Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

Mazael stood atop the castle’s curtain wall and looked over the land.

  The Grim Marches had become a desert of cracked earth. The plains lay blasted and dead, the swollen sun hanging in a blood-colored sky. A jumble of broken stone and burned timbers marked the ruins of the town, bleached skeletons strewn about the ruins.

  “It all ends like this, eventually.”

  Mazael turned. “Father?”

  Lord Adalon Cravenlock stood next to him. He looked as Mazael remembered, gray-haired and thin, his face careworn. “Yes. I am.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “You’re dead. You’ve been dead for more than ten years.”

  “True...but I live on through my sons.” His voice was sardonic. He had never taken that tone in life. “Come, my son, let’s go for a walk. We can catch up, you and I. We have so much to talk about.”

  “This is a dream,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon nodded. “Most likely. Would you care to find out?” He walked along the rampart wall, Mazael following. Lord Adalon carried a black staff topped with a silver raven, the sun flashing like flame from the dark wood.

  Lord Adalon swept his arm out over the wall. “Look at it! An improvement, I’d say.”

  “The people are dead,” said Mazael. “The land is a desert. You have a strange idea of improvement.”

  Lord Adalon roared with laughter. “Now, if I had a copper coin for every time someone told me that...why, I could buy the world. Several times over. Not strange, my boy, not strange, correct.”

  “And why is that?” said Mazael.

  “Because they’re all dead,” said Lord Adalon. “Every last one of them. They destroyed each other. It always happens. It always ends this way. The heavens fell when the demons rose up. And again and again men build nations, and destroy themselves in war. Tristafel. Dracaryl. The Kingdom of Storm. All mighty nations, now nothing more than dust.” He laughed, his tired eyes sparkling with delight. “Do you know something, Mazael? Do you know something, my son?”

  “What?” said Mazael. Lord Adalon had never spoken like this.

  “They say dark sorcery ruined Tristafel.” Lord Adalon grinned. “But...do you know what? They brought themselves down. The Tristafellin invited in the Great Demon. The wizards wanted more magic. And they created the Demonsouled. They destroyed themselves.” He swept his black staff over the plain. “It doesn’t matter, my boy. No matter how strong an empire is built, no matter how great a kingdom becomes, those nations are still built of mere men, and mere men always end like this. In utter ruin.”

  “Why are you speaking this nonsense?” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon smiled. “Come with me.”

  He hurried down the rampart stairs. The castle’s courtyard lay desolate and empty. Something gleamed in the courtyard’s scorched dirt, and Lord Adalon bent and picked up a silver dagger. His eyes blazed, and his wrist snapped.

  The dagger hurtled for Mazael’s face.

  “Catch!” said Lord Adalon.

  Mazael’s right hand snapped up. He caught the dagger by the hilt. The blade quivered an inch from his eye. He threw it aside and reached for Lion.

  Lord Adalon laughed. “Hold your wrath. I knew you would catch it.”

  “How?” said Mazael.

  “How old are you now, Mazael? Two-and-thirty years? Getting older, aren’t you? When I was that age, I started to slow down. My eyes began to blur, my hands began to shake, and I couldn’t move so fast.”

  He laughed harder. “But not you, my son! Not you! You’ve only gotten faster. And stronger as well. A fellow your age should start to feel it...aches just beginning in his bones, death starting to chew just a little. But not you. What a fighter you are, Mazael! What a man! No wonder the lady desires you so.”

  Mazael blinked. Romaria Greenshield stood next to his father, clad in a low-cut black gown. He saw the curves of her breasts and the shape of her hips.

  Lord Adalon walked around her, running his hand over her bare shoulders. “She wants you, yes, but she’s terrified of you. And you don’t even know why, do you?” His fingers tangled in her dark hair. “She’s very beautiful, with hair like night...and those eyes. You’ve never seen eyes like that before, have you? I find her too scrawny, myself. I prefer a woman with more to squeeze. Like your mother, for instance. But Romaria is such a formidable woman. So skilled with that bastard blade. Yet she’s helpless against you.”

  Romaria’s bastard sword gleamed in her hand, and she charged him. Mazael snapped his sword out of its scabbard and parried. A dozen blows flashed in half as many seconds. Then Romaria’s sword went flying, and she fell backwards upon the ground, chest heaving with her breath. She raised her arms, as if inviting Mazael to take her.

  “Helpless,” said Lord Adalon. “They’re all helpless against you. That primping dandy Sir Gerald Roland, Sir Nathan the Dull, even the Dragonslayer himself...what are they, next to you? Nothing.” He crooked a finger. “So sorry to tear you away from your pretty half-breed, but we have a walk to finish. After all, you can take her when you wake up. One more stop.”

  Romaria vanished. Mazael sheathed Lion and followed his father across the courtyard. Lord Adalon jumped up the keep steps and rapped on the door with his staff. The great doors shuddered and opened with a loud groan.

  “Come along, now!” said Lord Adalon, his voice cheerful. “There are a few more people I’d like you to meet.”

  The great hall was empty, the vaulted ceiling arching away into darkness. The high windows glowed a dull red. The metal-shod butt of Lord Adalon’s staff clicked against the polished stone floor. He spun to face Mazael. “Tell me, my boy! What do you think?”

  “Think of what?” said Mazael.

  “This! All of it! Lord Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock...now how does that sound, eh?” Lord Adalon slammed the butt of his staff onto the floor. Ghostly images flitted past, the lords and knights of the Grim Marches came to swear fealty to Lord Mazael Cravenlock. Lord Adalon rapped his staff again, and the images vanished. “And the only thing that keeps Sir Mazael from becoming Lord Mazael is the feeble fluttering of Mitor’s shriveled heart.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I won’t kill him.”

  Lord Adalon snorted. “And why not?”

  “Because Sir Nathan and Master Othar taught me better than that,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon howled laughter. “So they say it’s wrong, then?” He pointed his staff towards the dais. The silver raven’s eyes were red, glowing crystals. “Come then! Let us just see whose life you have so generously spared!”

  They walked to the end of the hall, to the lord's dais.

  Mitor Cravenlock sat in the lord’s seat, his belly bulging against his fine clothes, his arms and legs like twitching sticks. Rachel sat next to him in the lady’s seat, pale and lovely.

  “Older brother, younger sister,” said Mazael’s father. “Lord Adalon’s baby children!” He sneered. “I am so proud!” He tapped Mitor’s stomach with the head of his staff. “Look at this weakling. I doubt he could lift your sword, Sir Mazael.” Lord Adalon twined the fingers of his free hand in Mitor’s hair and yanked back his head. “And so stupid. So very, very stupid. Lord Richard might mount this head above his gates. I wouldn’t. It would make a hideous eyesore.” He let Mitor’s head drop and circled to Rachel.

  “And the Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” said Lord Adalon. He grinned and caressed her cheek with a finger. “Pretty, yes. But I doubt there’s a thought in that comely little head that wasn’t put there by Sir Albron! You know, Mazael, if he told her to jump from the castle walls, why, I’m quite certain she would do it! Now wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

  “Be quiet,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon laughed. “Oh, that’s right! She was your best friend for a time...your only friend. And look what’s she’s become. Lady Rachel is a vase painted bright on the outside, but empty and dead on the inside.” Lord Adalon licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows. “And wanton...do you think she loves Albron for his
charming conversation? For his grace and charm? Certainly not! No, she wants him, she lusts for him...”

  “Quiet,” said Mazael.

  Lord Adalon’s laughter shrieked off the vaulted ceiling. “Feeling angry, my boy? Want to take that fine sword and ram through my lying heart?” Lion glimmered in Mazael’s hand, and Lord Adalon's grin stretched from ear to ear. “Don’t kill the messenger! It’s very bad form. Is it my fault Mitor is a cruel weakling? Is it my fault that Rachel is an empty-headed little flower?” He leveled his staff at Mazael. “And you’re so different from them, aren’t you? So much stronger, so much faster, so much better...why, it’s hard to believe that you came from the same father.”

  “Quiet!” roared Mazael.

  “They hate you,” said Lord Adalon. “Mitor would sell you for power. And Rachel...ah, poor Rachel, how she’s drifted from you...”

  Mazael swung Lion. The sword sheared through Mitor's neck, his head rolling down his chest to land on his lap. Mazael snarled and hacked again and again, Lion ripping and tearing into Mitor's flesh. Blood sprayed everywhere, pooling on the floor, staining the chair, covering Mazael's arms. The scent of Mitor’s lifeblood filled him with satisfaction and a yearning for more.

  Lord Adalon laughed as Mitor's corpse fell in pieces to the floor. Mazael kicked the bloody chunks aside and stalked towards Rachel. She screamed, arms raised in front of her face. Lord Adalon’s laughter rang in his ears. Mazael brought Lion arcing down towards her head...

  He woke up, screaming.

  Mazael’s breath heaved in his chest, sweat dripping down his face, his stomach roiling and twisting. For a moment he could not remember where he was. He stumbled out of bed just in time to empty his guts into the chamber pot.

  “Gods,” he said. “Mitor does disagree with me.” He found a clay pitcher of water on the desk and drained most of it to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth. His stomach lurched, but the water stayed down.

  Mazael caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. He had gone as pale as Mitor. Blood covered his hands, red and thick and gleaming...

  He gaped down at his hands. They were clean.

  “A dream,” he said. “That’s all. A dream.”

  He walked to the window, half-expecting to see endless desert wastes and a burning sun. Instead he saw the castle courtyard and the grasses of the Grim Marches. He heard laughter and music from the great hall. Mazael had never given a damn what Mitor thought and wasn’t going to start now. But tomorrow he would make peace with Rachel. The dream had been too real. He remembered the way Rachel had screamed, and how he had enjoyed that scream and the fear in her eyes...

  “A dream,” Mazael said. He went back to bed.

  ***

  Chapter IV

  1

  Armsmaster