Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Ultorin,” she said, spitting the name like a curse.

  Mazael looked surprised. “You know him?”

  “I do,” said Romaria. “He was Amalric Galbraith’s right hand. He did much of Amalric’s killing, and was just as cruel and brutal as his master. I told you I traveled in the Old Kingdoms, fought against the Dominiars.” She remembered those days, hiding the forests, ambushing the haughty Dominiar knights as they rode to collect taxes. “I foiled Ultorin, once, in a battle. I wonder if he remembers me. I hope he remembers me. Even if he hadn’t brought the Malrags to the Grim Marches, I would still put an arrow through his chest.”

  Castle Cravenlock came into sight, grim and dark atop its crag, with Cravenlock Town resting at its base. The town had grown in the last two years. Mostly from refugees fleeing the Malrags, no doubt. The walls had been strengthened, and she saw crossbow-armed militia patrolling the ramparts. Despite the Malrags, men and women alike moved about their tasks with purpose, and while Romaria saw fear, she saw no sign of despair.

  Mazael had rallied his people well.

  They rode to the castle and clattered through the barbican. Armed men milled about the courtyard, while squires ran to and fro, tending to their knights. Romaria saw Sir Gerald Roland waiting near the gate, Rachel at his side. She looked up as Mazael approached, a relieved smile spreading over her face.

  Then she saw Romaria, and her green eyes got very wide.

  "Mazael, you're back, thank the gods," said Gerald. "Were you successful..."

  He saw Romaria, and his voice trailed off.

  "Evidently you were," said Gerald after a moment. "This must be quite a tale."

  "It is," said Mazael, smiling. "We..."

  "Romaria!"

  She turned her head. A group of Elderborn stood near the curtain wall, aloof and alien in their furs and leathers, bows resting in their hands. A man ran across the courtyard, a man with graying black hair and blue eyes, a bronze diadem on his brow and a bronze shield slung across his back...

  "Father!" said Romaria.

  She slid from the saddle and ran to him.

  ###

  Mazael watched Romaria run to Athaelin.

  "You're smiling."

  Rachel looked at him, eyes wide with wonder.

  "You never smile," said Rachel. "At least, not as you once did, when we were young."

  He dropped from Hauberk's back. Rufus Highgate came to take the reins, frowning at Romaria.

  "My lord," he said. "If I might ask. Who is that...lady?"

  "Lady Romaria Greenshield," said Mazael. "Daughter of Athaelin Greenshield, Lord of Deepforest Keep. And yes, she was slain, I know." Now it was Rufus's turn to wear an astonished expression. "Take care of Hauberk. And send word to the seneschal. Lady Romaria will need rooms at once."

  "And clothes," added Rachel.

  "You heard the lady," said Mazael. "Go."

  Rufus bowed and led Hauberk away.

  "Lord Mazael."

  Athaelin approached, Romaria at his side. Some of the anger had fallen from his expression, and he no longer looked quite so grim.

  "I have kept my oath to you," said Mazael. "Here is your daughter, safe and sound once more. You, your daughter, and your companions are my guests, and may remain at Castle Cravenlock as long as you like. Though we would welcome any aid you could give against the Malrags. We are sore pressed, as I'm sure you can see."

  "I was wrong about you," said Athaelin.

  You aren't, thought Mazael.

  He was truly Demonsouled, a child of the Old Demon. And even if he had not killed Romaria with his own hands, even if she forgave him, he still blamed himself for what had happened. If Athaelin had cut him down during their fight, it would not have been murder.

  It would have been justice.

  "I see Romaria before me, alive and well," said Athaelin. "And I see what you have done here. How you have rallied your people, and fought to defend your lands. I had heard rumors of Malrags in the Grim Marches, but I never dreamed they would come in such numbers." He shook his head. "You have my aid, and the aid of my companions. And I shall send word to Deepforest Keep, to summon additional help. The Malrags must be defeated. Otherwise they will threaten the Elderborn of the Great Southern Forest, and even Deepforest Keep itself."

  "Thank you," said Mazael. "We shall be glad to have your aid."

  ###

  That night Mazael held a feast, to celebrate the victory over the Malrag warband outside of the Cravenlock Town, and Lord Athaelin's arrival.

  And Romaria's safe return.

  She dressed as she always had, in boots and trousers and leather armor, and drew a few disapproving looks from the ladies of the castle. But she did not care, and neither did Mazael.

  The lords and knights assembled from their various camps around Cravenlock Town. Lord Richard greeted Athaelin with his usual calm courtesy.

  "Our host marches east tomorrow," said Lord Richard. "We will draw out the Malrags, find Ultorin, and kill him. Your presence would be welcome, my lord Athaelin. The Elderborn are known to be archers without peer. Perhaps you would accept command of the archers and the skirmishers? Most of my lords and knights are accustomed to commanding heavy horse, and I have few men experienced as archers."

  "It would please me," said Athaelin. He laughed. "You men of the plains know how to fight from the back of a horse, but on your feet? We men of Deepforest Keep could teach you a thing or two."

  "Indeed," said Lord Richard.

  Romaria sat at Mazael's side throughout the feast, and sometimes her hand strayed to touch his beneath the table.

  From time to time Mazael saw Lucan standing on the balcony, wrapped in his cloak, eyes glittering beneath his hood as he leaned upon that black staff.

  ###

  After the feast, Romaria joined Mazael in his rooms atop the King's Tower.

  "There's something wrong with Lucan," said Romaria.

  Mazael snorted. "There's quite a bit wrong with Lucan."

  "No," said Romaria. "He...smells wrong."

  "Smells?"

  Romaria paced to the balcony doors, arms wrapped around herself. "My senses are...different, after what happened to me. Sharper, somehow. I can see more clearly. And I can smell things...wolves have a sharper sense of smell, after all. And Lucan smells rotten. Corrupted. Like meat that's gone bad."

  Mazael crossed to her, took her hands. She did not pull away. "He's sick, you mean?" He had wondered at that himself. Lately Lucan had looked tired, and had been prone to collapses. It had begun when the Malrags invaded, almost after Mazael had first seen Lucan with that black staff.

  "No. At least, I don't think so. He almost smells...he smells Demonsouled."

  Mazael closed his eyes. "Like me, you mean."

  Romaria turned to face him. "No. No. You smell," the crooked grin appeared, briefly, "you smell dangerous. Like a wolf. There's power in you, but you've learned to control it. Lucan smells...worse." She sighed in frustration. "I cannot explain it any better."

  "He has been of great help to me," said Mazael. "Without his aid, I would have been killed, several times. And his spell restored you. But if you are wary, I will watch him."

  "Thank you," said Romaria.

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  "I've missed you," said Mazael. "More than I can say."

  She smiled. "I told you the Seer prophesied that we would save each other. Well, we have, haven't we?" She took a deep breath. "You know this doesn't change anything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You have control of yourself," said Romaria. She closed her eyes, moved closer to him. He felt the heat of her body against his, the warmth of her hands, her breath against his neck. "But I am still half-human, half-Elderborn. The power in the Elderborn half of my soul...I cannot control it. Sooner or later, it will consume me. As happens to all half-breeds. I don't know how much time I have."

  "No one knows how much time they have left," said Mazael. "We could all die
tomorrow. You...just know more clearly how you will die."

  "I know," said Romaria, voice quiet. "So I will spend what time I have left doing something worthwhile. Fighting the Malrags. And spending time with those I love. Like my father." She hesitated. "And with you."

  "I love you," said Mazael.

  He drew her face closer, and she kissed him. Slowly, gently, at first.

  Then with greater urgency.

  ###

  They wound up together in Mazael's bed, their clothes gone, joined together in body as they were in spirit and fate.

  Mazael knew he might die tomorrow, that she might die tomorrow. But he did not care, did not care about anything but Romaria's eyes and lips and body.

  ###

  He awoke the next morning with Romaria's legs tangled in his, her arm thrown across him, her head resting against his chest, the feel of her breath against his skin.

  The sound of horns in his ears.

  Mazael sat up, alarmed, and Romaria's eyes shot open.

  War horns.

  The Malrag host had come.

  Chapter 16 - The March

  The door to Mazael’s bedchamber burst open, and Rufus Highgate ran in.

  Mazael remembered that night when Rufus had run into his room, bearing news that Cravenlock Town was under attack. It had been the first time he had seen the Malrags.

  The first time he had seen the great black wolf.

  Rufus skidded to a stop, gaping at Romaria.

  “Damn it, boy,” said Mazael. “Stop gawking.” Again he heard the sound of horns, and the rattle of armor and the clamor of raised voices from the courtyard. “What is it?”

  “The Malrags, my lord,” said Rufus. “Sir Tanam’s men say that are marching for the castle, in greater numbers than we have ever seen before. The…the entire Malrag host might be on the move, my lord.

  “Help me dress,” said Mazael, climbing to his feet, while Romaria pulled on her clothes and armor. Had Ultorin decided to avenge his defeat outside the walls of Cravenlock Town, his two failed traps to kill Mazael? Or had he simply decided to break the resistance of the Grim Marches once and for all? The entire might of the Grim Marches had gathered in camps around Castle Cravenlock – nearly twenty-five thousand men – but Ultorin had at least seventy-five thousand Malrags. Maybe even more. Knights and mounted armsmen could tear their way through the Malrag lines with ease, but Lord Richard’s combined armies had only seven thousand heavy horse.

  How many Malrags could they overcome?

  Or perhaps Malavost, or the San-keth, had some other goal in mind.

  “It doesn’t matter why,” said Romaria, slinging her sword over her shoulder. Mazael had found a bastard sword for her, and she carried one of the short horse bows favored by the militia, a quiver of arrows at her belt. “We’ll stop him first. Then we’ll figure out why he did it.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael, and then realized that she knew what he had been thinking. Either they still shared some strange link due to Lucan’s spell, or she just knew him very well. He adjusted his armor as Rufus buckled his sword belt. His armor felt strange – many of the damaged steel plates had been replaced.

  “If we can find Ultorin,” said Romaria as Mazael tugged on his black surcoat, “it doesn’t matter what he plans. We can end this, today. Malavost can’t control the Malrags without him, and they’ll turn on each other.” Her voice darkened. “And Ultorin deserves death, anyway, for the things he did in the Old Kingdoms.”

  “Then let’s see if we can give it to him,” said Mazael.

  He hurried down the stairs, Romaria and Rufus following, and entered the courtyard. Knights ran back and forth, climbing into their saddles, their squires adjusting their arms and armor. Gerald sat atop his horse near the steps to the keep, talking with Sir Hagen. Rachel stood in the doorway, watching him, her face a calm mask.

  She was terrified, Mazael knew. Her husband, her brother, and her son might all die before the sun set.

  "What news?" said Mazael.

  "The Malrags are on the move, my lord," said Hagen, face grim beneath his black beard. He alone, of Mazael's friends and vassals, seemed unmoved by Romaria's return. Of course, he had only entered Mazael's service a year after the Old Demon had killed her. "Sir Tanam's scouts spotted them. A great host, marching directly for Castle Cravenlock."

  Rufus sprinted in the direction of the stables. "How many?" said Mazael.

  Hagen hesitated. "At least a hundred thousand strong, at a minimum. Most likely one hundred and fifty thousand, and perhaps as many as a quarter of a million. The Malrag host...it simply covered too much ground for Sir Tanam's scouts to get an accurate count."

  "So many of them," murmured Rachel, her face white.

  "A quarter of a million," said Mazael. Perhaps a hundred and twenty thousand men, women, and children lived upon the lands of Lord Richard and his vassals.

  And now twice as many Malrags prepared to fling themselves at Castle Cravenlock.

  "Lord Richard sends word," said Hagen. "The host is to assemble four miles east of Castle Cravenlock." He grimaced. "There we will take our stand against the Malrags, or so he says."

  "Lord Richard has a plan, I hope?" said Mazael. Hagen did not answer. But there was only one hope of victory, wasn't there? They had to find Ultorin and kill him. Anything else was useless.

  "So many of them," repeated Rachel. "And my son is in the middle of them."

  "Fear not, Lady Rachel," said Romaria. "With so many of them, it will make it all the harder to miss."

  Rufus returned, leading Hauberk, and Mazael pulled himself into the saddle. Romaria took one of the lighter, swifter beasts favored by the mounted archers in the militia. She turned the horse in a quick circle, nodded in satisfaction.

  "Then we had best make haste," said Mazael. "We wouldn't Lord Richard to keep all the Malrags for himself, would we?"

  "The gods go with you," said Rachel.

  Gerald stooped, kissed her, and rode with Mazael to the barbican. Lucan and Timothy were there, grim in their black coats, while Lord Athaelin waited with his Elderborn companion. The Elderborn carried their massive bows, while Athaelin bore his bastard sword in his right hand and his bronze shield upon his left arm. The shield looked ancient, a ring of runes carved around its edge, and the bronze had acquired the green patina of age.

  Ah. Greenshield. Of course.

  "You're looking well, daughter," said Athaelin.

  Romaria grinned. "And you as well, father."

  "Lord Mazael!" Athaelin clashed the flat of his blade against his ancient shield. "We are ready to ride with you."

  "Good," said Mazael.

  He took one look around the courtyard, at the men ready on their horses, at the women watching from the walls. At Rachel, standing alone and forlorn upon the steps to the keep. Mazael knew he might well die today. Everyone in this courtyard might fall in battle against the Malrags.

  Yet he would not surrender his lands and the lives of his people without a fight. And if he could fight his way to Ultorin, if he could cut down the renegade Dominiar...Mazael could end war. He could save his people and his lands. The Grim Marches could have peace.

  Mazael could have more nights with Romaria.

  But even if he fell in battle today, he was glad, so glad, that they had shared at least one night together.

  He felt Romaria's eyes on him, saw her nod.

  "Come," said Mazael. "Let's not keep Lord Richard waiting."

  ###

  Sykhana rode in the heart of the vast host, Aldane cradled in her arms.

  All around her marched Malrags, Malrags beyond count, armed with spears and axes, their black armor seeming to drink the sunlight itself. The balekhans marched with their warbands, the hilts of their massive swords rising over their shoulders. She also saw the Malrag shamans striding along, ragged black robes fluttering around their gaunt bodies, their third eyes flickering with ghostly light.

  So many of them. Malavost had told her that Ultorin
had gathered one hundred and sixty thousand Malrags under his command. Sykhana looked over them and felt a shiver of fear. Ultorin's will - and the power of his bloodsword - kept the Malrags in check. If not for that bloodsword, that Malrags would turn on each other in a heartbeat, enslaved to their endless lust for pain and death. They would rip apart Aldane, if not for Ultorin.