Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  Mazael coughed. “You’re lying in my bed, and you’re asking me to take a wife?”

  She remained unperturbed. “Of course. You’re Lord of Castle Cravenlock! You’ll have to marry some silly-headed noble wench sooner or later. Someone with lands and knights, a big dowry. Doesn’t matter if she’s stupid or ugly or wishes she were a nun.” She wriggled against him, hooking her hands around the back of his neck. “You can get her with child and come back to us.”

  “Us?” said Mazael.

  “The other mistresses I will pick for you, of course,” said Bethy. Her eyes sparkled and she kissed him.

  “Of course,” said Mazael, kissing her back.

  ###

  Mazael awoke to sunlight streaming into his eyes.

  He had slept late, since he hadn’t gotten very much sleep last night.

  He had a vague memory of Bethy slipping away to start breakfast. Mazael yawned, rolled out of bed, and poured himself a goblet of wine. Sleeping with her would cause problems, he supposed. Still, almost every lord had mistresses.

  And he felt better than he had in months.

  Mazael drained his wine, dressed himself, and walked into the corridor.

  Adalar waited outside his door, holding his cloak. He did not look happy. “My lord.”

  Mazael took the cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “I suppose you were busy last night, after all.”

  Mazael lifted an eyebrow. “And what the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  Adalar said nothing, a jaw in his muscle working.

  “Out with it, boy. I’ll not have you glaring daggers at my back all day.”

  “A true knight sleeps only with his wife,” said Adalar.

  Mazael burst out laughing. A“Is that it? I don’t even have a wife.”

  “A true knight is faithful only to his wife,” said Adalar.

  “Aye, but I’ve no wife,” said Mazael, “and a chaste life is fine for monks and priests, but I’m neither a monk nor a priest.”

  Adalar’s scowl did not abate.

  “She was willing, as was I,” said Mazael, “so what harm in it?”

  Adalar still said nothing.

  “I’m your lord,” said Mazael, irritated, “and I’ve no need to defend myself to you.” He set off for the stairs, Adalar trailing. “If you want a life of chastity and arms, join the Justiciar Knights.” He shook his head. “Though your father would have a fit.”

  Adalar scoffed and shook his head. “He never did approve of the Justiciars.”

  “Because they tend towards the fanatic,” said Mazael, “and kill folk for drinking overmuch and looking crosswise at a woman. I’d rather have a wise libertine for a lord than a pious fool.” He shook his head. “Though perhaps I’m a foolish libertine, at that. I’ll hear no more of this, Adalar. Understand?”

  Adalar scowled, but nodded. “My lord.”

  ###

  “I hear you had a busy night,” said Rachel, shaking her head.

  Mazael speared a bit of meat on his dagger and glanced at her. “Not you, too.”

  “It is impious,” said Rachel.

  Mazael took a bite. “I’m sure the gods have other things on their minds.”

  “Suppose you father a bastard?” said Rachel. “We could have another rebellion in twenty years.”

  Mazael rubbed the bronze ring on his left hand. “I’ve taken precautions.”

  “What man and woman do when they lie together is wrong,” said Rachel, “and is only sanctified when a child is born.”

  “You would have become a nun,” said Mazael, “if not for Gerald, so don’t lecture me on the matter.”

  Next time he vowed to bring Bethy to his rooms in secret, if only for the sake of peace and quiet.

  3

  Embassy

  The next day, twenty horsemen flying the banner of the Rolands rode for Castle Cravenlock’s gates. At their head galloped a knight in his thirties who looked like a shorter, more muscular version of Sir Gerald.

  “Here they come,” muttered Mazael, striding across the courtyard. He wore his finest tunic, boots, and cloak, and Lion rode in a scabbard of polished wood and leather. His whole court had gathered in the yard, Gerald and Rachel, Timothy and Sir Nathan and Master Cramton and the others.

  Even Lucan stood in the courtyard, his black cloak stark against the finery of the knights and minor lords, though Mazael doubted the others could see him.

  “Is not Sir Tobias your friend?” said Adalar.

  “He is. Or at least he was,” said Mazael.

  Mazael squared his shoulders as the horsemen clattered through the gate. In the next five minutes he would learn if Lord Malden had become an enemy or not. In the next five minutes Mazael would learn if his lands would know peace or the ravages of war.

  Sir Aulus cleared his throat and began to declaim. “Sir Tobias Roland, son of Lord Malden of Knightcastle!”

  Mazael walked to the lead rider. The stocky knight sprang out of the saddle with ease. He carried a long, crescent-bladed axe over his shoulder in lieu of a sword.

  “Sir Tobias,” said Mazael. “Welcome to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Mazael, you dog!” roared Sir Tobias, grinning. “Lord of Castle Cravenlock! Ha! I never thought you’d do half as well.” He seized Mazael in a rough embrace. “Always though you’d wind up in a shallow grave!”

  “And you’d be dead with a pox caught from some whore,” said Mazael.

  Sir Tobias laughed again. He had a broad, ruddy face suited for both laughter and rage. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.” He turned, his grin widening. “Gerald, boy!”

  “Tobias!” Gerald stepped forward, Rachel trailing behind him, and caught Tobias in a hug. “You’re looking well.”

  “And you, brother,” said Tobias. Rachel caught his eye. “So this is the fair and noble lady who has captured my brother’s heart, eh?” He took her hand and kissed it, sweeping his blue cloak in a flourishing bow.

  “My lord,” said Rachel, a touching of color entering her cheeks. “Gerald has always spoken most highly of you.”

  “He has, has he?” said Tobias, snickering. “And I’m not lord of anything yet. Though I’m working on that. Sooner or later Father will let me carve a domain of my own out of the Dominiar lands, like old Mandor almost did.”

  Lucan snorted. No one noticed. Mazael glanced at him, and Lucan gave a slow nod. None of Sir Tobias’s party were San-keth changelings.

  Tobias began to regale Rachel with a tale of Mazael’s exploits during the Dominiar war. He said nothing of Gerald’s marriage or Lord Malden’s will. Mazael wondered why Lord Malden had sent Tobias to negotiate a marriage. Tobias was bold and fearless, but not particularly subtle.

  “Aye, it was a sight,” said Tobias, gesturing. “We charged them outside the gates of Tumblestone. Sir Mazael…”

  “Lord Mazael,” said Rachel and Gerald in unison.

  “Lord Mazael in the front, and the Dominiar footmen broke and ran, and we rode into Tumblestone without trouble,” said Tobias. “We ought to have kept going, drove them into the sea. I could be lord of Castle Dominus even now.”

  “Or you could be dead,” said a weary voice. “Our strength was spent, as you might recall.”

  A man in a brown robe rode through the gate, his thinning brown hair shot with gray, his face lined and tired. Mazael felt an enormous wave of relief. Great difficulties and bitter negotiations might lie ahead.

  But Lord Malden would not oppose the marriage.

  “Brother Trocend,” said Mazael, inclining his head.

  Trocend slid from the saddle with pained precision and bowed. “Lord Mazael.”

  Trocend Castleson, known to the world as Brother Trocend, served as Lord Malden’s seneschal, right-hand man, advisor, and master of spies. Not many men knew that Trocend had once been an Amatavian monk, but had later left the order for reasons Mazael never learned. And very few people knew that Trocend was
a wizard of considerable skill. Mazael suspected if it had something to do with the man’s departure from the Amatavian Order.

  Or perhaps it was the utter ruthlessness Trocend displayed on occasion.

  “Are you well?” said Mazael.

  Trocend had a kindly smile, the sort of smile that inspired trust. “As well as can be expected. Old joints do not travel well.”

  “And Lord Malden,” said Mazael, “how is he?”

  Trocend’s smile turned crooked. “That is what I have come to discuss.” He glanced up at the walls. “Let us walk together. We have much to talk about, I think.”

  “As do I,” said Mazael. “Sir Gerald!”

  “My lord?” said Gerald.

  “See to it that Sir Tobias is entertained.” He caught Gerald by the arm and lowered his voice. “And keep him away from Toraine.”

  Gerald bowed, Rachel on his arm, and led Tobias away.

  “Shall we?” said Trocend.

  “Of course,” said Mazael.

  Yet to Mazael’s surprise, Trocend walked away from the walls, his pale eyes on Lucan. Lucan stared back, then after a moment, walked towards them.

  “So,” said Lucan, “my father always suspected Lord Malden kept a wizard, despite his law against magic. Disguised as a monk? Clever.”

  Trocend gave him a thin smile. “And you are Lucan Mandragon, the Dragon’s Shadow? I thought you’d be older.”

  The two wizards watched each other.

  “If you’re going to unleash battle-magic on each other, do it outside my walls,” said Mazael.

  “Direct, as ever, Lord Mazael,” said Trocend. “No, I am in fact quite glad to see Lucan. I wished to speak with one of Lord Richard’s emissaries.”

  “The Lord Heir,” said Lucan, “has condescended to visit us. Why not speak with him?”

  “All men agree that Toraine Mandragon is bold and fierce,” said Trocend, “but lacks in…subtlety, perhaps.”

  Lucan smirked. “I find myself liking you already.”

  “How splendid,” said Trocend. “My old joints feel in need of a walk. Shall we?”

  They climbed the ramparts and walked along the curtain wall. A brisk wind blew over the Grim Marches, driving steel-gray clouds across the pale sky. The wind ruffled Trocend’s hair, tugged at his robe.

  “A fine view from these walls,” said Trocend at last. “Not quite so fine as the view from the parapets of Knightcastle, of course, nor from the heights of Swordgrim, but grand nonetheless.” He laughed to himself. “Yet it seems that neither Lord Malden nor Lord Richard can see what you will do next.”

  “Spare me the rhetoric,” said Mazael. “This isn’t the court of Knightcastle. There’s no need to hide your meaning in flowery phrases.”

  Trocend’s laugh remained dry. “Are all you Marcher folk so direct?”

  Lucan lifted an eyebrow. “And are all the folk of Lord Malden’s court so duplicitous?”

  “Come, come,” said Trocend. “No one here is a stranger to duplicity, I am sure.” Mazael said nothing. “But this is the Grim Marches, after all, and I will follow the custom of the country. So, Lord Mazael. You want your sister to wed Sir Gerald?”

  “I do.”

  Trocend came to a stop. “Why?”

  “Because I have a tie to Lord Richard,” said Mazael, “since I have become his liegeman. Yet I was a knight in Lord Malden’s court for years, and he and Lord Richard are mortal enemies. I therefore want a tie to Lord Malden as well. If I am between them, they will not go to war.”

  “Or so you think,” added Lucan.

  “You want peace,” said Trocend. “How peculiar. I have never known a lord to refuse war. War is the way of lordship, after all. For with war comes spoils, lands, wealth, and glory. Everything the heart of a knight desires.”

  “And war also brings misery and suffering and plague,” said Mazael. “Will I slaughter thousands to slake my pride? The lords make war and the common folk suffer for it.”

  Trocend shrugged. “What of that? That is as it always has been. It is what the common folk are there for, after all.”

  “No,” said Mazael, with some heat. “No. A lord’s purpose is to be a guardian to his people, not to drive them to the slaughter, nor to hide in his castle as they suffer.”

  “A novel sentiment,” said Trocend.

  “I will not have war between Lord Richard and Lord Malden,” said Mazael.

  Lucan and Trocend laughed in unison.

  “Do you really believe you can stop them?” said Trocend.

  Mazael said nothing.

  Trocend shrugged. “But, as it happens, Lord Malden agrees with you.”

  Mazael frowned in surprise. “He does? I cannot see him ever forgiving Lord Richard for Sir Belifane’s death.”

  “Has your master come to unexpected reason, then?” said Lucan.

  Trocend’s thin smile returned. “Lord Malden remains determined to avenge valiant Sir Belifane’s cruel death. But…he feels that the time is not yet right.” He turned from his contemplation of the countryside. “Besides, other urgent matters occupy his attention.”

  “Other matters?” said Mazael.

  Trocend nodded. “Lord Malden contemplates war against the Dominiar Knights.”

  It took a few moments for Mazael to grasp this.

  “But that’s madness,” he said. “We defeated the Dominiars once before, but barely. And that was four years ago. They must have rebuilt their strength by now.”

  “The Old Kingdoms revolted against the Dominiar Order after you defeated them at Tumblestone,” said Trocend. “Grand Master Malleus no doubt has his hands full with rebellion.”

  “What of that?” said Mazael. “That was four years ago. Malleus has either crushed the Old Kingdoms by now, or abandoned them and rebuilt his armies. The Dominiars will be strong again. Why does Lord Malden even want to fight them?”

  “Because they want Tumblestone back,” said Trocend.

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  “The Dominiars never quite accepted that you took Tumblestone,” said Trocend. “It was, after all, their key harbor.” His mask-like smile returned. “For all the Dominiars’ devotion to the ideals of piety and crusading zeal, most of Mastaria’s foreign trade went through that one city.”

  “Crusading armies do not pay for themselves, after all,” said Lucan.

  “Quite right,” said Trocend. “For that matter, it is hard to send crusading armies to ravage heathen lands without a port.”

  “Lord Malden wishes to defend his lands, then,” said Mazael.

  “Not quite,” said Trocend. “Lord Malden desires more land.” He craned his neck. “Where, pray, are the Justiciar Knights?”

  “They aren’t here,” said Mazael. “Lord Richard expelled them from the Grim Marches for siding with Mitor.”

  “Whereupon they all returned to Swordor,” said Trocend.

  “The stronghold of the Justiciar Knights, the Dominiars’ sworn enemies,” said Lucan, “and Lord Malden’s closest allies.”

  Trocend inclined his head. “And the Justiciars are most desirous of war against the Dominiars. They are in dire need of land. Those expelled knights need supporting, after all.”

  “So both the Dominiars and Lord Malden are eager for war,” said Lucan, glancing sidelong at Mazael. “Difficult to avert, if a man desires peace.”

  “And why are you telling me this?” said Mazael.

  Trocend smiled. “Lord Malden is eager for Gerald to wed. And your sister seems an appropriate match for Sir Gerald, fair and pious and courteous, despite her somewhat questionable past. But…well,” he smiled, “if your sister marries a Roland, then you must be a friend to the house of Roland, no? Lord Richard is your liege lord, and Lord Malden would not ask you to become an oathbreaker for his sake…”

  “But if Rachel is to marry Gerald,” said Mazael, “then Lord Malden may ask for my help against the Dominiars.”

  Trocend studied him. “Exactly.”

  Mazael s
ighed and stared over the battlements. He did want to go to war with anyone. Yet Lucan was right. War would come, sooner and later. And if it did, would it not be better to fight in a distant land, to spare his people from its horrors?

  But how would the Old Demon use such a war? The thought made Mazael’s gut clench. Yet it seemed he had no other choice.

  He shivered. And it had seemed he had no other choice, too, when Mitor rose against Lord Richard, no choice at all until the Old Demon offered to make him king of the world…

  Trocend and Lucan stood in silence, watching him. “I would have to speak to Lord Malden before I make any decision.”

  “Of course,” said Trocend. “You can speak with Lord Malden when you come to Knightcastle.”

  Mazael frowned. “Come to Knightcastle?”

  “Lord Malden wishes the wedding to take place at Knightcastle, in the Hall of Triumphs,” said Trocend. “After all, Lord Malden cannot come to the Grim Marches himself.”

  Lucan smirked. “Wise of him.”

  “Lord Malden will offer several manors in southeastern Knightrealm to Gerald as a wedding gift,” said Trocend. “Fine estates. Superb for grapes. Of course, Lord Malden also expects Sir Gerald to have…appropriate means of support within the Grim Marches.”

  “I have numerous manors without a lord,” said Mazael. “Bloody Ridge, for instance.” He thought of Roger Gravesend and ground his teeth. “I had planned to combine several manors and make Gerald a lesser lord anyway.”

  “Good, good,” said Trocend. “Now, as to the lesser details…”

  Mazael nodded. He had, no doubt, several days of polite dickering in his future. But the heart of the matter had settled. Rachel would marry Gerald, and Lord Malden would not go to war against Lord Richard.

  But Mazael thought of war against the Dominiars, of the Old Demon, and wondered what this might cost.

  ###

  The next week went quickly.

  During the day Mazael discussed details with Trocend, about wines, taxes, tolls, vassals, and wedding costs. It made his head ache. That Trocend found such subjects endlessly fascinating only made it worse. Trocend could lecture on tolls and taxes for hours without end.