Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Well, do you want to be armsmaster?”

  “No.”

  “Then he can run.”

  Sir Nathan grunted, but said nothing more. The courtyards clattered and echoed as squires led out the horses from the stables, as knights donned armor and helm, picked up sword and shield. In the camp men rolled up tents and mounted horses.

  Mazael folded his arms and waited.

  The sun brightened, and Mazael saw the black sigil on the red banner.

  He swore softly.

  “We should prepare a welcome,” said Sir Nathan.

  Mazael saw a black-armored figure emerge from a tent, swing onto a magnificent destrier. “Or maybe we should stay armed.”

  “Is that not Lord Richard?” said Sir Nathan.

  Mazael shook his head. “No. I might have preferred rogue mercenaries. They would have been easier to handle than Toraine Mandragon.”

  A flicker of surprise went over Sir Nathan’s face. “What would Toraine want here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael. Why had Lord Richard’s eldest son come here? Toraine’s party began riding for the castle, the Mandragon banner flapping overhead. “Let’s go find out.”

  He descended to the courtyard, Sir Nathan at his side. Gerald emerged from the keep with Rachel on his arm. Mitor had considered marrying Rachel to Toraine, and Lord Richard had done likewise. Mazael hoped Gerald didn’t do anything rash.

  Gerald gave orders, and armsmen moved into an honor guard around the gate. A few moments later a band of horsemen thundered into the courtyard, the Mandragon banner billowing overhead. A dozen knights in gleaming plate followed. In their midst rode a tall man in a strange combination of black chain and dull black plate, riding the most expensive destrier Mazael had ever seen. The rider reined up, pulled off his helmet, and vaulted from the saddle in a single fluid movement. He had piercing black eyes, red hair, and a trimmed beard like a spike of flame.

  He looked a lot like Lucan Mandragon, except taller, stronger, and more striking. And where Lucan’s expression seemed contemptuous, Toraine’s resembled that of a rabid wolf.

  Men often said that Toraine was not Demonsouled, but ought to be.

  “Lord Heir,” said Mazael, inclining his head, using the title Toraine Mandragon insisted upon.

  “Lord Mazael,” said Toraine, a cold glint in his eye. “My father’s favorite vassal. I thought you’d look fatter after a year ruling this,” he gestured at the castle’s tower, “ugly heap. But you look wasted away. Pity.” He thrust out his helmet. A squire in Mandragon livery took it. “Pity indeed. You know, if fat Mitor had managed to kill you instead of the other way around…”

  “I didn’t kill Mitor,” said Mazael.

  “Oh, of course,” said Toraine. His smirk resembled Lucan’s. “If Mitor had killed you, then my father would have killed Mitor.” He gestured at the castle again. “Then my father would have given Castle Cravenlock to me. Though I would have torn this wreck down and begun from scratch.”

  Mazael returned Toraine’s smirk. “But as it happened, Skhath killed Mitor, I survived, and Castle Cravenlock is mine, not yours.”

  Mazael saw Rachel’s knuckles whiten as she gripped Gerald’s hand.

  Toraine scowled. “You’re not frightened of me, are you?”

  “No,” said Mazael. Toraine’s squires flinched. “Should I be? You’re my liege lord’s eldest son. Assuming we both live long enough, you’ll be my liege lord, one day. We ought to be the closest of friends.”

  “Even my closest friends are frightened of me, and rightly,” said Toraine, sounding thoughtful. “You should be too.”

  “Whatever for?” said a scornful voice. “I see no reason to be frightened. Amused, perhaps, but not frightened.”

  Lucan stepped past Rachel and Gerald, adjusting his black cloak.

  Anger flashed across Toraine’s face, vanishing behind his smirk. “Why, brother. It has been too long.”

  “It has been a year,” said Lucan, “and not at all long enough.”

  “Not long enough?” said Toraine. “I had thought you would want to return to Swordgrim and end your banishment.”

  “It was not banishment, as you well know,” said Lucan. “I am weary of Swordgrim and weary of you, my dear brother. Or had you forgotten that? Just as you seem to have forgotten that our lord father promised Castle Cravenlock to me if Lord Mazael fell, not to you.”

  Toraine laughed, his eyes narrowed. “Then you ought to count yourself lucky, Lord Mazael. Those Lucan finds inconvenient tend to die most mysteriously.”

  “I find you inconvenient, not mention dull and tiresome,” said Lucan, his glower a dark mirror of Toraine’s, “and yet you still live.”

  Toraine’s hand dropped to the hilt of the curved blade at his belt. “A threat against your future liege lord, brother? I ought to strike you dead for that.”

  “You are not my liege lord yet,” said Lucan. “You have to outlive our lord father first. A doubtful proposition, that.” His voice hardened. “And I remember what I promised you, after Tymaen’s wedding. Raise a hand against me and I’ll wither the flesh on your bones.”

  Toraine snarled, drew his sword, and took a step forward. Lucan sneered and raised his hand, muttering under his breath. Things might have gone very bad, but Mazael stepped between them, grabbed Lucan’s wrist, and seized Toraine’s sword arm.

  The two brothers glared at Mazael.

  “Enough of this!” said Mazael.

  “You dare lay a hand on the Heir of Swordgrim!” spat Toraine, eyes blazing with fury.

  “I don’t give a damn if you’re the High King and Lucan’s the Patriarch of the Amathavian Church!” said Mazael. “I am the Lord of Castle Cravenlock, not you, not him, and I will not have blood spilled in my courtyard! Do you understand? Raise a hand against each other, and I’ll kill both of you and deal with Lord Richard later.”

  Both sons of Richard Mandragon gaped at Mazael as if he’d gone mad.

  Then Lucan laughed and shook free of Mazael’s grip. “I believe you’re serious, Lord Mazael.” He laughed again. “It would almost be amusing to watch.”

  Toraine just stared at Mazael, eyes furious. Mazael realized that he had made an enemy.

  It didn’t trouble him. Toraine had never been friendly, anyway.

  Toraine turned and bowed to Rachel. “My fair lady,” he said. “You look as radiant as I remember.” He took her hand and kissed it.

  Gerald’s eyes narrowed.

  “Thank you, Lord Heir,” said Rachel. Her voice only trembled a bit.

  Toraine glanced at Gerald, smirked. “Lord Malden’s youngest son, eh?”

  “I am Sir Gerald Roland.”

  Toraine ignored him and kept speaking to Rachel. “Youngest sons are never important.” He glared at Lucan. “No doubt Sir Gerald will become lord of some rock on Knightrealm’s coast. You can sit at his side as he rules over dead fish and seagulls. And you could have been the lady of the Grim Marches.” He shook his head and stepped back.

  “I’m quite happy, my lord Heir,” said Rachel.

  “And what concern is that of mine?” snapped Toraine. He turned to Mazael. “I will lodge here for three or four days, I think. Long enough to meet this emissary Lord Malden dispatched. Sir Tobias, yes?”

  Mazael tried not to wince. The thought of Toraine Mandragon and Sir Tobias Roland in the same room was alarming. “I believe so.”

  “Excellent,” said Toraine. He gestured, and the rest of his party filed through the gate. Mazael saw thirty knights, a number of armsmen, some ragged merchants, and a large band of whores. “Walk with me, Lord Mazael. Alone. We have things to discuss.”

  “As you wish,” said Mazael. Gerald and Master Cramton hurried forward, directing the knights to the stables.

  Toraine wandered across the courtyard, leaving Mazael with no choice but to follow. They climbed to the battlements, Toraine’s red cloak, emblazoned with a black dragon, flaring out behind him. Toraine reached the ramparts an
d strolled with a proprietary air, running his hand along the cold stone battlements.

  “You seem to have attracted quite a few followers,” said Mazael, looking at the merchants and whores in Toraine’s party.

  Toraine laughed. “They have their uses. The common folk are drawn to our power, like maggots to meat. When I am finished with them, I will discard them and take new ones.”

  Mazael’s lips thinned. “No doubt.”

  “I assume you’re wondering why I’ve come,” said Toraine, “as I have far better things to do than to loiter about backwater castles.”

  “I assume Lord Richard commanded you,” said Mazael.

  Toraine’s obsidian eyes narrowed. “My father does not command me in all matters.”

  “Yes, but in most matters,” said Mazael, “he keeps you on a short leash. Else you’d have razed most of the neighboring lands, alienated your father’s vassals, and gotten yourself killed or assassinated.”

  Toraine whirled and glared, face inches from Mazael’s “You ought to speak with more respect.”

  “I speak forthrightly,” said Mazael, “as I do with Lord Richard. Shall I do any less with you? Though Lord Richard does accept counsel more calmly than you.”

  Toraine stepped back, but his glare did not waver. Mazael felt a wave of disgusted disquiet. Lord Richard was a vigorous man in his mid-forties, likely to rule for at least another score of years. Yet disease and mishap were all too common. Suppose Lord Richard died and Toraine became the new lord of the Grim Marches? Or suppose Toraine had Lord Richard assassinated and seized the lordship?

  One day Mazael might find himself fighting this young madman.

  For a brief moment Mazael considered shoving Toraine from the rampart. Better to kill him here and now, before Toraine had the chance to lead thousands of others to death. Mazael could claim it was an accident. Lord Richard would believe the lie…

  His hands had tightened into fists before he stopped in horror. Random, sudden murder was the way of his Demonsouled blood. He would not give in to it. Romaria had died to free him from its curse, and by all the gods, he would not make her sacrifice meaningless.

  “Ill, Lord Mazael?” said Toraine, watching him with an expression of guarded caution. Perhaps he had divined something of Mazael’s thoughts. “Or distracted?” He smiled. “Some of my whores are most skilled…”

  “Enough,” growled Mazael, shaking his head. “We argue all day, and as you’ve said, I have better things to do. Why did Lord Richard send you here?”

  Toraine looked at Rachel and Gerald, who stood speaking with Toraine’s knights. “Your sister’s marriage to this Roland.”

  “What of it?” said Mazael. “Lord Richard gave his assent, if grudgingly.”

  “Yes,” said Toraine. “Why do you plan to wed your sister to a son of my father’s mortal enemy?”

  “Simply because your father and Gerald’s are mortal enemies, and their strength is evenly matched” said Mazael. “Castle Cravenlock is the second strongest lordship in the Grim Marches, after Swordgrim. Without my help, Lord Richard cannot fight Knightrealm. And unless I aid Lord Malden, he cannot fight the Grim Marches.”

  “Yes,” said Toraine, his smirk returning. “Unless you aid Lord Malden, unless you betray the Mandragons, they will be no war.”

  “And I won’t,” said Mazael, “so there will be no war.”

  “Unless you betray us,” said Toraine.

  “I gave Lord Richard my sworn word,” said Mazael, voice hardening.

  Toraine laughed. “And what worth has sworn word? Your brother swore to my father, as well.” He laughed again. “And he joined the snake-kissers, and would have sought Knightcastle’s aid, if Lord Malden hadn’t been too wise to support such a fool.” He grinned. “You want to know why I’m here, Lord Mazael?”

  Mazael said nothing.

  “If you betray my father, then you will have to contend with me.”

  Mazael still said nothing.

  “They call me the Black Dragon for good reason. If you betray us, I’ll fall on your lands like a storm. I will burn your crops, raze your villages, slaughter your peasants like sheep. I’ll take this castle for my own. Then I’ll hunt you down. I’ll take your sister, rape her bloody, and throw her to my men when I’m finished with her. And then I’ll kill you.”

  Now Mazael glared into Toraine’s eyes. “I won’t betray Lord Richard. I don’t want war between Knightrealm and the Grim Marches. And by all the gods, I swear that if you do any of that...if you raise a finger against my sister…if you even so much as give her a threatening glance, then I will kill you.”

  Toraine looked away first. “Twice you’ve threatened to kill me today.”

  “Not threatened,” said Mazael, “but promised. And only if you threaten me first.” He gestured at the castle. “No doubt you’re weary from the journey. I’ll have a page see you to your chambers.”

  “I am not weary,” said Toraine, “and feel the need to stretch my muscles. Your armsmaster trains the men in the morning, no? Perhaps I shall train with them.”

  Mazael gritted his teeth. “As you wish.”

  ###

  Sir Roger Gravesend paced his tower cell, scowling.

  Of course, it wasn’t really a cell. It had rich carpets, ornate tapestries, comfortable chairs, and large bed. He had as much wine as he wished, and in fact spent most of his time drunk.

  But it was a cell, just the same.

  Sir Roger filled his goblet again and drained it in a swift gulp.

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he mumbled. “They promised me.” The room began to spin. He refilled his goblet, wine splashing across his tunic, and staggered to a chair. “They betrayed me.”

  The door opened. A serving girl in rough homespun entered, curtsied, and laid a platter of meat, bread, and dried fruit on the table.

  “They said it was just the beginning,” mumbled Sir Roger, oblivious to the serving girl, “they’d help me.” He took a long drink of wine and slammed the goblet against the arm of the chair. “They betrayed me!”

  “Perhaps they haven’t, sir knight,” murmured the serving girl.

  Sir Roger looked up. “What? What did you say?”

  “Maybe they haven’t abandoned you,” she said, looking at him.

  Sir Roger smiled. The girl looked about fifteen or sixteen. “You’re a comely wench.” He beckoned. “Why don’t you come over here, eh? We’ll have ourselves a good time.”

  She gave him a shy smile, swayed across the room, and settled on his lap. A wide, unsteady grin spread across his face.

  “We’ll have ourselves a good time tonight, we surely will,” whispered the girl. “And they didn’t betray you, sir knight.”

  Sir Roger blinked. “What?”

  “Why don’t you open the front of my dress?” cooed the girl, nipping at his ear. She leaned back and smiled.

  Sir Roger grinned back and fumbled for the leather ties at her throat. The front of her dress fell open. Sir Roger licked his lips, and reached for her breast.

  His hand froze a few inches from the pale skin, his jaw dropping open in sudden alarm.

  Above her left breast, over her heart, rested the small mark of a coiled serpent.

  Sir Roger looked at the girl’s face.

  Her eyes flashed yellow and he caught a glimpse of pointed, dripping fangs.

  “Oh, gods!” shrieked Sir Roger, rocking back into the chair. “Get off me. Get off me!” He tried to push her away, but the girl’s hands locked about his wrists like iron bands, slamming his arms against the chair.

  She leaned forward, face against his, and ran the pointed tips of her fangs down his cheek.

  “You need a shave, sir knight,” purred the girl.

  “Don’t kill me,” said Sir Roger, sweating. “I didn’t betray our master,” her fangs pressed deeper, “don’t kill me, please, don’t…”

  “Sir Roger,” said the girl, leaning back, “we know you didn’t betray us.”
She pulled her dress open wider. On her shoulder rested a small black mark, the sigil of a serpent wrapped about a cloak-black fang.

  “You…you serve the holy one Blackfang?” said Sir Roger, awed. “He is coming himself?”

  “He is,” said the girl, closing her dress. “The time has come, faithful Roger Gravesend. The enemies of our faith will pay tonight. Lord Mazael Cravenlock shall die for the murder of holy Skhath. Rachel Cravenlock shall die for her apostasy. And both Lucan and Toraine Mandragon shall die, for their father’s crimes against the priests of great Sepharivaim.”

  “Toraine Mandragon is here?” said Sir Roger.

  “He is,” said the girl, “come to threaten Mazael.”

  “But…but Lucan Mandragon is a powerful wizard. Extremely dangerous. All folk hold him in fear…”

  The girl scoffed. “Do you think his puny arts can threaten a servant of great Sepharivaim?”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Sir Roger.

  “They will die tonight,” said the girl, “and you, faithful Roger, shall have your freedom, and great reward for your loyalty to the servants of mighty Sepharivaim.” She smiled, eyes glinting yellow. “Perhaps we will arrange for you to become the new Lord of Castle Cravenlock.” She slid off him. “Wait for us. Be ready.”

  She vanished through the door in a swirl of skirts.

  Sir Roger stared after her, and took another swallow of wine.

  ###

  Wood clacked against wood.

  Men crowded the courtyard before the castle’s barracks. In one corner the armsmen drilled with halberds and spears, under the scowling gaze of grizzled sergeants. Archery butts had been lined against the curtain wall, and crossbowmen sent bolts thudding into the straw. Before the steps of the barracks the squires and pages stood in pairs, crossing wooden practice swords. Sir Gerald and Sir Nathan stood on the stairs, overseeing everything.

  Mazael walked towards the barracks, Toraine Mandragon at his side. Toraine strolled unconcerned through the various melees. Rumor had it that the dull black plates of his armor were the scales of a black dragon, a black dragon slain upon Toraine's blade, the scales capable of deflecting almost anything.