Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Sir Roger’s face twisted. “I will not be called a liar!” He began to draw his sword.

  Mazael was faster. He stepped forward, seized Sir Roger’s wrist, and twisted. Sir Roger hissed, the sword dropping from his hand, and went white with pain.

  “Drawing steel against your lord in his own hall?” said Mazael. Sir Roger tried to wrench away, but Mazael tightened his grip and twisted. “You’d abandon both guest right and your vows to your lord? It’s a fortunate thing I stopped you. Otherwise I could cut you down right now and no one would protest.”

  Sir Roger wheezed and dropped to his knees.

  “As your previous bailiff is guilty of murder,” said Mazael, “you’ll need a new one. Wat!”

  The peasant gaped at Sir Roger. “My lord?”

  “You’d make a fine bailiff, I believe,” said Mazael. “Henceforth, you are the bailiff of Bloody Ridge.”

  Wat’s jaw dropped.

  “Appointing the bailiff is my right!” groaned Sir Roger through clenched teeth.

  “True,” said Mazael. “But, alas, the manor of Bloody Ridge seems insufficient for a knight of your stature.” He gestured to Sir Gerald, who barked a command. Two more armsmen hastened forward. “Until we find suitable lands for you, you’ll remain here, as my honored guest.” He let go.

  Sir Roger toppled to the floor with a groan.

  “Kindly see Sir Roger to his chambers,” said Mazael.

  The two armsmen dragged the groaning Sir Roger away.

  “As it happens,” said Mazael, “I would prefer that my vassals only take a fourth of their peasants’ crops.”

  “My lord is generous,” said Wat, bowing, “most generous.”

  “Sir Gerald,” said Mazael, “send Wat back to Bloody Ridge, with an appropriate escort of armsmen. He will have to remove the former bailiff, after all.”

  Gerald gave the orders. Wat left the hall, half-weeping with gratitude.

  Mazael sighed and glanced up at the balcony. Lucan smirked, and moved his hands in mocking applause. Then he turned and vanished in a swirl of black cloak.

  “Lord Thomas Malacast,” called Sir Aulus, thumping his herald’s staff against the stone floor, “of Graywind Hold, seeking the Justiciar manor that bordered upon his estate.”

  Mazael sighed.

  ###

  Hours later, court concluded, Mazael dropped into Mitor’s old throne with a sigh, looping his leg over the carved arm. “By all the gods, Adalar, get me some wine.”

  Adalar glanced at a page, who dashed from the hall.

  “Thirsty?” said Gerald, Rachel on his arm. His squire Wesson followed after, still carrying Gerald’s shield.

  “I could drink a damned river,” said Mazael. “Preferably of wine.”

  The pages returned, bearing a flagon and a goblet of wine. Mazael took the goblet, drained it, and gestured for the page to refill it.

  “What are you going to do with Sir Roger?” said Gerald.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said Mazael. “I could banish him, but he’d only raise a band of brigands and make trouble. I could keep him imprisoned indefinitely.” He shrugged, took another drink of wine. “Or perhaps I’ll hand him over to Lord Richard.”

  “Maybe…” Rachel hesitated, looking away, “maybe you should just kill him.”

  “Rachel!” said Gerald, looking shocked. “A man under Mazael’s own roof!”

  “He did draw his sword in the hall,” said Rachel. “And he’s…he’s…” She sighed and shook her head, dark hair sliding over her shoulders. “I look at him and fear that he’ll bring woe upon us in the future.”

  “He’s powerless enough, locked in the north tower,” said Mazael. “He can’t harm us from there.”

  “I know,” said Rachel. “It’s just…”

  “I’ll have close watch kept over him,” said Mazael. “Perhaps even have Lucan watch him.”

  “No!” said Rachel.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust Lucan Mandragon,” said Rachel. “He’s Richard Mandragon’s son, for one.”

  “That’s hardly a crime,” said Mazael, “and it’s only by Lord Richard’s sufferance that we still live.”

  “I know,” said Rachel, sighing, “I know. Lucan frightens me, Mazael.”

  “I agree with my betrothed,” said Gerald. “The Dragon’s Shadow is not to be trusted.”

  Mazael glanced at the balconies, but saw no sign of Lucan. “Why not?”

  “Rumor has it that he is a powerful necromancer, nearly the equal of Simonian,” said Gerald.

  “Rumors say many things,” said Mazael.

  “And…and I see no fear in him,” said Rachel. “Of anyone, or anything. Nothing but contempt. I…think he might betray you, one day.” She stared at her hands. “Don’t you remember? You told me that Lord Richard promised Castle Cravenlock to Lucan, if you died in battle.”

  Mazael said nothing.

  ###

  The bas-reliefs had been smashed, the statues broken, the graven images shattered, their rubble used to choke the entrances leading into the temple. Now the corridors, the storerooms, the libraries, the dungeons, and the great temple chamber lay dark and silent. The titanic golden serpent-idol, an image of the snake-god Sepharivaim, had been melted, the gold buried. Only one narrow spiral stairwell led up to the castle.

  Once the staircase had been filled with rubble, the San-keth temple would lie buried and forgotten forever.

  Or, Lucan Mandragon mused, so Mazael Cravenlock thought.

  A boot scraped against stone. Timothy deBlanc came down the stairs, brushing dust from his black coat, a lantern blazing his hand.

  “Timothy,” said Lucan, inclining his head.

  “Lucan,” said Timothy. He coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. “I’ll be pleased when we’re done with this place. I’ve had quite enough.”

  “Fear not,” said Lucan, taking the lantern and holding it aloft. “Another day’s work, and you’ll never need to set foot in here again.”

  Of course, Lucan himself intended to return frequently.

  He had long needed a secret place to work without interruption. He had used the vaults under Swordgrim, but his ever-suspicious father knew about it, and Lucan’s labors had been hampered to no end. But here, if everyone believed the San-keth temple sealed and forgotten, Lucan could come and go as he pleased.

  “Another case of those books and scrolls to destroy,” said Timothy, “and we’ll be done.”

  “Or so we think,” said Lucan, adjusting his cloak. “I think it would be wise to cast your divinatory spell once again. We may have missed something.”

  “We were very thorough,” said Timothy, frowning.

  “Yet we may have missed something,” said Lucan, “and it would not reflect well upon us if we left some evil tome to torment future generations.”

  Timothy nodded, rubbing his goatee. “You’re likely right. A moment.” He stepped back, pulled a quartz crystal from his pocket, and wrapped it with a length of silver wire. He stepped back, closed his eyes, and began muttering, gesturing with the wire-wrapped crystal. Lucan watched, following the motions of the crystal, feeling the gathering of arcane power as Timothy continued the spell.

  The crystal flashed and shimmered. Timothy spoke the last word of the spell and shuddered. The crystal blazed with silver light and went dim. Lucan watched Timothy, ready with a spell of his own.

  “Nothing,” said Timothy, wiping sweat from his brow. “Rather, nothing else. I sense only the last shelf in the temple’s library. Nothing more.”

  Lucan nodded, hiding a smile of relief.

  Timothy had not sensed the cache of books and scrolls Lucan had hidden. The temple’s library had proven a marvelous depository of arcane and necromantic lore. Lucan could not let such a treasure trove escape his grasp.

  “Good,” said Lucan, “good. No reason to become careless, especially before the end.”

  “A rule applicable to so many situations,” said
Timothy.

  “Quite right,” said Lucan, gesturing at the door to the temple’s library. “Shall we?”

  They walked down the vaulted corridor and into the temple’s library. Ancient bookshelves lined the walls, mantled in shadows and dust. A single shelf held crumbling tomes and bound scrolls. Lucan walked in a circle around the walls, lighting the torches. Timothy gathered up an armful of books and scrolls and dumped them on the long table running the center of the room. Lucan set the lantern on the table, sat down, and they began work.

  Lucan muttered the spell to sense magic over a scroll. “A simple warding, no more.” He handed it to Timothy. The older man nodded, lit a brass brazier with the lantern, and tossed the scroll into the coals. The scroll snarled with raging green and blue flames for a moment, then crumbled into embers.

  Timothy muttered the same spell, tracing a sigil over a closed book. “Ah…a necromantic ward. You’d best do this one, Lucan.”

  Lucan grunted and examined the book, probing the spell. It was a petty necromantic trick, designed to shrivel the arm of anyone who opened the cover. He shielded himself in a ward and opened the cover. The necromantic enchantment spat green flames, but fizzled against Lucan’s protections.

  “High Tristafellin,” mused Lucan, examining the writing. He shook his head in disgust. “Bastardized. Some pages in San-keth, probably added later.” He flipped through the book. It held simple and feeble spells, the sort any idle dilettante might master.

  “Perhaps the oft-copied remnants of a work that may have existed in the time of Tristafel,” suggested Timothy, tossing a bundle of ragged parchments into the brazier. A glowing snarl of crimson smoke shot upward, lashed against the ceiling, and vanished. “Certainly we’ve seen other books of that nature.”

  “Certainly,” said Lucan.

  Something on the last page caught his eye, a spell written in San-keth.

  “Verily,” read the spell’s description, “many creatures of diverse natures do throng the world, cunning in deception, and servant of Sepharivaim may find himself hard-pressed to tell the True People from the lesser races. Therefore, a skilled adept may perform this ritual, upon a few drops of blood, to learn the true nature of a soul, whether of the True People, mortal men, elder race, and demon-blooded…”

  Lucan gazed at the spell with interest.

  “Lucan? Is something amiss?”

  Lucan looked up. Timothy stared at him with concern, half-rising from his chair.

  “I am well,” said Lucan. He tipped the book back.

  “I feared you had been beguiled by some enchantment.”

  Lucan laughed. “Certainly not.” In one swift motion he tore the page with the spell free, concealed it in his cloak, and tossed the book into the flames. It shuddered with sparks and purple flames, flared with gray light, and then crumbled into glowing dust. “I fail to see how anyone could find value in these scribbled ravings.”

  “I quite agree,” said Timothy, squinting at a tattered scroll. “Lord Mazael was most insistent that they be destroyed. These books are too dangerous.”

  “Yes,” murmured Lucan.

  Lord Mazael.

  Now there was an enigma. The man mystified him. Mazael Cravenlock had been a landless, rogue knight before becoming a lord. Lucan had dealt with dozens of such men, and they were almost always bloodthirsty and rapacious, eager to expand their wealth and power, whatever the cost.

  Yet Mazael wanted peace between Lord Richard and Lord Malden. He could have sided with Lord Malden against Lord Richard. Or he could have broken his old ties with Lord Malden and attacked Knightrealm in Lord Richard’s name.

  Yet Mazael refused to do either. Such altruistic behavior made Lucan suspicious. What did Lord Mazael really want?

  “Once we’ve finished with this,” said Timothy, tearing a scroll into pieces and tossing the shreds into the fire one by one, “we ought to focus further on the wards to sense the undead. Perhaps we should begin with the barbican and gates.”

  “As you wish,” said Lucan, feigning interest. He rather doubted, though, that the San-keth or their minions would bother to come through the gate.

  But something besides Lord Mazael’s apparent noble character troubled Lucan.

  To Lucan’s magical senses, Mazael felt unusual, almost blurred, as if his spirit had been scarred by some potent spell.

  Or as if two spirits inhabited his flesh.

  And he seemed immune to the mindclouding spell Lucan used to move unobserved through the castle. Nor could Lucan read Mazael’s thoughts. His spells permitted Lucan to pluck thoughts from the minds of others, usually without much difficulty.

  Yet to Lucan’s spells, Mazael’s mind felt like an impenetrable wall of molten iron.

  “I’m grateful for your assistance,” said Timothy, “truly. You ought to be the court wizard, not I.”

  Lucan looked up in surprise, jarred out his musings. “Oh?”

  “Your skills far surpass my own,” said Timothy.

  Lucan laughed. “They do. But what of that? You aren’t dreaded and loathed from one end of the Grim Marches to the other. The peasants don’t consider you a devil. ” A bit of anger rose in Lucan’s chest, and to his annoyance, it crept into his voice. He calmed himself and continued. “But it matters not. I would not be Lord Mazael’s court wizard, not even if he begged me.” He threw a book into the fire with a bit more force than necessary.

  “Why is that?” said Timothy.

  “Why is what?” said Lucan, watching the book burn.

  “Why are you so feared?” said Timothy. He shrugged. “Certainly, you’re powerful. And wizards are feared everywhere, though more so in some lands that others.”

  “I certainly will not be visiting Swordor or Mastaria,” said Lucan.

  “Nor I,” said Timothy. “Neither the Knights Justiciar nor the Knights Dominiar are very favorable to our art. But that is not the point. Why do they fear you so?” He shrugged. “I see no reason for it, after all.”

  “That is most kind,” said Lucan. He stared at the brazier for a moment. “Let us say…I had an unsavory teacher.”

  One half of his mind laughed and gibbered. The other half recoiled in frightened horror.

  “That wasn’t your fault,” said Timothy.

  “No,” said Lucan, shaking himself. The dark laughter in his mind faded away. “It was not. But that matters very little.” He picked up the next scroll in the diminishing pile. “I wish to speak no more of this.”

  “Of course,” said Timothy. “But if you wish to speak more of it, I will be glad to listen.”

  Lucan smiled. The expression felt strange, almost alien, on his face. He did not often smile any more. “Thank you. I’ll remember that.” Of course, he had no intention of ever discussing his past with Timothy, or anyone.

  But the thought pleased him, a little bit.

  “We should resume work,” said Lucan, gesturing at the piled books.

  Timothy nodded.

  Lucan felt the torn page within his cloak and smiled.

  Soon enough, he would solve the riddle of Lord Mazael Cravenlock.

  3

  Heir of Swordgrim

  Mazael awoke with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth. He rolled out of bed, walked naked to the table against the wall, and washed out his mouth with a swallow of wine.

  He rarely slept well, these days. The Old Demon no longer troubled him with spell-wrought nightmares, but feverish dreams had drifted across his mind like poisoned foam over fouled waters. He had dreamt of Sir Roger, his hands clamped about Rachel’s throat, and of giant snakes slithering through the foundations of Castle Cravenlock.

  And he saw, over and over again, the killing flare of the Old Demon’s spell, saw Romaria topple before the chapel’s altar.

  Mazael took another swallow of wine. For a moment he wanted to fall back into bed. Today would only bring another succession of scheming vassals and greedy lords. Why even bother? Lucan was right. It would end in blood or death,
one way or another.

  The thought repulsed him. Mazael growled and pushed the wine away. He had lands to rule and people to lead, and could not do so if he staggered about drunk.

  It was still dark, though the sun had just begun to rise, and Adalar and the pages still lay asleep. Mazael saw no reason to wake them and dressed himself. He slipped down the stairs of the King’s Tower and into the chilly courtyard.

  Gerald and Sir Nathan trained the armsmen and squires just after sunrise. Mazael tapped Lion’s pommel and grinned. He had spent too much time dealing with recalcitrant vassals and corrupt knights. A few hours spent thrashing his armsmen and knights would shake off his depression.

  He glanced up at the curtain wall and stopped. Gerald and Sir Nathan stood atop the barbican gate, leaning against the battlements. Sir Nathan pointed over the wall, shaking his head. Mazael frowned and joined them.

  “Trouble?” said Mazael.

  “Possibly,” said Gerald. “We were just about to send for you.”

  Sir Nathan pointed. “Look.”

  Mazael saw the glimmer of campfires on the horizon. He made out the dark shapes of tents, hazy in the morning gloom.

  “How many men?” said Mazael.

  “A hundred, possibly,” said Sir Nathan. “Maybe one hundred and fifty.”

  “More mercenaries?” said Gerald.

  Sir Nathan shook his head. “The camp is too orderly.”

  “Then who?” said Gerald.

  Mazael shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The sun crept up, inch by inch, and Mazael saw dozens of tethered horses. Figures moved back and forth through the camp. He saw a banner flapping over the tents, though it was too dark to make out details.

  “If they take it into their heads to burn the town, they’re close enough to do it,” said Sir Nathan.

  “Aye,” said Mazael. “Gerald. Rouse the squires and the knights. Get them ready. If our visitors ride for the town, we’ll sally out and stop them.”

  Gerald ran from the ramparts.

  “He shouldn’t run,” said Sir Nathan. “He ought to show confidence to his men.”