Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  ###

  Mazael cut through the Malrags, Lion blazing in his fist.

  He struck down a Malrag, and another, and then another, black blood sizzling against Lion's blade. Besides him Athaelin fought with the same dancelike movements he had seen Romaria use in battle, while Gerald remained immovable, Malrag axe and spear alike rebounding from his shield.

  A Malrag bellowed, and Mazael heard the words echo inside his skull.

  -Fight! Fight and die! We shall be reborn, but they shall not-

  Mazael saw the balekhan striding through the mass of Malrags, a black greatsword ready in a mailed fist. It stood almost eight feet tall, covered head to toe in black plate mail.

  The creature came to a sudden halt when it saw Mazael.

  -You! I have heard of you. The one who could have the Master, yet turned his back upon his heritage. I will slay you, and enjoy your screams of torment, pitiful one-

  The balekhan lifted its black sword, and Mazael sprang to meet it.

  ###

  Lucan had no other choice.

  The bloodstaff's power flooded him, filling him with strength, with vitality, with manic and wild glee. Twin lightning bolts screamed down to slay him, and Lucan lifted his staff, casting a warding spell. A sphere of blood-colored light shimmered around him, and the lightning blasts smashed against it. One rebounded to rip apart a tree, sending burning splinters flying in all directions.

  The other lashed across the clearing to slam into a Malrag shaman. The creature's head and torso simply disappeared, the charred remains of its body toppling to the forest floor. Lucan attacked at once, channeling another psychokinetic burst through his staff and flinging it at the remaining Malrag. But the shaman cast a ward, and the blast redirected into the ground at its feet, throwing up clods of torn earth.

  The shaman began casting again, and Lucan slammed his staff against the ground, calling into the spirit world. Gray mist swirled at his feet, and a score of spirit beasts, more than he had ever summoned before, leapt forth. This time they looked like great black cats with the heads of vultures, the wings of bats, and the tails of scorpions. With a horrid skittering sound, they raced forward, the ground visible through their translucent forms.

  The Malrag shaman put up a good fight. A blast of emerald lightning sent two of the beasts back to the spirit world, while a psychokinetic burst sent three more tumbling through the air. But the rest sprang upon the shaman, claws and breaks ripping at its flesh. The shaman staggered, black blood spraying, and collapsed, the spirit beasts feasting.

  Lucan laughed with delight and forgot the shaman and spirit beasts both.

  So many things to kill, so little time. Where to begin? The Elderborn first - their supernatural accuracy with their bows might inconvenience him. Then Lucan would mow down the Malrags and Mazael's men both. Or perhaps he would only kill Mazael's men, and keep the Malrags for himself. He would kill Ultorin, take command of the Malrag host, and march north to make his father and brother pay for all the pain they had inflicted upon him.

  He lifted his hand. The bloodstaff's sigils blazed brighter, and darkness swirled around the staff. Power flooded into Lucan like molten iron, and he focused his will, preparing to unleash death upon the Elderborn...

  The ground heaved beneath his feet. Roots erupted from the ground, twining around his legs.

  Lucan staggered, leaning upon the bloodstaff for balance. The Elderborn druid raced towards him, disgust and horror upon her angular face, and began to cast another spell.

  ###

  Mazael dueled the balekhan, black sword straining against Lion's azure flame.

  The balekhan was stronger, but Mazael was faster. As the mass of Malrags crashed against the shield wall, as Elderborn arrows whistled through the air, Mazael danced around the balekhan's strokes, whipping Lion at the weak points in the towering creature's armor. His blade crunched through the elbow joint on the balekhan's left arm, and it bellowed in rage and pain.

  Then a steel-tipped arrow thudded into the back of the balekhan’s leg, and then another. The creature stumbled to one knee, roaring, and Mazael glimpsed Romaria in the shadows of the trees, her bow in hand.

  He surged forward, and plunged Lion into the eye slit of the balekhan's helm. A storm of azure fire erupted down Lion's blade, and the balekhan toppled backwards with a clatter of black armor. A ripple went through the Malrags, and they fell back, white eyes fixed upon Mazael.

  "Take them!" shouted Mazael. "Strike hard!"

  His men surged forward, and the storm of arrows from the Elderborn redoubled.

  ###

  "Vile creature," said the Elderborn druid. "You defile the Forest with your dark magic. No more! You will pay for your..."

  Lucan snarled and struck his staff against the earth. Ribbons of blood-colored flame erupted from the sigils, cutting the roots to pieces. The druid's silver eyes widened, and she pointed at Lucan, pale blue light flashing around her fingers.

  He struck first.

  His psychokinetic burst picked her up, flung her a dozen yards, and smashed her against a traig. Her blood splattered against the statue, shockingly red against the white stone, and the dead druid crumpled to the ground, eyes staring at him.

  Lucan strode forward, the bloodstaff burning in his hand. The fool woman had dared to use her spells against him? Then so be it! First he would slay every last Elderborn in the clearing, and then he would...

  The staff's light winked out.

  The strength drained out of Lucan. He collapsed to his knees, his limbs like wet string, and vomited . Then his vision blacked out, and for a terrible moment he thought he had gone blind. He blinked, and his sight returned, but everything looked distorted, rotting, as if the world had died.

  Bit by bit, his vision returned to normal, though his stomach churned and his head felt as if iron spikes had been hammered into his temples. Gods, gods, why did he use that damned staff? He should throw it away, destroy it before it destroyed him.

  But the stolen Demonsouled power was so very sweet...

  He saw the dead druid slumped against the traig, eyes staring at him as if in accusation.

  Lucan's nausea redoubled, but there was nothing left to come up.

  He had murdered her. Caught in the frenzy of the bloodstaff's power, he had butchered her without a second thought. His hands shook against the staff. He had only acted in self-defense. If she had not attacked him first...

  But that was a feeble justification. She had only attacked him because she thought him a threat. Because she had seen the Demonsouled power of its bloodstaff for what it really was. And he had killed her without mercy.

  Lucan closed his eyes and waited for the Elderborn arrows to sink into his flesh.

  Nothing happened.

  He opened his eyes, and saw that the battle was over. Most of the Malrags lay slaughtered upon the earth. The rest had fled in all directions, the Elderborn moving to speak join Mazael's men. Most likely, no one had seen Lucan kill the druid. When they found her corpse, they would blame the shamans, or one of the common Malrags.

  For a wild moment he wanted to confess, to tell them everything...

  No. A foolish thought. He had to see this through. He had to stop Malavost. Whatever the cost to himself. He would not permit others to suffer from dark magic as he had...

  But the Elderborn druid had suffered from dark magic, hadn't she?

  His dark magic.

  Lucan pushed the thought aside and got to his feet.

  ###

  The battle was over.

  And to Mazael's astonishment, he had not lost a single man. Some had suffered wounds, but none fatal. Between the valor of his men and the uncanny skill of the Elderborn, the Malrags had been slaughtered.

  The Elderborn descended from the hill and its ring of traigs. They wore clothes of leather, and mantles made from gray wolf fur. Their leader walked in front, carrying a great bow and a spear with an onyx head. His eyes were a strange shade of purple, and fixed upon
Mazael with electric intensity.

  Mazael bowed. "Ardmorgan Sil Tarithyn."

  He knew this Elderborn. Sil Tarithyn was the ardmorgan, or high chief, of the Tribe of the Wolf. They had come north two years ago, to fight the undead abominations raised by the Old Demon, and had helped Mazael in the final fight against Skhath and the San-keth.

  "Mazael Cravenlock," said Sil Tarithyn. He stopped, gazed at Mazael for a moment, and then his angular face split in a smile. "So. You have faced yourself, and conquered yourself."

  "You could say that," said Mazael.

  Romaria strode from the trees, Athaelin's Elderborn following, and Sil Tarithyn looked at her. "And the Greenshield's daughter. For a dead woman, you look most hale."

  Romaria grinned. "Clean living."

  "Do not speak to her, ardmorgan!" said another of the Elderborn, scowling. "She is an abomination!"

  Romaria's grin faded, and Athaelin scowled.

  "Abomination?" said Sil Tarithyn. "You should hold your tongue, Gardan. Her skill helped save our lives." Lucan limped over, looking exhausted, leaning upon his staff. The battle with the shamans must have drained him. "If she is an abomination, I would have a dozen more. The Malrags have us sore pressed."

  Gardan's scowl deepened, but the Elderborn looked away.

  "Lucan," said Mazael. "You did well. I fear those shamans would strike us all down, but here we are. Thank you."

  Lucan nodded, not meeting his gaze.

  "A dozen of my tribe were slain this day," said Sil Tarithyn, "along with one of our druids. Your arrival was most timely, Mazael Cravenlock and Romaria daughter of the Greenshield. Without your intervention, we would all have been slain. And the Elderborn are a dwindling people. "

  "You have our aid," said Mazael.

  "And mine," said Gerald. "The Malrags' leaders took my son, and I will not rest until he is returned to me."

  Sil Tarithyn blinked in surprise. "They took your firstborn, Gerald Roland? That is strange. The Malrags slay. They do not take captives."

  "It is a long story," said Mazael. "Suffice it to say, the Malrags are led by a Dominiar knight named Ultorin. He has a sword forged in Demonsouled blood, which gives him the power to command the Malrags.”

  “Ah,” said Sil Tarithyn. “That explains much.”

  “The San-keth kidnapped Sir Gerald’s son,” said Mazael, “and took him to Ultorin. A renegade necromancer named Malavost is also traveling with Ultorin, aiding the Malrags in their battles. Why Ultorin, Malavost, and the San-keth have allied to attack Deepforest Keep, I don’t know. Whatever their goal, I hope to kill them before they reach it.”

  “Nor do we know,” said Gerald, “why they have taken my son, instead of simply killing him.”

  Sil Tarithyn bowed his head, deep in thought. When he looked up, his purple eyes were hard with anger.

  “The temple,” said Sil Tarithyn. “They come to defile the temple.”

  “Temple?” said Mazael. “What temple?”

  “The temple atop Mount Tynagis,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Long ages ago, our forebears, the High Elderborn, ruled this land, and they built a great temple to our gods atop the crown of Mount Tynagis. The Malrags and the Demonsouled destroyed the High Elderborn. But we guard the ruins of the temple to this day, for it remains sacred.”

  “Wait,” said Mazael. “Mount Tynagis. Deepforest Keep is built upon its slopes, is it not?”

  “Aye,” said Athaelin, “upon a spur of the mountain, overlooking the Forest itself.”

  “And the only way to this ruined temple is through Deepforest Keep?” said Mazael.

  Romaria nodded. “Mount Tynagis is too rocky to be climbed. The only path to the peak is through the caverns. The Ritual of Rulership takes place in those caves.” Athaelin’s face tightened, as if at a painful memory. “And when we of Deepforest Keep come of age, we go into the caves, and the Seer shows us our vision of the future.”

  “Defender of the Mountain,” said Mazael to Athaelin. “That’s one of your titles, isn’t it? I assume you’re defending Mount Tynagis and its ruins.”

  Athaelin drew himself up. “I am the Greenshield, the Champion of Deepforest Keep and the Defender of the Mountain. You northerners might call me ‘Lord’ Athaelin, but that is only your word. I am the protector of Deepforest Keep, and the defender of the road to the mountain’s top. The only way to the temple is through the mountain’s caverns, and the only way to the caverns is through Deepforest Keep.”

  “Which is why Ultorin is attacking Deepforest Keep,” said Mazael. “He wants to get to this ruined temple.”

  “Why go to such effort and trouble for some ancient ruin?” said Gerald.

  “He wishes to defile it,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “But why?” said Gerald, smacking a fist into his palm with frustration. “Ultorin cannot have even seen an Elderborn until a week ago. Most men outside the Grim Marches believe the Elderborn to be nothing more than a legend. Why would he bear your people such enmity?”

  “I fear you misunderstand, Sir Gerald,” said Lucan, his voice bone-weary. He looked terrible. “The ancient High Elderborn were wizards of tremendous strength. Any temple they built would be a place of great power. Or it would contain magical relics of vast potency.” He looked at Sil Tarithyn. “Am I not correct?”

  “You speak truly,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The High Elderborn wielded great magic. We believe there is a mighty power in the temple atop the mountain, though none of my people have trodden there for many centuries.”

  “I think this is Malavost’s doing,” said Lucan. “Ultorin cares only about carnage. Malavost must know about the temple, and he’s using Ultorin and the Malrags as a club to clear the path. Once Deepforest Keep is destroyed, Malavost can claim the temple, and whatever it contains, without interference.”

  “Then what do the San-keth want with my son?” said Gerald.

  Lucan shook his head, sweaty black hair sliding across his pallid forehead. “I don’t know. Perhaps they are Malavost’s partners. Or perhaps Malavost promised them some share of the power from the temple.”

  “We cannot allow Ultorin and the San-keth to defile the temple,” said Sil Tarithyn. “We must return to Deepforest Keep at once with his news. Ardanna, the High Druid, will know more.”

  Romaria flinched at the name. It was only for a moment, but her eyes remained steely afterward.

  “I ride for Deepforest Keep, to take command of our defense against the Malrags,” said Athaelin. “Lord Mazael and Sir Gerald and their men have agreed to aid us, in vengeance for what Ultorin did to the Grim Marches, and to reclaim Sir Gerald’s son from the San-keth.”

  “Noble goals,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “I suggest we travel together,” said Mazael. “The closer we come to Deepforest Keep, the more likely we are to encounter Malrags.”

  “And we should gather up any other of my people we encounter,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The Malrag onslaught came without warning, and we are scattered before it like leaves upon a storm. We shall need to shelter within the walls of Deepforest Keep, if we are to have any chance of victory.”

  “Then let’s get moving,” said Mazael.

  ###

  Sykhana sat upon her horse, feeding Aldane milk and ground-up beets, when she heard Ultorin’s enraged bellow. Aldane jerked against her chest, his blue eyes wide in surprise, and started to cough. She pounded him on the back, and Aldane paused, took a deep breath, and started to scream at the top of his lungs.

  Sykhana hushed Aldane, rocking him back and forth, and looked around for danger.

  She rode in the heart of the Malrag host, tens of thousands of Malrags surrounding her in every direction. The tangled roots and towering trees of the Forest often blocked the Malrag host, and the Malrags responded by attacking the Forest, ripping down the trees and tearing up the ground. Sometimes the shamans called lightning to scorch the earth, so that nothing would ever grow there again.

  That made Sykhana uneasy.

  It
was the sure and certain knowledge that the Malrags would do the same thing to Aldane, if they could.

  Ultorin sat on his black horse, towering over a Malrag, bloodsword in his hand. Ultorin looked...Ultorin did not look at all well. His gray eyes had taken a distinct yellowish cast, as if lit from by sulfurous flames. His skin had turned pale and waxy, his veins black, like corruption spreading through dead meat. His teeth had become jagged and uneven.

  Almost like fangs.

  Sometimes the mere sight of him was enough to make Aldane cry.

  "What is this?" said Ultorin, gesturing with the bloodsword. "What do you mean to say?"