Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “You should kill him,” said Romaria.

  “What?” said Mazael, looking at her in astonishment. “He has saved my life time and time again. It was his spell that restored the human half of your soul. He has fought valiantly to defend this city. And you want me to kill him out of hand?”

  “It might be a mercy,” said Romaria, voice quiet. “Look at Lion.”

  “Why...”

  “Just look at Lion.”

  Mazael drew the blade a foot from its scabbard. Pale blue flames flickered around the sword's razor edges, flames that grew brighter when he moved closer to Lucan.

  And Lion only responded that way to creatures of dark magic.

  “Do you see what he has become?” said Romaria. “You should kill him, now. Before you regret it later. And he might thank you for it. If there’s anything left of his mind, he must know what he’s become.”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “Lucan is beyond our help, one way or another,” said Gerald. “My son is not, but only if we act now.”

  Mazael straightened up. “You’re right.” He hesitated. What the devil had Lucan done to himself? Mazael hated to leave him here like this. But if Malavost reached the Door of Souls, Gerald’s son, Mazael’s nephew, would die.

  And Malavost would unleash a new horror upon the world.

  Something Lucan had fought to stop.

  He crossed the Garden, making for the well, and the others followed him. The stone stairs spiraled down, opening into a tunnel lit by patches of white-glowing moss. After a short distance the tunnel widened into a large chamber perhaps the size of Castle Cravenlock’s great hall, its ceiling lost in gloom. At the far end of the chamber of a broad set of white stone steps climbed up, rising into the mountain.

  “The way to the sacred temple,” said Ardanna, pointing with her staff, “and to the Door of Souls. Malavost would have gone this way…”

  Mazael nodded. “Then let’s…”

  Lion jolted, the blade bursting into brilliant azure flames, enough light to illuminate the gloom of the cavern.

  And enough light to reveal the misshapen thing hanging from the ceiling. It looked like a scorpion, but most scorpions didn’t have three trails like braided whips, barbs glistening with poison. Or carapaces like plates of black iron, or great leathery wings, or the head of a beautiful woman, albeit a woman with jutting fangs the size of Mazael’s arms.

  And most scorpions were not the size of three warhorses put together.

  The scorpion loosed a terrible screech and leapt from the ceiling, and Mazael threw himself to the side, only just avoiding the creature’s black-armored bulk. It landed with a thump and spun to face Mazael, the three barbed tails rising back for a strike.

  But Mazael had anticipated the scorpion’s motion, and he whipped Lion around in a sideways cut. The blade sheared through one massive leg as if it were no more than a silken cord, carving a smoking gash into the spirit-creature’s carapace. The scorpion’s screech doubled in volume, and it lashed out with one of its serrated pincers. The edge caught him across his armored chest, and the strength of the blow knocked him from his feet.

  The scorpion-thing wheeled, preparing to spring upon Mazael, only to catch one steel-tipped arrow in its flank, and then two more, in rapid succession. Romaria had her bow in hand, and she loosed arrow after arrow in the spirit-creature's side. It shrieked again and raced for her, pincers yawning wide. Romaria threw aside her bow, her form blurring, and became the great black wolf. She slipped past the pincers, her white fangs snapping, and the scorpion stumbled, another of its legs lamed. The creature spun, its tails cracking like whips, its two wounded legs dragging as it tried to pursue Romaria.

  Ardanna lifted her staff, silver light flashing along its length, and gestured. White mist swirled, and a barrage of ice chunks, frozen harder than granite and sharper than razors, ripped into the scorpion. One of its tails fell to the ground, leaking black ichor, and the scorpion screamed. Gerald darted in close, hacked off a second tail. The remaining tail hammered down, but Gerald caught its spike upon his shield, and sliced off the stinger before the scorpion could tear its tail free.

  It gave Mazael an opening. He sprang to his feet, ran forward, and leapt upon the scorpion's back. The creature screamed, its remaining tail lashing at him, but Gerald had severed the stinger, and Mazael's armor protected him from the lash. He drove Lion into the creature's neck, between the human head and the black carapace, and the scorpion's constant screaming became a sudden agonized gurgle. The blade pulsed with azure flame, and the scorpion went still with one final spastic twitch.

  Then the scorpion vanished in a swirl of gray mist. Mazael landed hard upon one knee and climbed back to his feet. Romaria blurred back into her true form, retrieving her bow.

  "What the devil was that thing?" said Gerald, looking at Ardanna. "Do many such creatures dwell in these caverns?"

  "No," said Romaria, before her mother could speak. "It was a spirit-creature, a thing summoned from the netherworld."

  "Malavost conjured it," said Ardanna, glaring at her daughter, "and set it to wait here for any pursuers."

  Mazael nodded. If Lucan had been here, he could have dispelled the summoned scorpion, or conjured creatures of his own. But Lucan lay dying in the Garden above, and Mazael and the others were on their own.

  "We'd best hasten," he said, and led them towards the white stairs.

  ###

  Rachel stumbled down a pile of rubble.

  It had taken her a while to find a way free from the ruined house. At last she located a pile of debris heaped against the wall, the remnants of a neighboring house, and she went out the window and picked her way down the pile, terrified that she would fall and snap her neck, or that the rest of the stone wall would collapse, burying her alive to choke out her final breaths in darkness.

  But the rubble held, and Rachel found her way down to the alley, breathing hard, covered in dust. Again she cursed herself. Yes, she could certainly find Malavost and defeat him, if the simple effort of escaping from a house winded her!

  But her own life did not matter.

  She clutched her tattered skirts in one hand and hastened to the Garden of the Temple. The Seer's corpse had not moved, and Lucan's misshapen body lay where it had fallen. Up close, he looked even more grotesquely deformed. Rachel wondered what sort of vile magic Malavost had used upon him. Or had Lucan's own magic rebounded upon him? The feared Dragon's Shadow, no doubt, had dabbled in forbidden things.

  Rachel stopped, and looked at the woman who had taken her baby.

  Sykhana slumped against the lightning-damaged oak, the jagged branch jutting from her belly. Blood stained her dark clothing, head slumped against her chest, poisoned daggers still in their sheaths. Rachel stared at the corpse. She had dreamed of this moment, played it over a thousand times in her mind, thinking of what she would do if Sykhana was ever in her power. How she would make Sykhana beg for mercy, make her regret ever laying her filthy hands upon Aldane.

  But the changeling looked like a small, pathetic thing. A broken tool, cast aside by Malavost. Rachel remembered the look of horror upon Sykhana's face before Malavost had killed her. What had the wizard told her?

  She turned away, and Sykhana's eyes fluttered open.

  Malavost had not killed her so easily after all.

  Rachel stepped back in alarm, fearing a poisoned dagger. But Sykhana only coughed, blood trickling down her chin. Her eyes were yellow with vertical black slits, a serpent's eyes, and they focused upon Rachel.

  "You," whispered Sykhana. "I killed you. A fever dream. Or this is hell, and you are waiting for me." She laughed, her voice despairing. "Yes, hell. I deserve hell, for my folly."

  "You took my son!" said Rachel, stepping closer in her rage.

  "Yes," said Sykhana.

  "Why? Why? To spill his blood in some vile San-keth rite? To turn him into a living monster? Why? You will tell me why!"

  "Because I love him," said Sykhana
.

  Rachel had no answer for that.

  "The calibah cannot bear children," said Sykhana. "I looked upon Aldane...and I loved him from the first moment I saw him. I hated you. You were not worthy of such a son. But I could do more for him. Malavost...Malavost could turn him into Sepharivaim reborn, infuse him with the very soul of serpents. He would be a god, and reign forever in power and bliss. I believed...I was a fool. Malavost. Malavost!"

  Sykhana shuddered, and for a moment Rachel through the calibah would tear free from the branch in fury. But Sykhana slumped, fresh blood trickling down her chin and her legs.

  "Malavost lied," said Sykhana. Rachel had seen people die from wounds, men and women both, and she knew that Sykhana was very near death. "Oh, my Aldane. I didn't know. Malavost lied to me. He never wanted to make Aldane into Sepharivaim reborn. He wanted to steal Sepharivaim's power for himself. To use Aldane as a blood sacrifice, to open the Door of Souls. He lied to me. Malavost!" Sykhana clawed at the air, eyes open wide. "Aldane! Aldane!"

  "This is your fault!" said Rachel. "You took Aldane from me, and handed him over to this butcher!"

  "Save him!" shrieked Sykhana. Rachel didn't know if the changeling had heard her or not. "Don't let Malavost kill him! Save him! Please, if you are listening, save him, save him..."

  Sykhana's cries ended in a burst of coughing, more blood dripping from her mouth. She shuddered once more, eyes bulging, and went limp. Rachel watched her for a moment, but Sykhana remained motionless. At last Rachel summoned the courage to step forward and tap Sykhana's shoulder. The changeling did not respond.

  Sykhana was indeed dead.

  Rachel's eyes strayed to the sheathed daggers at Sykhana's belt. She tugged one of the daggers an inch or so from its scabbard, the blade gleaming with grease. Changeling poison, lethal to any living man.

  And Malavost, despite all his magical prowess, was still a living man.

  The notion was absurd. She could not get close enough to use a normal dagger on Malavost, let alone a poisoned one. But if she did get close enough to only scratch him with the poisoned dagger...

  Just one scratch would be enough to kill Malavost.

  And to save Aldane.

  Rachel took the belt and the sheathed daggers, and hurried towards the well at the Garden's center.

  ###

  The stairs ended, and Malavost stepped from the darkness of the caverns to the sunlight atop Mount Tynagis.

  He stood in the vast courtyard of a half-ruined temple, soaring arches and mighty walls rising around him. The pillars has been carved in the shapes of High Elderborn warriors, like much larger versions of the traigs ripping apart the Malrag host - though these statues, thankfully, were free of defensive magic. Even in ruins, even with its roof and half the columns lying strewn across the courtyard, the temple stood in ancient splendor, and the view of the Great Southern Forest in all directions was magnificent.

  Malavost felt the power in the air, the latent magic.

  He walked through the temple's entrance. Once it would have opened into a vast, gloomy hall, its vaulted ceiling supported by a forest of white pillars. But the roof had collapsed long ago, and half of the pillars as well, their jagged crowns stark against the blue sky. At the far end of the ruined hall stood a large dais of white marble, built into the very side of the mountain itself, with a view of the foothills and the Great Southern Forest far below. A stone altar rested before the dais, carved with ancient reliefs.

  And upon the dais stood the Door of Souls.

  It looked like a delicate stone arch, ten feet wide and thirty high, its top coming to a point. Ornate sigils and carvings covered the arch's sides, and unlike the weathered stone of the rest of the temple, the arch looked as if it had been carved and built yesterday.

  Which was not surprising. Even without using a spell, Malavost felt the potent magic waiting in the Door of Souls, more powerful that the wards upon the walls of Deepforest Keep, stronger than the magic within the traigs. Here was power enough to rip upon a passage to the spirit world, and pull the power of a dead god into this world.

  Into Malavost.

  At last, at long last, he had come to his goal.

  Now to prepare. The Elderborn and Mazael, no doubt, would be too busy with the Malrags to pursue him. And even if anyone did pursue him, Malavost had no doubt that the spirit creature upon the stairs could handle any pursuers.

  Still, he had not come this far by taking foolish chances, after all.

  He set the unconscious child upon the altar and began to cast spells. First, a series of wards around his person, to protect him from physical attacks. Especially arrows, given the Elderborn penchant for archery.

  Next, a series of summoning spells. Pools of gray mist swirled around the altar, and four huge shapes rose out of nothingness, creatures out of nightmare, covered in chitinous armor and barbed claws.

  They snarled and snapped at him, but could not harm him, thanks to his spell.

  "Guard me," commanded Malavost. "If anyone enters the temple, kill them without hesitation."

  The spirit creatures moved away, settling among the piles of rubble to wait.

  Malavost turned his back to them, faced the altar and the Door of Souls, took a deep breath, and began to cast a spell. Power thrummed and crackled in the air, and the sigils upon the Door of Souls burned with harsh silvery light. The air within the Door shimmered and flickered, sometimes showing the Great Southern Forest, and sometimes...elsewhere.

  A dark place, a place of monsters and dark magic.

  Where the power of Sepharivaim had laid unclaimed for long millennia.

  Power that would soon belong to Malavost.

  He continued the spell, and the Door of Souls began to open.

  Chapter 33 - The Door of Souls

  At last the stairs ended.

  Mazael climbed into the courtyard of the temple, Romaria, Gerald, and Ardanna following him. Even ruined, the great walls and pillars of white stone were still impressive, still stern with splendor and ancient grandeur.

  Through the temple's entrance Mazael saw a forest of columns, some half-crumbled, and piles of white stone, no doubt debris from the temple's long-collapsed roof.

  And beyond the rubble, flickers of silver light, visible even in the daylight.

  "There," said Ardanna. "The Door of Souls is there, in the old sanctuary."

  "I can feel him," said Romaria, gazing through the archway. "Malavost. He's gathering power. He's preparing to open the Door of Souls."

  "Then we have not come to late," said Ardanna.

  Gerald drew his sword. "My son is in there."

  "Then let's get him back," said Mazael, and he led them through the archway and into the ruined sanctuary.

  ###

  Malavost chanted the spell, drawing more power into himself, more and more, until he felt as if he would burst from it.

  The air within the Door of Souls continued its strange flicker, giving Malavost glimpses of the dark place, the netherworld where Sepharivaim's power awaited him.

  Soon, now. A little more power, and the Door would be primed. Then Malavost could use Skaloban's blood to pry it open all the way.

  And Aldane Roland's blood to draw Sepharivaim's power into this world.

  He heard a rasping noise, the sound of leather scraping against stone. For a moment he wondered if one of his spirit creatures had made the noise - but, no, they would remain soundless.

  Someone had followed him up here.

  Though the spell, he smiled to himself. Whoever it was would soon regret it, once the creatures from the spirit world made their move.

  Malavost kept chanting, and the space within the Door grew darker.

  ###

  In its prime, the sanctuary must have been magnificent. For a moment Mazael wondered at the skill of the ancient High Elderborn. How had they built this place? Had they used magic to carve the stairs, to haul the white stones to the crown of Mount Tynagis? Or had their skill as builders si
mply surpassed the skill of any men living today?

  Mazael pushed the thought aside. He could muse upon history later, once Aldane was safe and Malavost was dead.

  Heaps of rubble stood between the pillars, but the central aisle was mostly clear. The silver light came from a dais at the far end of the great sanctuary.

  Mazael walked around a pile of rubble, and saw the Door of Souls.

  It stood upon the dais, a tall, pointed arch of white stone, the sigils carved into its sides flickering with silver-white light. Through the stone arch Mazael saw the endless green carpet of the Great Southern Forest. Or, at least, he should have. Instead darkness writhed within the Door, and through it Mazael caught glimpses of another place, a place of nightmares and horrors.