Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “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. That 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 his 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

  They reined up a mile south of Castle Cravenlock, the watch fi
res atop the castle's towers throwing back the night.

  “Gods in heaven,” said Lucan. “What an ugly castle. We ought to raze it with the San-keth inside.”

  Mazael looked at the dark-cloaked wizard. “Beautiful, no. Strong, yes. We’re going to try to take this heap so your father doesn’t lose five thousand men storming it.”

  “And Simonian and the priest of the traitor god must be made to face justice,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “I see they’ve taken greater precautions since our last visit,” said Sir Nathan. “The watch fires are new, and I there are extra guards on the walls.”

  Romaria laughed. “Hardly surprising. We did practically walk out of their temple.”

  “And now we’re walking back in,” said Timothy. “I rather wish the irony were lost on me.”

  “I do believe this is when my lord ardmorgan and I part from your company, Sir Mazael,” said Lucan.

  Sil Tarithyn and his warriors would scale the castle walls with Lucan Mandragon. They would then sweep through the castle and kill as many of the armsmen and snake worshippers as they could find. Mazael had every confidence that Sil Tarithyn’s Elderborn warriors would more than match Mitor's disorganized and undisciplined men. Lucan would assist the Elderborn, but save his magical strength for a battle with Simonian or Skhath.

  Mazael and his companions would use the secret entrance Bethy described. With luck, the majority of the soldiers would have been drawn off by Sil Tarithyn’s attack. Mazael hoped to take Skhath and Simonian unawares - even with Lucan's aid, he did not think they could defeat the San-keth cleric and the Demonsouled wizard without the aid of surprise. For safety’s sake, Mazael had left the squires with Lord Richard.

  Mazael nodded. “Good luck to you, Lucan, my lord ardmorgan.”

  Lucan smirked. “Don’t worry for me, Lord Mazael. I make my own luck.”

  “The Mother of our People shall bless our efforts this day,” said Sil Tarithyn. He adjusted the string on his great black bow. “We fight against great evil. If it is her will that any of us shall fall, then we shall depart gladly, knowing we have helped rid the earth of an abomination.”

  “And good luck to you too,” said Mazael. Sil Tarithyn, Lucan, and the Elderborn warriors moved towards the castle like silent wolves. “Gerald, the tabards.”

  Gerald produced black tabards marked with the three crossed silver swords of Castle Cravenlock, and Mazael and his companions donned them. With luck, they could pass as another band of Cravenlock armsmen. Mazael doubted the lax soldiers would spare them more than a perfunctory glance.

  The reek of the camp grew stronger as they drew closer. They rode through the hodgepodge tangle of tents, stables, heaps of supplies, and flapping banners. Lord Richard would tear through this rabble like a hot poker. A drunken man in a Cravenlock tabard, bereft of his trousers, chased after a giggling woman, and both ran past without sparing Mazael another glance.

  The ground grew steeper and rockier as they approached the base of the castle's hill, and Mazael reined up.

  “Here,” said Mazael. “Bethy said the door would be here, between those two boulders.” A worn path let to a wide gap between two lichen-spotted boulders.

  “You there! Halt!”

  Mazael turned, reaching into his cloak for Lion's hilt. Three men in Cravenlock tabards and chain mail hurried up the hill.

  “This section of the camp is forbidden to common soldiers,” said an armsman. Mazael saw the green lines of a serpent tattoo on his forehead. “Only those who have taken sacred oaths of fealty to Lord Mitor are allowed here.”

  “Sacred oaths?” said Mazael. “You mean those who have knelt and kissed that filthy slime-crawling worm?”

  “Blasphemy!” snarled the soldiers.

  An armsman peered forward. “I know you! Sir Mazael! Take...”

  Mazael rammed Lion through the armsman's face. Another soldier turned to attack, and Gerald's longsword plunged into his neck. The survivor ran, and made it three steps before Romaria's arrow lanced into his back and sent him tumbling down the slope.

  “We should conceal the bodies,” said Gerald.

  Mazael shook his head. “No time. Besides, I’ll wager that it isn’t uncommon for some of these thugs to wind up dead in the morning.”

  They dismounted, secured the horses, and hurried up the path. Concealed between the boulders stood a flat plane of weathered rock, its surface pitted by wind and rain and moss. Mazael knelt and brushed away a pile of pebbles and dust, revealing a smooth lump of red granite, out of place among the gray rock, just as Bethy had described. He clenched a fist and pressed it into the stone, pushing the stone into the earth. There was a click, and the weathered rock face slid aside to reveal a dark opening. Timothy stepped into the passage, muttered a spell, and lifted his fist, the glow from his fingers illuminating at tunnel leading into the temple complex. After the others had entered, Mazael pressed a stone in the wall, and the door slid shut behind them.

  “Let’s pay Simonian and Skhath a visit, shall we?” said Mazael. They stripped off their Cravenlock tabards and dropped them by the door. Mazael drew Lion, the sword's edges beginning to glow.

  Creatures of dark magic were nearby.

  The passageway sloped upwards, the walls and floor caked with the dust of ages. Romaria ranged ahead, scouting, and returned in a few moments.

  “This corridor opens into the dungeon that held us,” said Romaria. “There’s a guardroom with about six armsmen. I think two more are guarding the cells.”

  “We can take them,” said Mazael.

  “It sounds like there's a ceremony going on the temple," said Romaria. "I could hear the chanting. And the cells are full. Every one of them has at least one prisoner, some more than one.”

  “Mitor makes new friends so quickly," said Mazael. "Did you happen to see who was in there?”

  Romaria shook her head. “I didn’t want to get that close.”

  “I doubt they’ll be fond of Mitor,” said Silar. “We may have found some potential allies.”

  “Well,” said Mazael. “Let’s find out.”

  He followed Romaria into the familiar dungeon corridor, torch-cast shadows dancing on the walls. A guard looked up, and Mazael recognized one of the armsmen who had guarded his cell. The soldier just had time to gasp before Lion ripped across his throat. Another guard stood at the far end of the corridor, and shouted out an alarm. The door behind him burst open, and a half-dozen armsmen raced out.

  Mazael dropped into a crouch as he heard the creak of Romaria's bow. An arrow flew over his head and flung the lead soldier to the ground. The next man tried to rush him, and Mazael blocked, sidestepped, and killed the armsman with a single quick trust. The survivors came at him in a single confused rush. Mazael backpedaled, snapping Lion back and forth as he parried and blocked.

  Timothy shouted a spell and flung out his hand. Golden lights flashed around an armsman, and the man yawned, blinked, and slumped to the ground. With a cry of alarm the remaining soldiers threw down their weapons and ran. Romaria’s bow twanged, flinging another man to the floor. Silar leapt forward, wrapped his arms around an armsman's throat, and smashed the man's head into the wall with a hideous crack. Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald shoved forward, their swords raised.

  The fight was over a few heartbeats later.

  “Is everyone all right?” said Mazael.

  “For now,” said Sir Nathan.

  “I say, I say!” came a voice from a cell. “What is going on? Who is out there? Damn you! Mitor!”

  Mazael frowned. “I recognize that voice. Find the keys.”

  Romaria found them in the guardroom, and Mazael opened the cell door and found himself face-to-face with Sir Commander Galan Hawking.

  “Sir Mazael?” said Galan. “Mitor said he had killed you.”

  Mazael snorted. “You ought to know better than to trust Mitor by now.”

  Galan swore. “Gods, yes. To think I had been led like a sheep by that fat fool...”


  “How did you wind up down here?” said Mazael.

  “One of my knights saw Mitor’s soldiers take a group of children captive from the town,” said Galan. “They reported to me, we followed the armsmen, and discovered this pit of evil beneath the castle.” His eyes had a brittle, frantic light. “Such vileness. The Knights Justiciar are sworn to destroy such creatures.” He laughed, his voice hysterical. “I’d never dreamed San-keth were more than children’s fables. I suppose I’ll see a Demonsouled quite shortly.”

  “You have. Simonian,” said Mazael.

  Galan coughed. “Not surprising. That wizard is a foul one. Why didn’t I see it? How could I have been so blind to all this?” He raked his trembling fingers through his hair. “Gods above, gods above, oh merciful gods...”

  Mazael grabbed the Justiciar by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop babbling. How many of your men are down here?”

  “Eight others, my preceptors,” said Hawking. He grimaced. “Simonian put us to sleep with sorcery. When we awoke, we were here. Mitor told my forces that I had departed for Swordor to beseech the Grand Master to bring the Justiciar armies to our cause.” He spat on the floor. “Gods be praised that I did not. To think that I had allied myself with Mitor and that serpent priest...a creature of such vileness...”

  “You know better now,” said Mazael. “A tribe of the Elderborn and the Dragon’s Shadow are attacking the castle as we speak. Lord Richard’s army is a few hours away. He will smash through Mitor’s men and those mercenaries. If you want to undo some of the damage you’ve done, get to your men and get them clear. Or, better yet, have them fight alongside Lord Richard’s men.”

  “Lord Richard!” said Sir Commander Galan. “Gods! I cannot decide who I hate more, him or Lord Mitor. A usurper versus a heretic, eh? What a choice! And wood elves? What good will come from consorting with those forest demons?” He grimaced. “I suppose we cannot pick and choose our allies. I shall command my men fight alongside the usurping Dragonslayer, since I have no other choice.”