Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “How orderly,” said Toraine, observing the crossbowmen.

  “The Lord Heir approves, then?” said Mazael.

  Toraine gave a thin smile. “Such effort. I might think you were training an army for rebellion. But I have your protestations of loyalty, of course.”

  Mazael almost wished he had let Lucan and Toraine come to blows.

  “Do you ever participate?” said Toraine. “Such a mighty lord as yourself. You must be able to defeat any man in this castle.”

  “Sometimes,” said Mazael, “when the mood takes me. Usually I spar with some of my most trusted knights.”

  “Prudent, perhaps,” said Toraine, “for you never know when a man will take the opportunity to shove steel down your gullet. But mayhap it is foolish. Your skills will have gone to rust.”

  “Is that your concern?” said Mazael. “It’s not as if we will ever war against each other, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Toraine, smirking. “But, come, I feel the need for exercise. Let us train against each other.”

  Some of the squires and armsmen stopped to stare at them.

  “My lord Heir?” said Mazael.

  “It has been a while since you faced a proper challenge, I think,” said Toraine, snapping his fingers. Two of his squires removed his cloak. “Let us see the mettle of Castle Cravenlock’s lord.”

  “As you wish,” said Mazael. “Adalar!” Adalar broke free from the squires and ran to Mazael’s side. “My armor. And two practice swords.”

  “Practice swords?” scoffed Toraine. “Are we boys, to play with sticks? Proper steel, I think.” He thumped the pommel of his sword.

  Adalar and two pages returned with Mazael’s mail hauberk, cuirass, and gauntlets. “I’ve no wish hurt you by mischance, lord Heir.”

  Toraine smiled. “You won’t.”

  “And shall we just gut each other, then?” said Mazael. “Or fight until first blood?”

  “I doubt my father would appreciate it if I spilled Cravenlock blood here,” said Toraine. He tapped his chest. “No, a simple tap to the breastplate will suffice.” He watched as Adalar carried over Mazael’s armor. “Assuming that can block a sword thrust, of course.”

  More silence fell over the courtyard as the squires and armsmen drifted over to watch. Mazael gritted his teeth and wished Sir Nathan would order them back to work. It reminded him too much of his fight with Skhath, when the San-keth priest had still cloaked himself in the illusion of a human knight.

  Mazael pulled on his armor, aided by Adalar. Toraine stepped back and drew his sword, settling into a guard position. His squires hastened forward and undid his sword belt, lest his scabbard entangle his legs. Toraine held a long sword with curved blade, the light, fast saber favored by the nomads of the south. Mazael drew Lion, the blade glimmering with a cold blue sheen.

  Toraine stepped forward, sword held in both hands, the blade before his face. “Ready, Lord Mazael?”

  Mazael dropped into a light crouch, body sideways, Lion out before him. “If you are!”

  Toraine moved in a blur of black armor and red hair, chopping at Mazael’s face. Mazael sidestepped, parried, and thrust for Toraine’s throat. Toraine pushed Lion down, spun, and brought his saber down for an overhead chop. The swords clanged and rang with the effort of the battle.

  Toraine stepped back, saber point tracing figure-eights. “Fast, for an old man.”

  “I’m but ten years your senior,” said Mazael, circling Toraine. Toraine began circling him in return, neither his eyes nor his blade wavering. “Boy.”

  Toraine sprang forward, feinted for Mazael’s head, and dropped his strike low. Mazael kicked the flat of the blade aside and stabbed. Toraine twisted away, sword flailing.

  “Poor form,” growled Toraine, “using your boot in such a manner.”

  “In battle,” said Mazael, feinting for Toraine’s arm, Toraine stepping aside, “form matters less than who still’s standing when it’s all over. You’ve killed enough people. I thought you’d know that.”

  Toraine growled, his eyes blazing, and flung himself at Mazael. His saber flashed high, low, whirling in steel spirals. Mazael blocked and ducked and parried, Lion clanging in his hands. Toraine’s momentum played out, and Mazael spun and threw a two-handed chop that Toraine’s saber barely turned.

  They reeled back and forth in the ragged circle, Toraine’s saber flashing and stabbing against Lion’s blade. Mazael’s blood pumped through his arms, his breath deep and strong. Despite himself, he began to enjoy the swordplay. Toraine moved his blade with masterful skill, perhaps better than almost anyone in Castle Cravenlock. It had been a long time since Mazael had faced a serious challenge. Even the battles against the scattered mercenaries had been little more than organized slaughter.

  Bit by bit, Mazael probed the edge of Toraine’s defenses, Lion’s blade flashing. Toraine had skill, but lacked Mazael’s experience. He did not vary his defensive moves. Mazael thrust and swung, following Toraine’s defenses, preparing his winning blow.

  Then something slammed hard into his back.

  Mazael stumbled, pain bursting through his shoulders. He dropped to one knee, even as Toraine’s thrust screamed past and tore a ragged furrow across Mazael’s left bicep. Toraine overbalanced, surprise and triumph and alarm mingled on his face. Agony spread through Mazael’s arm.

  Rage exploded within him, turned his blood to howling flame.

  Mazael leapt back to his feet with a roar and a surge of speed, backhanding Toraine across the face, and the younger man fell back with a groan of pain. Lion gleamed, and Mazael raised it high, ready to ram it through Toraine’s eye, ready to watch blood and brains splash across the courtyard earth…

  “Mazael!”

  He blinked.

  Rachel gripped his arm, staring at him with a worried expression. Gerald was at her side, sword half drawn.

  “Rachel?” said Mazael. He scarce recognized his own voice. Blood dripped from the cut on his arm, soaking into the ground. Toraine stared up at him, breathing hard, hands raised in guard. He looked terrified.

  “For gods’ sake, don’t kill him,” said Rachel, pleading. “It was just a cut. Just a little blood. It’ll heal.”

  “Blood,” croaked Mazael, looking down at Toraine. He watched his dripping blood spatter on the ground.

  His blood…

  With a surge of horror, Mazael realized that his Demonsouled blood had almost taken hold of him once more, had almost driven him to murder in a blind rage.

  It had almost made Romaria’s sacrifice worthless.

  Disgusted and ashamed, he stepped back, picking up Toraine’s saber.

  Toraine climbed to his feet, rubbing his jaw. “Well.” His voice had a slight tremor. “So this is the famous rage of Mazael Cravenlock. Quite impressive.”

  Mazael reversed the blade and handed the hilt to Toraine. “My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t,” said Toraine. “I…suppose it was my fault. I shouldn’t have thrust when you stumbled.”

  A fresh flicker of rage awoke in Mazael’s mind. “Someone pushed me.”

  “Who would dare? You lost your balance, surely,” said Toraine, still rubbing his jaw.

  “Someone pushed me,” said Mazael, “I’m sure.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Rachel. “We’d best get your arm bandaged. Adalar!” Mazael’s squire hurried to her side. “Get Timothy at once!”

  “My lady.” Adalar dashed away.

  “I think perhaps I will retire to those guest chambers now,” said Toraine. “Getting knocked to the ground does rather knock the wind from a man.”

  “Of course.” Mazael ordered a page to show Toraine to the guest chambers in the southwestern tower. Timothy appeared, face furrowed with concern, and began clucking over the cut in Mazael’s arm. Mazael endured the ministrations, brooding. Timothy cleaned the wound and wound bandages about it.

  He cursed his folly. What hope of peace might the Grim
Marches have if he cut down Lord Richard’s son in a blind fury? Lord Richard would seek vengeance, and Mazael would have no choice but to seek Lord Malden’s aid, and then the Grim Marches would drown in blood and war.

  And how would the Old Demon exploit such a bloodletting?

  Mazael sighed.

  “You look pale. I hope the wound doesn’t fester,” said Rachel, still frowning.

  “It won’t,” said Mazael.

  “Your confidence flatters me, my lord,” said Timothy.

  Mazael had the utmost confidence in Timothy, but that didn’t matter.

  The power in his Demonsouled blood healed even the most grievous wounds.

  And even as Timothy finished, the wound closed beneath the bandage, the skin knitting together of its own accord.

  “Let us have some breakfast,” said Rachel, touching his arm.

  “You look thirsty, after all,” said Gerald, trying to smile.

  Mazael nodded and let Rachel lead him to the great hall.

  ###

  Some time later, Lucan Mandragon strolled through the deserted courtyard, wrapped in his mindclouding spell and his dark cloak.

  It had been a risk, though a slight one, to strike Mazael with the spell from behind. Lucan’s mindclouding permitted him to stand ignored in the crowd of spectators, but Mazael had always been able to see through it. Fortunately, Mazael’s attention had always been focused on Toraine.

  Of course, Mazael might have killed Toraine in his wrath.

  Lucan laughed. That had would have been less of risk and more of a pleasant surprise. But, still, Lucan wanted peace as much as Mazael, and Toraine’s death would hardly help.

  He stopped where Toraine and Mazael had fought. A few drops of dried blood stained the earth. Lucan’s cold smile widened as he knelt. He produced a dagger and scraped the bloodstained dirt into a pouch.

  “Now, my lord Mazael,” said Lucan, rising, “we’ll find things out, will we not?”

  He remembered Mazael’s furious rage, the murderous light in his eyes, and Lucan’s smile vanished in a sudden chill.

  He had never encountered such fury before, though he had read of it, and suspected its source.

  “Yes, Lord Mazael,” he murmured, flexing his fingers, fingers that could conjure a score of lethal spells, “we’ll find out, will we not?”

  Chapter 2

  1

  The Wrath of Sepharivaim

  Mazael rubbed his aching head. “That didn’t go well.”

  He stood alone with Gerald and Rachel in the courtyard. Night had fallen, and most of the castle’s residents had retired.

  Rachel shrugged. “At least Toraine didn’t kill anyone.”

  The Lord Heir had loitered about the great hall during court, glaring at Mazael over dinner. He had insulted several of Mazael’s knights, and made vigorous efforts to seduce their wives. Mazael hoped he had been unsuccessful. If a vengeful husband gutted Toraine in a duel, Lord Richard would be wroth.

  “I have a pair of armsmen at his door,” said Gerald, “as an honor guard. They’ll let us know if he tries anything…troublesome.”

  “Good,” said Mazael, clapping Gerald’s shoulder, “good. No wonder Lucan hates him so. Quite a pair, aren’t they? Lucan may be a black wizard, but at least he has a civil tongue in his head.”

  “Speaking of Lucan,” said Gerald, “where is he? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

  Mazael shrugged. “Nor have I.”

  Rachel scowled. “He’s up to something, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe,” said Mazael. “Or perhaps he’s afraid he can’t control himself around Toraine.” He grimaced. “Like me.”

  “That was an accident…” Gerald and Rachel began in unison.

  “I know, I know,” said Mazael, waving his hand. “Go to bed. I’m weary enough, and I’ve no doubt you are also. Go.”

  Gerald gave Rachel a chaste kiss on the cheek, and she turned and joined her waiting maids. Mazael turned and stalked towards his bedchamber. He barred the door behind him and threw himself on the bed, not bothering to undress.

  But he could not sleep, and stared at the ceiling. For a moment he considered summoning Bethy, but shoved the notion aside. Bad enough he had succumbed to his Demonsouled nature once today. No need to risk passing his curse on to an unwitting child.

  ###

  Lucan crossed to the far wall of his chamber, a small cell wedged beneath the chambers of the court wizard. To most eyes, the wall looked blank, a featureless stretch of worn gray stone.

  Only Lucan’s eyes saw the complex sigil painted onto the stone, an ornate combination of summoning and conjuration symbols. Of course, a wizard of sufficient skill would have noticed the mark, but Lucan doubted another wizard in the Grim Marches possessed such mastery.

  He stepped forward, ran his fingers along the sigil’s lines, and muttered a quick incantation. Gray mist welled from the sigil, wrapping him in its chilly embrace.

  When it cleared, Lucan stood in the vaulted central corridor of the sealed San-keth temple. He smiled in satisfaction. The sigil had worked, snatching him from the material world, through the spiritual world, and depositing him into the temple corridor.

  He adjusted the pouch holding the bloodstained dirt and made his way to the cathedral-like temple chamber itself. A towering golden image of Sepharivaim, god of the San-keth, had once loomed over the altar. Reliefs on the walls and columns had displayed images of the San-keth torturing helpless humans. Mazael had ordered the idol destroyed, the statues smashed.

  The temple had quite a different look now.

  Sagging bookshelves lined the walls of the balconies, laden Lucan’s books and scrolls. Long tables on the temple’s main floor held alchemical equipment, vast collections of bottles, and a variety of arcane machinery that would have baffled poor Timothy. Lucan descended to the temple floor, looking about in satisfaction. He had wanted a secret haven for years, a place to carry on his work away from his father’s eyes.

  Lucan laughed aloud, his mirth echoing off the silent stones. Ironic. His father’s own orders had given Lucan the opportunity to claim the temple for his own. He strolled past the tables, glancing over his collection of magical tools.

  He stopped before an intricate double circle painted on the floor. A bewildering array of intricate runes lay between the two circles, like a ring of crawling spiders. Lucan crossed to a bookstand and a small table on the far side of the circle. On the bookstand rested the page torn from the San-keth spell book.

  Lucan set the pouch of dirt on the table, focused his will, and began to chant.

  He chanted for a long time. Soon, gray mist roiled and writhed within the circle. Lucan lit a small bronze censer and waved it in complex patterns. With his free hand he seized handfuls of various powders and flung them into the mist. Magical force trembled and shuddered in the air.

  Lucan clapped his hands and shouted the final word of the spell.

  A shrieking, tearing sound filled the temple. The circle blazed with blue light for an instant, the mist transmuting into a curtain of blue flame.

  And then a hulking shape reared within the circle.

  Lucan looked away at once. The spell had described no danger, but Lucan had dealt with conjured spirits often enough to know that staring at it might prove perilous, even fatal.

  A hissing voice snarled out of the circle, making both Lucan’s bones and the stone floor vibrate.

  “You are not of the San-keth race! What do you want of me, mortal dog?”

  “One simple service, nothing more,” said Lucan, resisting the urge to gaze at the spirit creature.

  “I am obligated to do nothing!”

  “Of course not. But, then, you are quite imprisoned within the circle, and you cannot return to your world until I release you. So. You may perform this simple, insignificant service for me, or you will remain within that circle for the rest of time. It matters very little to me.”

  Actually, Lucan would have found it inc
onvenient. He had no wish to move his workroom yet again. But the thing in the circle needn’t know that.

  “Wretched mortal! I shall rend your soul from your flesh.”

  The air shuddered with a scream of fury, the circle sparking with sapphire light. Lucan waited. The shudders and sparks intensified, growing louder and brighter. The display went on for some minutes, then fell silent.

  “You’ll find,” said Lucan, “that the circle is quite impregnable. A greater spirit could have broken it, but you’re scarcely a lesser spirit. Perform a service for me, or sit there until the world crumbles into dust.”

  A long silence followed. Lucan smirked.

  “Very well, mortal man.” The awful voice sounded resigned. “What do you wish?”

  “A simple favor, nothing more,” said Lucan. He undid the drawstring on the pouch. “Tell me what manner of mortal creature shed this blood.”

  Something like a chuckle escaped the circle. “An enemy?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t yet know.” Lucan scowled. “But it is no concern of yours. Do as I say!”

  He flung the bloodstained earth into the circle.

  The mist roiled and snarled, and for a brief moment blazed with black flames.

  The chuckle came again. “Ah, mortal man! You have mighty enemies!”

  “Do I?” said Lucan.

  “This blood is of he who mortals called the Great Demon, long ago.”

  “Ah.” Many things became clear to Lucan.

  Mazael’s uncanny speed and strength, his rage, the way his eyes blazed on the rare occasions when he lost his temper. For that matter, how else could Mazael have survived both a San-keth priest and the notorious necromancer Simonian of Briault?

  Mazael, Lord of Castle Cravenlock, was Demonsouled.

  Lucan contemplated what to do next.

  “The spirit of demonkind blazes within this blood like a black star,” hissed the creature. “This blood…ah, such might, such potency! This blood came from the Great Demon’s own line.”

  Lucan’s eyes widened.

  Had the Old Demon himself fathered Mazael? Lucan had always believed the Old Demon a myth, a creature of peasant fable. But if the last son of the Great Demon still walked the earth after three thousand years…