Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

A few hours later they came to the village of White Rock, near the silent, looming trees of the Great Southern Forest. The village itself huddled within a stout palisade of sharpened logs. White Rock had survived Lord Richard Mandragon’s conquest of the Grim Marches, Lord Mitor’s failed rebellion, and a small army of corpses animated by necromantic arts.

  Compared to that, a band of sixty ragged mercenaries seemed a small threat. And Mazael was determined that no harm would befall White Rock. The village had sworn him loyalty, and Mazael had promised protection.

  He drew his knights in a line facing both White Rock and the mercenary camp. White Rock had proven inhospitable to the mercenaries, to judge from the arrow-ridden corpses near the palisade’s gate.

  “Rabble,” said Mazael. He rarely became angry, not since Romaria’s death, but faint flicker of anger burned in his chest. These scum dared to prey upon his lands, his people?

  “Perhaps they’ll be wise enough to stand down,” said Gerald, reining in at Mazael’s side.

  Mazael snorted. “Perhaps. Aulus!”

  Sir Aulus spurred his horse forward, the Cravenlock banner flapping, his right hand raised in parley. The ragged mercenaries turned and faced him, muttering with interest.

  “Hear ye all!” Aulus called, his stentorian voice booming over the plains. “Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, commands you to lay down your arms and depart peacefully from his lands at once. Amnesty shall be offered to those who surrender!”

  A chorus of jeers and ragged laughs went up. The largest of the mercenaries, a hulking brute in rusty mail, whirled and dropped his trousers.

  “Disgraceful,” said Gerald. Aulus turned and galloped back to Mazael’s line.

  “I told you,” said Mazael. He reached down and drew his longsword. Lion’s blade gleamed like blue ice in the dull winter sunlight.

  “They’ve no respect for you,” said Gerald, shaking his head.

  “Of course not,” said Mazael. “I’m Mitor’s younger brother. Mitor was fat and weak and stupid. Why should I be any different?”

  Of course, Mazael was only Mitor’s half-brother. But Gerald didn’t know that, and neither did the mercenaries.

  If they had known Mazael’s true father, they might have regarded him differently.

  With outright terror, most likely.

  Gerald grinned, drawing his own blade. “Shall we teach them otherwise?”

  “I suppose so,” said Mazael.

  In his younger days, he had felt a raging joy at the prospect of battle, a ferocious and delighted bloodlust. Since Romaria had died, he had felt nothing of the sort. Now he felt only disgust and a vague weariness. This was necessary, and nothing more.

  But if he had to fight, he would fight well.

  He adjusted his helm, pointed Lion at the mercenaries, and kicked Chariot to a gallop. The big horse snorted and rumbled forward. A half-second later Mazael’s knights surged after him, swords and lances gleaming.

  The mercenaries gaped at them for a moment, then lunged for their weapons in a scrambled panic. They managed to form into a ragged line, but too late to stop the knights. Mazael beat aside a spear, reversed Lion, and took off a mercenary’s head in a sweeping backhand. Chariot ran down another, pummeling the man to bloody pulp.

  The knights tore through the line of mercenaries. Nearly half had been cut down, without loss to Mazael’s men, while the rest fled in all directions.

  “Reform!” yelled Mazael, wheeling Chariot around. “Another charge!”

  “Stand, lads!” roared the big mercenary in the rusty mail shirt, brandishing a ridged mace. “Stand and fight, if you don’t want to die!”

  Some of the mercenaries kept running. Others turned, gripped their weapons, and set themselves. Mazael guided Chariot towards the mercenary leader, raising Lion for an overhand slash.

  The mercenary snarled and flung his mace at the last minute, jumping out of Chariot’s path. The mace’s head crashed into Mazael’s breastplate with a shriek of tortured metal. Mazael hissed in pain, heard something crack within his chest. He reeled in the saddle, Lion dangling from his grasp. The mercenary yanked a dagger free and sprang, howling, and Mazael thrust out. The mercenary impaled himself and died twitching.

  Mazael kicked the dying man free and found that the battle had ended. Most of the mercenaries lay dead and dying, the brown grasses stained with red blood. The few survivors stood in a ring of scowling knights. Mazael grunted in pain and trotted Chariot towards the ring. He knew the pain well; he had broken ribs more than once.

  The pain lessened as he rode, an odd tingling spreading through his chest.

  “Mazael!” Gerald rode towards him, blood dripping from the length of his longsword. “Are you well? I saw that mace hit you…”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Mazael.

  “Perhaps you should…”

  “I said I’ll be fine,” said Mazael, trying not to growl. “Any losses?”

  “None,” said Gerald. Wesson rode up and set to work cleaning Gerald’s sword. “I think you were the only one wounded.”

  “Embarrassing,” said Mazael. He jerked his head at the captured mercenaries. “How many prisoners?”

  “Seven,” said Gerald. Adalar joined them, cast a concerned look at Mazael.

  “Seven,” repeated Mazael. “Good enough. Question them.”

  “Why?” said Gerald.

  “We’ve taken a half-dozen of these mercenary bands in the last three months,” said Mazael. “Mercenaries love easy plunder, not armed opposition. They should have fled long ago.” He took a long, painful breath. “I think someone’s hiring them.”

  Gerald looked stunned. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael. “Not all my vassals were pleased to see me replace Mitor.” He shrugged. “Lord Richard, maybe. Or Toraine Mandragon. Or perhaps even your father.”

  “My father would not do something so underhanded!” said Gerald.

  Mazael shrugged again. “Perhaps not. But I doubt he was pleased to hear of me becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Sir Aulus!” Mazael’s herald rode over. “Question them. If I am pleased with their answers, they might yet leave the Grim Marches alive.” He considered this for a moment. “Possibly.”

  Aulus nodded and went about his work.

  Mazael sat in the saddle and waited.

  A fierce itching filled his chest, as if the broken rib was knitting itself back together.

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