crossed Lucan's mind, the air behind Malavost blurred, and Timothy stepped out of nothingness. In the raging madness of the Demonsouled power burning through him, Lucan had forgotten all about Timothy.

  And so, it seemed, had Malavost.

  Timothy lifted his arm, a copper tube clutched in his fist, his mouth flying through an incantation. Malavost whirled and began a spell, but it was too late. A roaring gout of orange-yellow flame exploded from the copper tube, engulfing Malavost and a half-dozen nearby Malrags in a howling firestorm. Timothy lacked Lucan's power and skill, and came nowhere near to Malavost's level. Yet he could still unleash a powerful blast of flame, and Lucan sensed Malavost's wards shuddering beneath the strain.

  It was the opportunity he needed to attack.

  Lucan struck out with all his will, his spell augmented by the staff's power. Malavost staggered in the midst of Timothy's firestorm, his wards trembling around him. Lucan only need to collapse Malavost’s failing wards, and then Timothy’s flames would reduce Malavost to smoking char...

  Malavost flung out his arms and shouted.

  And psychokinetic force exploded in all directions. The sudden gale blew out the flames, flinging Malrags and Cravenlock armsmen alike to the ground. Timothy fell backwards, bounced, and did not move. Malavost's will struck Lucan like a falling boulder, and he fell, hitting the ground hard.

  And as he did, his concentration broke, and his connection to the staff vanished.

  Lucan got to his knees, only to empty his stomach. His arms and legs felt like wet paper, and wave after wave of pain pulsed through his head. His vision swam, and for a moment he saw two of everything. Only by leaning upon the staff did he keep from falling upon his face.

  He saw Malavost walking towards him, smiling once more.

  Lucan struggled to rise, to cast a spell, but could do nothing through the pain filling his head.

  He cursed himself for a fool. He'd known that the Demonsouled power would probably kill him, sooner or later...but hadn't even given him the strength to defeat Malavost.

  A horn rang out.

  Malavost stopped, his smile vanishing, and looked to the west.

  With some effort, Lucan turned his head, and saw horsemen riding from the west, horsemen flying a banner of a black crow upon a field of green.

  ###

  Mazael and Ultorin danced through the battle, Lion's blue flame struggling against the greatsword's burning darkness.

  Again and again they fought, and again and again the press of Malrags and Cravenlock armsmen drove them apart. Mazael cut his way free from the Malrags, his armor splattered with black Malrag blood, and came at Ultorin. Ultorin's dark armor bore dozens of shiny marks from Mazael's blows, and Ultorin himself had been forced to kill three more Malrags to heal the wounds Mazael had dealt him.

  Challenger crashed into Ultorin's horse, and Mazael brought Lion down in an overhead cut. Ultorin parried the blow a few inches from his head, and
reversed his grip, driving his blade towards Mazael's heart. Mazael whipped Lion in a circle and beat aside the massive thrust, his sword's point digging another groove in Ultorin's cuirass.

  Mazael's pulse thundered in his ears, the battle rage filling him with speed and power. It was his Demonsouled nature, he knew, but he remained in control, focusing his rage upon Ultorin. Ultorin, who led the Malrags. Ultorin, who had brought sword and fire to Mazael's lands.

  Ultorin, who Mazael could defeat.

  He knew it. He felt it in his bones. Ultorin was just as strong as Mazael, and his blazing greatsword made for a terrifying weapon, but Mazael was the better swordsman. Four times he had landed serious wounds upon Ultorin, while the Dominiar had left only minor scratches across Mazael's armor. If he could just land a solid blow upon Ultorin, the fight would be over.