Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  And with it, perhaps, the Malrag invasion. He doubted that Ultorin was Demonsouled. Yet the Malrags seemed to obey Ultorin, and again and again he had flung them into Mazael's path.

  But Demonsouled or not, Mazael would strike him down.

  His next thrust came within a hair's breadth of splitting Ultorin's throat, leaving a bloody line down his bearded jaw. Ultorin snarled and spurred his horse to a gallop, waving his greatsword and bellowing a command. Five Malrags raced at Mazael, howling their inhuman war cries. Challenger crashed into them, trampling one beneath steel-shod hooves, and Mazael swung and thrust, Lion plunging through the Malrags' gray skins and into their innards.

  Ultorin galloped away, trampling down Malrags that got in his path.

  A horn rang out.

  Mazael ripped Lion free from a Malrag skull and looked west. Horsemen raced across the plain, swords and spears in hand, their banners showing a black crow upon a green field. Sir Tanam Crowley's men. Mazael had sent word to him, before leaving Castle Cravenlock, to ride to battle. Now Crowley's men had arrived, and the Malrags were trapped.

  The battle was soon over.

  But both Ultorin and Malavost got away.

  ###

  "I was wrong. Neither one of them," said Lucan, sagging in his saddle, "are actually Demonsouled."

  They rode back to Castle Cravenlock, Mazael riding besides Sir Hagen, Lucan, Timothy, and Sir Tanam. The knights and armsmen rode behind Mazael, and many of the horses had empty saddles, or bore wounded men. He had lost far more men than he liked - but less than he had feared.

  Going after Ultorin like that had been a hideous gamble, but Mazael had not lost it. Nor had he won the throw.

  Yet.

  "If neither Ultorin nor Malavost are Demonsouled," said Mazael, "then how are they commanding the Malrags? Do they both serve another Demonsouled?" Yet he had seen Ultorin give commands to the Malrags, seen them obey.

  "His greatsword," said Lucan. He looked terrible, his skin sallow, his eyes sunken and feverish. He held his black staff like a dying man clutching his cane. Surviving the fight with Malavost must have been a terrible strain. "It's called a bloodsword. And...I think I know what it is."

  Tanam Crowley frowned. "Other than magical, you mean? I saw the thing, if only from afar. Blood and darkness." He shook his head. "Maybe the sword itself is Demonsouled."

  "Yes," said Lucan, looking up. "Yes, that's exactly it."

  Tanam blinked. "It was only a jest."

  "But a jest that struck the mark," said Lucan. "It...is possible to take the blood of a powerful Demonsouled, to use it in the forging of a weapon. Such a weapon is called a bloodsword, and it bestows the power of a Demonsouled on whosoever wields it. Along with other abilities, as well...you saw how Ultorin could heal his wounds by killing Malrags. I suspect the sword drains the life of its victims and transfers that energy to its wielders." His lip twitched. “Though drinking the life of a Malrag, I suspect, is rather like drinking poisoned wine.”

  "Where would Ultorin have gotten a bloodsword?" said Mazael. Had the Old Demon given it to him, unleashed him and the Malrags upon the Grim Marches?

  "From a Demonsouled, presumably," said Lucan. "And with the Demonsouled's cooperation." His hand tightened about the black staff. "It would undoubtedly be impossible to take a living Demonsouled's blood without his cooperation."

  "Undoubtedly," said Mazael, thinking of how he would react to such an attempt.

  "I suspect Ultorin obtained the bloodsword from Amalric Galbraith," said Lucan. "Ultorin declared his loyalty to Amalric during our...parley. No doubt Amalric created the sword as a reward for Ultorin's fealty, and to make him a more effective servant. But regardless of where he obtained it, the sword gives Ultorin the powers of a Demonsouled. And it lets him control the Malrags."

  "This is grim news," said Tanam.

  "No," said Mazael. "No, it's not."

  The others gave him a puzzled look.

  "I almost had him," said Mazael, voice quiet. "I fought Amalric Galbraith, and he would have killed me, had Sir Adalar not intervened. That bloodsword makes Ultorin fast and strong, but he's not Amalric Galbraith. I can kill him. Or we don't even need to kill him. We need only destroy the bloodsword. If we can, the Malrags will no longer obey Ultorin. They may even kill him for us, before they turn on each other."

  Lucan grimaced. "Assuming we can defeat Malavost, first. I suspect he is more dangerous than Ultorin by far."

  "You seemed to know who he was," said Mazael.

  Lucan looked at Timothy.

  Timothy cleared his throat. There was soot on his forehead and hands from the fire spell. "He is renegade, a necromancer and a warlock. Once he was a master wizard of the Order of Alborg, until his crimes were discovered." He sighed. "They say, my lord...they say that he studied under the necromancer Simonian of Briault."

  Mazael's frown deepened. Few men knew that Simonian of Briault was actually the Old Demon, eldest of the Demonsouled and Mazael's father.

  "Whether that story is true, I know not, and Malavost is unlikely to confirm it for us," said Lucan. "But I do know that he was one of Marstan's teachers. And he always excelled Marstan in both skill and power. He has friends among the San-keth, both the serpent people themselves and their human proselytes."

  Mazael pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Lucan had inherited all of Marstan's skill and power, and Lucan was one of the most powerful wizards Mazael had ever seen. If he could not defeat Malavost in a straight fight...

  "Grim news, indeed," said Tanam, shaking his head.

  "Grim or not," said Mazael, "Malavost is still a mortal man, and he can still die upon a sword blade like any other."

  "I hope, my lord," said Lucan, "that you are correct."

  Chapter 9 - The Cleric of Sepharivaim

  Sykhana fled east, towards the Grim Marches and the village of Gray Pillar.

  She rode her horse to death, and stole another one. She dared not linger. With Rachel Roland's death and her subterfuge with Paul Korren, she had left a tangled trail for any pursuers. Yet she had not lived this long by taking foolish chances, and when Gerald Roland tracked down Korren, she had no doubt the wretched merchant will tell everything to save his own hide.

  Not that Lord Malden would show any mercy to a San-keth proselyte, not after a calibah had murdered his eldest son.

  So Sykhana rode hard, stopping only to tend to Aldane.

  Her Aldane.

  The baby rode in a basket on her saddle, padded to protect him from the bouncing ride. She fed him fruit and meat ground into a paste, and milk she stole from passing farms. Her training at Karag Tormeth had been brutal, but it gave her the ability to move unseen and unnoticed with ease. At the time she had hated the training, but now she blessed it.

  Sometimes Aldane cried, screaming at the top of his lungs, and Sykhana cradled him against her chest.

  "Don't cry," she murmured. "Don't cry. Forget your mother. She was weak and stupid, unworthy of you. I will love and cherish you, always."

  She kissed him on the forehead.

  "And you will be a god," she said, "and live in power and splendor forever."

  ###

  Soon she came to the town of Tristgard.

  Most travelers going to the Grim Marches from Knightcastle took the road that looped north through the High Plain. But Sykhana hoped to avoid as many witnesses as possible - a lone woman traveling with a baby would draw notice. And some travelers would not hesitate to take advantage of one woman, apparently unarmed.

  Sykhana grinned and licked her lips, her hidden fangs rasping against her tongue.

  If anyone tried to stop her, they would regret it sorely.

  But she did not expect any trouble at Tristgard, a pretty little town, with houses and walls of stone, it was a place for merchants to stop and rest as they made the journey from Knightcastle to the Grim Marches, or from Cadlyn in the High Plain to Knightport. Though the townspeople might be more vi
gilant - last year the archpriest Straganis and a band of calibah tried to kill Rachel and Mazael Cravenlock here as they journeyed to Knightcastle. But the attack had been a year past, and she suspected the townspeople would have fallen back into complacency by now.

  So Sykhana was surprised to see militia patrolling both the road and the ford below the town. She reined up, frowning. Townsmen in leather armor, spears in hand, stood guard at the Black River’s ford. Others waited on the walls, crossbows in hand. Below the walls of Tristgard, she saw a ragged camp of dozens tents and wagons. Frightened, tired-looking people moved among the tents - hollow-eyed men with dirty faces, weeping children clutching at the skirts of tired women.

  Refugees. But why had they fled here?

  A pair of militiamen approached her, and Sykhana made sure to look properly frightened, her eyes downcast.

  "Here now, lass," said the older of the two men, "what's your business here? Did you come from the Grim Marches?"

  The Grim Marches?

  "Nay, sir," she said. "My father's farm is in the hills. My sister came down with the flux, so she bade me to take her baby into town until she recovers, lest he catch the sickness."

  "What's your father's name?" said the younger man, scowling.

  "Brand," said Sykhana, picking the first name that came to mind.

  "I don't know any Brand," said the younger man.

  The older man snorted. "Don't be a fool, boy. One woman with a baby's no danger. And she doesn't have the flux - babies with the flux last only six hours, if they're lucky. You can enter the town, lass, but stay away from the common rooms - some of the lads will take liberties with a lone woman."

  "Thank you, sir," Sykhana said, giving him a shy smile. "But...why are all these folk here, in the tents?"

  "War's coming," said the younger man.

  "Perhaps," said the older one. "There are rumors of trouble in the Grim Marches. The refugees say that Malrags have come down out of the mountains to burn and kill. Some Marcher folk have fled here, to get away from the troubles."

  "Malrags?" said Sykhana. She had heard of Malrags - the clerics said they were real, though she had doubted to ever see one. Malrags had invaded the Grim Marches? She did not believe for a moment that it was a coincidence.

  Just what had Malavost wrought?

  "Aye," said the younger man. "Devils, without conscience or mercy. They'll burn the Grim Marches and come for us, you mark my words."

  "Bah," said the older man. "It's Lord Mazael's lands they're attacking, I hear. And I saw Lord Mazael when the snake folk tried to kill him. He cut through them like wheat, and he'll do the same to the Malrags. You should go, lass - the road is no place for a lone woman."

  Sykhana gave him the shy smile again and kept riding.

  She slipped past the guards at the ford, stole one of their horses, and rode for the east.

  ###

  Soon she came to the endless rolling plains of the Grim Marches, with the distant shape of the Great Mountains rising to the east.

  And she realized that the rumors were true.

  Everywhere she saw the signs of war. The Malrags had not yet come this far west. But she saw men drilling in the squares of villages and towns, saw knights galloping from castles, saw armsmen marching in formation, armor and weapons flashing in the sunlight. Wagons and horses choked the roads, as men and supplies moved east to the fighting, and peasants fled west to avoid it.

  It was marvelous. In all this chaos, no one paid any attention to one woman with a baby.

  She rode over the Northwater bridge and deeper into the Grim Marches.

  ###

  Three days later she came to Castle Cravenlock itself.

  The castle squatted atop its crag, dark and ominous, fortified with a strong wall and tall towers. It looked like a dark wizard’s stronghold from a child’s tale. Which was not surprising - the founder of the House of Cravenlock, a thousand years past, had been a San-keth proselyte, and built a hidden temple to Sepharivaim beneath his castle. The temple remained hidden and secret until Mazael Cravenlock killed Skhath, expelled the proselytes, and sealed the temple's entrances.

  Not that Sykhana cared. She had served Sepharivaim and the San-keth loyally, but they had never given her a child to carry in her arms.

  A short distance from the castle stood Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of four thousand people. Or it had been, at any rate. Sykhana saw new construction in the town, and the stone walls had been fortified with additional towers and platforms for archers and siege engines. No doubt the refugees had swollen the town's population. And Mazael Cravenlock was no fool, which explained the additional fortifications.

  But better to avoid both the town and the castle. Aldane was only two and a half months old, and Lord Mazael had never seen his nephew. But if Sykhana chanced to cross Mazael’s path, if he recognized something of his sister or Gerald in Aldane's face...no. Better to avoid him entirely.

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw the horsemen riding towards her.

  Sykhana reined up, her stolen horse breathing hard. A score of armored men in Cravenlock tabards rode up, led by a villainous-looking knight with a close-cropped black beard and a chest like a barrel. A patrol, and unlike the men at Tristgard, they would be on their guard.

  She made herself look frightened as they approached.

  The men reined up around her.

  "Hold," said the knight, not unkindly. "From where do you hail?"

  Sykhana blinked, as if fighting back tears. "My name's Jenna, and I come from my father's farm, near the Northwater Inn. But...but three days ago those devils came, and my," she started to cry, "my father and my husband went out to fight them, and told me to take the baby and a horse and run, so I did, and the devils cut them down, and I ran, and ran..."

  She dissolved into tears, weeping, huddling Aldane close to her chest.

  Sympathy flashed over the knight's hard-bitten face, and Sykhana managed not to smirk.

  "You're safe now," said the knight. "I am Sir Hagen Bridgebane, armsmaster to Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock. Lord Mazael has decreed that any driven from their homes by the Malrags may find refugee at Cravenlock Town. You'll have to work for your bread, aye, but the Malrags are pressing us hard, and every hand is needed."

  "Truly, sir knight?" said Sykhana, her voice trembling. "Oh, thank you. Thank you!"

  "Go to the town," said Sir Hagen, pointing. "Speak to Neville, the mayor. Tell him I sent you, and he'll find a place for you and your child. You might have to share a room with three or four other women, but it's still better than another night out in the open."

  "Thank you, sir," she said again.

  She rode past the gates of the town and made for the east, towards the looming shapes of the Great Mountains.

  ###

  East of Castle Cravenlock, things were not so orderly.

  Sykhana passed a half-dozen ruined villages, their houses and barns reduced to piles of blackened bricks. The corpses of butchered peasants lay bloated and decaying in the spring sunlight. She saw the corpses of Malrags as well, hundreds upon hundreds of them. They were hideous things, with gray skin, fanged mouths, six-fingered hands, and colorless eyes. And to judge from the number of dead Malrags, Lord Mazael and the other nobles of the Grim Marches were putting up a terrific fight.

  She wondered why Malavost had brought the Malrags to the Grim Marches. Lord Mazael and Lord Richard were mortal foes of the San-keth, but Sykhana did not care about their emnity, and Malavost certainly did not. Ultorin hated Mazael, but Ultorin was nothing more than a rabid dog.

  It puzzled her as she rode through more ruined villages and sacked towns.

  ###

  Two days after Castle Cravenlock, she saw a Malrag warband.

  Sykhana rode through the main street of a burned village. Wisps of smoke still rose from the wrecked houses, and fires crackled here and there. The villagers lay where they had been slain, their bodies hacked and torn by Malrag axes. Sykhana i
gnored them. Their deaths at the hands of the Malrags meant nothing to her.

  Then she saw the dead woman.

  Sykhana reined up, transfixed. A peasant woman of perhaps twenty years lay on her belly in the dirt, the back of her dress stiff with dried blood. Her eyes bulged with pain and horror.

  A tiny white hand lay beneath her shoulder, the fingers loose.