Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

The mist cleared, and Mazael set a hard pace for Castle Cravenlock. Soon the clouds broke, the setting sun flooding the hills with light and shadow. Mazael watched the shadows, expecting each to hold a hidden enemy, but none appeared. Night fell, and Mazael called for a stop. Better to rest and delay a night than to have a horse break a leg in the darkness.

  They set up camp at a small hollow in the base of a weathered hill. Timothy cast a spell to make a six-inch jet of flame burst from his finger and started the campfire. Wesson saw to the horses while Mazael pulled out the scanty remains of their supplies.

  He saw a flicker of movement atop the hill. A large black hunting cat perched on the rocks above, firelight glinting off a yellow eye. Before Mazael could shout a warning, Romaria spun, her arms a blur, and an arrow sprouted from the cat's skull. It twitched and fell forward, landing with a meaty thump at the edge of the hollow.

  “What was that?” said Rachel.

  “A good shot,” said Mazael.

  Romaria grinned and lowered her bow. “That, and supper.”

  They skinned the cat and had fresh meat. Mazael and Gerald had long ago learned to eat when food was offered, and Romaria looked almost catlike herself in satisfaction. Rachel turned pale when they skinned the cat, excused herself, and went to sleep.

  “Women have little stomach for the sight of blood,” said Gerald.

  “That so?” said Romaria around a mouthful of meat. Mazael snorted laughter.

  “Lady Romaria is correct,” said Timothy. He pulled a chunk of hot meat from a bone. “All wizards are trained as physicians. If you’ve ever attended a woman in childbirth...well, it is not a sight for those with weak stomachs.”

  “I’ll take first watch,” said Romaria.

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “I can’t sleep in this country,” said Romaria. “The gods only know what wanders this land at night.”

  “Mercenaries, bandits, and hunting cats,” said Mazael. “You’ve already taken care of the cat, so I suspect you’ll have little difficulty with the other two.”

  “Mercenaries and bandits don’t scare me,” said Romaria. “An arrow through the eye will fix them, just like the cat. It’s the walking dead, the zuvembies, that frighten me.” She looked out into the darkness. “Night’s their time.”

  “An arrow through the eye will stop a dead man?” said Mazael.

  Romaria snorted. “Not likely. But dead men burn, just the same as the living.” She pointed at the fire. “I mean to keep that going all night. It’ll keep away the animals, and if any of the zuvembies rise tonight, fire will ward them off.”

  “Pardon, Lady Romaria, but what was that word you used? Zuvembie?” said Timothy. “I speak five languages, yet have never heard that word.”

  “It’s Elderborn” said Romaria. “In Caerish, it means...oh, ‘demon corpse’, or ‘dead devil’. Not an exact translation, but you get the idea.”

  Timothy blinked. “You know the Elderborn?”

  Mazael laughed. "She said she was from Deepforest Keep, didn't she?"

  Romaria grinned. “Know them? I grew up with them. Who do you think taught me to use a bow like that? Lord Richard’s crossbowmen? The Elderborn have long been allied with Deepforest Keep. We look out for each other. In fact, they were the ones who first warned us of the dangers. Their druids sensed a disturbance. Not long after, the first zuvembie rose from the barrows.”

  “Mitor won’t believe you,” said Mazael.

  Romaria leveled a flat glance at him. “Is that so? Do you believe me?”

  Mazael thought it over. “I think I do. You don’t seem the sort to make up a wild tale. And Gerald and I saw a necromancer conjure up a shade once, before we killed him. That’s not the sort of thing you forget. I know such things exist. But Mitor won’t believe you.”

  “Why not?” said Romaria.

  “He’s a fool,” Mazael said. “And you’re a woman.”

  “I noticed,” said Romaria.

  “Mitor will look at you and see a woman carrying a man’s weapons and wearing a man’s clothes. At best, he’ll laugh at you. At worst, he’ll have you imprisoned for obscenity,” said Mazael.

  “Yet you believe me,” said Romaria. “Why?”

  Mazael laughed. “I had better teachers. My father was a kind fool and my brother is a cruel fool, but I don’t think it runs in the blood. Master Othar and Sir Nathan taught me otherwise.”

  “Sir Nathan Greatheart is a good man, and a friend of my father,” said Romaria. “In Deepforest, some of the Elderborn still tell the story how he helped save the Tribe of the Wolf when he was a young man.”

  “He and Master Othar taught me near everything I know,” said Mazael. “I was a wild, undisciplined, violent fool.” He grinned. “I suppose I still am.”

  Gerald took a sip from his waterskin. “No, you’re just mad.”

  Mazael laughed. “My mother hated me and my father ignored me. It was as if they wanted me to be cruel and lawless. I don’t know what would have become of me were it not for Sir Nathan and Master Othar.” He looked at the sleeping form of his sister. “And Rachel. Gods, if it weren’t for those three, I would probably have been another Toraine Mandragon.”

  “Well, it is quite late,” said Gerald. “I shall turn in.”

  “I’ll keep the fire burning,” said Romaria.

  “Why not prepare some fire arrows?” said Mazael. “If this...whatever you called them, these walking dead men show up, you can just shoot them full of flaming arrows. No need to get close with a burning brand.”

  Romaria stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. “That is a good idea! I should have thought of it myself.” She pulled strips of rags from her saddlebags and began to wind them around a few of her arrows.

  Mazael rolled himself up in his cloak and went to sleep.

  The morning dawned bright and clear and hot, and they resumed their eastward wide.

  “There,” said Mazael three hours later. “There’s Castle Cravenlock.”

  The castle sat at the edge of the hill country. overlooking a broad swath of cultivated land along the banks of the Eastwater. It perched atop the easternmost of the gray granite crags, its towers grim and strong, its walls crowned with battlements. The banner of the Cravenlocks, three crossed swords on a field of black, flapped over the castle towers. Mazael also saw the red rose on white of Lord Marcus Trand, the brown bow on green of Lord Roget Hunterson, and other banners. Mitor had visitors.

  “Home,” Rachel said.

  “A formidable fortress,” said Gerald.

  “Ugly place,” said Romaria. Rachel shot a furious glare at her.

  “I tend to agree,” said Mazael.

  “I don’t see a gate,” said Romaria.

  “The barbican’s on the other side of the castle,” said Mazael. “The main road from White Rock and the other villages leads through the town. We’ll take that way.”

  They rode past herds of grazing sheep, and the shepherds gaped. Mazael grinned. He could imagine that two knights, a woman dressed in man’s clothing, a Travian wizard, a noblewoman, and a boy squire made quite a sight. They rounded the base of the hill and Cravenlock Town, an overgrown village of four thousand people, came into sight, smoke rising from hundreds of chimneys. The main road passed through the town's gates, and Mazael Cravenlock came home after fifteen years.

  The peasants teeming the narrow streets parted before them. A murmur of whispers rose up as they recognized Lady Rachel, a buzz of surprise spreading through the crowd.

  Mazael frowned. Why were so many people on the streets? At this time of day, they should have been in their fields or workshops.

  “Lady Rachel!” he heard one man say. “She’s come back.”

  Mazael stared at the peasants. He saw worry on their faces, and lines from years of hard labor. But most of all, he could saw the fear. Suddenly Romaria’s tales of zuvembies didn’t seem so outlandish.

  “That Sir Mazael,” another man said. “He must’ve rescued her. He
could outwit the Old Crow, too. He killed the Grand Master of the Knights Dominiar, I heard it myself!”

  “Who’s the handsome knight, the one with the golden hair?”

  “That strange woman...wearing a sword?”

  He heard another voice, just at the edge of his hearing, that made his skin crawl. “Sir Mazael’s come back...he’ll set things right, he’ll put an end to this bloody business...”

  Romaria flipped a silver coin over her knuckles. Her hands moved with fluid grace through the gestures of the spell she had used yesterday. She thrust out both hands and threw handfuls of silver coins into the crowds. A gasp went up, and Mazael saw that the coins were real, this time.

  “How does she do that?” said Gerald as the peasants thronged around the coins.

  Mazael shrugged and waggled his fingers. “Magic.”

  They rode into the town square and Mazael reined Chariot up.

  “What in the hells?” Mazael said.

  Little wonder such a crowd had gathered.

  A gallows rose in the center of the square. A dozen Cravenlock armsmen stood around it in a ring, holding back the crowd with their spears. Some of the peasants screamed curses, and the town looked on the edge of a riot.

  The gallows had nooses and trapdoors for eight people, and each noose held an occupant. The necks of a plump man and a stout woman filled the first two, the man's eyes bulging huge with fear while the woman wept. An ancient woman stood next to them, the noose holding down her white hair. Two pretty young women and three children filled the other five nooses. The oldest child looked Wesson’s age, the youngest about three years or so.

  “Mazael!” said Gerald. “Those are children! What in the gods’ names are those soldiers doing?”

  A fat man in the armor and tabard of a captain stepped to the gallows. “Hear all you loyal subjects of Lord Mitor Cravenlock, Lord of Castle Cravenlock and liege lord of the Grim Marches!”

  “Liege lord?” said Mazael. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Know you all that these men, women, and children are traitors, and guilty of treason against Lord Mitor!” continued the captain. “Hence they have earned their deaths.”

  “How does a child commit treason?” said Gerald.

  “Rachel, what is this?” said Mazael.

  Rachel’s face went white. “I...I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t come to the town often, and...”

  A gleeful grin spread across the captain’s face. “If any of the condemned would like to beg for their lives, they may do so.”

  The stout man and woman screamed at the captain, begging for their children’s lives. The pretty younger women wept and offered to give him what he wanted while the children sobbed.

  “For gods’ sakes, Mazael, we’ve got to stop this,” said Gerald. “But there are fifty soldiers here. Don’t do anything mad...”

  The fat captain smirked, and Mazael's rage found a focus.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mazael roared.

  The peasants took one look at his face and hastily backed away.

  The fat captain spun, his jowls quivering with anger. “Who dares...” His eyes widened as he saw Mazael, then they narrowed again. “Who are you? You dare interrupt these proceedings of justice?”

  Mazael pointed at the quivering children. “You call this justice?”

  “Seize him!” yelled the captain. Gerald groaned and spurred his horse to Mazael’s side.

  Lion glimmered in Mazael’s fist. “Try,” he said, his voice calm. Something in his face made the Cravenlock armsmen back away. “Now, who the hell are you?”

  The man’s face glowed with rage. “I am Captain Brogan. When Lord Mitor hears of this, he’ll have your head!”

  “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael, “and threaten me again, and I’ll give Mitor your head.”

  Brogan’s eyes widened. “Sir...Mazael? Forgive me, my lord knight, I didn’t recognize you.”

  Mazael waved Lion at the bound prisoners. “Now, explain to me how a little girl commits treason?”

  “My lord knight,” said Brogan. “It grieves me to bring you ill news, but your sister was kidnapped less than a week ago. Sir Tanam Crowley came in good faith as Lord Richard Mandragon’s emissary and spirited Lady Rachel away. These vermin,” he pointed at the prisoners, “aided the treacherous Old Crow in his escape!”

  “They did not!” said Rachel, riding to Mazael’s side. “Sir Tanam abducted me with his own men. No one from castle or town helped him! These people are innocent!”

  “Lady...Lady Rachel?” Brogan said. “But how? Sir Tanam...”

  “Sir Mazael and Sir Gerald rescued me from Sir Tanam,” said Rachel. “They cut through his men and took me before Sir Tanam even knew what was happening. Just two, against Sir Tanam’s thirty, when you and all the armsmen of Cravenlock couldn’t keep me safe!”

  Jeering laughter rippled through the crowd, and Brogan snarled. “They are guilty of treason nonetheless!”

  Chariot stepped towards Brogan. “And what treason would that be?” said Mazael.

  Mazael saw the panic begin in Brogan’s eyes.

  “The child!” Brogan screamed, pointing at a girl of ten or so. “She sang a treasonous song, ‘Lord Mitor the Mushroom Lord.’”

  “My lord knight!” screamed one of the young women. “That’s...

  “Silence!” said Brogan.

  “Let her speak,” said Mazael. “You did, after all, ask any of the condemned if they wanted to beg. What’s your name?”

  The young woman’s face was puffy from tears. “I’m...I’m Bethy, my lord knight. I work for master Cramton, who runs the Three Swords Inn.”

  “Cramton is the fellow in the noose over there, I assume,” said Mazael, pointing at the fat man.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Bethy.

  “So, what happened?” said Mazael.

  “She’s a liar!” bellowed Brogan.

  “Shut up,” said Mazael. “Bethy, what happened?”

  “It was like this,” said Bethy. “Me and Lyna work in master Cramton’s inn. We wait on the patrons and tend the bar. Captain Brogan and some of his men come in yesterday, start smashing up tables and stealing ale. Master Cramton tells them to stop. Captain Brogan says master Cramton should shut up if he knows what’s good for him. He said that master Cramton should hand over me and Lyna...for his men. Master Cramton said no. Captain Brogan then says that’s treason, and arrests us all, even master Cramton and his wife and his little ones.”

  “That so?” said Mazael.

  “Lies,” said Brogan. “These peasants hate the strong firm hand of justice that rules them, so...so they spread slander and falsehood...”

  “For the last time, shut up,” said Mazael. He pointed at the man-at-arms holding the lever. “You. Cut them loose. They can go back to their inn.”

  The man-at-arms stammered. “My...my lord knight, we...Captain Brogan commanded us to burn the Three Swords inn to the ground.”

  “So,” said Mazael to Brogan. “The innkeeper refused to let you rape his barmaids. That’s treason, now? And because of this crime, you burned down his inn and tied him and his family to a gallows? Oh, yes, the firm hand of justice indeed.”

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” said Brogan. “You ride in here after fifteen years and strut about so high-and-mighty! I kept order in Lord Mitor’s name. You wouldn’t know the first thing about keeping order, about justice, if it hit you in the face!”

  Brogan never saw it coming. Mazael ripped Lion's point through Brogan's throat, the captain's eyes bulging as blood gushed from his mouth. He collapsed to the ground, drowning in his own blood.

  “And neither would you,” said Mazael.

  The Cravenlock armsmen gaped, fingering their weapons.

  Gerald sighed. “Oh, this is off to a dreadful start.”

  Mazael tore off Brogan’s cloak and used it to wipe down Lion’s blade. “I mean to have words with this new fool of an armsmaster, Sir Albron.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. “Sir Nathan would never have let something like this happen.” An armsman shouted and ran at Mazael. Mazael rammed the palm of his hand into the armsman's face, sent him sprawling.

  “Anyone else have any objections?” said Mazael, glaring at the armsmen. None of them did. "Good." He pointed. "You."

  “Sir?” said another armsman.

  “Cut them loose. Since Brogan saw fit to burn down their inn, they’ll have to come with me back to the castle. I mean to see that they get reparation,” said Mazael.

  “Cut them loose?” repeated the armsman.

  “Now!” said Mazael. The soldier leapt up the gallows and sawed at the ropes with his dagger. Cramton stumbled free from his noose and ran to his wife and children.

  “Form up!” yelled Mazael to the armsmen. “You will provide an escort for Lady Rachel back to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Oh, my lord knight, thank you, thank you,” wailed the innkeeper’s wife, clutching her children. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

  “We did no treason, my lord knight,” said Cramton, sweating and weeping. “I just wanted to do right by my workers, I did.”

  “The gods sent you,” Bethy declared. “The gods knew we were innocent, so they sent you.”

  Mazael snorted. “Come long. Here, now. If the woman can’t walk, Sir Gerald and I have two extra horses. She and the little ones can ride.”

  “I can take one up here with me,” Romaria said.

  Eventually, the innkeeper’s wife, so overcome by relief that she could not walk, mounted with her youngest child on one of the dead bandits’ horses. Bethy went on the second horse, another child on her lap, while Romaria took still another with her. By then the milling mass of Cravenlock men had managed to form up in an escort. Romaria started to amuse the children with another coin trick.

  “Go,” said Mazael.

  Cramton walked next to Mazael’s horse and babbled thanks. Mazael nodded, his thoughts dark. Things were indeed wrong at Castle Cravenlock. He had just seen firsthand evidence of it. For the moment, he didn’t care about Rachel’s story of impending war, or Romaria’s tale of dark magic. The idiocy, the brutality of the armsmen, bothered him the most. Oh, yes, he would have words with Lord Mitor over this, and with this fool Sir Albron Eastwater.

  ***

  Chapter III

  1

  The Brothers’ Reunion