“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.
###
“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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About the Author
Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.
He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.
Visit his website at:
http://www.jonathanmoeller.com
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http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed
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[email protected]
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Table of Contents
Other books by the author
Epigraph
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
SOUL OF TYRANTS Bonus Chapter
About the Author
SOUL OF TYRANTS
Jonathan Moeller
Book Description
Mazael, now Lord of Castle Cravenlock, has subdued the demonic power within his soul, though at terrible cost to himself. Yet peace remains elusive. Mazael's former overlord plans a war of pride. A corrupt order of militant knights scheme for brutal and bloody conquest. The serpent people and their followers plot a terrible vengeance upon Mazael and his sister.
And a foe more terrible than any he has yet faced awaits.
For Mazael was not the only child of the Old Demon...
Soul of Tyrants
Copyright 2011 by Jonathan Moeller
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo
Stock Image copyright | Marcus Ranum | www.ranum.com
All Rights Reserved
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
Epigraph
I know indeed what evil I intend to do,
But stronger than all afterthoughts is my fury,
Fury that brings upon mortals the greatest evils.
-Euripedes, Medea
Chapter 1
1
Wolves among Sheep
Lord Mazael Cravenlock left the camp and watched the sun rise over the Grim Marches, as he did every morning. The dawn seemed to paint the winter-brown plains the color of blood.
Mazael scowled, his bearded jaw clenching.
The blood might prove real, soon enough.
“My lord?”
A stern-faced boy of about fifteen years stepped to Mazael’s side, carrying a pile of armor.
Mazael nodded. “Adalar. I am ready.”
Adalar Greatheart grunted. “Hold out your arms, my lord.”
Mazael complied. The dawn’s bloody rays slanted into the camp, throwing long black shadows. Squires hastened back and forth, bearing arms and armor, polishing shields and sharpening swords. Bacon sizzled over the campfires, and horses neighed and grunted.
Despite his rise to the lordship of Castle Cravenlock, Mazael still wore the battered armor from his days as a wandering, landless knight; a mail shirt, scarred steel cuirass, leather gauntlets, and a helmet. A black surcoat with the House of Cravenlock’s three crossed swords was his sole mark of rank.
Around his waist went a worn leather belt with a battered scabbard. In the scabbard rested a magnificent longsword with a golden pommel shaped like a lion’s head.
“Send Sir Gerald to me,” said Mazael, “and get yourself something to eat before we set out.”
“My lord,” said Adalar.
“And I mean it,” said Mazael, pointing. “Eat something. The other squires can manage themselves long enough for you to eat.”
Adalar flashed a rare grin. The boy was sterner than his father, sometimes. “My lord.”
Mazael shook his head, crossed his arms, and watched the camp. He had forty knights and their attendant squires with him. More than enough for what he had in mind.
Or so he hoped.
Armor clanked, and Mazael looked over his shoulder. A young, gold-haired man in polished plate and a fine blue surcoat emblazoned with a stylized greathelm walked towards Mazael, followed by a dour, pimpled squire of about thirteen.
“Gerald,” said Mazael to his armsmaster. “Are we ready?”
“Soon enough,” said Gerald. He scratched a mustache trimmed with razor precision. “We’ll be ready to ride soon. Mayhap these ruffians will see reason.”
Mazael snorted. “And maybe we’ll all sit down for a feast afterwards.”
Gerald shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Wesson! Fetch some breakfast, please.”
The pimpled squire grunted and hastened to the cook fires.
“No, it’ll come down to steel,” said Mazael. “We’ve dealt with these bands before. Lord Richard killed most of Mitor’s damned mercenaries, but the survivors have failed to appreciate the lesson.”
“Slow fellows,” said Gerald. “A pity your brother didn’t think to hire smarter mercenaries.”
“Mitor never thought of anything,” said Mazael, scowling at the mention of his dead brother, the previous Lord of Castle Cravenlock. “And if he had hired smarter mercenaries, he might still be alive.”
>
“No loss, that,” said Gerald. Wesson returned, bearing some bread and bacon. “Perhaps we can talk some sense into this band.”
“Not likely.”
Gerald shook his head. “You always take such a bleak view,” he said, around a mouthful of bacon.
“And I’m usually right,” said Mazael. He raised his voice. “Break camp and mount up! Move! I want to be at White Rock before midday!”
The squires began rolling up tents and rounding up the horses. Mazael took a piece of Gerald’s bacon and watched the camp vanish. Soon the toiling squires loaded the pack animals, the knights mounted their horses, and they were ready.
A thin knight with a pinched face and a scraggly mustache rode towards Mazael. In his left hand he carried a tall lance crowned with the black-and-silver Cravenlock banner.
“Sir Aulus?” said Mazael.
“My lord,” said Sir Aulus Hirdan, his deep voice incongruous against his wasted appearance. “We are ready.”
“Good,” said Mazael. Adalar returned, leading a large, ill-tempered destrier. The horse looked like it wanted to bite someone. Mazael stepped to the beast’s side, running his hand along its neck. The big horse stamped and snorted, throwing its mane.
“Well, Chariot,” said Mazael to his war horse. “Once again. You’ll kill someone before the day’s done.”
Chariot almost looked pleased.
Mazael sprang up into the saddle. The squires mounted their palfreys, leading the pack horses, and rode to the side of their knights.
“We ought to say a prayer before we ride out,” said Gerald.
“Steel will settle this, not the gods,” said Mazael.
“The gods watch over all mortal affairs,” said Gerald
“Aye,” said Mazael, closing his eyes. He knew that very well, knew it far better than Gerald. “Ride out!”
They rode away to the south.
###
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.
###
“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.
2
Lord of Castle Cravenlock
Two days’ ride took them home.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 37