Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

  * * * * *

  He regained consciousness some time later.

  Mazael got to his knees before the altar. The pain was gone. The fang marks had vanished from his arm, and the burns from his face.

  He stood and looked at his belt. His sword was still gone.

  “I suppose that must have hurt.”

  Lord Adalon stepped out from beneath the balcony’s shadows, his dark robes whispering against the dusty stone floor.

  “How am I still alive?” said Mazael.

  “An excellent question,” said Lord Adalon. “All events cast shadows. Think of what you just saw as a shadow of what will happen, if you refuse the power that is your birthright.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “That won’t happen. It...”

  “Oh, yes, of course, that’s right,” said Lord Adalon. “Mitor might be vermin, but Rachel, sweet, innocent, Rachel would never do such a thing. Oh, but she already has, hasn’t she? Did she not pray to that slithering worm that the San-keth worship? Did she not lie to you? And did she not leave you to die in that dark pit beneath Castle Cravenlock?”

  Mazael felt the muscles in his jaw trembling.

  “And if not them, then others,” said Lord Adalon. “That is the very nature of life. The quest for power. Whoever does not possess it requires it, and whoever does needs more. Even the gods themselves are no different. They grasp and clutch for the sparks of might.” He smiled and made a fist “So, these are your choices. Seize the power that is your destiny and right! Or lie down and die, and let others tear it from your corpse. And it is a choice you must soon make.”

  Mitor walked out of the shadows, a poisoned dagger clutched in his fist. Rachel stood next to him, her body draped in the clinging folds of her black robes. Her reptilian eyes watched Mazael, the fangs jutting over her lips.

  “And so the choice comes,” said Lord Adalon. “Will you give in to those weaker than you? Will you let them kill you? Or shall you take what is yours and destroy all who stand against you?”

  Lord Adalon pulled a sheathed sword from his robes. The scabbard was dark wood inlaid with golden runes. The sword’s crosspiece and hilt were covered in crimson gold, the pommel fashioned in the shape of a roaring demon's head. Looking at it made the hair on Mazael’s neck and arms stand up. The sword was both hideous.

  The sword was beautiful.

  “What is that?” said Mazael.

  “It is yours,” said Lord Adalon. He held the sword out hilt-first. “Your power is that of the Destroyer.”

  Mitor snarled and Rachel hissed, advancing towards Mazael.

  “If you want to take it, of course,” said Lord Adalon, his voice mournful. “After all, if you don’t, then Mitor and Rachel will kill you. If not them, then others.” He smiled. “But at least you will have done the right thing, eh?”

  Mazael remembered the pain of Rachel’s venom, the agony as Mitor’s dagger pumped into his back. But the helplessness had been worst of all. He snarled, clamped his hand around the sword's hilt, and tore it free from the scabbard.

  He caught a glimpse of the sword’s long red blade, the edges bright and sharp. Then the sword burst into howling crimson flame, and a jolt of power exploded up Mazael’s arm. Strength flowed through him like a molten river. Murderous fury filled his heart, and he embraced it, feeling it scour away the weakness in his limbs.

  Rachel and Mitor flinched, and Mazael laughed at them.

  Mitor howled, a dagger grasped in both hands, and charged. Mazael danced around Mitor’s attack and slashed. The burning blade cut through Mitor’s wrists like an axe through butter. Mitor wailed, crimson flames chewing at the charred stumps of his hands. Mazael stepped behind Mitor and carved off his legs at the knee. Mitor flailed and collapsed to the floor, twitching and writhing. Mazael tucked a boot under Mitor’s gut, flipped him over, and stabbed down. Lord Adalon laughed.

  Mazael turned from the ruined corpse and faced Rachel. Her fangs had vanished, and her eyes were now human and very wide. “Mazael...Mazael...oh, please, don’t, Mazael...” She backed away from him, her feet tangling in the hem of her robes.

  Mazael stepped over Mitor’s corpse and raised the burning sword high. “Why don’t you run?” The fear on her face was exhilarating.

  Rachel tried to flee for the stairs, but she was too slow. Mazael planted his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved. Rachel went sprawling across the floor, crying for him to stop. Her pleas only acted as fuel to the fire burning his mind. He kicked her onto her stomach, and raised his burning sword. He heard his father laughing.

  And for the first time, Mazael laughed with him.

  “Stop!”

  A woman stood before the altar, tall and lean, a bastard sword slung over her back. There was something in her blue eyes that tugged at Mazael. The corona of fire surrounding the sword of the Destroyer flickered.

  Lord Adalon’s mocking smile twisted into a grimace. “You!”

  Mazael’s sword point wavered. “Who are you?”

  “You know,” said the woman. “You tell me.”

  The sword’s fires sputtered. “I know...you...you’re...”

  “Kill her!” shrieked Lord Adalon. “Kill them both. They’re liars! Don’t you remember the pain? Do you want them to do that to you again?”

  Mazael trembled, the sword's flames roaring, and Rachel sobbed.

  “He’s the liar and you know it,” said the woman. Her blue eyes stared into him. “He’ll have you destroy yourself. He’ll make you into a monster, if you let him. Don’t listen to him.”

  “They’ll kill me if I don’t!” said Mazael.

  “Mitor and Rachel?" said the woman, taking another step towards him. “But they don’t even know you’re Demonsouled. Do you really think there are hordes of enemies waiting to descend on you?” She pointed at Mazael’s father. “Or is he the enemy, spinning his lies around you like a spider’s webs?”

  “She is the liar, my son!” said Lord Adalon. His eyes blazed red, matching the fires of Mazael’s sword. “She will claim the power of your soul, if...”

  “I don’t even have a full soul,” said the woman. Her dark hair shifted as she glared at Lord Adalon, revealing the tip of a pointed ear. “And I care for Mazael. I will take nothing from him. But what of you? You’ll take everything from him, his mind, his spirit, his soul, and in the end, his life...”

  “Care...” whispered Mazael.

  He flung the sword aside. It struck the floor and shattered, the crimson flames winking out.

  “Romaria,” said Mazael. “Your name is Romaria.”

  “Stay away from her!” said Lord Adalon. “She’ll...”

  “You go to hell!” roared Mazael. “You’d have had me kill her! I don’t give a damn if you’re right or not, but I’ll not listen to your words any longer!”

  Lord Adalon screamed. His mouth stretched into a yawning black pit lined with jagged teeth, crimson flames bursting from the dark length of his staff. The floor trembled, thunder booming overhead. Cracks spread across the floor, burning light shining up from their depths...

  Mazael shuddered and came awake.

  He felt cool night air washing over his sweat-soaked clothes. He sat against a barrel on the outskirts of Lord Richard’s camp. He remembered going there to sit and to think a while. Instead, he had drifted off to sleep. And the thing in his dreams had found him, almost made him kill Rachel. Mazael lurched to his knees, doubled over, and vomited. It felt as if hammers pounded the inside of his head, matching the writhing cramps in his gut.

  After some time, the pains subsided. He fell back against the barrel, panting for breath.

  “Here.”

  Romaria stood over him, a wineskin in her hands. He took the skin, unstopped it, and took a long pull. It helped to steady the pains in his stomach.

  “Don’t drink too much of it,” said Romaria.

  Mazael snorted. “A hangover would be an improvement.” He took another drink and handed it back to her. “Thank you. Tha
t helped. I had another...”

  “Dream?” said Romaria. “Yes, I know. I was in it, after all.”

  “What?” said Mazael. “How? It was just...just...”

  “Just a dream?” said Romaria. “They’re more than just dreams, we both know that. After the meal was finished, I came looking for you, because I knew your dreams would come.” She smiled. “You help me sleep. I’ve never been able to sleep well.”

  “How did you know?” said Mazael.

  “I found you here. You were thrashing and muttering in your sleep,” said Romaria. “Then I felt...pressure in my head, so I sat down besides you and found myself in your dream.” She shook her head. “You were almost lost. I didn’t recognize you. You looked like some terrible god of war...”

  “Or the tyrant kings Silar told us about,” said Mazael.

  Romaria nodded. “Yes.”

  “Gods,” said Mazael.

  “Who was that, in your dream?” said Romaria. “It couldn’t have been your father. From what I’ve heard of Lord Adalon, he was nothing like that.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “He wasn’t.”

  “Perhaps it was something wearing his face, as Skhath wore the face of Sir Albron Eastwater,” said Romaria.

  “Perhaps it was myself,” said Mazael, “a reflection of what I really am. Perhaps it was my Demonsouled nature, talking to me.”

  “No,” said Romaria.

  “You know better,” said Mazael. “I almost killed you, both in the waking world and in dreams.” Despair churned at him. “I...”

  “No!” said Romaria. She seized his hands. “Listen to me. That thing in your dreams, whatever it was, is not you.”

  Mazael’s laugh was dark. “You’re certain of that, now? You saw what I did. You saw the Destroyer's sword.” He remembered that sword’s sheer strength, the power running up his arm and armoring him.

  “But you haven’t done any of those things!” said Romaria. “You haven't killed Mitor. You haven't killed Rachel. That creature in your dreams is a liar and a trickster. It’s a devil come to tempt you. But when that madness has overtaken you, you’ve always managed to pull back from the edge.”

  “Because of you,” said Mazael. “I’d have become the thing in my dreams long ago, if it weren’t for you.”

  “I think there’s a way you can stop it permanently,” said Romaria.

  “How?” said Mazael. “Anything.”

  “Don’t kill Mitor and Rachel,” said Romaria.

  “I have to,” said Mazael. “Mitor is a wretch and a traitor. And Rachel lied to me and betrayed me. She would have killed us. If anyone deserves to die it is her!” Anger rose in his voice, and Mazael fought back his rage. “It has to be done.”

  “Why?” said Romaria. “The thing in your dreams wants you to kill them. Why should you listen to it? You know it’s a liar and a deceiver. It wears the face of a dead man, Mazael!”

  Mazael wished he had never returned to the Grim Marches. But would the demon magic within him have risen to the surface anyway? If it had, he would not have had Romaria to help him fight it. He looked at her, and despite everything, was glad he had come here and had met her.

  “Help me,” said Mazael. “I don’t have the strength. If it weren’t for you, I would have fallen long ago.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I need you.”

  “And I you,” said Romaria.

  “How?” said Mazael. “You’re not Demonsouled, as am I.”

  “I don’t know,” said Romaria. “I just do.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

  “Stay with me, when this is done,” said Mazael when they pulled apart.

  Romaria smiled. “As what? Can you truly see me as Lady of Castle Cravenlock?”

  “You’d make a damn sight better than Marcelle,” said Mazael. Romaria laughed. “For that matter, can you see me as Lord of Castle Cravenlock?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Romaria. “I can see you as a king.”

  “And you as my queen?” said Mazael.

  Romaria laughed. “Or myself as queen and you as my lord consort.”

  “I don’t think I would mind that at all,” said Mazael.

  “I’ll stay with you and help you, however I can.” She reached down and picked up the holy symbol hanging from his belt. “But I’m not the only one who can help you.”

  A retort formed on Mazael’s lips. Then he remembered how Bethy and Cramton had come to his aid after his prayer. He lifted the symbol, remembering how it had burned him in the dream. It had burned him when he set out to kill his siblings.

  He let the symbol fall back against his belt. “I don’t know what to do. Rachel and Mitor deserve death, and I want to give it to them. I don’t know if can. Or if I should, rather.”

  “You shouldn’t,” said Romaria. “Give them over to Lord Richard. Let him decide what is to be done with them.”

  Mazael closed his eyes. She was right, but the rage in his chest still burned. “I don’t know what will happen.”

  “No one does,” said Romaria.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Mazael. “Perhaps I should let Lord Richard decide their fate.” He felt his face harden. “But Simonian and Skhath...I’ll kill them, if I can. Skhath’s a thing, not a man. And Simonian...”

  “On this you’re right,” said Romaria. “I came north to kill Simonian, remember? We’ve both seen the monsters his necromancy raises from the earth. He has respect for neither the living or the dead, the earth or the gods.” Her voice dropped. “If anything, think of Simonian. If you kill your brother and your sister, you may become like him.”

  Mazael remembered the wizard’s muddy eyes, his tangled iron-gray beard, the dark smirk that often played across his face. He pictured the expression on his own features. It was not a pleasant thought.

  “Gods forbid,” said Mazael. “Him and the thing in my dreams, whatever it is.” He clutched the holy symbol in his fist. “Gods forbid.” He licked his lips and dropped his hands into his lap to hide their trembling. “Please, whatever happens, stay with me.”

  “I will,” said Romaria, “but only if you stay with me.”

  Mazael pulled her close and kissed her. “That is the one thing I can guarantee.”

  ***

  Chapter XI

  1

  The Face Beneath