Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  Othar hooted. “Do you mean I have to explain that to you? Ho, ho, ho! You always were a lusty lad, I thought you would have bedded a wench or three by...”

  “No!” said Mazael. “ Master Othar, say what you mean, and say it plain.”

  Othar sighed. “I have a theory, more of a suspicion. No proof, not yet, at least. The entire thing could prove to be some fantasy of smoke, mirrors, and balanced cards. Do you know what begins tomorrow?”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “A new moon. Or the Black Nights, as they’re called by some circles,” said Othar. “I will have a chance to test my theory. I’m wrong, most like. Gods, I hope I’m wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?” said Mazael.

  Othar chuckled. “Nothing, most likely. I will tell you my suspicions when you return, and we shall have a good laugh, my boy, at the foolish ravings of an old man!” His old face hardened. “But if I’m right...if I’m right...gods, Mazael...you think Timothy’s stories about old dark books are bad?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Mazael.

  “I can’t tell you,” said Othar. “Not yet, anyway. But when you return, and if I’m right, then we’ll take some steps, you and Sir Nathan and I. By all the gods, we’ll take steps.”

  The old wizard turned and left.

  3

  White Rock and Ride

  Mazael left Castle Cravenlock three hours later at the head of four hundred men. To his surprise, the armsmen were disciplined and tough, with shaven faces and well-maintained armor and arms. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising; Albron surrounded himself with bootlickers, cowards, and thugs, while the good men were left to rot.

  The village of White Rock lay two days’ ride southwest of Castle Cravenlock, and Mazael led his men along the main road. A pity that the Old Crow had likely headed north for Swordgrim by now. Mazael would have liked to renew their acquaintance now that he had four hundred armed men at his back.

  He planned to travel south to White Rock and to question the villagers. White Rock sat on the main road to Castle Cravenlock, and the village had seen every traveler for the last few months. Mazael hoped that the village was still there. He knew that some of Mitor’s mercenaries would not hesitate to burn and rape White Rock off the map.

  They rode past many fields and hamlets, the farmers staring at them with suspicious faces. Bit by bit the cultivated fields changed to empty plains filled with blood roses. Past the cultivated lands near Castle Cravenlock the land was empty but for the ruined villages destroyed during Lord Richard’s uprising. They made camp the first night in one of the ruins. Romaria insisted that they light dozens of watch fires, and kept watch almost all night.

  But they saw nothing, whether human foe or eldritch creature.

  The next day they broke camp and continued their ride along the road. What few peasants they saw fled indoors.

  “We are not welcome here, it seems,” said Gerald.

  Mazael grimaced. “Not surprising. With a lord like Mitor, how can you fault them?”

  When night fell, they made camp in the open. Romaria lit her fires and kept watch once again. No foes showed themselves.

  They came within sight of White Rock before noon on the third day.

  “Look at those fortifications,” said Gerald. “Heavens above, Mazael, we saw smaller castles in Mastaria!”

  A palisade of sharpened wooden logs encircled the small village, straddled by wooden watch platforms. A ditch had been dug at the base of the palisade wall and lined with fire-scorched wooden stakes Large patches of earth beneath the wall had been blackened by flame.

  “The mercenaries,” said Gerald. “The villagers must have raised the wall for defense.”

  “Perhaps they have memories of the last war,” said Sir Nathan. “Many unprepared villages were destroyed.”

  “No,” said Romaria. “Not mercenaries. See those burned spots? They built that wall to keep out zuvembies.”

  “They built that wall to keep someone out,” said Mazael. “Let’s find out who. Adalar, the banner. The rest of you, wait here.”

  Adalar raised up the banner Mitor had given them before they departed, a black field with the three crossed swords of Cravenlock.

  Mazael spurred Chariot towards the gate, Adalar following, and reined up about thirty paces from the wall. “Hello, the gate!”

  A ragged peasant farmer stood over the closed gate, crossbow in hand. “Who are you and what’s your business here?”

  “I am Sir Mazael Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

  His words caused a stir atop the walls. Men rushed atop the crude ramparts, bearing crossbows, spears, and even pitchforks.

  “Cravenlock!” said the peasant. “We’ve already paid our taxes, and we’ve only enough food to last until the harvest. Leave us in peace.”

  “I am not here for your gold or your grain,” said Mazael. “We have heard rumors of disturbances. I have been sent to investigate.”

  “Investigate!” said the man. He spat over the wall. “You know full well who brought this darkness down on our heads, you and the castle lordlings!”

  “Shut your mouth!” said another man. “You’ll bring them down on us!”

  Mazael laughed and held out his hands. “If I had come to kill you, you’d all be dead already. Who is in charge here?”

  “Don’t see why you’d need to know,” said the first man.

  “Gods, grow some sense!” said the scarred man. “Sir knight, Sir Albert Krondig holds this village. When we heard rumors that Lord Dragonslayer was going to war against Cravenlock again, he had us build the wall.” The man forked his first and fourth fingers and spat through them. “Damned good thing he did. Right after that...those hell-spawned creatures started coming down on us.”

  Mazael saw Romaria sit straighter. “Creatures?” he said.

  “You heard me right,” said the scarred man. “Creatures.”

  “Laugh all you want,” said the first man. “You’ll laugh no more when they come for you, when these demons turn on those that summoned them!”

  “What are you babbling about?” said Mazael.

  “He wouldn’t know,” said the scarred man. “You said you're Sir Mazael, right?”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “Get on with it.”

  “The Sir Mazael that went off to fight the Mastarian war?” said the first man. “The Sir Mazael that killed a hundred Dominiars and defeated their Grand Master? That Sir Mazael?”

  Mazael snorted. “Close enough, once you take away the jongleurs’ exaggerations.”

  “That Sir Mazael!” said the first man, his eyes still wide. “Gods!”

  Mazael realized he would get nothing useful from this lot. “Can you send word to Sir Albert that I would like to see him?”

  “Aye, that I will,” said the scarred man. “Sir Albert and Brother Silar like to see you, I’m thinking. You can come in, but only you and four others.”

  “Four?” said Mazael. “I already said I wasn’t here for your gold, your grain, or your women!”

  “That you did,” said the scarred man, “but we’re not for trusting anyone from the castle these days.”

  “Knowing my brother, I’m not surprised,” said Mazael. “Very well, give me a moment.”

  The scarred man gestured with his crossbow. “Go ahead.”

  Mazael and Adalar rode back to the waiting lines of armsmen.

  “They seem suspicious,” said Gerald.

  “No. It’s the zuvembies,” said Romaria. “You heard them, they mentioned creatures.”

  “They blame Lord Mitor?” said Mazael. “What does that mean?”

  Sir Gerald shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for the peasants to blame every misfortune upon their lords.”

  “There have always been a number of legends surrounding Castle Cravenlock,” said Nathan.

  Romaria laughed. “Not surprising. That place looks like the dark wizard’s tower from a children’s tale
.”

  Mazael snorted. “They can blame these creatures of theirs on Simonian or whatever necromancer has raised them. When Lord Richard’s army comes and burns their homes, steals their crops, and rapes their women, they can blame that on Mitor.” He wheeled Chariot around. “Sir Nathan, I’d like you to accompany me. They may know of you. If they do, they’ll undoubtedly respect you. Romaria, come as well. You’ve seen these creatures. You can see if their descriptions match your observations. Gerald, watch my back.”

  Gerald snorted. “Your back doesn’t usually need watching.”

  “Timothy, come as well,” said Mazael. The wizard sat atop the horse Mazael had given him. “Use your arts to watch for any ambush. And keep an eye out for any magic.”

  Timothy nodded, closed his eyes, and began spell casting. He tumbled a piece of quartz wrapped with silver wire across his fingers. The crystal glowed when he finished his spell, and he tucked it away in his pocket.

  “What spell did you use?” said Romaria.

  “Ah...one to sense the presence of foes,” said Timothy. “The spell to sense the presence of magic is far simpler.”

  “Good,” said Mazael. “Now let’s go meet Sir Albert and this Brother Silar.”

  Mazael felt the villagers watching him as he rode closer, fear on their faces. Not surprising, given the brutality he had seen Mitor display. The crude gates opened with a groaning creak, and Mazael rode Chariot into the village.

  The scarred man waited for them. “Sir Albert and Brother Silar will see you in the church."

  White Rock’s church was a looming edifice of dark stone, similar Castle Cravenlock’s chapel with its thick walls, high windows, and domed ceiling. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon adorned the dome’s crest, and over the iron-banded doors rested the weathered bronze symbols of Joraviar the Knight and Amater the Holy Lady. Mazael reined Chariot up before the church and waited for the others to dismount. When they had, he pushed open the church’s doors and strode inside.

  The only illumination came from the narrow windows and the altar candles. Mazael smelled the old wood of the pews, and he saw specks of dust dancing in the thin beams of light. Two men stood before the altar. One was old and leaned on a cane for support, his face a labyrinth of meandering wrinkles, left eye masked beneath a yellow film. Despite his age, the old man wore chain mail, a sword, and a green tabard embroidered with a pair of coins and a shield.

  The other man was younger. His leathery skin was weathered, and what little hair he had left had been cropped to stubble. He wore a coarse brown robe, and the rings of Amatheon hung from his rope belt alongside a strangely shaped star.

  The man was a Cirstarcian monk.

  The old man stepped forward, his cane clicking against the stone floor. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock, I assume. My men told me of your coming. Well met. I am Sir Albert Krondig. I do not know your companions, I fear.”

  “Then I shall have to rectify that,” said Mazael. “This is Sir Nathan Greatheart, former armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, Sir Gerald Roland, youngest son of Lord Malden Roland, Lady Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep, and Timothy deBlanc, a wizard.”

  “A wizard,” said the man in the monk’s robe. “That is well. With all that has transpired here, a wizard’s skills would be most welcome.”

  “Well met, all of you,” said Sir Albert. “Ah, I recognize you now, Sir Nathan. I remember the tournament Lord Adalon held at Swordgrim to celebrate his marriage. That must have been thirty-five years past.”

  Nathan laughed. “Forty-two, more like it.”

  “Sir Nathan was a humble squire then,” said Sir Albert. “No more than a lad of fifteen or sixteen, I’ll warrant. He won the squires’ melee. I remember it well.”

  “You did quite well at the lance, I recall,” said Nathan.

  Albert laughed. “Hardly. Ah, but thank you, sir knight. It is well to remember the good times in these dark days.” He gestured at the monk. “This grinning fool is Brother Silar, a monk of the Cirstarcine Order.”

  The monk laughed and bowed. “Sir Albert is too kind. I have been called much worse in my day.”

  “The Cirstarcine Order is famous for taking a hand in the kind of troubles we have been lately experiencing,” said Sir Albert. “The monastery sent Brother Silar as an emissary to aid us. The good brother and I have known each other for some time. Despite his rampant foolishness, the man has been a great help.”

  “Speaking of those troubles,” said Mazael. “That’s quite an impressive palisade you’ve got. Why did you build it?”

  Sir Albert’s face tightened with anger. “You would know, my lord knight.”

  “Just why is that?” said Mazael.

  “You came from the castle,” said Sir Albert.

  Mazael sighed and pounded a fist into his leg. “Sir Albert, I shall be blunt. Until last week, I hadn’t set foot in the Grim Marches for fifteen years. And in these last weeks, I’ve seen my sister abducted by one of Lord Richard’s vassals, bands of pillaging mercenaries roving the countryside, and heard rumors that dead men stalk the plains at night. Do you know something, Sir Albert? I’m damned tired of people assuming I know what’s going on, and I want some bloody answers!” His voice had risen to a shout, and he forced himself to calm down. “Lord Mitor seems to think that the Elderborn are behind the rumors.”

  Sir Albert looked incredulous. “Sir Mazael, I beg your forgiveness...but Lord Mitor is a fool.”

  Nathan flinched. “That is treason.”

  “Regrettably, truth and treason are often one and the same,” said Silar. “In this case, doubly so.”

  “Lord Mitor could not have chosen a worse time to begin this uprising against the Dragonslayer,” said Albert. “It is folly of the worst sort. He should be sending for the magisters of Alborg and the Masters of the Cirstarcine Order to combat this evil. Instead, he fritters away his men and his gold raising an army to fight the Mandragons. He stripped away the best men from the villages. All that is left are the old men, the injured, and women and children to fend off...”

  “To fend off what?” said Mazael.

  “You really don’t know, do you, my lord knight?” said Albert.

  “That’s what I just said,” said Mazael. “Lord Mitor says they’re Elderborn. Sir Albron thinks they’re wandering bandits. Lady Romaria thinks they’re zuvembies...”

  “Zuvembies?” said Silar. “Demon-corpses? Yes, that’s quite apt. I called them animations, but 'zuvembies' is a more apt description of the necromancy that raised these fiends.”

  “I had best start at the beginning, I fear,” said Sir Albert. “Will you take offense if I sit? My bones are old, and they ache terribly this time of year.” He sighed. “Or any other time of the year, for that matter.”

  Mazael gestured at the pews. “By all means.”

  They sat in the pews. Gerald started to fold his hands and bow his head on reflex. Mazael hid a smile as the younger knight shook his head and sat up.

  “This misery all began about six months ago,” said Sir Albert.

  “Six months?” said Gerald. “Mazael, wasn’t that when Lady Rachel said that Sir Tanam first came to Castle Cravenlock to offer Toraine Mandragon’s hand?”

  “It was,” said Mazael. “Sir Albert, please continue.”

  Sir Albert frowned. “I had heard nothing of that, though we of White Rock soon had our own concerns.” He shifted in his seat. “In truth, Sir Mazael, I am uncertain how to broach this.”

  “Well, get on with it,” said Mazael. “I’d rather have the ugly truth than some perfumed lies.”

  Sir Albert cleared his throat. “As you wish. About that time we started hearing some dark rumors about Castle Cravenlock.”

  Sir Nathan frowned. “What sort of rumors?”

  “If the tales could be believed, a cult of serpent worshippers had arisen at Castle Cravenlock,” said Sir Albert.

  “What?” said Sir Nathan. “That’s absurd. I have seen no such thing.”

  �
��Regardless,” said Sir Albert. “Travelers went to Castle Cravenlock and never returned. The peasants saw strange things happening at night. Some even claimed that Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle were the high priest and priestess of that cult, and that Lady Rachel had promised herself in marriage to the dark powers.”

  “Absurd,” repeated Sir Nathan.

  “These rumors have their foundations in fact,” said Silar. “According to the histories of my order, Castle Cravenlock has been home to three separate San-keth cults. In fact, the castle was raised by the serpent worshippers. According to legend, the house of Cravenlock was founded when the younger brother of the high priest turned away from the dark path and slew his entire family and all the cultists. In fact, that is what Cravenlock means in bastardized Tristafellin... betrayer’s sword. My home monastery was founded to keep watch over the castle so no cult would rise again.” A wry smile formed on his lips. “It appears we failed.”