“Sir Roger Gravesend,” said Gerald, disgusted.
The surviving mercenaries trudged away, relieved of their weapons, armor, coin, and cloaks.
“I should have known,” said Mazael, shaking his head. “He was not happy when Mitor was killed.”
“And rumor held that he followed the San-keth way,” said Gerald. “Is he at Castle Cravenlock?”
“As it happens, yes,” said Mazael, turning Chariot around. “Perhaps we’ll have a long talk with him.”
“How is your chest?” said Gerald.
Mazael frowned. “What?”
Gerald pointed. “That mace. It looked like a fierce blow.”
“That?” said Mazael. He had forgotten. “It’s fine. The armor turned the worst of it.”
Gerald gave the dent in Mazael’s breastplate a dubious look.
Mazael forced a smile. “I’m well. Enough talk. Let’s go home.”
Gerald nodded. “I would enjoy spending a night under a proper roof.” He rode for the squires and knights, herding them into the line.
Mazael sighed in relief. Gerald had not noticed. It would take weeks for a normal man to recover from a badly broken rib.
Mazael’s injury had healed in a matter of minutes.
No one knew the truth. Romaria had known, but she was dead at the hands of the Old Demon.
Mazael was Demonsouled, the Old Demon’s son, and the blood of the Great Demon flowed through his veins.
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Demonsouled Page 46
