Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  "Why go south?" said Toraine. Unlike the rest of the lords, Lord Richard's oldest son looked relaxed. Almost exhilarated. No doubt he had enjoyed the battle. "There's nothing to the south. Nothing but the Great Southern Forest, and no one lives there."

  "No," said Mazael, looking at Romaria. She looked haggard and tired. Lord Athaelin stood besides her, ragged and spattered with Malrag blood. "The Elderborn live in the Great Southern Forest."

  He looked at Lord Richard.

  "Ultorin is going to Deepforest Keep."

  Chapter 18 - The Pursuit

  The morning after the battle, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches met in council atop the King’s Tower of Castle Cravenlock.

  They would have met in the great hall, but the wizards and the priests had filled it with cots for the wounded. The same had happened with the chapel, the courtyards, and the church in Cravenlock Town. The turret atop the King’s Tower was the only flat space not filled with the wounded and the dying.

  And the men of the Grim Marches had won the battle.

  Mazael leaned against the battlements, still tired from the fighting, and listened to the other lords.

  “It’s confirmed, my lord,” said Sir Tanam Crowley. “All my scouts say the same thing. The Malrags are marching into the Great Southern Forest. Every last warband. Most of them have already entered the Forest, and in another two days, there won’t be a single Malrag left in the Grim Marches.” He looked towards the town, and the battlefield beyond it. “A single living Malrag, anyway.”

  “Why?” said Lord Richard, still clad in his armor of crimson dragon scales. “Had Ultorin acted more boldly, he could have destroyed our host and taken Castle Cravenlock. Does he bear you some enmity, my lord Athaelin?”

  “I cannot see how,” said Athaelin. The sunlight caught on the bronze diadem encircling his gray hair. “I have never met a Dominiar knight. Neither the Elderborn nor the men of Deepforest Keep leave the Forest often.”

  “I fought against Ultorin,” said Romaria. She looked better than yesterday, but dark circles ringed her blue eyes. “When the Dominiars waged war against the Old Kingdoms. But that was years ago. No doubt he remembers me…but he has far more cause to hate Mazael. And I doubt he even knew I was from Deepforest Keep.”

  “Will the Elderborn tribes fight against the Malrags?” said Lord Richard.

  “Aye,” said Athaelin. “Every step of the way. The Malrags hate the Elderborn even more than they hate humans. The Elderborn are archers without peer, and the Forest offers a thousand places to launch an ambush. But there are no more than two thousand Elderborn living in the Forest.”

  “They will not be able to stop the Malrags from reaching Deepforest Keep?” said Lord Richard.

  “No,” said Athaelin, voice grim. “They will not. My people will need aid.”

  “Then our course is clear,” said Gerald. Somehow, he had managed to find a clean surcoat, his armor polished back to its usual mirror shine. “We must ride to the aid of Deepforest Keep and defeat Ultorin once and for all.”

  Lord Richard and Toraine shared a look. Lucan shook his head, a faint smirk on his lips.

  “I see no reason for us to do so,” said Toraine, and many of the lords nodded in agreement.

  “What?” said Gerald, baffled. “But…you’re simply going to let them go?”

  “We have driven the Malrags out of the Grim Marches,” said Toraine. “And now they have gone in search of easier prey. Our lands have been defended – that is all that matters.”

  “You would stand by and do nothing?” said Gerald.

  “Lord Athaelin is not my father’s vassal,” said Toraine. “He need not obey my father. But neither is he entitled to the protection of the Mandragons.”

  “I agree with Lord Toraine,” said Lord Robert. “My lands have suffered grievously from the Malrags. The Grim Marches have suffered grievously. Women have been made into orphans and widows, and we shall be lucky if we do not have a famine. If we have driven off the Malrag devils, I say let them go.”

  “So my father and the Elderborn fought with you against the Malrags,” said Romaria, voice cold as she glared at Toraine, “and you…” She stopped, closed her eyes, flexed her right hand for a moment. “And you will simply abandon them?”

  “Lord Athaelin,” said Toraine, “despite his prowess, brought a dozen Elderborn to our fight. That hardly merits sending the host of the Grim Marches through the Great Southern Forest.” He smiled, black eyes glittering. “And we lords of the Grim Marches must look after ourselves first. Perhaps the Elderborn and the Malrags will slaughter each other, and we need not deal with them ever again.”

  Romaria’s expression turned thunderous, and Athaelin's eyes narrowed, but Lord Richard raised his hand.

  “Enough, Toraine,” he said. Again Mazael saw Lucan roll his eyes. “Lord Athaelin, we are grateful for your aid. But Lord Robert and Lord Toraine are correct. The Grim Marches have lost thousands of fighting men in the last four months, losses we can ill-afford. And the survivors must return home soon to plant crops, or we shall indeed suffer famine. And I dare not send men south to fight the Malrags. The neighboring lords will look upon our injured state and watch for any sign of weakness. The Castagenets of the High Plain, or perhaps Lord Malden of Knightcastle.”

  Gerald scowled. “My lord father would do no such thing.”

  Lord Richard raised a single flame-colored eyebrow. “Would he not, Sir Gerald?”

  Gerald’s frown deepened, but he said nothing.

  “Lord Richard,” said Athaelin, “this argument is pointless. There is no bond between our peoples. You have your duties, and I have mine. I must leave at once and return to Deepforest Keep. War is coming, and my people shall need me.”

  Lord Richard nodded. “It grieves me that I cannot send more aid, my lord Athaelin. Ultorin and his Malrags have done great injury to my lands, injury that I would see repaid tenfold.” He paused, and looked at Mazael for a moment. “If any of my vassals wish to accompany you south, to win glory fighting the Malrags, I will not oppose them.”

  “I will ride with you, Lord Athaelin, along with my remaining men,” said Gerald. “The San-keth have my son. The only way I will get Aldane back is over Ultorin’s corpse.”

  Athaelin nodded. “You would be welcome, sir knight, along with all your men.”

  “And I shall come, as well,” said Lucan, voice quiet.

  Toraine snorted. “You, brother? What will you do? Strike the Malrags with that metal stick of yours?”

  Lucan’s fingers slid over the black staff. “Perhaps, brother, one day I shall show you just what this staff can do.”

  Toraine’s sneer intensified. “And perhaps I shall show you just what my sword can do.”

  “Enough,” said Lord Richard.

  “I will come,” said Lucan to his father, ignoring Toraine. "I suspect that Malavost is pulling Ultorin's strings. And I very much wish to know what Malavost wants, why he desires to attack Deepforest Keep, why he kidnapped Sir Gerald’s son. Malavost is a skilled wizard and a necromancer of considerable power. Whatever he wants, whatever goal he pursues, it will be something baleful. And I will see him stopped.”

  “Very well,” said Lord Richard. “I give you leave.”

  “I…would be glad of your assistance,” said Athaelin, but Mazael heard the hesitation in his voice. No doubt Romaria had shared her fears about Lucan with him.

  “And you, Lord Mazael?” said Lord Richard.

  Mazael hesitated. There was a great deal of truth in what Lord Richard had said. Mazael needed to defend his lands. Hundreds of his fighting men had been slain, and the gods alone knew how many peasants. He needed to stay, to rebuild, to prepare if the Malrags returned.

  But Ultorin had brought fire and sword to Mazael’s lands, crimes that cried out for vengeance. And Ultorin had to be stopped, lest he bring war to Deepforest Keep and even lands beyond.

  And the San-keth had taken Mazael’s nephew.

 
Rachel's son

  He remembered the pain on her face.

  And Lucan was right. Ultorin was the master of the Malrag host, but Mazael suspected Malavost was the master of Ultorin. Whatever the wizard wanted, it could not bode well for the people of the Grim Marches.

  Mazael felt Romaria’s eyes on him.

  For her, he would ride to the ends of the earth.

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “I will go.”

  “A word, Lord Mazael,” said Lord Richard, beckoning.

  They walked to the corner of the tower’s roof, away from the other lords.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” said Lord Richard. “I will not command you to stay. But there are only two thousand Elderborn in the Great Southern Forest, and no more than seven or eight thousand humans living in Deepforest Keep. No matter how puissant their skill in battle, Ultorin and the Malrags will destroy them utterly.”

  “Not unless Ultorin is slain first,” said Mazael.

  “Perhaps,” said Lord Richard.

  “I will only take a few hundred men with me,” said Mazael. “A small force, so I can get ahead of the Malrags and reach Deepforest Keep before Ultorin. In my absence, I will name Sir Nathan Greatheart as castellan, to hold my castle and lands in my name until I return.”

  “Very well,” said Lord Richard. “What of Lady Rachel?” He paused for a moment. “Will she remain in Sir Nathan’s care, as well?”

  “She will want to come,” said Mazael. “She pursued Sykhana this far, after all.”

  Lord Richard said nothing.

  “But you knew that,” said Mazael, “and that does not trouble you. And I know why.”

  “Do you?” said Lord Richard.

  “Because if I am killed, and Rachel is killed, and Aldane is slain or never reclaimed from the San-keth,” said Mazael, voice quiet, “then there are no Cravenlocks left. As liege lord, you can then claim Castle Cravenlock and its lands and bestow them upon whoever you wish. Perhaps Toraine, or one of your more loyal vassals.”

  “You see very deeply, my lord Mazael,” said Lord Richard. “Your father and your brother both worshiped Sepharivaim, and ripped apart the Grim Marches in futile war. You have been a loyal vassal and worthy ally, which is why I have not lifted my hand against you.” He paused. “Yet I do what is necessary for the security and safety of my lands. Whatever that might be.”

  “I understand,” said Mazael.

  “Then I wish you well, Lord Mazael,” said Richard Mandragon. “I hope you return victorious, with Ultorin slain, Deepforest Keep saved, and your nephew rescued. And if you do not…then I will do what must be done.”

  ###

  Rachel paced her rooms in the King’s Tower, back and forth, back and forth. At last she flung herself into a chair, forced herself to sit, to remain motionless.

  Her hands shook.

  It had been so very long since she had seen her son.

  Her hands balled into fists, and she stood again. Even now, she knew, the Malrag host marched south, to Deepforest Keep. And Sykhana was with them, and Sykhana had her son. Circan had confirmed it, when she asked him. He still had the crystal vial of Aldane’s blood, and Sykhana was moving south with the Malrags.

  With her son.

  She felt her lips tremble.

  Oh, gods, when would she ever see Aldane again?

  Rachel heard footsteps outside the door and wiped her eyes. She recognized Gerald’s tread, and would not fall apart in front of him. His men relied on him, needed him to stay strong. And she would help him to stay strong.

  No matter how much Rachel wanted to scream and weep.

  The door opened, and Gerald stepped inside. His armor gleamed, his blue surcoat crisp and clean. She badgered his squire and pages into making sure his armor looked its best. Gerald was the youngest son of Lord Malden Roland – he might even be Lord of Knightcastle one day, if Tobias died childless. He had to look the part.

  “What did they say?” said Rachel. She had wanted to attend the council, but she could not bear to face Lord Richard and his vassals again, not after her outburst the last time.

  “Mazael and Lord Athaelin are certain that Ultorin means to attack Deepforest Keep,” said Gerald. He sighed. “Lord Richard will not send any aid.”

  “Why not?” said Rachel, aghast.

  “He will not risk his army against the Malrags,” said Gerald. “Apparently, he is afraid that my father will take advantage of any weakness.”

  Rachel opened her mouth to protest, but fell silent. She knew her father-in-law, and Lord Richard was not wrong.

  “But Mazael will go,” said Gerald. “He plans to take two hundred men and ride south at once. I will go with him.”

  “Only two hundred?” said Rachel.

  “Mazael thinks that Ultorin will besiege Deepforest Keep,” said Gerald. “And a siege is quite different than an open battle – one man upon a wall can hold off ten men below it. Or ten Malrags, one hopes. With only two hundred men – and my men – we can get to Deepforest Keep before the Malrags. It’s our best chance to kill Ultorin and get Aldane back.”

  Rachel nodded. She yearned to ride into the Malrag horde, snatch her son back, and take him to safety at Knightcastle. But if she tried that, she would die. She wouldn’t even get within sight of her son. They had to use their wits to get Aldane back.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Rachel.

  Gerald closed his eyes. “No, Rachel.”

  “I’ve come this far,” said Rachel.

  He took her hands, his fingers hard with calluses from the hilt of his sword. “That was different. I thought we were only pursuing Sykhana. Dangerous enough, aye, but I didn’t know we would ride into a war. If you come with me to Deepforest Keep…I know the Malrags will attack it. They might kill every man, woman, and child at Deepforest Keep. They might kill us before we even reach it. And if you are with us…”

  “If I stay here and you are slain,” said Rachel, “Lord Richard will force me to wed Toraine.”

  “Then you should go back to Knightcastle,” said Gerald. “Some men are taking the wounded back to Knightcastle. Sir Cavilion could escort you…”

  “No!” said Rachel. “If you die, if Aldane dies, then I will die with you. You are my husband and he is my son. I will not be parted from you.”

  “But you could live,” said Gerald, his fingers rubbing hers. “You needn’t perish. You could remarry, you could…”

  “Remarry?” said Rachel. “To Toraine Mandragon? To one of your father’s knights? No. No!” She shook her head. “The San-keth promised Mitor power and wealth and immortality, and look how that ended. The priests of the Amathavian church say that we all must die sooner or later. Well, they are right. But I would rather die as your wife and Aldane’s mother than as an elderly widow or some other man’s wife.”

  For a long time Gerald stared at her, the skin tight around his eyes.

  Then at last he nodded.

  “The gods forgive me,” he said.

  Rachel blinked back tears, and hugged him.

  ###

  “What is it?” said Mazael, his fingers tracing the smooth skin of Romaria’s back.

  They lay together in his bed, the moonlight leaking through the balcony doors. Romaria lay against him, her cheek resting on his chest, her long legs tangled with his. Her breathing came slow and steady, yet he felt the tension beneath her skin

  “The beast almost took me,” she said.

  “The beast?” said Mazael.

  She smiled, faintly. “It’s what I call the Elderborn part of my soul. The part infused with earth magic, the way part of yours is infused with the power of the Demonsouled.”

  “But the Elderborn aren’t evil, the way the Demonsouled power is,” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Romaria. “But it’s still terribly strong.” She closed her eyes. “I cannot control it. Sooner or later it will overwhelm me. And then I will become that black wolf again, forever.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “Bu
t we all die of something, do we not?” His hand moved up her back, caressing her neck. “And…I am glad you chose to spend your remaining time here, with me.”

  She smiled, her eyes still closed. “How could I not?” For a moment they lay in silence. And then she said, “I don’t want to go back to Deepforest Keep.”

  Mazael frowned. “You told me that it was your home. That it was the most beautiful place you had ever seen.”

  “It is,” said Romaria. “But half-breeds like myself are…not favored among the Elderborn. Most Elderborn find a half-human, half-Elderborn child disgraceful. And some think we are outright abominations.” He hesitated. “My mother…she is the High Druid of the Elderborn, the chief of their priestesses. Traditionally the Greenshield, the Lord of Deepforest Keep, lies with her upon taking up the diadem. Only rarely does the High Druid become pregnant. But she did. She wanted to purge her womb of me, but my father insisted that she carry me to term.” Her voice grew soft. “She hates me.”