Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

They rode over White Rock’s splintering drawbridge.

  “We should go back,” said Gerald.

  Mazael glared at him. “Why?”

  Gerald met Mazael’s gaze. “Because Sir Albert and Brother Silar could have told us much more. Sir Albert has dealt with these creatures from the beginning.”

  “So has Romaria,” said Mazael.

  “True,” said Gerald. “But Brother Silar is a Cirstarcian. He has access to all the histories of his order. He could help us.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “The Cirstarcians will support Lord Richard. Silar said as much.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” said Romaria.

  Mazael reined Chariot up hard and turned the big horse around. Romaria had to snap the reins to keep her mount under control.

  “What did you say?” said Mazael.

  “Everything the old knight and the monk said seems plausible,” said Romaria. “I’ve only been at Castle Cravenlock a few days, yet even I have seen your brother for a wretch.”

  “I don’t disagree,” said Mazael.

  “If Mitor is willing to plunge the Grim Marches into years of death and blood for the sake of his pride, what’s to keep him from selling his soul to the San-keth?” said Romaria.

  “That’s different,” said Mazael.

  “How?” said Romaria.

  “Because,” said Mazael, “Rachel would never go along with him.”

  “Your sister agrees with him on all other matters,” said Romaria.

  Mazael’s fist tightened on Chariot’s reins. “We’re going.”

  “We should stay,” said Romaria.

  Mazael stared at her. “If we did, we would sign the death warrant of the village, do you realize that? Mitor has gathered an army of thousands. If he learns that Sir Albert means to declare for Lord Richard, Mitor will raze White Rock. You thought what Brogan did was bad? White Rock would make that seem like a actor’s farce.”

  Romaria frowned. “I...hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes flashed. “But surely you don’t mean to abandon the search for the zuvembies...”

  “Of course not,” said Mazael. “We’ll camp out in the open this night. If the creatures are at hunt, they’ll find us. We’ll ward them off with fire, destroy one, and take its remains back to Castle Cravenlock. This talk of a San-keth cult is all hot air. Simonian is behind this business, I believe. Master Othar will cast his spell over the remains and prove that Simonian raised the creatures. With luck, I can also prove that our honorable Albron Eastwater is Simonian’s lackey.”

  “A fine plan,” said Romaria, “but what of Lord Richard, and what of this war Mitor seems intent on starting?”

  Mazael grinned. “It’s like I told Sir Gerald, back at the Northwater inn.” Gerald groaned. “We’ll take things one step at a time.”

  They rode back to the armsmen waiting beneath the Cravenlock banner. The men milled about, gripping their weapons. Mazael spotted the captain he had left in charge and rode over.

  “I thought I told you to keep the men in order,” said Mazael.

  The captain flinched. “I did, my lord knight! Or so I tried. You ordered scouts and outriders be kept out at all times. One of them has come back with a report.”

  “Report of what?” said Mazael.

  The captain’s face tightened. “There are creatures approaching, my lord.”

  “Creatures?” said Mazael, turning to Romaria. “I thought you said the zuvembies came out at night.”

  Romaria frowned. “They do.”

  “No!” said the captain. “Not zu...zuh...not those. Wood elves, my lord. Wood demons out of the Great Southern Forest to raid the countryside! Lord Mitor was right! The wood demons have allied with Lord Dragonslayer against us.”

  “Ridiculous!” said Romaria.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I can only tell you what I see,” said the captain.

  “Do you have any idea why a band of Elderborn would have ventured this far north?” said Mazael.

  Romaria shook her head. Dark locks spilled from the hood of her cloak. “No. The northernmost tribes in the forest are the Tribe of the Wolf and the Tribe of the Oak,” she said. “And they’re probably looking for us.”

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “The Elderborn are the best scouts and trackers in the world,” said Romaria. “If your scouts saw them, then they wanted to be seen.”

  “The men did say the wood demons—” the captain flinched under Romaria’s furious glare, “—the wood elves were headed this way.”

  “Yes, but why are they coming for us?” said Mazael.

  Romaria shrugged. “Gods only know. The Elderborn do as they will, when they will it. It’s possible they’re here to hunt down zuvembies.” She hesitated. “If they are, and they’ve the same reasoning as Sir Albert’s...then they’ve likely come to kill us.”

  “Amatheon and Amater,” Mazael swore. “If they’re so eager to pin blame on the Cravenlocks, why don’t they go and pay a visit to Mitor? I haven’t set foot in the Grim Marches for the last fifteen years. Romaria, come with me, you’ll know these Elderborn and how to deal with them. Adalar, you’ll come as well, as standard-bearer. I shall take our fifty lancers on horse. If it comes to blows, we can either run for it or ride them down. Sir Nathan, Gerald, take command of the remaining men and follow us at a distance. If battle seems likely, come to our aid.”

  Sir Nathan grimaced. “This does not bode well. The presence of Elderborn hunters in the Grim Marches will lend credence to Simonian’s claims. Lady Romaria, do you truly believe the Elderborn have come to make war?”

  “I don’t think so, Sir Nathan,” said Romaria. “But if they believe Lord Mitor is responsible for raising the zuvembies, they could do anything.”

  “I’ve no intention of waiting here to find out,” said Mazael. He pointed at a scout. “You will show us the way. Gerald, Sir Nathan, give us a few minutes and then follow. Let’s ride.”

  They rode away across the plains. Scattered trees stood here and there, casting long black shadows across the waving grasses. The clouds began to break up, shafts of sunlight stabbing down.

  An hour later, the scout pointed. “There, my lord, I can see them.”

  “They’re waiting,” said Romaria.

  The ground rose in a low hill topped by a ring of eroded boulders. An ancient statue, some forgotten monument, stood in the center of the ring. Mazael could saw figures waiting atop the hill, tall, slim shapes clad in gray mantles.

  “The Tribe of the Wolf," said Romaria.

  “Do you know of them?” said Mazael.

  Romaria nodded. “They’re the northernmost of the tribes. They visit Deepforest Keep from time to time.”

  Mazael could feel their gazes. “Would they know of you?”

  Romaria brushed a stray lock of hair back into her hood. “They might. The morgans...ah, the chiefs, you would say, have often visited Deepforest Keep.”

  Mazael decided. “Then let’s go meet them.” He ordered the men to wait, and rode forward with Romaria. Details became visible as they drew closer. The Elderborn wore trousers and vests of animal skins and mantles of gray wolf fur. Their features were angular and sharp, with large eyes and slender ears that rose to delicate points past their hair. Their knives and spears had blades of chipped obsidian, but their great bows looked deadlier than any Mazael had ever seen.

  One of the Elderborn stepped forward as Mazael and Romaria’s mounts trotted up the hill. His mantle of wolf fur was silver, his skin weathered and marked with many scars. His eyes were a deep, unsettling purple, and he carried an oaken staff in his sinewy left hand.

  Romaria reined up. “Dismount,” she said, her voice soft and respectful. “This is Morgan Sil Tarithyn, Mazael. The ardmorgan...the high chief...of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

  Mazael slid from the saddle and put his hand over Chariot’s face to keep the skittish horse from acting up.

  Romaria walked to the ardmorgan, bowed before him, and began to
speak in a melodic, rhythmic tongue. Sil Tarithyn answered, repeating many of the words Romaria had said. His voice was rough and soft, like a stone rasping on steel. Then the ardmorgan said something else, and all the Elderborn burst into laughter.

  “What did he say?” said Mazael.

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Romaria.

  “Greetings, war-knight Mazael of Cravenlock,” said Sil Tarithyn in the kingdom's common tongue.

  “Ah...greetings to you as well, ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf,” said Mazael.

  The old Elderborn grinned. “Romaria has told you of the Mother’s People, I see. That is well.” He tapped the earth with his staff. “We know of you, war-knight. In the south, the tribes speak of the defeat of Malleus, and how the humans who revere the Mother were saved.”

  Mazael smiled. “You attribute too much to me, I fear. My lord wished to seize some of the Dominiars’ lands for himself. Concern for the Old Kingdoms meant nothing to him.”

  Sil Tarithyn chuckled. It made Mazael uneasy. “You will learn, war-knight. You will learn.”

  “Learn what?” said Mazael.

  Sil Tarithyn did not answer.

  “With respect, ardmorgan,” said Mazael. “Why have you come here? It is unusual for any Elderborn to come to the plains, let alone for the ardmorgan of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

  Sil Tarithyn watched him for a while. Mazael met that violet, inhuman gaze and did not blink.

  The old Elderborn nodded. “The Seer was true, when he said you were to be feared."

  The Seer? Was that the same Seer Romaria had mentioned?

  “I do not understand,” said Mazael.

  “You will, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “You know why we have come. The daughter of Athaelin has told you. Dark sorcery defiles our land. The shells of those who have moved onward are raped by this necromancy and forced to walk the temporal world once more.”

  “You mean the zuvembies, I assume?” said Mazael.

  Sil Tarithyn’s face tightened. “Say not that word! It speaks of demon magic. We have come to remove that word, war-knight, to make this sorcerer face the Mother’s wrath. We have come for justice.”

  “Do you know who raises these creatures?” said Mazael.

  “Not who,” said Sil Tarithyn. “What. The San-keth have returned to this land. Fifteen turns of the sun have passed since they were defeated. Yet they have returned to our land to spread their filth once more. It is the people of the Serpent who spread this poison across the land, who blaspheme the Mother with their unholy ways.” His face seemed a mask of wrath. “And the great dark one has come back with them, that monger of lies and the weaver of deceits. He was here in the days of your father, do not doubt it, before the Slayer of Dragons destroyed his web of lies.”

  “My father?” said Mazael. “You can’t mean that this San-keth cult and this dark one were here during Lord Richard’s uprising...”

  “I say what I mean, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “The dark one wears many faces and many names. His is the power to trick and deceive, to wear lies as one of the Mother’s People wears a garment. And the San-keth have been in this land during many turns of the sun, many turns. They built the stone house of your family, the castle of Cravenlock. It is the curse of your family. Always there is one to defeat the serpent people. Yet always there is one to invite them back. Much misery has been wrought from the house of Cravenlock.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Mazael. “First Krondig and now you? How do you know all this?”

  “The Mother has told us, young one,” said Sil Tarithyn. “And you know it in your heart and in your soul. You know the truth.”

  “Do I?” said Mazael. “And what truth is that?”

  “The nature of your house,” said the old Elderborn. “The darkness in their souls, the blight in their hearts.”

  “Oh, truly?” said Mazael. “I’m a Cravenlock, as well. Your people are fingering those bows so eagerly. Why not give them the chance to try feathering my blighted black heart? I wouldn’t advise it, though.”

  “Mazael!” said Romaria.

  “You are not like the others,” said Morgan Sil Tarithyn. “Your soul is not black. Your heart is fire and your sword arm is power, but you are not tainted. Not yet.”

  “Tainted,” said Mazael. “What does that mean?”

  “You know,” said Sil Tarithyn, and all at once Mazael remembered the dreams. “The daughter of Athaelin knows it true, as well.” Romaria looked away.

  “Mitor thinks you’re behind the zuvembies,” said Mazael. “He blames you.”

  “The Lord of Cravenlock is unworthy,” said Sil Tarithyn

  “We agree on that,” said Mazael, “but he’s a powerful unworthy, one with many soldiers. My original task was to slay any Elderborn I found north of the Great Southern Forest.”

  “A task you do not carry out,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  Mazael snorted. “Mitor and I share parents, that is all. And sometimes I even doubt that.”

  “Then what is your purpose, coming here?” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “Master Othar, the wizard of Castle Cravenlock, has a spell that can trace an enchantment back to its caster,” said Mazael. “My purpose is to destroy a zuvembie and take its remains back to Castle Cravenlock. Then I will know who has raised the creatures, and I will kill him.”

  “You do not believe in the San-keth,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Who do you believe is responsible for these heinous acts?”

  “Simonian of Briault,” said Mazael. “An outlander wizard. I believe he is the necromancer.”

  “So you do,” said Sil Tarithyn. “Perhaps you have it true. But do you have the why?”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “I don’t care why.”

  “To defeat your enemy, you must know him and know his reasons,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  Mazael snorted. “Why or not, he’ll still die on my blade.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sil Tarithyn. “What do you mean to do now?”

  “Make camp,” said Mazael, “and wait for the zuvembies to arrive. If they are so numerous as Sir Albert and that Cirstarcian monk fear, they’ll come.”

  The ardmorgan considered this. “Your plan is sound. We shall make camp alongside you.”

  Mazael snorted. “Even if I am in error?”

  Sil Tarithyn’s gaze flashed like purple fire. “The creatures are more of a threat to us than you, war-knight. You live walled away in your stone houses. We live under the stars in the leafy houses of the Mother’s trees. No child of the Mother is safe in the night while these creatures walk. The necromancer can be made to face justice later. For now, it is well that we destroy his abominations.”

  “I’m glad we agree,” said Mazael.

  Sil Tarithyn said something to his warriors in his own tongue. The Elderborn began to sharpen stakes and wrap oil-soaked rags around their arrows. Mazael saw the fifty lancers Mitor had given him approaching, and behind them the men with Gerald and Nathan.

  “Your men approach," said the ardmorgan. "Go to them. We have yet a few hours before the sun goes to his rest and the moon awakens. We shall speak later,” said Sil Tarithyn

  Romaria bowed. “Thank you for your wisdom, ardmorgan. I shall try to remember what you have said this day.”

  “Go,” said Sil Tarithyn, “and may peace find you.”

  “I doubt it will,” said Mazael, “but thank you for the thought, nonetheless.”

  Mazael and Romaria rode down the hill as the Elderborn began raising a camp of their own. Chariot sniffed at Romaria’s mare, and Mazael grimaced and tugged on the big horse’s reins.

  "What did the ardmorgan say?" said Mazael. "That made his men laugh?"

  Romaria flashed a smile. "He said he thought that my mare was not the only one in heat."

  Mazael blinked, but they rejoined the lancers before he could think of a response, and together they rode to rejoin Sir Nathan and Gerald with the footmen.

  “How did it go?” said Gerald.


  “Splendidly,” said Mazael. “Their leader offered me a nonsensical string of riddles for answers. He seems to believe this idiocy of a San-keth cult as well. Nonetheless, they want these creatures destroyed. They will help us.”

  Sir Nathan shifted in his saddle. “You have a plan, I take it.”

  “Aye, I do,” said Mazael. He waved an arm. “These creatures, by all reports, only come out in the night. Well, we’ll give them something to hunt. We will make camp at the base of that hill, dig a trench around it and ring it with stakes and torches. The crown of the hill and that ring of boulders will make an excellent archery platform for the Elderborn. If these zuvembies attack, we’ll greet them with fire and arrows.”

  “And then we will take some of the remains back to Castle Cravenlock for Master Othar’s arts,” said Sir Nathan. “Well thought.”

  “I hope so,” said Mazael. “What was it you told me once? Words are idle, but hands are busy? Time to put that practice. We’ve work to do.”

  “Very good,” said Sir Nathan.

  2

  The Dead That Walk