Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  The bandits did not even have time to turn around. Chariot crashed into a ragged man, running him down, even as Mazael struck the head from another. The knights thundered into the bandits, blades flashing, hooves stamping. Mazael galloped through the bandits, his arm rising and falling, leaving dead men in his wake. He caught a glimpse of a tall, lean man in a dusty brown cloak atop the lead wagon, staring at him beneath bushy gray eyebrows.

  The knights tore past the wagons, wheeling their mounts around. Most of the bandits lay dead, their blood staining the brown grass. About a dozen survivors fled in all directions, throwing down their weapons. The knights broke into small bands and set after the fleeing bandits. Mazael cursed and wheeled Chariot around. Trying to keep his knights in disciplined formation after a charge had proven almost impossible.

  He rode to the lead wagon. “Which of you is the master of this caravan?”

  “That would be me, sir knight,” said the man in the dusty cloak, his voice polite and smooth. He set his short sword on the wagon’s seat and sprang down. Everything about the man looked dusty. His boots were dusty. Even his bushy gray eyebrows and gray hair looked like they had been colored with dust. He gripped the edge of his cloak and did grand bow. “Harune Dustfoot, a humble merchant of Tumblestone, at your service.”

  Mazael snorted. “Dustfoot? Appropriate enough.”

  “Well, I do quite a lot of traveling, after all,” said Harune. “There’s very little profit in standing still.” He cocked his head to the side. “I presume I have the honor of speaking with Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock?”

  “You do,” said Mazael, frowning. “How the devil did you know that?” Sir Aulus rode past, sword in one hand and Cravenlock banner in the other. “Of course, the banner.”

  “Actually,” said Harune, “my youngest brother was long a merchant in Knightport, before he left for distant shores to pursue his fortune. He told me of a formidable, though landless, knight named Sir Mazael Cravenlock who used to guard his caravans.”

  “That was years ago,” said Mazael. “I’ve come up a bit in the world since then.” He missed those days. He had had no responsibilities, no bonds, and the freedom to go wherever he chose.

  And he had known nothing of his Demonsouled blood.

  “I thank my lord for saving my humble caravan,” said Harune, bowing again. “Bandits are always thick in the mountains after the winter, though I have never seen quite so large a band.”

  “Where are you bound?” said Mazael.

  “Knightcastle,” said Harune, “as I am carrying cheeses from Cadlyn and sausages from Farsifel. Lord Malden’s youngest son is getting married, rumor says, and rumor claims that he’ll throw a grand feast for the folk of Castle Town.” Harune shrugged. “He’ll need to buy food.”

  “You mean,” said Sir Tobias, who had ridden up to Mazael’s side, “those bandits tried to kill you over a cartload of damned cheeses?”

  Harune shrugged. “They’re fine cheeses.”

  “As it happens, the rumors speak true,” said Mazael. “Sir Gerald is marrying Lady Rachel Cravenlock.” He waved his hand at them. “My sister. No doubt your brother told you that as well.”

  “My second cousin passed along the rumor, actually,” said Harune.

  “We’re heading for Knightcastle ourselves,” said Mazael, “since we have the bride and groom with us, and it would be hard to hold the wedding without them.”

  “Or without fine cheeses,” agreed Harune.

  Mazael snorted. “Undoubtedly. So, ride with us. We’ll take no reward.”

  “But…” said Tobias.

  “He can’t pay your lord father’s tax if he can’t get to Castle Town in one piece,” said Mazael.

  Tobias sighed. “True enough.”

  “Gerald!” said Mazael. The younger man rode over, Wesson trailing behind, wiping down Gerald’s sword. “Dispose of the corpses, and get our men in line. Have them stay around Harune’s wagons…we wouldn’t want you to get married without cheese, after all.”

  Gerald gave him an odd look, but rode off, shouting commands.

  Mazael watched his knights and Tobias’s for a moment, then rode past them. Lucan sat on his horse, wrapped in his dark cloak, ignored and unnoticed.

  “Well?” said Mazael.

  “No changelings,” murmured Lucan, shaking his head. “Common bandits, nothing more.” He frowned. “Though there is something odd about this Harune fellow…”

  “What?” said Mazael. “A changeling?”

  “No,” said Lucan, shaking his head. “I…think he has some sort of enspelled bauble on his person.”

  “Dangerous?”

  Lucan shook his head again. “Hardly. You have one, after all.” He pointed at the bronze ring on Mazael’s hand. “And you use it quite frequently, as I understand. Best get back to your men, before they wonder why you’re sitting here talking to yourself.”

  “Keep an eye on Harune,” said Mazael, “just in case.”

  “Your whim is ever my command, lord,” said Lucan, doing a mocking little bow.

  Mazael sighed and rode back to the line.

  A few hours later they rode away, leaving behind a massive, crackling pyre, the bandits' heads mounted atop spears as a warning to others.

  2

  Straganis

  Another week took them to the Black River and the ford of Tristgard.

  Lord Tancred had not been at Stillwater, having already left for Knightcastle. They stayed one night at Stillwater Keep, wined and dined by Lord Tancred’s seneschal, a dour man with neither humor nor wit. Mazael had left the next day, with some relief, and pushed on to the Black River and Tristgard.

  It seemed that village of Tristgard, like every other castle, village, and ruin in Knightrealm, had its legends.

  “It was at this ford that King Tristifane stood against the Malrag hordes,” Gerald told Rachel, warming to the tale, “with only eight hundred loyal knights, against a hundred thousand.”

  “The numbers inflated with every retelling, no doubt,” said Mazael. “It was most likely twelve knights and sixty Malrags.”

  Both Gerald and Tobias gave him reproachful looks. Mazael rolled his eyes and fell silent.

  “Old King Tristifane won against the horde,” said Tobias, “though he fell in the battle, and two-thirds of his loyal knights perished. His son raised this statue to commemorate the battle.” Tobias pointed. “You can see it up ahead, here. It’s worn down a bit, over the centuries.”

  A massive monolith sat at the base of a hill, crusted with generations of lichen. It might have once been a statue, though it looked more like a random boulder fallen from the hill.

  “It’s also said that if enemies ever cross the Black River, old King Tristifane’s ghost will rise up to drive them out,” said Gerald.

  “And here’s the Black River,” said Mazael. “Perhaps we’ll see if Lord Malden think us enemies or not, eh?”

  The Black River stretched before them, winding its way through the craggy hills. Its name came from the chunks of black stone that littered the riverbed, lending the water a dark color. Tristgard held the only safe ford through the river. There were bridges over the river to the north and south, but both charged higher tolls.

  The village stood on the far side of the river, built of weatherworn gray stone and red shingles. Wisps of smoke curled from the chimneys. A cluster of tents and wagons stood outside the village’s walls. Because of its location, Tristifane played host to a near-perpetual merchants’ fair.

  Yet the tents looked deserted, and the wagons empty.

  Gerald frowned. “It’s usually more crowded than this.”

  “Merchants, bravos for hire,” said Tobias. “Whores.” He looked disappointed.

  “Harune!” said Mazael. The merchant’s wagon rolled up. “Have you passed through Tristgard recently?”

  “I did, my lord,” said Harune, staring at the village with fixed intensity. “On my way to Cadlyn. Though that was a year past.”
r />   “My knights and I rode through two months ago,” said Tobias, “and the village seemed more normal then.”

  “Timothy?” said Mazael.

  Timothy joined them, clutching his quartz crystal, his eyelids fluttering. “There are…people in the village. Nine hundred or so.” He frowned. “Nobody in the merchants’ tents, though. Peculiar.”

  “Perhaps the villagers have plague,” said Rachel, frowning.

  “There’s no plague marks on the gate,” said Timothy.

  Trocend gazed at the wall with his cool eyes. “They may have been too stricken to make the effort.”

  Something about Tristgard did not sit right with Mazael. He had passed through the village several times over the last fifteen years, and the place had always seemed boisterous. Never before had it seemed to quiet.

  Lucan rode up, ignored by the others. Mazael risked a glance at him. Lucan shrugged.

  “Then let’s go see what’s wrong with Tristgard,” said Mazael.

  He urged Mantle into the ford.

  ###

  Calibah, Roger Gravesend discovered, had stripes of pale scales on her thighs and breasts.

  She had more or less ordered him into bed once they had taken control of Tristgard. Roger had obeyed, mostly out of terror. The minute Calibah no longer found him useful, she would give him a kiss with her fangs, and he would die in agony. Besides, she was shapely enough, if a man disregarded her more serpentine attributes.

  After they finished, she walked naked across their room on the top floor of Tristgard’s inn, and glared out the window.

  “Get dressed,” she ordered.

  “Eh?” said Roger, lifting his sweaty head from the pillow.

  Calibah glared at him, baring her fangs. “I said to get dressed!”

  Roger all but fell from the bed in his haste. He cursed the way his hands shook as he buckled his belt and laced his boots. A few months ago he had lived in comfort in his own hall, master over his peasants. Now he was little more than a slave to this half-mad, half-human woman. How had he ever come to this?

  “Bring me my clothes,” said Calibah.

  Roger scooped up her skirt and blouse and boots, his face burning with anger and shame, and walked to her side. The sunlight glistened off her skin and pale scales. She took the clothes from his arms and dressed.

  As she bent over to pull on her boots, Roger contemplated plunging his sword into her back. One quick thrust and he could be free of her. But could he get out of Tristgard alive? All the other calibah, the changelings, held her in awe. She seemed to be their chief. The other changelings all had names, but she was only Calibah.

  Calibah pulled on her blouse, smiling, and something her cold eyes made Roger very glad he had not drawn his sword.

  “What’s happening?” said Roger.

  “They’re here,” said Calibah.

  “Lord Mazael?” said Roger, his hands tightening into fists. This was all Mazael Cravenlock’s fault. If not for him, Roger would never have been reduced to his current misery.

  “He is,” said Calibah. “And Rachel Cravenlock and two of Lord Malden’s three surviving sons…and, ah, the Dragon’s Shadow as well. My master is pleased.”

  Sir Roger licked dry lips. “The Dragon’s Shadow slaughtered Blackfang. Your master should be wary.”

  “Blackfang was a child,” murmured Calibah. “Skhath was a child. Both were fools who displeased my master. He is one of the great holy ones, an archpriest of Karag Tormeth. You thought Blackfang wielded the power of great Sepharivaim? Now you will see true power.” She titled her head to the side. “Ah. My master wishes to meet you. Come.” She beckoned, moving to the door. “He awaits us in the common room.”

  Roger swallowed and followed Calibah through the inn’s hallways. None of the rooms were empty. Most held terrified villagers, lying bound and gagged on the floor. A few held the corpses of villagers who had proven troublesome.

  Calibah swept into the common room, Roger at her heels. A dozen changelings stood in a cluster near the door, around a hunched figure wrapped in a filthy black cloak. Roger gagged as the stench from the cloaked shape struck him. The changelings stepped back, fear on their faces. The hunched shape turned towards Sir Roger.

  “Master,” said Calibah, falling on her face before the cloaked figure.

  “Sir Roger Gravesend.” The voice was slow, creaking, and quite hideous. “So we meet at last.”

  Roger saw the creature beneath the cloak, and stifled a scream.

  ###

  “Have the women stay by the riverbank,” said Mazael. “Behind Harune’s wagons, if possible. They’ll make for cover.” Harune nodded and shouted instructions to his drivers. “Adalar. Get Chariot.”

  Gerald frowned. “You really expect trouble? We’re not a week from Knightcastle!”

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael, scowling. Adalar took Mantle’s reins, and Mazael climbed off the palfrey’s back and swung into Chariot’s saddle. He did know that he felt better equipped to face trouble atop his black-tempered warhorse. “Timothy, Sir Aulus, Sir Gerald, Sir Tobias, Brother Trocend; with me.” He cast a quick glance at Lucan, who nodded and rode up.

  The seven of them rode over the ford, through the abandoned caravansary, and to the open gates of Tristgard. Within Mazael saw a cobblestone street, well-tended stone houses, and a fountain bubbling within a market square.

  Yet he saw no people.

  “Damned strange,” he muttered. “Sir Aulus.”

  Sir Aulus nodded and stood up in his stirrups, the black Cravenlock banner flapping over his head. “Folk of Tristgard!” His voice boomed over the stone walls. “Lord Mazael Cravenlock wishes to purchase provisions of you, and means you no harm! He bids you to send out an emissary for parley!”

  Nothing moved within the silent village.

  “Timothy?” said Mazael.

  Timothy’s fingers clenched over the quartz crystal. “It’s…I’m sure there’s hundreds of people within, my lord. But… only a few of them are moving. And I’m sure some of them are watching us.”

  “Plague, then,” said Trocend. “That’s the only reason so many would lie abed this time of day. We must make all haste to Knightcastle and warn Lord Malden.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Plague…no, that’s not right. Something else is wrong…”

  The door to the village’s inn burst open.

  ###

  “They’re not coming into the village,” whispered Roger, staring at Lord Mazael and his band through the inn’s window. They sat unmoving on their horses a few yards from the gate. “They know something’s wrong.” He wiped sweating palms on his cloak.

  Calibah glared at him. “Do you question the master?”

  “No,” said Roger, “it’s just…I…”

  “Come,” croaked the cloaked, stinking shape. “Let us go and meet our guests.” A hissing approximation of laughter came from the black cowl. “We do not want to be discourteous, no? Calibah, Gravesend. Follow.”

  “But he’ll kill me,” said Roger.

  “Your presence will drive him to rage,” said the cloaked form, “overruling his reason, and then I shall exterminate him.”

  Roger, as usual, had no choice but to follow.

  ###

  A hunched shape in a ragged black cloak stumbled from the village’s inn.

  Mazael watched in growing alarm. The figure moved with a strange lurching, almost skittering gait, filthy cloak dragging against the cobbles. Had a plague indeed taken Tristgard? Mazael’s Demonsouled blood could resist plague, but what of those around him?

  Then he saw the man and the woman behind the cloaked form, and Mazael’s fists closed in sudden fury.

  The lean, pretty woman, in the rough dress of a serving girl, was a changeling. The man was Sir Roger Gravesend.

  “You traitor dog,” said Mazael, yanking Lion free. “You should have run to the ends of the earth if you wanted to live.”

  The cloaked figure stopped, and a pair of enormo
us, fish-pale hands reached up and opened the filthy cloak.

  Trocend jerked back in the saddle, his cool mask shattering. “By all the gods!”

  Mazael’s breath hissed through clenched teeth.

  A San-keth cleric stood beneath the cloak. Most San-keth clerics, Skhath and Blackfang included, used undead human skeletons to carry their limbless bodies.

  This one seemed to have preferred a living body. Of sorts.

  A vaguely human-like torso, knotted with muscle, squatted atop an armored carapace and eight spider-like legs, each one hard and sharp. A scorpion’s stinger reared over one shoulder, shimmering with greenish slime. By some black sorcery the San-keth’s serpentine body had been grafted into the pale flesh of the torso. Mazael saw knots of muscles and nerves interwoven with the faded red scales. The San-keth’s eyes were ancient and cloudy with centuries of cruelty.

  The entire freakish assemblage of mismatched meat stank like carrion.

  “Gods,” said Trocend, still shaken. “What sort of black alchemy is this?”

  “Gods?” croaked the San-keth cleric. “Your cursed gods stripped us of our limbs, for they feared our great might.” It spread its human arms. “The lesser servants of great Sepharivaim use the undead corpses of the inferior races for their carriers. We greater servants may manufacture our own limbs.”

  “Greater?” said Mazael.

  Lucan cursed, very softly.

  “I am Straganis, archpriest of Karag Tormeth, master of the seventh circle,” hissed the San-keth. “You are Lord Mazael Cravenlock, who murdered Skhath, servant of great Sepharivaim. You are sister to Rachel Cravenlock, apostate and betrayer. You both shall perish for your crimes.” His hands began working patterns, fingers crackling with green flames.

  Mazael hefted Lion. The sword began to shimmer with an azure glow. “I think not.”

  Straganis cackled, hands thrusting out. Emerald flame blazed, and a black shadow flew at Mazael. A chill stabbed into his chest, and he tried to raise his crackling sword to block the shadow…