Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

The next day they continued riding to the east. Mazael was certain that they were well ahead of the Old Crow, but he wanted to take no chances. Rachel's abduction out of Castle Cravenlock had proven Sir Tanam's skill.

  So they rode fast, the Grim Marches stretching around them in all directions, a sea of waving grasses. Mazael remembered days from his youth when it seemed like the entire world was nothing but two vast plains of green earth and blue sky. Thousands of red-and-white blood roses had bloomed among the grasses, their white petals and red interiors giving them the look of bleeding wounds in pale flesh.

  Mazael remembered Mattias Comorian’s prediction of war and scowled.

  They passed peasant farmsteads where the farmers stood grim-faced before their houses with weapons in hand, ready to defend their homes and their daughters’ virtue. More than one farmer shot ogling glances at Rachel, but no one dared anything under Mazael's glare.

  Shortly after noon, Mazael reined up and turned to face his companions. “I don’t want to take the road. Half the men in the last group we passed were drunk, and I saw smoke on the northern horizon an hour ago. Lord Richard doesn’t need to ravage the countryside. Mitor’s mercenaries will do that for him if they’re not taken in hand. It’s only a matter of time before some of these fools decide we’d make an easy mark.”

  Rachel did not seem pleased at the prospect. “Couldn’t you fight through them, the way you did at the inn?”

  Gerald snorted. “My dear lady, your brother is brave, but he’s also a madman. It was more luck and the gods’ grace than our own skill that we escaped from Sir Tanam.”

  "None of these ruffians are mounted," said Mazael, "and we could ride through them like a wind, but with Rachel along, I’d rather not take the chance. Castle Cravenlock is two days east from here as the crow flies, but the road veers southeast to pass through the village of White Rock. If we ride straight east, we can leave the road and the mercenaries behind.”

  Gerald looked out over the plain. “The horses should have no trouble with the land. And once Sir Tanam crosses the Northwater, he will direct his search towards White Rock. I believe I concur, Sir Mazael.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Mazael.

  Gerald grinned. “Your brother is a madman, Lady Rachel, but he does have good ideas from time to time.”

  “I know,” said Rachel. Mazael snorted and steered Chariot off the road, the others following.

  They traveled cross-country, past small farms and villages. This region had been left untouched during Lord Richard’s uprising, and most of the grassland had been plowed and cultivated. Mazael took worn cart tracks when he could find them, but there were no real roads here. When they passed farms, the peasants hurried inside and bolted their doors as they passed.

  “I say, I wonder what they’re all afraid of?” said Gerald.

  “The mercenaries,” said Rachel. “They’ll tell you tales of demons and witchcraft in the night, but it’s the mercenaries they fear.”

  “If you say so,” said Mazael. “But...”

  “Mazael!” hissed Gerald, pointing. “Look!”

  A cloud of dust rose from one of the cart tracks. A man ran towards them, his legs and arms pumping, black cloak flapping out behind him. Behind him came three horsemen with rusty helms and battered swords. They laughed and whooped, spurring their horses closer to the running man.

  “Bandits,” said Mazael. He reached down, plucked his helm from his saddle horn, and dropped it on his head.

  “I thought you said we would avoid any bandits,” said Gerald.

  Mazael grinned at him. “Stop complaining. There are only three of them.”

  Gerald sighed and drew his sword.

  “Wait here,” Mazael told Rachel. “Wesson, stay with her.”

  Then he spurred Chariot forward. The three bandits circled around their quarry, thrusting their swords at him, only to jerk their weapons away at the last moment. They were so focused on their fun that they didn't notice Mazael until Lion crashed through a bandit's head.

  The other two bandits shouted in surprise. One came at Mazael with a rust-splotched sword. Mazael parried, rolled his wrist, and swung, Lion biting deep into the bandit's chest. The man slid from his horse, blood pumping from his wound, even as Gerald finished the last bandit with a quick thrust.

  Mazael looked over the man they had rescued. He had dark hair and a goatee that came to a little spike, and wore a black coat, black books, and a dusty black cloak. A heavy pack dangled from his shoulder. His eyes darted to the twitching corpses, to Mazael and Gerald, and then back to the dead men.

  “I have very little of value. Please leave me be,” said the man. His voice had a lyrical Travian accent.

  Mazael could have killed him so very easily.

  Instead, he leaned down and tore off a bandit’s cloak, wiping down Lion's blade. “What, you think we’re more bandits?”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  Mazael passed the cloak to Gerald and beckoned Rachel and Wesson over. “What sort of bandits travel with a woman and a boy?”

  The man blinked. “Your armor...your armor is very beaten up.” Mazael snorted. The man pointed at Gerald. “But his...his is too fine for any bandit. You are knights, yes? Please forgive me, my lord knights. My wits were addled with fear.” He wiped sweat from his brow.

  “Understandable,” said Gerald. He cleaned his blade and tossed the bandit’s cloak aside. “Tell me, if you have so little of value, why were these ruffians after you?”

  The man grimaced. He pointed at his feet. “They wanted my boots.” They were very good boots. “I traded my mule for them at the last village I passed...ah, Eastbridge, I believe. I told the bandits they would have to purchase their own boots, and then they tried to kill me! Over a pair of boots! I fought them as best I could, but I had to flee. And I have seen bands of similar villains coming down the north road as well. Why does the lord in Castle Cravenlock not keep the peace? What sort of land is this?”

  “One on the verge of war, it seems,” said Mazael.

  The man’s face sagged. “Oh, I knew it. I should have stayed in Alborg.”

  “Who are you?” said Gerald.

  The man executed a small bow. “My lord knights, I am Timothy deBlanc...a...a wizard.” He looked at their faces, and when he saw that Mazael and Gerald were not about to slay him as a wicked sorcerer, he continued. “Might I ask the names of those who saved my life?”

  “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael. “The man with the fine armor is Sir Gerald Roland. The fair lady is Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” Rachel inclined her head, “and the boy is Wesson Joran, Sir Gerald’s squire. Now, might we ask what a wizard is doing alone in the midst of the Grim Marches?” Mazael remembered the rumor he had heard of a wizard raising trouble.

  Timothy’s eyes widened. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock? My lord knight, my lady, this is...a fortuitous coincidence. I am bound for Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “I recently completed my time as an apprentice, and the magisters sent me to study with a Master Wizard,” said Timothy.

  “Master Othar,” said Mazael.

  “You know him?” said Timothy.

  “Since I was a child,” said Mazael.

  “The magisters said I was to study under him, and they hinted...well, perhaps, that I should take his position after he died,” said Timothy.

  Mazael’s wrath flared. “Did they, now?”

  “I meant no disrespect!” stammered Timothy. “I hope Master Othar has many fruitful years yet, but he is past seventy, and the magisters said that his health was not good.”

  Mazael forced himself to calm. “Your magisters can say what they like. Men have said that Master Othar would die any day now for the last twenty-five years. He is still here.”

  “May the gods grant him twenty-five more,” said Timothy.

  Mazael decided that he liked the young wizard. “Grab one of those dead fools’ horses. You’ll ride with us back to Castle
Cravenlock. Master Othar said for years he’d like an assistant. Who am I to thwart his will?”

  “Thank you, sir knight,” said Timothy, snaring one of the horses. “That is very generous of you. In fact, that is what I shall name the horse. Generosity.”

  Mazael grunted. “What spells can you do?”

  Timothy hoisted himself into the saddle with some effort. Horsemanship did not seem to lie among his skills. “Many, my lord. I know spells that can predict the weather, see distant places, communicate across vast expanses, and several others.” He paused. “I also know several spells of protection...no doubt, they will come in handy here.”

  “Why do you say that?” said Mazael.

  Timothy tugged at the spike of his goatee. “There are...many old tales about Castle Cravenlock and the surrounding lands, my lord knight.”

  Mazael waved his hand. “Yes, yes, witchcraft and demon worship and all that. Surely that doesn’t worry you?”

  “There is no witchcraft at Castle Cravenlock,” said Rachel. “None. It’s a slanderous story the Mandragons spread.”

  “I...ah...do not doubt it, my lady,” said Timothy. “But it is the recent tales I fear. The peasants say the dead rise from their graves at night and slay the living. And there are darker tales, as well. Ah...my lady, I know that Lord Cravenlock would never succumb to such a base deed, but they say that some of the villagers near the castle practice the old worship of the San-keth.”

  “San-keth?” said Gerald. “What is that? I’ve never heard that word before.”

  “Serpent people,” said Mazael. “Remember how I told you about the Song of Serpents? ‘San-keth’ is the formal name of the serpent people.” He laughed. “I doubt they’re much more than a song. I’ve never seen one.”

  “A myth dreamed up by some addled peasant,” said Rachel.

  “They’re very real, my lord,” said Timothy. His voice became quiet. “Or, at least they were, at one time. I saw some of their writings during my studies at the citadel of Alborg. Vile books, vile, full of blasphemies. I hope you are right that they do not live. But if they do, then it is the duty of the wizard to protect mankind from such monsters.”

  Mazael doubted that Timothy could defend himself from mosquitoes, but nodded nonetheless.

  “My lord knight...I have a spell I can cast, if you wish. It is...an eye, one that will let me see if any enemies approach us,” said Timothy.

  Mazael gestured. “By all means.”

  Timothy slid back out of the saddle and landed with a thump. The wizard rummaged through his pack and produced a heavy book, a twist of copper wire, a quartz crystal, and other oddments. Timothy wrapped the wire around the crystal and muttered a chant under his breath. Mazael recognized the spell. He had seen Master Othar cast it as a boy, and some of the wizards who had accompanied Lord Malden’s armies into Mastaria had used it. The spell bestowed some sort of clairvoyance on the caster. It worked, he knew that for a fact. It had saved their lives after the Dominiars' crushing victory over Gerald’s idiot brother Sir Mandor.

  “Brother, I will withdraw,” said Rachel. “I find this distasteful.”

  Mazael frowned. “Why? You saw Master Othar do magic often when we were children.”

  Rachel blinked, and looked as if she wanted to weep for a moment. Then she turned her horse and rode off a distance.

  “That was strange,” said Gerald.

  “Women,” agreed Mazael.

  “You know, there are two horses left,” said Gerald. The dead bandits’ horses wandered nearby, picking at the ground. “I’ll take one, and you take one.”

  Mazael laughed. “As I recall, I slew two bandits, you one. By rights, I should get both horses.”

  Gerald scowled. “You gave one of your horses to the wizard.”

  “No, Timothy earned it by staying alive. So...I suppose, if you want to get petty about it, I get a horse and a half, and you get the remaining half,” said Mazael.

  “What am I supposed to do with half a horse?” said Gerald.

  “Eat it,” said Mazael.

  Gerald grimaced. “I had enough horse in Mastaria after Grand Master Malleus routed Mandor!”

  “Your father has more horses than the Lord of Swiftheart,” said Mazael. “But, because I am a compassionate soul, I’ll give you my half of the second horse.”

  Gerald laughed. “You’re too kind, I say.”

  Mazael smirked. “I know.”

  Timothy finished his spell. The crystal shimmered, rainbow light flashing from its facets, and he tucked it into his coat. “The spell is complete,” he said.

  “Good,” said Mazael. “Any enemies nearby?”

  Timothy’s eyelids fluttered. “Ah...no. There are some peasants in that house,” he pointed, “watching us...I suppose they were afraid to come out when they saw the bandits. Other than that...there is no one nearby.”

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. “Let’s keep moving. Rachel! You can come now. The wizard’s done being distasteful.” Rachel rode to rejoin them, ignoring Timothy. Mazael offered Timothy a shrug and set Chariot to a walk.

  They passed the peasant farmhouse. One of the fields behind the house had been left fallow for the season, and blood roses filled its furrows. It resembled one great wound, hacked and stabbed by thousands of knives. Mazael remembered Mattias Comorian’s words, and shivered despite himself.

  2

  In the Monastery’s Shadow