Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Perhaps I can shed some light on the matter.”

  Mazael shot to his feet, Lion lancing from its scabbard. Brother Silar approached, a lantern dangled from his grip.

  The monk looked amused. “Do you greet all your visitors with a sword?”

  “Do you surprise all those you would like to visit?” spat back Mazael, ramming his sword back into its scabbard.

  Silar sighed and sat down atop a barrel. “You were having an interesting conversation.”

  “What did you hear?” said Mazael, his hand inching toward Lion's hilt.

  “Mazael,” said Romaria.

  Silar chuckled. “I did not hear anything that I have not deduced for myself.”

  “You speak dangerously,” said Mazael.

  Silar set his lantern down and raised his hands. “I’m certain I do. But I do not want any fight. With Lady Romaria to help you, you’d certainly win.” He cocked his head. “And whatever wounds I managed to inflict would vanish quite shortly.”

  “I’ve had enough games,” said Mazael. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Very well,” said Silar. “I said before that you possess some sort of power. That was not entirely true. I am quite certain what sort of power you possess.”

  “And what sort of power is that?” said Mazael.

  “You’re Demonsouled,” said Silar.

  Mazael had Lion out of its scabbard and against the monk’s neck so fast that he didn’t register the movement. Romaria came to her feet, her hand closing around Mazael's arm. A flicker of fear flashed across Silar’s face and vanished. For a burning moment Mazael wanted to slash open Silar’s throat, but Romaria’s touch quenched the dark fire.

  “You must not get many visitors,” said Silar.

  “What did you say?” said Mazael.

  “Demonsouled,” said Silar.

  “Are you saying Lord Adalon was not my father?” said Mazael.

  Silar shrugged. “It’s entirely possible. Lady Arissa was a remarkable woman, and not in a complimentary sense. We suspect she worshipped Sepharivaim, the serpent-god, do we not? No doubt she would have flung herself at a demon.”

  Mazael’s hand twitched on Lion’s hilt, but he could not disagree.

  Silar shrugged. “Besides, a demon soul doesn’t require a Demonsouled parent. The taint can lie dormant for centuries, passing from generation to generation. It can appear for no reason at all. Would you mind putting that sword down? It’s terribly uncomfortable.”

  Mazael lowered Lion. “And how do you know all this about me? More supposition?”

  Silar rubbed his thick neck. “Hardly. It’s obvious, if you know where to look. Your speed, Sir Mazael, is nothing mortal. Nor are your reflexes. Are you even aware of how well you fight?” He glanced at Mazael’s arm. “And that cut...I’ve seen enough wounds to know a deep slash from a scratch. Timothy’s good at his tasks, no doubt. But I’ve yet to see the physician skilled enough to make a deep gash disappear in two days.”

  “So?” said Mazael. “That doesn’t make me Demonsouled. Perhaps I’m fast. Perhaps I’m very good with a sword. And perhaps I had a simple scratch.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Silar. “But I know what to look for.”

  “From what?” said Mazael, gesturing with Lion. “The books? Tomes penned by men a thousand years dead? I could write a book claiming that horses fly, but that doesn’t make it fact.”

  “True,” said Silar. His smile was distant, his hawkish face lost in a memory. “But I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Oh?” said Mazael. “So, you’ve seen a Demonsouled with your own eyes, have you?”

  “Yes,” said Silar.

  Mazael laughed. “Were you drunk at the time?”

  Silar shook his head. “No. I was eight years old at the time. My brother was eleven.”

  “Your brother?” said Romaria.

  Silar blinked. “I was born in a small village on the northern edge of the Grim Marches. We were very poor. It’s hard to grow anything in that soil. It didn’t matter, though. We were happy. At least, I think we were.” Silar flexed the fingers of one hand. “I was always in awe of my brother. He was the fastest and strongest boy in the village. No one could keep up with him. And he was an archer. The way he could use a bow and an arrow would amaze even you, Lady Romaria. I saw him take down a hunting cat at a hundred yards.”

  Silar shook his head. “But he was always passionate. Volatile. He could go from smiling to raging in a heartbeat. And his temper was like a storm. One day he fell into a crevice hidden in the grasses. The men pulled him out. Both his legs had been broken and one arm. We expected that he would die.” Silar stared at Mazael. “Two days later he was up and about as if nothing had happened.”

  Mazael’s hand clenched.

  “After that, he began to change,” said Silar. “I was only a child, but even I could see it. He flew into a rage at the slightest provocations. He almost beat an old man to death over a piece of bread. We were all afraid of him. Then a wizard came to our village, a man named Strabus. He worked with the Cirstarcians, and hunted Demonsouled and San-keth across the kingdom. Across the world, for all I know. He warned my parents of the danger, but my father and the other men drove Strabus out of our village. That night my brother killed my parents.”

  Mazael heard the blood rushing through his ears. He remembered how close he had come to killing Romaria.

  “I’m sorry,” said Romaria.

  “He wasn’t my brother, not anymore,” said Silar. “The demon soul within had warped him. He looked like a creature out of the pits. He would have killed me. But Strabus returned. He came too late to save my father and mother, but he used his magic to destroy what my brother had become.” Silar rubbed at his chin. “After that, no one in the village would take me in. Strabus took me to the Cirstarcian monastery near Castle Cravenlock. That has been my home ever since.”

  “So, is that it, then?” said Mazael. He shoved Lion back into its scabbard. “Am I to become some sort of monster?”

  “You might,” said Silar.

  “You told me the Cirstarcian monks fight dark magic,” said Mazael. “Are you here to kill me?”

  “No,” said Silar. “I became a monk of the Cirstarcine Order to combat the darkness. I have seen it firsthand. But I loved my brother. The demon power destroyed him, not Strabus. If you are Demonsouled, and I’m certain you are, I would rather see you resist the darkness.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael. “Demonsouled are monsters.”

  “Some become monsters,” said Silar. “Demonsouled are born with the darkness hidden in their souls. For some, it never manifests. They live, marry, have children, and die without ever knowing what they are. But for others, the darkness surfaces, usually as they reach young manhood or womanhood. They then must face themselves and try to conquer the dark halves of their souls. Men of evil mind usually embrace the power and the transformations it brings. Others find themselves overwhelmed and changed into monsters. But some can fight against the darkness and master it.”

  “Have you ever seen it happen?” said Mazael. “A man conquer the demon half of his soul?”

  “No,” said Silar.

  Mazael grimaced. “And have you read about it in these books of yours?”

  “Some,” said Silar, “so far back it seems like legend.”

  Mazael laughed. “You offer me such reassurances.”

  “I offer you help,” said Silar.

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “For the memory of my brother,” said Silar. He paused. “And for the safety of the people of the Grim Marches. Perhaps even the kingdom.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “You are strong,” said Silar. “I think the fighting prowess is only the tip of what you can do. There are other stories in the histories I have read, of Demonsouled who became bloody conquerors and carved huge empires on a foundation of death and misery. If you succumb, I don’t think you’ll become some a ravening
beast. I think you’ll become a tyrant king unlike any seen in history.”

  Mazael did not want to believe him, but his words rang true. Even now, Mazael saw a half-dozen ways he could kill Silar. A half-dozen ways he could kill Romaria. Battle had always seemed a glorious, vibrant experience, the only time when he felt fully alive.

  He was Demonsouled.

  His hand trembled towards Lion. “Perhaps I should simply kill myself.”

  “No!” said Romaria, clamping both her hands around his.

  “The lady is right,” said Silar. “Despair will accomplish nothing.”

  “Accomplish?” said Mazael. “How can I accomplish anything if my very soul is my enemy?”

  “Much,” said Silar. “You might have darkness in your soul. But there are other evils already loose in the Grim Marches. The zuvembies. You may not believe there is a San-keth cult at Castle Cravenlock, but there have been other cults in the past. And Simonian of Briault. If the tales are even half-true, then that one is worse than most Demonsouled. You can overcome them all. The gods sent you back to the Grim Marches for a reason, I believe.”

  “Silar is right,” said Romaria. “I told you about destiny. Perhaps it is your fate to end the plague that is Simonian and his zuvembies.”

  “Fate?” said Mazael. “Fated to what? Kill my family and my friends in a bloodbath? Become some sort of grotesque monster? Or shall I become the tyrant that Silar fears?”

  “You haven’t done any of those things,” said Romaria.

  “Only with your help,” said Mazael. “You pulled me out of madness. But I almost killed you first. Suppose I had killed you? What would have happened then? I can’t. If I do have demon magic in my soul, I can’t overcome it by myself.”

  “Whoever said you have to overcome it alone?” said Silar.

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “My brother tried to conquer his soul himself, I think,” said Silar. “My parents and the other villagers refused to see what was happening. Strabus didn’t come until it was too late. You cannot face the demon half of your soul alone. Lady Romaria will stand with you. She’s said so herself. I will help you, if I can.” His fingers wrapped about the holy symbol hanging from his belt. “And the gods will help you, if you’ll let them.”

  “The gods?” said Mazael. “I’ve never cared much for the gods. Why would they help me now?”

  Silar held up his holy symbol, the three interlocking rings of Amatheon gleaming in the camp’s torchlight. “Why would they not help you? We are all their children, after all.” He grinned at Romaria. “Even those of us who pray to different gods. And you, Sir Mazael, are special. You are a descendant of the Great Demon who came to earth and fathered the Demonsouled.”

  “Hardly special, I would say,” said Mazael.

  “The Great Demon was divine once,” said Silar. “Fallen, but still a god. Why would the gods turn away from helping you? You are both one of their own and one of their children.” He unhooked the holy symbol from his belt and pressed it into Mazael’s fingers. “Take this.”

  “Why?” said Mazael, the steel symbol cool and heavy in his hand.

  “Perhaps it will help you,” said Silar.

  “How?” said Mazael. “It’s a piece of steel. If I want steel to help me, I’ll use a sword.”

  “Keep it as a reminder, then,” said Silar, “that the gods will help you.”

  Mazael didn’t believe him.

  But he slipped the symbol’s chain around his neck anyway.

  Chapter IX

  1

  Night Stalking

  Castle Cravenlock rose above them, the twilight sky outlining its battlements and towers.

  “Shall we stop here for the night?” said Gerald. “We can continue on in the morning.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Let’s keep going. We’ll find it easier to do what we must if Mitor doesn’t know that we’re here.” He grimaced. “Besides, we’re too close to the camp. If we sleep here, we’re liable to be spotted in the night.”

  Gerald looked towards the camp beneath the castle’s walls. “Agreed.”

  “Ride through the camp,” said Mazael. “If we go through town, some the armsmen might see us.”

  “Besides, those mercenaries will never notice us,” said Romaria.

  Mazael snorted. “They didn’t notice the Old Crow. They’ll certainly ignore us.”

  No sentries stood at the edge of the haphazard conglomeration of tents. Mazael had left his escort of Cravenlock lancers at Lord Richard’s camp, and he and his companions passed unnoticed through the ramshackle camp. Most of the mercenaries were drunk, and paid them no heed. Mazael soon worked his way around the camp and climbed the road that led to the castle.

  “Gods,” said Mazael, reining up before the gates.

  “What?” said Gerald.

  “Look,” said Mazael. “The damned gates are open. There are no guards. No men at the gate, no crossbowmen at the ramparts. Had Sir Tanam come tonight, he could have rode in, killed Mitor, and won the war for Lord Richard with one blow.”

  The fury was plain in Sir Nathan's voice. “Lord Mitor must bring Sir Albron to task. This is unacceptable.”

  “This is the work of a fool,” said Mazael. They rode through the barbican, into the deserted courtyard. “Let’s stable the horses and get to Othar’s tower. The sooner I have firm answers to this business, the better.”

  Othar’s tower stood in the corner of the curtain wall, a thick stone cylinder of battlements and arrow slits. It had been the home of the court wizards of the Cravenlocks for centuries. But Simonian had not deigned to take possession, and so Othar had kept his quarters there.

  He pushed the door open. It was too dark to see, but Timothy muttered something. Glowing light surrounded his hand, illuminating a staircase that climbed into the murk.

  “Gerald, Sir Nathan, Adalar and Wesson,” said Mazael. “Stay down here and watch the entrance. Send Adalar up if someone comes. Silar, Timothy, and Romaria, come with me.”

  Master Othar had kept his study and workroom in the tower's top chamber. Mazael remembered the time he had spent there as a boy, reading from the old wizard’s large collection of books. It looked much as he recalled. Bookshelves lined the walls of the circular room, laden with books and scrolls, and jars, glass tubing, and other strange devices burdened a long table.

  Timothy walked to Othar’s desk. A heavy leather-bound book rested on the corner, its copper bindings shimmering with a faint blue glow.

  “The journal,” said Mazael.

  Timothy nodded, took a step back from the desk, and closed his eyes. He muttered a low chant, the fingers of his right hand moving with sharp gesture. There was a flash of blue light, and the shimmer vanished from the book.

  “There,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his brow. “The ward has been dispelled.”

  Mazael opened the journal and began to read. The first entries were from several years ago, written in Othar's strong, clear handwriting. He flipped past them, seeking the more recent entries.

  What he read sent a finger of ice down his spine.

  The journal described Othar's suspicions over dark magic, the San-keth, and a collaboration between Simonian and Sir Albron. He read about the appearance of the zuvembies and Mitor’s seeming indifference, about Othar’s growing belief in the existence of a San-keth cult temple within Castle Cravenlock’s walls.

  About dark things...

  “Sir Mazael?”

  Mazael looked up from the pages. He had lost track of time.

  “What does it say?” said Romaria. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  Mazael forced moisture into his dry mouth. “Master Othar was certain. He read the histories and the stories of San-keth cults that thrived at Castle Cravenlock in the past. He became convinced that there was a secret temple in catacombs underneath the castle, hidden for centuries. Master Othar believed he had found the entrance to the temple. He planned to investigate, and that was the fin
al entry.”

  “Secret catacombs?” said Silar. “Do you mean the castle’s crypt?”

  “No,” said Mazael. He paged through the journal and put his finger over the words. “No. He said that these catacombs predated the castle. They were here before the first Cravenlock even built a the keep.” His voice shook with anger. “He said that it was an ancient temple. Master Othar thought that this temple had survived here, hidden, for centuries.”

  “That matches the histories of my order,” said Silar. “A San-keth cult raised this castle. The house of Cravenlock was founded when the youngest son of the cult’s high priest slew his father and turned to the Amathavian gods.”

  Mazael slammed the book shut. “If this is true, then I grew up here, with this...this temple under me all the time...gods in heaven.” He closed his eyes. “Gods in heaven. Master Othar never put down a last entry. We don’t know if he was right.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Romaria.

  “The only thing I can,” said Mazael. “I will go and look. Master Othar believed the temple's entrance was within the lord’s chambers in the keep. He described the means to open the door.” He relaxed his fist. “I have to look. I have to know. If it’s true, if it’s true then...”

  “Then we will look,” said Romaria.

  Mazael managed to nod.

  He took Othar’s journal under his arm, and they left the study. Sir Nathan, Sir Gerald, and the squires awaited them at the bottom of the tower. Mazael told them what he had found.

  “Gods,” said Gerald. Wesson muttered something and spat through his fingers to ward off evil.

  A hard look came into Sir Nathan's eyes. “There can be little doubt, then. There is a serpent cult in Castle Cravenlock. All that remains to be seen is if Lord Mitor has betrayed the laws of gods and men by joining it.” Mazael realized that he might not have to kill Mitor himself.

  “It would be wise to leave at once,” said Timothy. “Lord Mitor does not know that we are here. We must warn Lord Richard of what awaits him.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard already knows. He tried to warn me. I didn’t believe him. And Mitor has to be involved in this. Sir Albron and Simonian are his closest allies. How could I not have seen it? Am I blind?”