Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Ardanna said nothing, still refusing to look at her daughter, and Romaria's eyes narrowed.

  “Mazael!” Rachel walked closer, smiling, Aldane cradled in her arms.

  “My lord Mazael,” said Gerald, his arm around Rachel's waist, “it is my honor and privilege to introduce you to your nephew, my firstborn son, Aldane of the House of Roland.”

  “It is an honor,” said Mazael, taking Rachel's hand, “and a long overdue one, at that.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Rachel.

  Mazael smiled, and kissed her forehead.

  Chapter 34 - The Lady of Castle Cravenlock

  Deepforest Keep celebrated.

  Six hundred men of the city had been slain, along with three hundred of the Elderborn, and many more wounded. But Deepforest Keep had survived. Ultorin had been slain at Mazael's hand, and Malavost devoured by the very power he had sought to conjure. At Romaria's command, the people of the city and the tribes of the Elderborn gathered in the Garden of the Temple for a great feast, to honor their dead, to praise the valiant, and to offer thanks for their victory.

  And to the people gathered to eat and drink, to celebrate and weep. Singers from the Elderborn tribes wandered among the tables, singing both laments and songs of victory. Men and women wept, while others cheered and drank.

  Mazael had seen such celebrations before, a mixture of joy and sorrow. So many had fallen...but they had survived.

  “I have to stay,” said Romaria.

  “I know,” said Mazael.

  They stood at the edge of the Garden, watching the crowds. Rachel stood with Gerald, showing Aldane to Rhodemar and Sil Tarithyn and Sir Cavilion and Circan anyone else she could find. Ardanna and the druids were absent, gathering in secret rites to select a new Seer.

  “There's been so much damage,” said Romaria. “So much needs to be rebuilt. There are still Malrags left to hunt down, and the Elderborn will not rest while a single Malrag lurks in the Great Southern Forest.” She took a deep breath. “And the people need me. I can step down later, once the damage has been repaired.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “I thought you were dead, Romaria. This time with you...it has been a gift. Even if we spent most of it fighting for our lives. I will wait for you, however long it takes.”

  “Thank you,” said Romaria, and then, “I love you.”

  “I love you,” said Mazael.

  Her eyes glimmered in the torchlight. “Come with me.”

  She took his hand, and led him to their rooms in the Champion's Tower.

  ###

  The next day Mazael Cravenlock left Deepforest Keep, with Gerald, Rachel, and all his men.

  Lucan Mandragon rested in a cot stretched between two horses. He remained alive, if barely, despite whatever Malavost had done to him. Sometimes Mazael looked at Lucan, at his twisted limbs, gray flesh, and black veins, and wondered if Romaria had been right, if it would have been kinder to simply kill him.

  But, no. Lucan had stood by him through some dark times, and Mazael would not abandon him now.

  Mazael took one last glance at Deepforest Keep, at the walls and towers, at the mighty oaks rising from within the city. Romaria was there, and his heart would remain with her as well.

  Someday, she would return to him.

  He returned his attention to his men. Ultorin was dead and his host shattered, but Malrag warbands still prowled the Forest, and he would be ready for them.

  Mazael rode away from Deepforest Keep and did not look back.

  ###

  Romaria stood atop the Champion's Tower, listening to the reports.

  “Four months to rebuild the gate, I think,” said the chief of the builders. “And the druids will have to repair the warding spells, of course.”

  Romaria nodded, the bronze diadem cool against her brow, and the builder left, leaving her alone with the High Druid.

  “What about a new Seer?” said Romaria.

  “A new Seer is born, not chosen by the druids,” said Ardanna, her golden eyes cold, her voice tight. “When we find him, we shall know him. Until then, we shall have to do without the guidance of a Seer. You should know this, child, if you are to serve as the Greenshield.”

  “And how am I to know,” said Romaria, “if you will not tell me?”

  “You are an abomination,” said Ardanna, anger flashing in her eyes, “and...”

  “Still, mother?” said Romaria. She ought to feel hurt, she knew. Or angry. Instead, she only felt exasperation. “After all this? The founders of Deepforest Keep intended for the Greenshield to be a half-blood. Only a half-blood could awaken the traigs. And without the traigs, Ultorin would have razed the city to the ground.”

  “Then the founders of the city were mistaken,” said Ardanna. “A half-blood is an abomination! It...”

  And Romaria had heard enough. Deepforest Keep had been her home while Athaelin had lived, but her father had died defending it. And now home was wherever she made it. Wherever she wanted to go.

  She looked north, towards Castle Cravenlock.

  Towards home.

  “You must let yourself be guided by me in all things,” said Ardanna, “and...”

  “Shut up,” said Romaria, without rancor. “I am sick to death of your voice.”

  Ardanna fell silent, stunned, and Romaria walked away without another word.

  ###

  Romaria found her brother in his rooms, honing the edge of his sword.

  “Romaria.” Rhodemar smiled, though his eyes remained sad. Then he grinned. “Or my lady Greenshield, I should say. What...”

  Romaria removed the diadem, placed it upon his head, and handed him the ancient Greenshield.

  “What?” said Rhodemar, stunned. “What is this?”

  “You passed the Ritual of Rulership yourself, did you not?” said Romaria.

  Rhodemar managed to nod. “But you are Father's eldest child...”

  “I have visited Deepforest Keep perhaps five times in the last fifteen years,” said Romaria. “You lived here, Rhodemar. This is your home, your people. You would make a better Champion for them than I ever would.”

  “But you defeated the Malrags,” said Rhodemar.

  “And now the people need you to rebuild,” said Romaria.

  For a long moment Rhodemar stared at her. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” said Romaria.

  “Is there anything you would ask of me?” said Rhodemar. “Anything at all?”

  “Yes,” said Romaria. “Just a horse.”

  ###

  Three days from Deepforest Keep, Gerald looked at Rachel.

  Rachel blinked. “What?”

  “You're smiling,” said Gerald.

  “And why should I not smile?” said Rachel, lifting the baby in her arms. She had to put Aldane down from time to time, but she tried to avoid it as often as possible. She had lost too much time with her son already. “Our son is restored to us.”

  “This is different,” said Gerald. “Like...you have a secret.”

  He knew her so well.

  “I do,” said Rachel. “I found out before I left, when I spoke to Romaria. She...said I smelled different, and I asked why.”

  “What's the secret?” said Gerald.

  Rachel smiled. “I'm pregnant.”

  She had the great satisfaction of watching the surprise on his face change to a delighted smile.

  ###

  “My lord!”

  Mazael reined up. One of the scouts hurried over.

  “What is it?”

  “A rider,” said the scout. “Just one, coming from the city.”

  Mazael frowned. A messenger?

  The rider came into sight, mounted on a mare, face hidden beneath the cowl of a worn green cloak. The rider reined up, and threw back the green hood, and Mazael found himself looking into Romaria's brilliant blue eyes.

  “My lord Mazael!” she said. “Do you have room for one more in your party?”

  He grinned. “I think so.�
�

  ###

  The column rode north, weaving its way around the massive trees.

  The two horses carrying Lucan's cot stayed to the rear. Lucan himself lay upon the cot, still breathing, his eyes closed.

  Though from time to time a glimmer of blood-colored light leaked through his eyelids.

  THE END

  Turn the page for an exclusive bonus chapter from Soul of Dragons, the next book in the DEMONSOULED saga. For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

  Soul of Dragons Bonus Chapter

  Mazael Cravenlock turned his head just as green lightning exploded from the sky and tore into the earth.

  An instant later the wave of hot air from the blast slammed into him, tugging at his cloak and the mane of his horse, an ill-tempered destrier named Hauberk. The horse whinnied in alarm, even as another blast screamed out of the sky, ripping a nearby tree to burning shreds. Behind Mazael, both his men and Sir Gerald Roland's men shouted in alarm. But there was no panic. The knights and armsmen dropped from their horses, while the archers strung their bows and seized quivers of arrows.

  Every last man was a veteran of the war against the Malrags.

  Every last one of them had seen men die at the hands of Malrags.

  As they, too, might die, if one of those lightning bolts landed with any accuracy.

  “Circan!” shouted Mazael.

  A tall, thin man in a long black coat hurried to Mazael's side, his clothing a stark contrast against his pale face and blond hair. Even as he ran, Circan muttered a spell, his hands flying through arcane gestures. The wizard thrust his hand into the sky as another green lightning bolt screamed out of the cloudless sky. Blue light flashed around his hand, and the blast rebounded from Circan's spell to rip a tree in half.

  Circan swayed on his feet. “My lord, you must find the Malrag shaman, and quickly. I do not know how many more of those blasts my spells can deflect.”

  Mazael gave a sharp nod. Even Lucan Mandragon, one of the most powerful wizards Mazael had ever known, had difficulty deflecting the lightning spells of the Malrag shamans.

  Though Lucan was in no shape to do anything, just now.

  “Do you know where they are?” said Mazael.

  Circan gave a sharp nod, rolling a wire-wrapped quartz crystal around his gloved fingers. Mazael had seen that spell before, knew that it let a wizard sense the presence of foes from a distance.

  “Aye, my lord...a mile, perhaps a mile and a half, to the north.” Circan's face tightened in a frown. “At least two hundred of them. Approaching quickly.”

  Mazael swore. He had one hundred and sixty men – one hundred and twenty of his, and forty of Gerald's, who had survived the great battle at Deepforest Keep. But they were veterans, and knew how to fight Malrags. If Mazael kept his wits about him, they could overcome the Malrags.

  Even as the thought passed Mazael's mind, a man and a woman ran to his side. The man was tall and strong, with blue eyes and a blond mustache trimmed with razor precision. Sir Gerald Roland wore armor polished to a mirror sheen, even here in the heart of the Great Southern Forest, and carried a bared longsword in his right fist.

  The woman was tall and lean, with long black hair and eyes the blue of mountain glaciers. She wore wool and leather armor, her jerkin studded with steel disks, and carried a composite bow in her right hand. The hilt of a bastard sword rose over her shoulder, and she moved with an easy, fluid grace. Mazael's men were hard fighters, accustomed to war, yet even they gave deference to Romaria Greenshield.

  After all, they had seen her become a great wolf and tear the throats from her enemies, and wake an army of statues to smash the Malrags below the walls of Deepforest Keep.

  “Why didn't our scouts see them coming?” said Gerald.

  “I don't know,” said Romaria. “They just rode in five minutes past, and claimed to see nothing. Even a blind man couldn't miss two hundred Malrags.” She lifted her face, nostrils flaring as she sniffed at the air.

  “What is it?” said Mazael. He knew to trust Romaria's instincts.

  And her supernaturally keen senses.

  “I didn't smell them,” said Romaria. “Malrags smell of decay. Like a tumor filled with poison. I can smell them five miles off. I didn't smell these Malrags until a few moments ago. As if they appeared out of nowhere.” For an instant her lips peeled back from her teeth, making her look almost wolfish. “And they don't smell like Malrags.”

  “What do they smell like?” said Mazael.

  “Dust,” said Romaria. “Old bones.”

  “They don't...feel like Malrags,” said Circan, hand clenched around the quartz crystal. “I know what Malrags feel like by now. I can sense the Malrag shamans. What the others are...I'm not sure.”

  Mazael shared a look with Gerald. He had known the younger man for years, ever since Gerald had been a squire. They had been in numerous battles together, some of them dire, and in war Mazael trusted Gerald's judgment as much as his own.

  “A shield wall,” said Gerald. “Facing the foe. The archers behind. As soon as we see they enemy, the archers release. Then we can decide whether or not to charge, or to hold the shield wall and wait for their attack. We can keep the wounded and the baggage behind the shield wall, along with the...others.”

  Others like Gerald's pregnant wife and infant son.

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “do it.”

  Gerald shouted orders, and the men hastened to obey. The knights and armsmen hurried forward, shields raised to form a solid wall of steel-banded oak. Behind them the archers formed up, arrows waiting at their bowstrings. After the archers waited the baggage animals and those too injured to fight. A woman sat in their midst, dark-haired and green-eyed, an infant of a few months cradled in her arms.

  Rachel Roland looked frightened, but her face held no hint of panic or despair, only a steely determination. And why not? Mazael's sister had chased the San-keth to the ends of the earth to get her son back, had found the courage to attack Malavost as the wizard prepared to murder the child. After facing such horrors, why should a few Malrags intimidate her?

  She gave Mazael a grim nod and held Aldane tighter.

  Behind Rachel stood a pair of pack horses, a cot stretched between them. A misshapen figure wrapped in heavy blankets rested in the cot, lying motionless. Mazael could have used Lucan Mandragon's aid against the Malrags.

  But Lucan was in no condition to help anyone.

  Mazael walked before the shield wall, Romaria at his side. If he could have, he would have ordered her to remain with the archers. He had seen her struck down once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. But he knew she would not listen.

  Besides, she could take her of herself in battle. Better than most of his men.

  “They're coming,” hissed Circan, gazing at the trees to the north.

  Mazael braced himself and drew his sword. Three and a half feet of steel blade glimmered in his fist. The sword's crosspiece and hilt had been worked with gold, its pommel shaped into a golden lion's head, jaws open in a roar. He called the sword Lion, and it had been forged in ancient time, imbued with potent magic to fight the powers of darkness, burning with azure flame when confronted with dark magic.

  As it began to burn now.

  Mazael saw the lines of blue light shining within the steel, saw the flicker of pale flame at the edge of the blade. Creatures of dark magic were coming.

  The Malrags.

  To the north, the trees rustled, and Mazael heard the underbrush cracking and snapping. Romaria lifted her bow, and Mazael heard the creak as the archers drew.

  “These wretched trees,” muttered Gerald, lifting his shield. “If we were on the plains, we could sweep aside the Malrags with one solid charge.”

  “We're not in the Grim Marches yet,” said Mazael. A halo of crackling blue flame snarled around Lion's blade. “Brace yourselves!”

  A moment later dark
shapes leapt from the trees.

  Mazael expected to see Malrags. Creatures with gray, leathery skin. Hands with six fingers and the fang-filled mouths. White, colorless eyes, and a third eye glowing in the foreheads of the shamans. Black armor, and the axes and spears of black steel.

  He did not expect to see a line of animated corpses burst from the trees, moving with inhuman speed, empty eyes shining with green flame. The creatures looked as if they had been dead for some time, crumbling flesh stretched tight over yellowing bones. Yet they moved with supernatural speed and power, some racing on all fours as their clawed fingers raked at the earth. Mazael had seen such creatures before. They were corpses, raised by the dark magic of a skilled necromancer.