Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mazael's sword.

  The horse archers veered past the vanguard, moving along the Malrag lines, and Romaria drew an arrow from her quiver. The horse bow was smaller than she preferred, and the arrows not quite so well made. But she had learned to shoot a bow from the Elderborn of the Great Southern Forest, and there were no finer archers in the world.

  Ahead of her, Sir Tanam's standard-bearer, the banner of Crow's Rock fluttering from his lance, blew out three blasts upon his war horn.

  Romaria raised the bow, drew, and released. Then again, and again, and again. Every arrow found a mark, and Malrags bellowed in pain, wounded, or fell dead upon the earth. Around her hundreds of archers loosed their arrows, sending volley after volley into the Malrag lines. The Malrag ranks disintegrated as some fell back, trying to take cover from the arrows, while others broke free and moved in pursuit of the horse archers.

  Which made it all the easier for Mazael’s horsemen to ride them down.

  Romaria leaned to the left as she loosed another arrow into the pursuing Malrags. Her sturdy little horse had been well trained, and it mirrored her movement, veering to the left to follow the other horse archers. She twisted in the saddle, loosing arrow after arrow into the Malrags. Sir Tanam’s standard-bearer blew a long blast, the call to reform the line, and Romaria stopped shooting to join the other archers.

  They had killed hundreds of Malrags, and Mazael’s charge had killed thousands more. Yet Ultorin’s host held tens of thousands more. Could they possibly kill all of them?

  Even as the thought passed through her mind, green lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a sheet of sizzling flame.

  ###

  “Again!” bellowed Lucan, lifting his hands to the sky.

  Timothy and the other wizards obeyed, combining their powers to cast warding spells. Emerald lightning streaked towards Richard Mandragon’s host, only to crash against the combined warding spells of the wizards. Some of the lightning blasts fizzled into nothingness, or veered into the ground, digging glassy furrows into the earth. And still others rebounded into the Malrag ranks, burning the creatures to ashes and charred bone.

  Yet the shamans’ attack continued. Lucan rather doubted that the shamans, or Ultorin himself, cared how many casualties the Malrags took.

  So long as the humans died.

  Then the lightning barrage doubled, and doubled again, hammering at the wards, all the blasts focused over the wizards. The black-cloaked men gritted their teeth, sweat pouring down their faces, hands thrust at the sky. The wards shimmered and crackled beneath the strain.

  “Counterattack!” shouted Timothy. “Lucan, we must strike back!”

  Lucan nodded. “Do it!” Timothy began casting a spell, yellow-orange flames dancing around his fingertips. “The rest of you, lend him your power. Do it now!”

  The wizards complied, channeling their power into Timothy’s casting. Lucan focused upon the wards, pouring his full skill and power into them. At once he felt the strain against his will…and the black staff waiting ready in his hands. He yearned to send his will into it, to summon the blazing power and to lay waste to the Malrag shamans.

  No. He didn’t dare. Not until the need was dire…

  Timothy raised his hand, shouting the final words of his spell. A fireball blazed around his fist, and then erupted into a sheet of flame that burst across the sky. An instant later the green lightning sputtered, and then stopped entirely. Either the flame spell had killed the Malrag shamans, or distracted them enough to stop the attack.

  Lucan frowned, gripping his staff.

  Where was Malavost? The magical attacks had been powerful, but lacked skill and precision. Otherwise Lucan and the other wizards would never have been able to deflect them so easily. He expected Malavost to launch an attack at any moment.

  Yet he still saw no sign of Malavost.

  ###

  “They are advancing too quickly!” said Skaloban, his voice full of alarm. And, perhaps, a hint of fear. Sykhana’s contempt redoubled. The cleric of Sepharivaim was a coward. She had come to hold the San-keth priests in contempt years ago, and Skaloban in particular seemed weak and pathetic.

  Malavost would give her more than the San-keth ever would.

  She kissed Aldane on his forehead and watched the confrontation.

  “Do not fear, honored Skaloban,” said Malavost, calm as ever. “If Lord Richard’s men advance too far, we shall simply unleash the Ogrags.”

  Sykhana flinched. The normal Malrags were bad enough.

  The Ogrags were worse.

  “You said we would need the Ogrags later,” said Skaloban.

  “This is true,” said Malavost. “However, a few Ogrags lost now would not make much of a difference later. And the men of the Grim Marches have not yet seen an Ograg, have they? They would not know how to fight them. They would slaughter the men of the Grim Marches most effectively.” He glanced at Ultorin. “Of course, it is the Grand Master’s decision.”

  Though when he phrased it that way, Ultorin’s decision was certain.

  “A dozen Ogrags,” said Ultorin, grinning. “That will give us enough time.” He laughed, eyes wide, the cords in his neck bulging. “And I’ll enjoy watching the Ogrags tear Mazael’s knights to pulp.”

  ###

  Lion blazed in Mazael’s fist.

  He struck down a Malrag, and then another, and then another, Lion cleaving through Malrag flesh with ease. Steel weapons wounded and slew the Malrags, but Lion had been forged to slay things of dark magic, and the Malrags feared the sword’s fire. They shied away from Mazael, flinching from the sword’s fire…and his knights and armsmen crashed into the distracted Malrags, cutting them down.

  The Malrag charge had stopped, and now the momentum lay with Mazael and the rest of the vanguard.

  He heard the distant boom of the war drums, followed by the roar of men and the thunder of hooves. Lord Richard had released the right and left wings under Lord Robert and Toraine. Once they arrived, they would crush the Malrag attack, and send any survivors fleeing.

  Back to Ultorin’s host.

  Where, no doubt, tens of thousands more Malrags waited to attack. And still Ultorin had shown no sign of himself. If he stayed to the rear, if he simply sent wave after wave of Malrags at the host of the Grim Marches without exposing himself to danger…then he would win.

  And then a different kind of roar cut into Mazael’s thoughts.

  He turned, smoke rising from Lion’s blade as the magical flames burned away black Malrag blood. A huge gray shape lumbered through the Malrag lines, clad in clanking black armor. It looked like a Malrag, but most Malrags stood no more than five or six feet tall. This creature, this giant, stood at least fifteen feet tall, sheathed in armor plates like black dragon’s scales. It looked even more deformed and gruesome than the smaller Malrags, its gray skin gnarled with growths and cysts.

  The giant bellowed and ran forward, a spiked mace ready in its right hand.

  ###

  Romaria heard the roar, and it sent a cold shiver through her.

  She knew the Malrags well. She had fought them in the craggy valleys and narrow passes of the Great Mountains, guiding travelers and merchant caravans through the high roads.

  And only an Ograg made a roar like that. She had seen such a nightmare, the larger cousin of a Malrag, only twice. The second time, it had killed half the caravan before she had managed to bring the creature down with an arrow through its eye.

  Turning, she spotted an Ograg, and then another, shoving their way through the ranks of Malrags, spiked maces in their hands. From what Mazael had said, his men had not yet seen an Ograg. They wouldn’t know how to fight the creatures.

  They would be slaughtered.

  She galloped to Sir Tanam Crowley’s side. The Old Crow sat staring at the Ogrags, his mouth drawn into a hard line.

  "Lady Romaria," he said. Most men would have dismissed her without a second thought, but whatever else he was, the Old Crow was no fo
ol. "You know what these things are?"

  "Aye," said Romaria. "They're called Ogrags. Like Malrags, but bigger."

  Tanam snorted. "I can see that."

  "They grow in the same sort of dark hives as Malrags," said Romaria. "But the Ogrags keep growing and growing...almost like a tumor. They have incredible strength, but their growth deranges their minds. They're absolutely insane, and almost always stupider than the normal Malrags."

  Tanam nodded. "So how do you fight the big devils?"

  "From a distance," said Romaria, fitting an arrow to her bow. "Shoot them full of arrows until they bleed to death. Their eyes and throats are vulnerable - an arrow there can finish them off, if you're lucky."

  Tanam grunted. "It's as good as plan as any. We'll shoot down the Ogrags, and leave the Malrags to the heavy horse." He nodded to his standard-bearer, who lifted his horn and blew a short string of blasts. The horse archers surged forward, raising their bows. A storm of arrows fell upon the nearest Ograg. Most bounced from the giant's armor plates, but several struck home.

  The Ograg roared in fury and came at them, mace raised high.

  ###

  "Scatter!" shouted Mazael, standing in his stirrups and waving Lion over his head. "Don't let it get close..."

  Too late.

  The misshapen giant crashed into the nearest group of knights, laying about with its spiked mace. Its first blow sent both a knight and his horse flying into the air, man and beast screaming. The giant kicked, and sent a mounted armsman sprawling to the earth. The man tried to scramble to his feet, only to have his head crushed like an egg beneath the giant’s stump-like foot.

  Mazael leaned from the saddle, snatched a fallen Malrag spear, and urged Hauberk forward. Yet the big horse hesitated, no doubt frightened by the giant’s hideous appearance, or perhaps its vile stench. Mazael shouted and dug his spurs into the horse’s side, and Hauberk whinnied and broke into a gallop.

  The giant turned as Mazael thundered towards it. The spiked mace came up, ready to deliver a killing blow.

  Exposing the creature’s unarmored armpit.

  Hauberk galloped under the upraised arm, and Mazael thrust with all his strength. The spearhead, a foot of black steel, sank into the giant’s exposed gray flesh. The creature howled and lashed out with its mace, the spikes passing so close to Mazael’s face that he felt the wind of their passage. The giant flailed, mad with pain, slimy black blood dripping down its black-armored chest.

  Mazael wheeled Hauberk around and drew Lion. The giant flinched away from the sword’s flames, and Mazael set Hauberk forward in a charge. The creature lifted its mace for another blow, and Mazael stood up in his stirrups as he passed, whipping Lion through a high overhand swing.

  The sword’s tip ripped through the giant’s throat, black blood spraying.

  It let out of a gurgling bellow and fell to its knees, clutching at its torn throat.

  Mazael wheeled, snatched another spear from a slain Malrag, and went looking for another giant.

  ###

  Romaria balanced in her saddle, loosing arrow after arrow.

  Almost every arrow found a mark in Ograg flesh. Most of the other horse archers and skirmishers lacked her skill. But when a hundred men shot at the Ograg, some of the arrows found a mark. The Ograg bellowed, lumbering after them, but the swift horses with their light-armored riders moved far faster than the massive creature.

  Romaria drew and released once more. Her arrow streaked across the empty space and buried itself in the Ograg’s throat. The creature roared, shaking in rage and pain, and Sir Tanam’s raiders veered close and loosed a volley of steel-tipped javelins. Most of the weapons bounced away from the heavy armor, but a half-dozen buried themselves in the Ograg’s face and throat.

  The Ograg collapsed with a groan, the earth shuddering with the impact.

  Romaria spun her horse, galloping for the next Ograg. All around her the heavy horsemen crashed through the Malrags, while the mounted archers and the skirmishers harried the Ogrags, luring them away from the knights. Her heart thundered beneath her ribs, her black hair streaming behind her head, and a wild grin spread over her face. They would win! They would smash the Malrags, drive them across the plains. And then Romaria would find Ultorin and put an arrow through his rotten heart, and they would have victory and peace.

  She wanted to lift her face to the sky and howl.

  Howl…

  Her bow creaked, and Romaria looked at her hand in horror, the Ogrags and the Malrags momentarily forgotten.

  Slender claws sprouted from her fingertips, digging into the wood and horn of her bow. Her hand looked more sinewy and muscular than usual, and a fuzz of fine black fur covered her fingers.

  It was the beast within. The Elderborn half of her soul, charged with earth magic. Lucan’s spell had restored her, but her nature had not changed. The human half of her soul was not strong enough to contain the raw power of the Elderborn half. And sooner or later, that power would overwhelm her, and she would become the great black wolf once more.

  And then no spell could change her back.

  Shuddering, she forced herself to calm, forced back the eagerness for the hunt, and her hand returned to normal, the claws and fur vanishing.

  But she still felt the beast stirring within her, just below the surface.

  Romaria was the child of a human father and an Elderborn mother…and half-blooded children all met the same fate. Sooner or later, their Elderborn souls overwhelmed them. Sooner or later, they became the beast, and nothing could stop it.

  Her heart cold, Romaria lifted her bow and joined the battle, losing herself in the killing.

  ###

  “Spears!” said Mazael, brandishing Lion.

  His men obeyed, lances and spears in hand, and galloped past the Ograg. The long spears let them stay out of reach of the Ograg's massive fists and enormous spiked mace. The creature bellowed in frustration, lashing out with the mace, but the horsemen evaded its blow. Then Sir Hagen galloped past, and flung an axe in a smooth overhand throw. The heavy axe buried itself in the Ograg's brow, and the creature fell to its knees with a snarl. Another knight thundered forward, lance extended, and plunged the steel point into the Ograg's featureless white eye.

  The Ograg collapsed with a thunderous clang of black armor.

  Mazael turned Hauberk, spear in his left hand, sword in his right, and looked for new foes.

  And found none.

  Lion's flame dimmed in his hand.

  Mazael looked around, frowning.

  He saw no remaining Ogrags. Dead Malrags, dead Malrags beyond count, carpeted the plains, along with many slain knights, militia, and armsmen. He saw a few bands of Malrags left, fleeing in all directions, pursued by groups of horsemen.

  But no other Malrags.

  There had been no more than fifteen or twenty thousand Malrags in the attack, Mazael guessed.

  What had happened to the rest of them?

  ###

  Sykhana swayed in the saddle, Aldane cradled in her arms.

  To the north, far to the north, she saw the dust raised by the battle. Or, rather, raised by the distraction. Twenty thousand Malrags, flung at Lord Richard's army, while the rest of the Malrag host slipped away to the south. Perhaps the twenty thousand would prevail over the men of the Grim Marches, or perhaps they would be slaughtered. Either way, it would not matter.

  Aldane was safe. That was what mattered.

  "Do you see?" murmured Malavost, riding besides her. "I told you I would keep my word."

  Sykhana nodded, her heart racing. Soon Aldane would reign in splendor forevermore.

  And she would be his mother.

  Forever,

  In the distance, she saw the green mass of the Great Southern Forest.

  ###

  "To the south?" said Mazael, astonished. "Why would they go to the south?"

  Sir Tanam shrugged. "My scouts didn't get close enough to ask. The Malrags are not the conversational sort. But the rest
of the host is marching to the south."

  Lord Richard's principal vassals gathered below his standard, overlooking the carnage of the battlefield. Vast tents had been raised to house the wounded, and Mazael heard the groans and cries of the injured men. Twenty thousand Malrags had been wiped out, slaughtered to the last creature. Yet two thousand men of the Grim Marches lay dead upon the field, with at least twice as many wounded, if not more.

  Some of them might even live out the night.

  "And they've all gone," said Tanam. "My lads saw other Malrag warbands scattered across the plains. Yet they're all marching south."