Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Bethy was mistress of the kitchens, and ruled them with a firm hand that made Adalar and his father look downright mild.

  Mazael suspected she also wanted to become his mistress.

  “Do the new servants give you much trouble?” said Mazael.

  “No end of it,” said Bethy, snorting. “Not a one of them knows which end of a spoon is which.” She stepped forward, lowering her voice, and her scent, smoke mixed with sweat, flooded into Mazael’s nostrils. He stifled an urge to smell her hair. “But none of them are snake-kissers. I’d know.”

  “Good,” said Mazael. The folk of Mazael’s lands had abandoned the San-keth faith, or so they claimed. Mazael did not doubt that more than a few holdouts remained, praying to Sepharivaim in hidden cellars and abandoned barns. “Keep a close eye on them.”

  “I will,” said Bethy. “If I find any, I’ll tell you at once.” Her expression softened, became playful, and she stepped so close to Mazael that she almost touched him. “In private, perhaps, when my lord is alone?”

  Mazael stared at her. The heat from the kitchens’ fires had made her sweat, given her face a slight sheen. Her hair rested in an untidy bun atop her head, but it only exposed the curve of her neck.

  “So mighty a lord,” she murmured, “ought not to be alone.”

  Mazael had not lain with a woman for over a year. The Old Demon had taken Romaria from him before they ever had the chance. But Romaria was dead and Mazael was not, and Bethy was here and willing. But Mazael dared not sleep with her, nor with any other woman.

  Mazael was Demonsouled, son of the Old Demon.

  His tainted blood, his curse of murder and rage, would pass on to his children.

  And he had not led a chaste life before learning the truth of his heritage. Suppose he had fathered a Demonsouled child on some merchant’s widow, on a long-forgotten whore? Suppose he had fathered more than one?

  Mazael dared not take that risk, no matter how much a woman made his blood boil.

  “If you find any snake-kissers,” said Mazael, his voice a bit hoarse, “let me know at once.”

  Bethy looked disappointed, but smiled again. “Of course, my lord.” She did another curtsy, letting Mazael see down her blouse again, and vanished into the kitchens.

  “Damn her,” Mazael muttered.

  The guards at the keep’s gates bowed to him and pulled open the doors at his approach. Mazael would never get used to that. He nodded to the guards, took to the stairs, and climbed to the top of the keep.

  He stepped onto the highest turret, the wind tugging at his hair and cloak.

  The Grim Marches stretched away in all directions, flat and brown. Gray clouds covered the sky, slashed with red light from the rising sun. Spirals of smoke rose from the chimneys in the town below.

  A man stood at the battlements, wrapped in a voluminous black cloak.

  “So you’ve returned,” said the man, not turning. His voice, as always, held a sardonic edge, as if amused at a private, cruel joke.

  “So I have,” said Mazael, his hand twitching to Lion’s hilt. “Surprised? Or disappointed?”

  “Neither. You have, Lord Mazael, proven remarkably difficult to kill.” The voice’s dark amusement grew. “To your late brother’s great dismay, no doubt.”

  “I’m sure,” said Mazael, walking to the cloaked man’s side.

  The top of the black cowl came to Mazael’s bearded jaw.

  “Another glorious morning in the Grim Marches,” said the man. He had a pale, gaunt face, and eyes like glittering disks of obsidian. Many men named him the Dragon’s Shadow in a mixture of scornful mockery and sheer terror.

  They had good reason to fear him. Lucan Mandragon, son of Richard Mandragon, was the most powerful wizard in the Grim Marches.

  He could not have been older than twenty.

  “The mercenaries proved foolish enough to fight?” said Lucan.

  “As always.”

  “Ah,” said Lucan. His cruel smile seemed out of place on such a young man. “The bloody sunrises of the Grim Marches. Appropriate, really. Given that the Grim Marches themselves may soon drown in blood.”

  “Not if I can do anything about it,” said Mazael.

  “Can you?” said Lucan. “I have never met Lord Malden, but he does not seem a man to forgive the death of a son.”

  “Sir Belifane’s death was his own fault,” said Mazael, “not your father’s.”

  “I doubt Lord Malden views matters with such equanimity.”

  “Lord Malden can’t fight Lord Richard without my aid,” said Mazael. “And if Rachel marries Gerald Roland, Lord Malden won’t get my help.”

  “My father will consider such a marriage a threat to his power. And my noble lord father,” Lucan’s sneer intensified, “is not a man to suffer challenges.”

  “He doesn’t want war, either,” said Mazael. “He told me so himself.”

  Lucan scoffed. “He doesn’t want war because he doesn’t believe he can win. If my father ever has the chance to rid himself of Malden Roland, he will do so ruthlessly and without hesitation.”

  “And he cannot do so without my aid,” said Mazael, “and so, we will have no war.”

  The younger man stared at him. Mazael met the black gaze without flinching. Lucan had stayed at Castle Cravenlock for over a year, at Lord Richard’s express wish, yet Mazael had never been able to determine just what Lucan wanted. The Dragon’s Shadow had a black reputation, yet Mazael had seen no reason for it, save for Lucan’s constant foul humor.

  Lucan smiled without rancor. He rarely did so, yet the black mood seemed to fall from his face, and for a moment he seemed an entirely different man. “A noble goal, Lord Mazael. Certainly noble.” His face hardened, the mask returning. “Now let us see if you can achieve it.”

  “I will,” said Mazael.

  “And likely you’ll fail,” said Lucan. “Strive for peace all you wish. But it will come to war. Blood and terror in the end.” He waved his hand over the expanses of the Grim Marches. “It always does.”

  Mazael thought of the Old Demon standing on the altar in Castle Cravenlock’s chapel, his mocking, hideous boasts. “No. It need not.”

  But Mitor and his wife had died there, as had the San-keth priest Skhath.

  As had Romaria.

  “We will not come to war if I can avoid it,” said Mazael.

  Lucan inclined his head, yielding nothing.

  “Now. Tell me. What do you know of Sir Roger Gravesend?” said Mazael.

  “A braying ass. A man without wisdom, subtlety, or any trace of wit. Though a competent enough swordsman.”

  “He has been hiring the mercenary bands,” said Mazael.

  A dark eyebrow rose. “Has he? It seems a wasted effort.”

  “I wonder where he obtained the gold,” said Mazael. “From your father, perhaps?”

  “My father?” Lucan looked amused. “I am hardly one to sing of the praises of Lord Richard, the great and mighty Dragonslayer, but he is not one to throw his gold down a black hole.”

  “He approves only grudgingly of Rachel’s betrothal to Gerald,” said Mazael. “He might use a man like Sir Roger to show his disapproval.”

  Lucan laughed aloud. “If my father were unhappy with you, he’d come here himself, with his armies, raze this ugly pile of a castle to the ground, and mount your head on a pike.” He laughed again, the sound ugly. “Or he’d just have me kill you.”

  Mazael dropped his hand to Lion’s hilt. “You might try.”

  They glared at each other for a moment, the wind snapping their cloaks.

  Lucan sighed. “A futile gesture, since my father has not ordered me to kill you. In fact, he’s quite pleased with you.” He shrugged. “You’re certainly an improvement over that toadstool Mitor, at least.”

  “High praise,” said Mazael. “Where do you think Sir Roger’s getting his gold?”

  “The San-keth, probably.”

  “The San-keth? Why?” said Mazael.

  A
gain Lucan’s eyebrow rose. “Why not? They have every reason to wish you and Lady Rachel dead. You killed a San-keth priest. And your sister betrayed them. In their eyes she is now an apostate.” Lucan smirked. “And no faith has ever been tolerant of apostates.”

  “A clumsy way to go about it,” said Mazael.

  “It is,” agreed Lucan, “quite clumsy. I have seen better. The San-keth have thrice tried to murder my father. Fortunately, my father had my aid,” his lip twitched, “however unappreciated.”

  “I will find out the truth tomorrow, at court,” said Mazael.

  “And just how shall you accomplish this feat?”

  “A peasant has come to the castle, bringing accusations against Sir Roger,” said Mazael. “I’ll need your help.”

  Lucan smirked. “In what fashion?”

  “You will tell me if Sir Roger speaks the truth or not,” said Mazael.

  “Ah,” breathed Lucan. “So I see. Well.” His black eyes glittered like glass knives. “This ought to be interesting. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Mazael nodded. Timothy claimed not to understand why so many feared Lucan Mandragon.

  But Mazael understood, understood quite well.

  He turned and left.

  ###

  Mazael hated holding court.

  He recognized the necessity, of course. If he wanted his lands to become prosperous and safe, he needed to rule them. Without a strong lord in Castle Cravenlock, marauders and bandits of all sorts would descend on the southern Grim Marches like flies to a corpse.

  But, by all the gods, court irritated him. He suffered a never-ending stream of landless knights, petty lordlings, and lords seeking a husband for their daughters. They all wanted money, or lands, or for Mazael to fight their enemies.

  Mazael hated to sit in one place for long. Lord Mitor had held court in the Great Hall, issuing his judgments from his throne-like chair. Mazael preferred to stalk the Great Hall as he listened and spoke. Sometimes he wandered into the courtyard. His court had no choice to follow him, like prostitutes trailing an army. It drove the clerks mad, but that didn’t trouble Mazael.

  It did not help that Lord Richard had banished the Justiciar Order from his lands. The Justiciar Knights had supported Lord Mitor’s rebellion and paid the price. Lord Richard stripped them of their lands and expelled them from the Grim Marches, with the threat of death should they ever return. Richard Mandragon had taken the lion’s share of the seized lands for himself, of course. But he had given a goodly portion of them to Mazael.

  Lord Malden must have been enraged. The Justiciar Order was one of his closet allies.

  Ever since, landless knights and petty lords had besieged Mazael, offering eternal fidelity and service in exchange for land. He had refused most and forcefully evicted the rest.

  Now Mazael paced the great hall, fingers drumming on Lion’s pommel, listening to the speech of a would-be vassal, yet another landless knight with more ambition than sense.

  “My lord Mazael,” said the knight, a thick-bearded, red-nosed man with battle-scarred armor, “this manor, from the western bank of the Northwater to the village of Gray Barrow, belongs to my bloodline by right.”

  “Oh?” said Mazael. He had not heard this argument before. “Why is that?”

  “Because,” said the knight, “I am Sir Jarron Dracarone, last of that line, and my house was one of the original founders of Dracaryl. We were among the first to swear fealty to the first Lord of Castle Cravenlock, twelve hundred years ago, and served him loyally since.”

  “You are, are you?” said Mazael. “I’ve been Lord of this castle for nearly a year, yet I seem to have missed your loyal service.”

  “My house was banished, centuries ago,” said Sir Jarron, “and only now have I returned to claim my ancestral lands.”

  “What a stirring tale,” said Mazael. “Worthy of a high ballad. Lady Rachel?”

  Rachel stirred. She sat on the dais, at the high table, besides Gerald. “Lord brother?”

  “You’re more familiar with the lore of the Grim Marches than I,” said Mazael. “Tell me, when was the House of Cravenlock founded?”

  “A thousand years ago,” said Rachel.

  “Really?” said Mazael, glancing sidelong at Sir Jarron. “Not twelve hundred? And, pray, just what happened to the last son of House Dracarone?”

  “He died five hundred years ago, along with both his brothers,” said Rachel, “at the Battle of Markast Bridge, when the High King overthrew the last king of Dracaryl.”

  “So,” said Mazael, staring at Sir Jarron, who had begun sweating, “you’re either the long-lost scion of a noble house five centuries extinct, or you’re a particularly incompetent liar. Which one, I wonder?”

  “My lord,” croaked Sir Jarron, “I…”

  “Sir Gerald!” said Mazael. “Please have Sir Jarron shown out.” Gerald pointed. Two armsmen stepped to Sir Jarron’s side.

  “You dare!” said Sir Jarron, scowling. “These are my rightful lands! I will not be denied.”

  “You may go to Swordgrim and press your suit before Lord Richard, if you like,” said Mazael. “But I am far more tolerant of fools than Lord Richard. I am merely banishing you from my lands. Lord Richard would mount your head above his gates as a warning to other charlatans. Safe journeys, sir knight.”

  Sir Jarron got redder.

  The armsmen led him away.

  A shadow swirled on one of the balconies. Mazael glanced up. Lucan Mandragon stood at the rail, wrapped in his dark cloak, and titled his head. He stood amongst a gaggle of knights’ wives, yet none seemed to notice him. Lucan possessed the ability, spell-granted or otherwise, to move unnoticed among people. He could stand among a crowd and remain utterly unobserved.

  Mazael wondered if Lucan had ever used that power on him.

  He pushed the disquieting thought away and glanced aside. Sir Roger Gravesend sat on a bench near the high table, his cloak thrown back, his black hair and beard glinting. He spoke in low tones to one of Rachel’s maids, making the girl giggle and blush.

  He didn’t seem like a follower of the San-keth way. But, then, neither had Mitor.

  Nor had Rachel, for that matter.

  “Sir Aulus!”

  “My lord!” said Mazael’s herald, straightening from his post by the doors.

  “Send in Wat of Bloody Ridge,” said Mazael.

  Sir Roger’s head turned at the mention of the smallest village in his manor.

  “The freeman Wat!” said Sir Aulus, his sonorous voice booming through the hall, “freeholder in the village of Bloody Ridge!”

  A short, sun-browned man shuffled through the doors, clutching a battered hat in his hands. He wore rough, but clean, homespun, his shoes scraping against the stone floor. A bloodstained bandage wrapped his forehead.

  Sir Roger’s eyes narrowed, the maid forgotten.

  “My lord,” said Wat, bowing, “I’m honored to be here…I am, truly…”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mazael. “Why are you here?”

  “My lord,” said Wat, bowing again, “I’ll…”

  “Stand up!” said Mazael. “I can’t hear if you talk to the floor.”

  “My lord.” The peasant straightened. “My family’s held their land in Bloody Ridge since the time of the old kings. We always paid a third to our lords, as tradition says, no more, no less.” He swallowed, eyes darting to Sir Roger. “Then after old Lord Mitor was…ah, died, Sir Roger said…”

  “Lies!” said Sir Roger, stalking to Mazael’s side. “This peasant lies.”

  “Is he not Wat of Bloody Ridge?” said Mazael.

  “He is,” said Sir Roger, “but…”

  “And is he not a freeholder in your lands?” said Mazael.

  “He was,” said Sir Roger, “but…”

  “He has not lied yet.” Mazael gestured to Wat. “Speak.”

  Wat swallowed, but kept talking. “Sir Roger told us all the land in the manor was his now, his alone, and that all the folk
had to give him two-thirds of their crops. We wouldn’t stand for it…we thought maybe his bailiff was just dishonest, that Sir Roger didn’t know what was happening. So we went and petitioned him. I showed Sir Roger the paper old kings had given my forefathers, the paper saying the land was ours. Sir Roger laughed at me, threw my paper in the fire! Then he sent his men into the village. They took all the crops, everything. My second son tried to stop them. They,” Wat’s face worked, “they cut my boy down, and they struck me when I tried to stop them.” His fingers twitched at the bandage. “I woke up, and I didn’t know what to do. But my wife heard you were a just man, my lord, and she said I should go to you. So I did.”

  “A filthy lie!” said Sir Roger, snarling. “It has always been the tradition of Bloody Ridge that the peasants give two parts of their crops to their lord. The peasants revolted against their rightful lord and I put them down.”

  Mazael glanced up at the balcony.

  Lucan shook his head, smirking.

  “That, sir knight, is a lie,” said Mazael, “and I become wroth when my vassals lie to me.”

  “You accuse me of lying?” said Sir Roger.

  “Were you not listening?” said Mazael. “And I wish to know something else. Why have you been hiring Mitor’s old mercenaries to loot and ravage?”

  “What is this?” said Sir Roger. “I have done nothing of the sort!”

  Lucan shook his head, lip curling.

  “You have,” said Mazael. “That is why you’ve been stealing your peasants’ crops, I deem. You needed some way to pay the mercenaries. Another thing, Sir Roger. Did you kiss the snake when my brother still ruled?”

  Sir Roger paled. “You issued amnesty to all those who worshipped the snake-god, so long as they confessed.”

  “I did,” said Mazael, “but you never confessed to anything.”

  “I never worshipped that filthy idol!” said Sir Roger.

  Lucan laughed. No one but Mazael heard him.

  “A day for lofty tales, it seems,” said Mazael. “A lost son of House Dracarone returns to claim his lands, and poor Roger Gravesend has to defend himself from rebellious peasants. Of course, Sir Jarron was a fraud, and you are as well, sir knight. I suspect you kissed the snake, have been displeased with my rule, and now hire mercenaries to show your displeasure. Have I neared the mark?”