Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

Malavost's pale blue eyes darted back and forth as the images raced in circles around him. He flung out his hands, green sparks flying from his fingers, and every spark caused an image to shatter into shards of silver light. But there were too many of them, far too many, and he came nowhere near striking Lucan and the others.

  And as Timothy maintained the illusion spell, Lucan cast a spell of his own, as did Circan. Circan conjured spirit beasts, a half-dozen translucent lions with manes of hissing snakes and barbed tails, beasts that leapt past the Malrags to spring upon Malavost. Lucan unleashed his will and power in a strike, hammering at Malavost's wards. The blast knocked Malavost off his horse, sending the wizard sprawling to the ground.

  Two of Circan's spirit beasts leapt upon Malavost's horse, ripping it to shreds, while the remaining four attacked Malavost himself. For a burning moment Lucan thought they had succeeded, that Malavost was finished. But instead Malavost rolled to one knee and thrust out a hand. Silver mist swirled around him, and he conjured spirit beasts of his own, creatures that looked like the monstrous offspring of squids and rabid dogs. His beasts tore into Circan's, driving them away.

  Lucan loosed another psychokinetic blast, but Malavost deflected it, redirecting the spell into one of Mazael's armsmen, knocking the unfortunate man from his horse. Malavost launched into another spell at once, silver light flashing around him, and clapped his hands with a shout.

  The air rippled, and all of the illusionary images vanished without a trace. Timothy groaned and fell to his knees, hands flying to his temples. Circan grimaced, his face a mask of concentration as he drove his spirit beasts against Malavost's creatures.

  Malavost's pale blue gaze fell upon Lucan, a smile spreading over his face.

  ###

  Mazael struggled to his feet as Ultorin's massive horse thundered towards him. Agony shot up his wounded arm and leg, but he threw himself to the side, throwing up his shield to protect himself.

  Just in time, too.

  Ultorin's bloodsword plunged down, the edge clipping the top of Mazael's shield, and even the glancing hit was enough to shatter the heavy wood. Mazael staggered back, his arm numb from the blow, his head swimming, his heart pounding, his vision blurring.

  Behind him, Challenger groaned and collapsed, flanks motionless.

  His horse was dead. But how? None of the crossbow bolts had dealt him a fatal wound. Had they struck an artery?

  A wave of dizziness washed over Mazael, his blurred vision worsening, and he realized the answer with a chill.

  Poison. Specifically, the poison produced by the fangs of a calibah - Sykhana herself, no doubt. One bite from a calibah's fangs had enough poison to kill a man, and Mazael had taken three crossbow bolts topped with the stuff. No doubt his Demonsouled essence had kept him alive, and would soon heal the damage from the poison.

  But not soon enough to keep Ultorin from taking his head.

  This hadn't been an attack. It was a trap.

  Ultorin brought his horse around for another pass, and Mazael braced himself, trying to keep his balance.

  ###

  There was no other choice left.

  Lucan drew the staff's power into himself. The carvings along the staff's black length burned with blood-colored light - the same light, he realized, that surrounded Malavost's bloodsword. The power surged up, reaching for Lucan...but he only drew upon a portion of it, a pittance.

  A trickle. He yearned to take more, to fill himself with the burning might, but he dared not.

  Besides, the bloodstaff's raw power had failed against Malavost's skill. Lucan would need something else to defeat him.

  Malavost laughed and again brought emerald lightning thundering down out of the sky. Lucan thrust out his staff, casting a ward, and sent the blast into the earth.

  "Fool," said Malavost. "Even with that bloodstaff you cannot hope to overcome me. Why not simply lie down and wait for the end? I promise you that it will be quick and..."

  Lucan ignored his taunts and cast another spell, reaching out with his will. With the staff's power churning through him, he felt the darkness of the Malrags all around him, the joy their malignant spirits took in slaying and killing.

  He also felt a veneer of power over their darkness, something like chains of fire.

  Ultorin's control.

  Lucan severed those chains, and forced his own will over the nearby Malrags.

  A dozen Malrags froze, their colorless eyes going wide, their gray lips peeling back from yellow fangs in a furious snarl. Lucan felt their hatred, their endless rage. He was not Demonsouled...but the staff had been infused with the might of Mazael Cravenlock's blood, and that gave Lucan the power to command them.

  "Kill him!" he bellowed, pointing his burning staff at Malavost. "Kill him now!"

  The Malrags under his control sprang at Malavost, black spears and axes drawn back for the kill.

  Malavost's eyes widened in shock for just a moment, and then narrowed as he struck out. A psychokinetic blast flung four Malrags to the ground. His spirit beasts turned from Circan's and leapt upon the Malrags. Lucan let more of the staff's power pour into him and extended his spell, forcing his will and control over more of Ultorin's Malrags. Dozens of the creatures threw themselves at Malavost, obeying Lucan's command. Circan staggered forward, panting, and cast another spell, conjuring more spirit creatures to unleash against Malavost.

  Malavost snarled and threw his hands at the sky.

  And a torrent of emerald lightning bolts screamed down around him, four, five, a dozen, ripping at the earth, dissipating Circan's spirit creatures, and tearing Lucan's enslaved Malrags to smoking chunks of charred flesh. The shock wave of hot air knocked Lucan to the ground, breaking his concentration.

  His link to the bloodstaff broke, and again nausea and dizziness flooded through him.

  But not as much as before.

  When the air cleared he staggered to his feet, looking for Malavost.

  But Malavost had vanished.

  ###

  Again Ultorin's bloodsword came down, and Mazael only just avoided having his head split in half. Instead the sword clanged off his left shoulder, destroying the armor plates and aggravating the crossbow wound. He had ripped the quarrels from his arm and leg, blood gushing over his armor, and the wounds began to knit themselves closed.

  But not nearly fast enough.

  Ultorin wheeled around for another pass, his horse's iron-shod hooves tearing at the earth. Then a blast of green lighting flashed out of the sky to the west, and then another, the thunderclaps rolling over the clamor of the battle. Ultorin stopped, his iron-colored eyes narrowed, and he lifted his bloodsword.

  A shiver went through the battling Malrags.

  "What?" roared Ultorin, looking around. "Someone dares? The Malrags are mine! Mine!"

  For a moment he forgot Mazael.

  Mazael surged forward, staggering like a drunk, and swung with both hands on Lion's hilt. He doubted he could penetrate Ultorin's black armor, or even the horse's coat of mail.

  A coat that did not reach to the great black horse's fetlocks. Lion sank deep into the horse's right front leg, and the great beast screamed in agony, rearing up. But it could not support the weight of its armor on two legs, and collapsed with another scream, Ultorin falling from the saddle.

  Mazael sprang at Ultorin, hoping to end their fight and the war with one solid blow. But his aim was off, and Lion's point tore a groove in Ultorin's cuirass Ultorin kicked out, his armored boot crashing against Mazael's wounded hip. Mazael staggered back, his leg pulsing with agony, and only just managed to keep from falling.

  Ultorin sprang to his feet, his bloodsword a blur of darkness and flame. Mazael parried and blocked, staggering, barely keeping ahead of Ultorin's furious attacks. His head swam, and he cursed his folly. He could have taken Ultorin, could have defeated the rogue Dominiar.

  But not with calibah poison pumping through his veins.

  Ultorin drew back his bloodsword, his eyes filled wit
h enraged glee, and Mazael knew that he could not block the attack in time.

  And then a black blur shot past him and sprang upon Ultorin.

  Mazael caught a glimpse of the great black wolf from his dreams, her blue eyes alight with wrath, her fangs flashing like daggers of white ice. Ultorin screamed, lashing at the wolf’s side with his bloodsword, but he could not get enough momentum behind his blow to pierce the thick black fur.

  Mazael staggered forward, all his weight and faltering strength behind Lion’s point. The blade crunched through black armor and plunged into Ultorin’s side, azure flame pouring into the wound. Ultorin roared in agony, his free hand raking at the wolf.

  “Aid me!” bellowed Ultorin. “Aid me, now!”

  As one, a dozen nearby Malrags turned, ignoring their foes, and sprinted at Mazael. He ripped Lion free from Ultorin’s side and parried a swing, sidestepped, and killed a Malrag with a slash across the throat. Two Malrags leapt at the wolf, and she sprang off Ultorin with a snarl.

  Mazael wheeled, killed another Malrag, and tried to force his way towards Ultorin. Even wounded, even with calibah poison in his blood, he could still match the Malrags. And Ultorin did not look well. Blood poured from the wound Mazael had carved in his side, and the black wolf’s claws had torn away the right half of his face, rending skin and muscle to reveal the bone underneath. If Mazael could just get close enough to deal a mortal wound…

  Ultorin plunged his bloodsword into the chest of a passing Malrag. The sigils carved into the blade blazed, the darkness surrounding the sword deepening. The Malrag withered, crumbling into ashes, and as it did, Ultorin’s wounds vanished, the bloody gashes in his face and side disappearing. He growled and stalked through the Malrags, his yellow-flecked gray eyes locked on Mazael’s face. Mazael tried to cut his way through the Malrags, but to no avail. There were simply too many of them, and more and more flung themselves at him. For a moment he wondered if Ultorin had called every Malrag on the battlefield to attack him.

  The Malrags drove Mazael back, and Ultorin circled around to the side. Mazael gritted his teeth, trying to break free from the press, but to no avail. With his attention fixed on the Malrags, it would be the easier thing in the world for Ultorin to plunge his bloodsword into Mazael’s back.

  The darkness-wreathed blade came up…

  The black wolf crashed into Ultorin once more, snarling, fangs and claws raking at armor. Ultorin spat out a curse and swung, the edge of his sword digging into the wolf’s side. She reared back with a snarl of pain, blood flowing over the cut, and stumbled back.

  And for a moment, Mazael felt a ghostly pain along his ribs, as if he had been struck there. As if Ultorin’s bloodsword had wounded him, instead of the wolf. Ultorin stalked towards the wolf, murder in his eyes, and sudden fury erupted in Mazael.

  The wolf staggered back, her hind right leg twitching as it tried to support her weight.

  "No!" roared Mazael, sprinting towards Ultorin, his pain and weakness forgotten. Ultorin would not harm her. He would not! Ultorin whirled and snarled a command, and Malrags, dozens of Malrags, turned towards Mazael.

  Mazael raised Lion's burning blade before his face, the azure light brighter than the bloody glow around Ultorin's sword...

  Then Mazael's knights crashed into the gathered Malrags, swinging swords and heavy maces. Gerald rode at their head, shouting commands, his silver longsword flashing. The Malrags fell, overwhelmed by the charge of heavy horse. Ultorin's eyes narrowed, and he seized the reins of a passing horse and swung up into the empty saddle. Mazael started after him, but it was too late. Ultorin galloped from the field, trampling down any Malrags that got in his way. The knights continued their charge, the Malrags fleeing before them, and soon Mazael was alone on the battlefield, save for the dead.

  And the black wolf.

  She stood a short distance away, glaring at him, sides heaving with her breath.

  "You save my life," said Mazael, taking a hesitant step towards the wolf. Now that the fury of battle had passed, his head ached and swam, and his half-healed crossbow wounds throbbed with pain.

  The wolf backed away, snarling.

  "Who are you?" said Mazael. "I mean you no harm. You've saved my life, twice now, whoever or whatever you are." He took another step forward, and this time the wolf did not move. "You're wounded. Come back with me, to Castle Cravenlock, and I'll see that you..."

  The wolf backed away, eyes fixed on him.

  No. Not at him. The wolf was staring at his belt.

  At his belt?

  Mazael looked down. Lion's empty scabbard hung from his right hip, and his sheathed dagger waited on his right. Besides his dagger dangled a slender chain, threaded through a large silver coin.

  The silver coin that Romaria had once carried.

  "This?" said Mazael, lifting the chain. The silver coin swung and flashed. "Is this what you want? It belonged to the only woman I ever loved, and..."

  The wolf trembled...and changed. Her form melted and blurred, flowing like water, and then shrank. One moment a black wolf the size of a horse crouched a dozen steps from Mazael. The next a naked woman stood in the wolf's place, her black hair wild and tangled, her blue eyes ablaze with madness, her pale skin streaked with Malrag blood.

  And for a moment Mazael could do nothing but stare, his mind frozen.

  Romaria.

  It was Romaria Greenshield. The only woman he had ever loved, dead now for two years. Dead at the hands of the Old Demon, his father, her chest reduced to a blackened ruin as she lay motionless upon the floor of Castle Cravenlock's chapel.

  Impossible. It was impossible. Mazael had seen her die.

  "Romaria?" he whispered.

  She stared at him, face half-hidden behind a curtain of tangled black hair, and a strange mixture of longing and fear and rage crossed over her features, all mingled together.

  She looked utterly insane.

  "This can't be," whispered Mazael. "I saw you die. I saw you die. How..."

  It couldn't be her. He had watched as her body had been laid in a crypt below Castle Cravenlock. He had sent a letter to her father, the Lord of Deepforest Keep, informing him of her death, though he had never heard an answer. This had to be a trick, some phantom conjured out of Malavost's magic.

  Yet this was Romaria Greenshield. He knew it, knew it in his very bones.

  He reached for her, and she backed away, lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, fingers hooked into claws.

  "I'm sorry," said Mazael, the words pouring out of him. "I'm sorry, it was my fault you died, I brought you to your death, I..."

  She trembled, anguish filling her face, and lifted a shaking hand towards him.

  Metal rasped against the earth.

  "My lord? I..."

  Lucan Mandragon limped towards him, leaning upon his black staff. His cowl was thrown back, and he looked weary, bone-weary. Then he saw Romaria, and his black eyes grew wide with alarm.

  Romaria growled, and her form blurred. In an instant she became the great black wolf once more, her blue eyes blazing like frozen stars. Then she turned and ran, moving with superhuman speed.

  "Romaria!" said Mazael. "Romaria!"

  But she did not turn back.

  Chapter 12 - Cenotaph

  For a moment Lucan seemed at a loss for words.

  “That,” he said at last. “That was Lady Romaria, wasn’t it?”

  Mazael nodded, too shocked to answer.

  “You said she had been killed,” said Lucan.

  “She was killed!” said Mazael in sudden anger. “Do you think me a liar? I saw the Old Demon strike her down with a spell. I saw her die. I saw them put her body in the tomb. She…she cannot possibly be alive.”

  Lucan scowled. “A trick, then. Some spell of Malavost’s. Or perhaps a phantasm conjured by a Malrag shaman. It sounds like the sort of petty cruelty they would enjoy.”

  “But…it was her,” said Mazael. “I was sure of it. And she was the black wolf, too. She tri
ed to kill Ultorin, and helped me against the balekhan in Cravenlock Town. If Malavost or the shamans conjured the illusion, why would it attack Ultorin?” He pulled off his helmet, raked a hand through his sweating hair. “For that matter, the black wolf was no illusion. It left wounds on both Ultorin and the balekhan. But how could it be Romaria?”

  “She wasn’t human,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “At least not entirely. One half of her soul was human, while the other half was Elderborn.”

  “I know that,” said Mazael, and his frown deepened. “You know something, don’t you? Something from Marstan’s knowledge.”