Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “You never told me this,” said Mazael.

  Romaria shrugged. “I never thought I would go back to Deepforest Keep.”

  “You must have known you would,” said Mazael. “The Seer prophesied it. He said we would meet, that we would save each other. You kept me from giving in to my Demonsouled side…”

  “And you brought me back from the beast,” said Romaria.

  “And the Seer said you would save Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael.

  “I was hoping he was wrong,” said Romaria.

  “But he was right about us,” said Mazael.

  There was a long pause.

  “Yes,” said Romaria at last. “There are…caves beneath Deepforest Keep. Inside Mount Tynagis, leading to the ruins atop the mountain. Every man of woman of Deepforest Keep enters those caves on their sixteenth birthday, to come of age. And inside the caves, the Seer shows us visions of our future. I hoped the visions would not come true.” She shook her head, black hair sliding over Mazael’s chest. “I don’t know how I can save Deepforest Keep.”

  “Shoot Ultorin,” said Mazael. “That will solve everything.”

  She laughed. “Simple. Yet effective.” She slid a hand over his shoulder and onto his chest. “But why are you going to Deepforest Keep? I have to go – it is my home, even if the Elderborn hate me. But Lord Richard was right. You have no obligation to defend it.”

  Mazael took a deep breath. “Ultorin brought the Malrags to the Grim Marches, brought them to attack my lands and my people. I will be damned before I let him escape retribution for that. And the San-keth have my nephew. I will get him back. If I can.” His arm tightened against her back. “And because Deepforest Keep is your home. If you fight to defend it, I will go with you.”

  Romaria hesitated. “Is this guilt, Mazael? Because you blame yourself for what happened to me? I told you, it was the Old Demon’s fault, not yours.”

  “That’s not it,” said Mazael. “I do blame myself, but that’s not the reason I’m going to Deepforest Keep. It’s your home. And I will help you defend it. I love you.” His fingers stroked her cheek, her neck. “And if I kill Ultorin and rescue Aldane while defending your home…I suppose I can live with that.”

  Romaria grinned. “I suppose you can. I love you.”

  “I love you,” said Mazael.

  He kissed her once more, and they drifted off to sleep.

  ###

  Mazael left Castle Cravenlock before dawn, riding at the head of two hundred and fifty men. Two hundred of his own men – one hundred heavy horse and one hundred armsmen trained in the bow and crossbow. The survivors from Gerald’s party. Lord Athaelin and his Elderborn, screening out around them to act as scouts.

  Romaria rode alongside Mazael, bow balanced atop her saddle, the hilt of her new bastard sword rising over her shoulder. Gerald and Rachel followed, and then Circan and Lucan. Mazael had left Timothy and Sir Hagen behind to aid Sir Nathan. Mazael’s lands would rest in capable hands until he returned.

  One of the Elderborn rode up to Athaelin.

  “There’s not a sign of Malrags for five miles in any direction,” said Athaelin.

  Mazael nodded, and lifted Hauberk’s reins. “Then let’s reach Deepforest Keep before they do,” he said, “and make Ultorin regret ever setting foot into the Grim Marches.”

  They rode to the south.

  Chapter 19 - The Great Southern Forest

  A day later they reached the Great Southern Forest.

  The Grim Marches’ rolling plains ended at a wall of trees. Massive, ancient trees, their trunks heavy with moss, their roots a tangled web covering the earth. The sun shone over the plains, but inside the Forest, Mazael saw only cool shadows, the ground shaded by the overlapping branches.

  A thousand places for a Malrag ambush to hide.

  "One man on foot can reach Deepforest Keep in two weeks, if he takes the most direct path," said Athaelin, reining up alongside Mazael. "Ultorin will take the most direct route, I think. Though he will not be able to move quickly, not with a hundred and fifty thousand Malrags. It will take him at least three weeks to reach Deepforest Keep. Maybe four."

  Mazael shared a look with Gerald.

  "The enemy always moves quicker than you expect, my lord Athaelin," said Gerald. "Far quicker."

  "I assume you will not take us on the direct path to Deepforest Keep?" said Mazael. "Not with a hundred and fifty thousand Malrags blocking the way."

  Athaelin shook his head.

  "There are dozens of paths throughout the Forest," said Romaria, scanning the trees, one had resting on her bow. "The Elderborn tribes use them to hunt game. One path will take us around the main route, get us to Deepforest Keep in two and a half weeks. If we hasten. The ground is uneven, and we will need to walk the horses."

  "It should keep us clear of the Malrags, though," said Athaelin.

  "I doubt it," said Mazael.

  Athaelin looked puzzled, which surprised Mazael. Romaria's father was a capable fighter, but Mazael wondered how much experience Athaelin had leading men in battle.

  "I suspect these paths are narrow," said Mazael, "and a hundred thousand Malrags would clog them quickly. So Ultorin will move his host in groups. I also suspect the Elderborn tribes will attack the Malrags," Romaria nodded, "and so Ultorin will send out scouting parties and warbands to deal with the Elderborn. We may stumble across them. For that matter, the Forest is vast, and Ultorin will not have the benefit of you and Romaria to guide him. Some of the Malrags will get lost, or separated from the main host. We might cross their paths, as well.”

  “Then we will fight them,” said Athaelin, “and be victorious, and arrive at Deepforest Keep.”

  “It will take hard fighting,” said Mazael. “Our great advantage over the Malrags has always been cavalry. On the plains, our horsemen broke the Malrags over and over again. In the Forest, the advantage will belong to the Malrags. Fortunately, we have rarely seen them use bows or missile weapons.”

  “Your men should use javelins,” said Romaria.

  Mazael shook his head. “Hard to use in the forest. Bows are better.”

  Athaelin nodded. “That’s why half your men are archers.”

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “I hope to avoid the Malrags, with the aid of your scouts. But if it comes to a fight, then knights and armsmen will make a shield wall to protect the archers.” He glanced up at the sky. “We had best get moving.”

  Gerald nodded. “I’ll get the men ready.” He rode off.

  “Romaria,” said Athaelin, “tell the Elderborn to start scouting. Teams of two. If there are any Malrags within five miles, I want to know about it.”

  “As you say, Father,” said Romaria, and rode towards the Elderborn, leaving Mazael alone with Athaelin.

  “I am glad you are here,” said Athaelin. “I have little experience in this kind of war.”

  Mazael snorted. “I doubt that. You almost took my head off, as I recall.”

  “Aye,” said Athaelin, “but fighting man-to-man, or in a small band, is different from this. I’ve led men in raids, in small battles…but never against such numbers.”

  Mazael shrugged. “It’s little different. Fighting man-to-man, you slay your foe. In this kind of war, there are simply more to slay. And the only one we really need to kill is Ultorin.”

  Athaelin laughed. “Spoken truly. Then let us return to Deepforest Keep, and show Ultorin how to wage a war.”

  Mazael nodded, and led his men into the trees.

  ###

  They saw the signs of the first skirmish before noon.

  A dozen Malrags lay at the base of an ancient oak, their black blood soaking into the mossy earth. Arrows jutted from their bodies, fired with inhuman precision into the gaps in their armor. Romaria swung from her saddle, knelt by a dead Malrag, and wrenched an arrow from its wounds.

  “An obsidian head,” she announced. “The Elderborn did this.”

  One of the Elderborn reined up by Athaelin, speaking in
their strange tongue.

  “The scouts say there are more dead Malrags, dozens of them, scattered over the next five miles or so,” said Athaelin. “No sign of any living ones. Or of any Elderborn, for that matter.”

  “They must have been pressed hard,” said Mazael.

  “Why?” said Athaelin. “Obviously, they won.”

  “But they did not stop to collect their arrows,” said Mazael. “I imagine those obsidian arrowheads break easily and take some time to replace.”

  The Elderborn shared a look amongst themselves, speaking in their own language.

  “You’re right,” said Romaria. “The Elderborn always collect their arrows after a battle.”

  Athaelin listened to the Elderborn for a moment, nodded. “They say there are signs of flight on the ground. A hunting party of maybe twenty Elderborn. But they cover their tracks too well. We cannot trace them.”

  “Then that hunting party is on their own,” said Mazael. “If we come across the Elderborn, we will aid them, but chasing them is a fool’s errand. I suggest we keep moving, Lord Athaelin.”

  Athaelin nodded, and they traveled deeper into the Forest.

  ###

  They made camp among the great trees, tents going up, banked firepits dug to mask the smoke from the cooking fires. At least they had no shortage of wood, and the Forest’s small streams provided ample drinking water. Mazael stood at the edge of the camp with Gerald and Romaria, staring into the gathering darkness.

  “It’s so quiet,” said Gerald.

  “Too quiet,” said Romaria. “We should be able to hear the birds singing, the animals moving through the brush.”

  “Perhaps we’ve scared them all off,” said Mazael.

  “Aye,” said Romaria, “or something else has.”

  But no Malrags came during the night.

  ###

  They saw the first traig the next morning.

  Athaelin and the Elderborn led them along a trail that broadened until it became something resembling a road. The roots of the massive trees had dug into the path, and moss and brush grew thick upon the earth, but here and there Mazael saw ancient, lichen-spotted white paving stones. From time to time half-crumbled columns rose out of the underbrush, some toppled by the roots of the trees.

  Then the road narrowed, and Mazael saw the traig.

  Rachel gasped. “What is that thing?”

  A statue of white stone, nearly fifteen feet tall, stood in a ring of trees. At first Mazael mistook it for a massive boulder, but despite the weathering and the lichen, the stone had been worked by skilled hands. It had been carved in the shape of a great armored warrior, leaning upon a greatsword, covered head to toe in ornate plate armor. As they drew closer, Mazael saw that the armor had once been covered in intricate reliefs. Time and weather had eroded the scenes, but they still showed some long-forgotten battle.

  “The Elderborn call them traigs,” said Romaria, voice soft. Most of the Elderborn were out scouting, but three rode near Athaelin. They looked at the traig with reverence in their alien faces.

  “What are they?” said Mazael. “Tombs, perhaps?”

  Athaelin shook his head. “No one really knows, not even the Elderborn, or even the druids themselves. The traigs are relics left by the High Elderborn, the ancestors of the Elderborn tribes who now hunt the Great Southern Forest.” His voice grew formal, as if reciting a long-remembered story. “In ancient times, the High Elderborn built mighty cities of marble and glass, reared with skill and magic spells, and their kingdoms sprawled across the face of the earth. Then the children of the Old Demon came, bringing with the San-keth and Malrags beyond count. The Elderborn kingdoms fell in ruin and fire, their knowledge lost. Now only a few Elderborn tribes still roam the world, and revere the ancient ruins of their ancestors.”

  “That’s so sad,” said Rachel, blinking.

  “The traigs represent, I think, the defenders of the ancient Elderborn kingdoms,” said Athaelin. “Warriors clad in spell-wrought armor, with magical blades in their hands. Their like cannot be found today…except, perhaps, for the sword at your hip.” He nodded at Mazael, at where Lion hung in its scabbard.

  "Elderborn knights of old," said Rachel. She always did like old stories.

  "Perhaps," said Athaelin. "Though if they were the warriors of old, I would like to have a legion of them at my command. Then I would sweep the Forest clean of the Malrags, and return your son to your arms, Lady Rachel."

  For a moment Rachel gave the traig a longing look, and then they left it behind.

  ###

  Later that night they saw a living Malrag for the first time.

  The creature staggered along the ancient road, wounded, black blood leaking from its armor. The Elderborn shot the Malrag before it even came within sight of the horsemen.

  "More arrow wounds," said Romaria, examining the dead creature. "At least a day old, I think."

  "The only survivor from a battle, no doubt," said Gerald.

  "Then the Elderborn are having the better of it," said Athaelin. "We have not yet seen a single slain Elderborn."

  "Good," said Mazael.

  But he did not allow the Elderborn, or his own scouts, to relax their vigilance, and he made sure to pick a defensible location for their camp.

  ###

  That night Mazael saw flashes of green lightning far to the south.

  He walked to the edge of the camp. Lucan stood there, black staff clenched in his pale hands. For an instant Mazael thought the sigils upon the staff's length blazed with hellish light, and he reached for his sword, but the light vanished.

  He blinked, shaking his head.

  Lucan saw him, nodded.

  "How far away are they?" said Mazael.

  Lucan shrugged. "Twenty miles. Perhaps thirty. Far enough away that I cannot sense them with any accuracy. I feel the disturbances, though. Someone is using a great deal of magic."

  "Are the Elderborn druids are fighting the Malrag shamans?" said Mazael. Another flash lit the southern sky.

  "Perhaps," said Lucan. "If they are, I wish them a great deal of luck. The shamans lack fine skill, but they make up for it in raw power." He snorted. "Maybe we'll get fortunate and the Elderborn will kill Ultorin and Malavost for us."

  "We," said Mazael, "are not that fortunate."

  "No. No, we are not."

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  "Are you ill?" said Mazael at last.

  He saw a dark eyebrow lift in Lucan’s cowl. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because you look ill, frankly," said Mazael. "You’ve collapsed during battle, repeatedly." He hesitated, unsure of what to say. "And Romaria...thinks you smell ill."

  Lucan laughed. "None of us have bathed since leaving Castle Cravenlock. A few more days and we all shall smell ill."

  "It is more than that," said Mazael. "Her senses have...changed, since you merged the pieces of her soul. She thinks something is very wrong with you." He reached out, gripped the younger man's shoulder. "You have been a loyal friend and ally against some terrible foes, Lucan. If I can aid you, I will."

  Lucan's expression did not change, but for a moment he no longer seemed the sneering, cynical necromancer, but a young man of twenty-two, exhausted and confused by a terrible burden.

  "Thank you, my lord," said Lucan, voice soft. "And...you are a lord worthy to follow. I am pleased to serve you, as I was never pleased to serve my lord father." He bowed his head. "And...yes, I am ill. It is...the strain of drawing too much magical power for too long. Not all of us have your...vigorous nature, my lord. I have to turn to other sources of power to sustain myself. And some of those sources have unpleasant side effects."

  "Are you in danger?" said Mazael. "Timothy never suffers these side effects."

  "Timothy is a good man, my lord, but he is only a mediocre wizard," said Lucan. "And so I can access...sources of power that he cannot." He took a deep breath, leaning on the black staff. "I know the risks. I know what I am doing. It is nec
essary, if I am to stand against the likes of Malavost." His voice dropped. "And you understand, my lord. You have fought long and hard against your...nature, but without its power, you would have been slain a dozen times in the last few years. In the last few months."