Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

The woman had tried to flee the Malrags, clutching her baby to her chest, and a Malrag plunged its spear into her back as she tried to save her child. Only the baby had been killed in her fall, crushed by the mother's weight. Or the Malrag's spear had plunged through the woman's chest to transfix the child.

  For a moment Sykhana wondered what it would be like to lose Aldane, to see him die, and the pain that burned through her was so fierce that she gasped aloud. She touched his sleeping face with trembling fingers. He was so tiny, so perfect. She would not lose him. He would be a god and live forever, Malavost had promised. She would not lose him!

  When she looked up, the Malrags were watching her.

  A dozen of the creatures stood at the end of the street. They wore black armor, and carried black axes and spears. Black veins threaded beneath their leathery gray hides, and their colorless eyes showed no hint of mercy.

  Sykhana hissed, her fangs extending over her lips, and snatched her hidden daggers from their hiding places.

  One of the Malrags stepped forward. It was smaller than the others, almost spindly, and wore a robe of ragged black leather. Unlike its companions, it had a third eye in the center of its forehead, an eye that glowed with a ghostly green light. The three-eyed Malrag stared at her for a moment, and began to speak. Sykhana did not recognize the hissing, growling language...but somehow the meaning of the words echoed in her mind.

  -You are not human-

  "No," said Sykhana. "I am calibah, of both human and San-keth blood."

  The three-eyed Malrag stepped closer to her, titling its head to the side. Suddenly Sykhana felt the cold prickle of magical power. The Malrag had arcane abilities, and she remembered some of her lessons in Karag Tormeth. The creature was a shaman, she realized, a Malrag spell caster.

  The shaman began speaking again.

  -But the young one is fully human. And the young ones are weak, helpless. They make the sweetest screams when they die-

  Sykhana snarled, pointing her daggers at the shaman's face. "Dare to lift a finger against him, wretch, and I will spill your black blood upon the earth."

  The shaman and the other Malrags hissed, their cold laughter echoing inside Sykhana's skull.

  -Do you think death frightens me, little changeling? I have been slain many times, and I shall be slain many more ere the Great Demon is enfleshed once more. I have killed humans, and I have killed San-keth...and I have killed your kind, little changeling. A calibah woman screams much the same as any other as you strip the flesh from her arms one inch at a time-

  "Try it," spat Sykhana, trying to hide her fear, "and I'll send you to meet your precious Great Demon."

  Again the Malrags laughed at her.

  -Fear not, little calibah. The Master bade us to watch for a calibah woman and a human infant. We are to take you to him at once-

  "Yes," said Sykhana, trying to retake control of the conversation. She was used to inspiring fear, not feeling it. And the Malrag shaman's three-eyed gaze unsettled her. "The village of Gray Pillar. Your Master awaits me there."

  -Come-

  The Malrags left the village, and Sykhana followed them.

  ###

  Gray Pillar lay to the east, at the very edge of the foothills, a village that earned its bread mining the gold veins of the Great Mountains. Or at least it had, until the Malrags had arrived.

  And as the shaman led Sykhana east, she saw more and more Malrags.

  At first it was only scouting parties of three or four. Then she saw an entire warband, led by a towering balekhan in black plate, two shamans at the creature’s side. And then more warbands, and still more, until the Malrags covered the Grim Marches like a black tide, like steel-armored locusts.

  Sykhana tried to count the numbers, and finally gave up. There had to be at least seventy thousand of the creatures. Maybe even as many as a hundred thousand, and still more were gathering. Lord Richard Mandragon and all his vassals together could not muster more than twenty-five thousand fighting men. The Malrags, if they wanted, could slaughter every living human in the Grim Marches.

  But why did Malavost care?

  Later that day they came to Gray Pillar.

  The village took its name from the tall column of gray stone rising from its square, some monument left over from a long-forgotten kingdom. Houses built of rough-mortared fieldstone ringed the square, their roofs burned, dead peasants rotting in the sun. Hundreds of Malrags thronged the village, watching as the shaman led her past.

  Malavost and Ultorin waited for her at the base of the pillar. Ultorin was massive in his black plate armor, one armored hand resting loosely around the hilt of his bloodsword. Besides him, Malavost almost looked like a scarecrow in black, albeit a scarecrow with white hair and pale blue eyes.

  Yet Sykhana knew that Malavost was the more dangerous by far.

  Ultorin sneered as she approached, and then he laughed. “So. The snake’s little pet has returned.”

  “I have,” said Sykhana, hiding a frown.

  Ultorin looked a bit paler than she remembered, with dark circles under his iron-colored eyes. He seemed ill at ease, as if the sun’s light pained him. Malavost had mentioned that the bloodsword might have…deleterious effects upon Ultorin, but she hadn’t expected to see them so soon.

  “There’s no need for hostility, Grand Master,” said Malavost in his resonant voice. “We could not begin until Sykhana brought the child. And she has.” His ever-present smile widened. “Now we can act in force. Our goals shall be accomplished…and you will have your vengeance when Lord Mazael moves to stop us.”

  Ultorin spat upon the ground. “Let him try.”

  "You've done well, Sykhana," said Malavost. "Are you ready to present the child to the cleric?"

  Sykhana stiffened in the saddle. Aldane was hers. Hers! Every instinct screamed against showing Aldane to the miserable old priest.

  She calmed down. Malavost had promised that Aldane would be hers forever. And Skaloban would never have him.

  "Yes," said Sykhana, swinging down from the saddle. She lifted Aldane from his padded basket. "You may take me to Skaloban now."

  Malavost gave a bow that had just a hint of mockery to it, and beckoned. Ultorin snorted, shook his head, and stalked away, hand still caressing the hilt of his bloodsword. He cared nothing for the San-keth, viewing them only as a means to the end, even before Malavost had given him that sword.

  Sykhana wondered how badly it had chewed into his sanity.

  "This way," said Malavost, and he led her to Gray Pillar's church.

  Or what was left of it. It had once been a fine domed church, in the style of old Dracaryl, similar to the church in Cravenlock Town. Now the windows had been smashed, the doors lying splintered and ruined. From within the chapel came the stench of clotted blood and rotting flesh.

  Again Sykhana felt that strange, unfamiliar fear. She did not want to take Aldane into that place. But Malavost walked through the ruined doors, and she would not show fear before him. So she took a deep breath and followed him.

  Inside the church's altar had been desecrated, profaned by the blood of murdered victims. Crude scenes had been painted upon the walls, showing the San-keth, murdering and torturing humans. The corpses of sacrificial victims to Sepharivaim lay piled against the wall, filling the church with their stench.

  Skaloban, a San-keth priest of Sepharivaim, stood before the altar.

  He rode a rotting human skeleton, the bones animated by the power of his necromancy, as did all San-keth clerics. According to the ancient lore, the serpent people had once possessed arms and legs, as did the humans and the Elderborn and the Malrags. But the gods of the humans and the Elderborn betrayed Sepharivaim, banishing him in the outer darkness beyond the circles of the world and stripping the San-keth of their limbs, forcing them to crawl in the dust. In vengeance, the San-keth clerics used necromancy to animate the bones of slain humans, using them as undead carriers.

  "Honored Skaloban," said Malavost, bowing. "Sykhana ha
s returned."

  "Yes," said Skaloban, his voice a faint hiss, his forked tongue lashing at the air. "I can taste her scent." Skaloban was twenty feet long, his coils wrapped tight around the skeleton's spine, his enormous wedge-shaped head rearing up where the skeleton's skull had once been. "So you have returned, child, have you?" The skeleton walked towards her, green fire flickering around its joints, Skaloban's head swaying. "Were you successful?"

  "I was," said Sykhana. It was no effort to keep her voice firm. Once the clerics of great Sepharivaim had filled her with fear and awe. Now she felt only contempt. They had not been able to give her what she wanted. "Behold, chosen of Sepharivaim. The unmarked child of a human apostate, just as you bid."

  Skaloban's tongue flicked the air over Aldane.

  "Good," murmured Skaloban. "Very good. He is worthy of our great purpose. The child shall be the Vessel. Your task, calibah, will be to make sure the Vessel lives to reach the Door of Souls. You must guard him every moment, waking and sleeping. Fail, and your life shall be forfeit. Do you understand?"

  Sykhana bowed low to hide her smile. "Yes, honored one. I shall do as you bid."

  "Good," said Skaloban, his head rotating to face Malavost. "Wizard. Instruct your pet to rouse the Malrags. We march at once."

  Malavost smiled. "As you command, honored Skaloban."

  ###

  Later Sykhana stood with Malavost outside the ruined church, Aldane in her arms, watching the Malrag host rumble into motion.

  "Do I have your promise, wizard?" she said.

  Malavost nodded. "You shall be Aldane’s mother for all your days. And Skaloban shall never touch him."

  "I have your word?" Sykhana said.

  Malavost nodded, his pale eyes glittering.

  "You do," he said.

  Chapter 10 - Reunion

  Rachel wanted to scream at her husband.

  "We have to conserve the horses," said Gerald. "If the San-keth wanted Aldane dead, that changeling would have killed him on the spot. No, they want him alive for some vile purpose."

  "Then we should ride with all speed," said Rachel, her voice tight, "to stop Sykhana before she achieves that vile purpose."

  Sykhana. That name filled Rachel with a rage beyond anything she had ever known. The changeling would pay for having dared to lift a finger against Aldane, for betraying Rachel.

  "Circan thinks she is alone, but she won't remain alone for long," said Gerald. "Undoubtedly she has allies. We'll need to fight them, and we'll need fresh horses and men to win that fight." He reached over his saddle and took her hand. "If we're going to get our son back, we'll need to keep our wits about us."

  Rachel shivered with fury. Their son had been taken, and Gerald wanted her to remain calm? Rachel wanted to ride the horses to death, to gallop to the horizon until she saw Sykhana, until she could hold Aldane in her arms once more...

  She sighed.

  "You're right," she whispered. She knew well the deep cunning of the San-keth and their calibah servants. If she did not keep her head, if she urged Gerald into doing something rash...then her folly might well get Aldane killed. "I just...I have to get him back, Gerald. I have to."

  "We shall," said Gerald. He looked to the side, where Circan rode at the head of the column. "It's not as if Sykhana can elude us, after all."

  "Yes," whispered Rachel, her gloved hand tightening against her horse's reins until the leather squealed.

  So long as Circan had the vial of Aldane's blood, they could follow her son anywhere. Let Sykhana run all she wanted! Rachel would hound her to the ends of the earth.

  ###

  They stopped at Tristgard.

  Sykhana had gone east since fleeing Knightcastle, and Tristgard defended the ford over the Black River. Someone certainly would have seen Sykhana, Gerald said, and he wanted to question the town's militia.

  He was right. Much as Rachel wanted to ride on, Gerald was right. So she stood beside her horse outside the town's gates and waited. Tristgard held no good memories for her. Here the San-keth had attacked her as she had ridden to her wedding at Knightcastle. Here she had seen Mazael take a half-dozen crossbow bolts to the chest, surviving only by a miracle.

  But Tristgard had changed in the last year.

  A small city of tents and wagons surrounded the town, filled with terrified people. Refugees, she realized. Some of the armsmen spoke to them, and brought back disturbing stories. All the refugees had come from the Grim Marches, and spoke harrowing tales of war. Of Malrags descending like locusts from the Great Mountains, killing everything in their path.

  Mazael's lands. Many of the refugees had come from her brother's lands.

  And if Circan was correct, Sykhana was making for Castle Cravenlock.

  Gerald returned after an hour, his expression grim.

  “What is it?” said Rachel. “Did someone see Sykhana here?”

  He led her away from the other knights and the armsmen, far enough that they could not be overheard.

  “I think so,” said Gerald. “One of the militiamen saw a lone woman, on a horse, carrying a baby. She was here two days ago.”

  “Two days!” said Rachel. Her heart soared. They could close the gap easily. Especially once they got to the open plains of the Grim Marches.

  “She slipped past the guards at the ford and rode east. They haven’t seen her since.” He sighed. “She’s almost certainly going to the Grim Marches.”

  “But that’s good news!” said Rachel. “We can catch her there, we can get help from Mazael…”

  “The Grim Marches are at war,” said Gerald, waving his hand at the ragged tents. “Look at those refugees.”

  “We already knew about the Malrags,” said Rachel. “Mazael mentioned them in his last letter.”

  “He mentioned warbands,” said Gerald. “The situation has clearly gotten much worse. If we go into the Grim Marches, we’ll be riding into a war.”

  “Surely you aren’t thinking of turning back!” said Rachel.

  “Of course not,” said Gerald. “But…if the reports of the Malrag numbers are true, we very well might not come back, if we find ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should send you back to Knightcastle, to keep you safe until I can return with Aldane.”

  “No!” said Rachel. “I told you, I will not be left behind. Bad enough to wait not knowing what that vile changeling is doing to Aldane. But to wait knowing that you might be slain…no, no I couldn’t bear it.”

  “And what of me?” said Gerald, anger flashing over his face. “Suppose we are attacked and I cannot defend you? Do you think I want to watch you die in front of me? Or suppose you get to watch me die? We’ll be riding into a war, Rachel. You will be safer at Knightcastle.”

  “I am not turning back,” said Rachel, “without our son.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  Finally Gerald sighed and gave a nod.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve heard it said that the gods love fools and madmen. Well, I hope it is true, for I am certainly a fool and a madman to allow my wife to ride with me into a war.”

  “To get Aldane back,” said Rachel, “I would ride to hell and back.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Gerald. “Sir Cavilion!” The lean knight in command of the armsmen rode over. “We ride for the Grim Marches.”

  They left an hour later, riding over the Black River and towards the Grim Marches.

  ###

  A few days later they rode over the Northwater bridge.

  Everywhere Rachel saw the signs of war. The men marching east, clad in leather armor and bearing spears and bows. The terrified men, women, and children fleeing west, their worldly goods piled in wagons and carried on their backs. Upon every tongue were stories of the Malrags, of their cruelty, of their atrocities.

  “Your son is now east of Castle Cravenlock, my lord,” said Circan, riding besides Gerald. The wizard’s face was grim, his brow furrowed beneath his pale hair. �
�Or the changeling may be at Castle Cravenlock now. The distance is difficult to judge.”

  “If only we had a way to send a message to Mazael,” said Rachel. “He could stop Sykhana.” And Castle Cravenlock was three days ride from the bridge. Sykhana was adding to her lead.

  Gerald shook his head. “I suspect Mazael is busy with the Malrags. If Castle Cravenlock hasn’t already fallen.”

  “None of the refugees spoke of it,” said Sir Cavilion.

  “Surely would have seen more peasants on the road, had the castle fallen,” said Circan, his fingers still closed about the vial of Aldane’s blood.