Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “They came for me,” said Mazael. “I am sorry I brought this misfortune upon you.” He cursed under his breath. How had Straganis followed his movements? Had he used some sort of far-seeing magic?

  “You saved us,” said the old knight, clutching at Mazael’s knee. “I heard them speak. Once they killed you…they were going to kill us. Sacrifice us all to their foul snake-god.” He offered a quavering smile. “But you were stronger! You are our deliverer. Please, just ask, and I will give you whatever you desire.”

  “A flagon of wine, to begin,” said Mazael, “and a quiet place where I can be undisturbed for a short time.” Adalar gave him an odd look. “I wish to pray to the gods, to offer thanksgiving for our victory, for it was a very close thing.”

  “Of course,” said Sir Lindon. “The church.” The church stood on one side of the village’s square, facing the inn. “No one will disturb you there.”

  Mazael nodded and slid from Chariot’s saddle. It hurt, but not as much as he expected. One of the villagers pressed a wooden goblet of wine into his aching fingers. He drained it away, walking to the church with as steadily as possible.

  “My lord,” said Adalar, trailing after him, “you’re hurt, you need assistance.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Mazael snapped, “I told you.” He thought a moment. “Go and see if Lady Rachel needs any assistance.” He thought of going to Rachel himself, and discarded the notion. The sight of his bloody clothing would likely throw her into hysterics. “I need to pray alone. I’ll rejoin you and the others shortly.”

  “But…”

  “Go!” said Mazael, growling. “I told you, go.”

  Adalar bowed and departed.

  Mazael opened the church’s heavy door and slid inside, pulling it shut behind him. Beams of dusty light sliced through the church’s windows, illuminating ancient pews and a high altar adorned with the images of Amatheon and the other gods. Mazael stripped off his blood-wet tunic, tossed it aside, and collapsed onto one of the pews. It felt quite uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to lie down for a moment.

  His chest, leg, and arm began tingled, the itch digging deep into his skin.

  He turned his head and looked at the wound on his shoulder. The torn muscle and shredded flesh began to tie itself together again, the ripped skin closing. The gods only knew what Trocend and Gerald would make of that, if they happened to see it.

  His Demonsouled blood continued its work, healing him.

  Mazael sighed and lay back. A few more minutes and he could face his men without them noticing anything amiss.

  He dozed off.

  ###

  Adalar picked his way through the chaos in the village square, carrying a bundle of clean clothing.

  “Go and see to him at once!” Lady Rachel had told him. “I care not what he says, he’s hurt! Give him some clean clothes, and make him have Timothy see to his wounds.”

  “But, lady,” Adalar had said, “he doesn’t…”

  Lady Rachel gave him a look. Most of the time she seemed mild, even timid. Yet in some matters, her will was just as formidable as her lord brother’s.

  So Adalar pushed open the church’s door and slipped inside. The place was quiet, save for the sound of heavy breathing. Adalar did a quick genuflection in the high altar’s direction and walked through the pews, seeking for Lord Mazael.

  Adalar found him lying on the pew, sleeping. His tunic was gone. Adalar winced at the sight of the garish wounds on Mazael’s stomach and shoulder. Gods, they looked bad. If Timothy did not see to that gut wound at once …

  Still, the wounds looked better than Adalar remembered. Maybe he hadn’t seen right. What kind of man could take three crossbow bolts and live, let alone ride and fight?

  And even as Adalar watched, Lord Mazael’s wounds began to vanish.

  He blinked, his mind unable to trust his eyes. Bit by bit, the wound on Mazael’s shoulder shrank. The torn hole in his stomach contracted. His ragged, heavy breathing became lighter and easier.

  Adalar stood rooted with horror, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. What sort of diabolical power had done this? Had Lord Mazael sold himself to some black force?

  Adalar turned and fled from the church.

  ###

  Mazael blinked his eyes open.

  He must not have been dozing long; the sunlight streaming through the church’s windows had not changed. He stood, grunting at the stiff ache in his back and shoulders.

  But despite that, he felt fine.

  His wounds had vanished, leaving unmarked skin in their place. He pulled on his tunic and strode to the church’s door. He hadn’t wanted to rest with it on; otherwise the skin might heal over the cloth, and it would hurt like the devil to pull if off.

  The door stood just slightly ajar.

  Mazael frowned. He had closed it, or so he had thought. Then again, he had been hurt and dazed at the time. He shrugged and stepped back into the village’s square.

  The gods knew he had far bigger problems to deal with, after all.

  3

  Knightcastle

  The next morning they began the final leg of the journey to Knightcastle, leaving the wounded knights to recover in Sir Lindon’s manor house. Old Sir Lindon himself insisted on coming, to praise their valor before Lord Malden. Sturdy Harune Dustfoot and his ox-drawn carts rumbled on behind them.

  “You did well, merchant,” Mazael had said. “I would not have expected such valor from you.”

  Harune shrugged. “Well, my lord…if they had defeated you, after all, my fate would have been grim indeed.”

  “True,” said Mazael, “but valor is valor. Come to Castle Cravenlock someday and I will see that you are properly rewarded.”

  Harune bowed. “I look forward to that.”

  In fresh tunic, trousers, and cloak, Mazael rode on Mantle. He had seen no sign of Lucan, nor had anyone discovered his body. What had happened to him? Had he and Straganis destroyed each other? Certainly Straganis would have struck again, if he yet lived.

  And if Lucan was dead…gods only knew if Lord Richard would be angry or relieved.

  ###

  They crossed the Riversteel, and made their way south.

  Traffic thronged the roads. Merchants hauling their carts, pilgrims, landless knights, wandering scholars, and vagrants filled the roads of Knightrealm. Mazael had no qualms about forcing people off the road.

  Lordly rank had its privileges, after all.

  They passed dozen villages in a day, every inch of land cultivated. Spring had come, and the peasants labored in the fields, preparing for the sowing. Vineyards clung to the rocky slopes, and orchards stood beneath the hill. The lands looked pleasant, peaceful, prosperous.

  Mazael wanted the Grim Marches to look that way, one day.

  Though he could have done without the Justiciar Knights.

  They were everywhere, riding on their horses, scowling at the peasants, their blue cloaks with the silver star flapping. They scowled at the Cravenlock banner, but did not dare make trouble, not with two of Lord Malden’s sons.

  Every now and again they passed the remnants of a pyre. A sign proclaimed that here a woman had been burned for witchcraft, or a man for being a warlock, under the authority of the Justiciar Knights. Mazael doubted there were more than a half-dozen wizards in all of Knightrealm, and most of them were in Lord Malden’s court.

  Perhaps it was just as well Lucan had disappeared. Some Justiciar Knights might have come to miserable deaths, otherwise.

  They did not have any difficulty finding lodgings. The local lords fell over each other offering room and board to two of Lord Malden’s sons. Mazael had not eaten so well since leaving Castle Cravenlock and Bethy’s well-ordered kitchens. The spirits of the others rose. Gerald and Tobias ruminated at vast length about the history and lore of Knightcastle to Rachel.

  Even Trocend smiled, every now and again.

  Still, Mazael brooded over what had happened to Lucan, and wh
at lay ahead. Even if Straganis had been killed, the San-keth would not give up. Without the help of a powerful wizard, Mazael might not be able to protect Rachel. And he dared not confide the secret of his true nature to either Trocend or Timothy.

  Adalar seemed troubled, almost shaken. Mazael supposed the boy had been horrified by Straganis. Gods knew the creature had been horrific enough.

  ###

  “We’re almost there,” said Gerald.

  Mazael rode with Trocend, Gerald, Tobias and Rachel. Adalar rode at his side, watching him from the corner of his eye. The boy's vigilance amused Mazael. No doubt Adalar still thought Mazael bore some dire wound.

  Their party, now nearly one hundred and sixty strong, traveled along the banks of the Riversteel. The river looked like a ribbon of cold steel, flowing through the green earth. Barges and rafts navigated the river, the boatmen bawling curses. Knightrealm’s low mountains rose sharp and rocky against the sky, while the valley bloomed with new greenery. Villages and vineyards and small castles dotted the banks and the hills.

  “You’ve never been to Knightcastle, my lady?” said Trocend, in his dry, lecturing tone.

  “No,” said Rachel. “I’ve never even been out of the Grim Marches, ere now.”

  Tobias laughed. “And what a trip, eh? Bandits and snake-kissers. Another week of this and she’ll never want to leave the Grim Marches again.”

  “Around the next bend in the road,” said Gerald, “and you’ll see Castle Town, and then Knightcastle itself.” He smiled. “It’s…quite a sight.”

  They rode around the next hill, and Knightcastle rose before them like a cloud of stone.

  The valley stretched away to the south, following the line of the Riversteel until it came to Mastaria, the land of the Dominiar Knights. On the western bank of the Riversteel sat Castle Town, a prosperous city of ten thousand, stone steeples and steep roofs stark against the sky. A maze of tents and wagons surrounded Castle Town, no doubt drawn by the news of the impending wedding. Away to the northeast went the canal to Knightport, a project that had taken generations of Roland lords to build.

  Behind Castle Town, on the sheer hills, stood Knightcastle.

  “By the gods,” whispered Rachel, her mare slowing to a stop, “it’s so huge.”

  “Best hope she says that on your wedding night, eh?” said Tobias. Gerald gave him a look just short of murderous.

  Rachel didn’t notice, her eyes fixed on Knightcastle.

  The castle was enormous, far bigger than Castle Cravenlock, larger even than Lord Richard’s seat of Swordgrim. It had been started three thousand years ago, when the first Rolands built a refuge in the foothills, fleeing the ruin of Tristafel. Every Roland king and lord since had expanded the castle, raised new towers, reared new walls.

  Now Knightcastle was the size of a small city, a fantastic jumble of towers and walls and keeps atop a series of high foothills. It had three concentric curtain walls, each higher than the other, encircling rings of towers and bastions. Dozens of banners flew in the breeze coming down from the mountains, one each from the lords under Lord Malden’s rule. A Roland banner the size of a small house flew from the Old Keep, the highest tower in the castle, the keep the first King Roland had built, long ago.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Rachel. Tobias snickered.

  “Let’s not stand about staring,” said Mazael. “Lord Malden is waiting, no doubt.”

  The horsemen spurred forward, starting towards the great pile of Knightcastle. Mazael turned and rode back down the line, until he came to Harune Dustfoot.

  “We part ways here, master merchant,” said Mazael. “You’re for Castle Town, no doubt.”

  A wide grin spread across Harune’s face. He still looked dusty. “That I am, Lord Mazael. Maybe we’ll meet again at Lady Rachel’s wedding, I think?”

  “Maybe,” said Mazael. “Bring some of those cheeses.”

  Harune laughed, bowed from his seat, and steered his wagons towards Castle Town.

  Mazael trotted back to Gerald and Tobias, and they rode up the hills towards Knightcastle’s mighty barbican. Gerald and Tobias vied with each other telling tales to Rachel, how the first King Roland had turned back a Malrag horde on this road, how the fifth King Roland had defeated his brothers here to claim the throne of Knightcastle, how Knightcastle had been besieged many times, once for nine years, yet had never fallen to an enemy.

  They rode through an arched gate large enough to swallow a house, and reined up in a barbican larger than the market squares in many cities. Armsmen in the colors of the Rolands bowed and stepped aside. From the far gate came a dozen armsmen, escorting a red-faced man in noble finery.

  “Welcome, my lords,” said the man in finery, “to Knightcastle.”

  He was in his mid-forties, and looked a lot like both Gerald and Tobias, but was short and plump where Gerald was tall and lean. He smiled and bowed from the waist.

  Mazael slid from the saddle, boots thumping against the stone paving, and bowed back. “Sir Garain.”

  “Sir Mazael,” said Sir Garain, Lord Malden’s oldest son, the heir to Knightcastle. He smiled again. “Lord Mazael, rather. You went out a knight of my father’s household, and came back a lord.”

  “It wasn’t my choice,” said Mazael.

  “I suspected not,” said Sir Garain. “You, your highest ambition was always to drink and whore, as I recall.”

  “Things change,” said Mazael.

  “Yes…they rather do, don’t they?” said Garain, titling his head. Mazael met his pale blue eyes without flinching. “You’ve…been through a lot, haven’t you, since you left? And most of it not good.”

  “I have,” said Mazael.

  Tobias might be the strongest of Lord Malden’s surviving sons, and Gerald the most pious.

  But Garain was the smartest by far.

  “We can speak at length later,” said Garain. “Father is waiting for you.”

  “Eagerly, I hope,” said Mazael.

  Garain sighed. “Not really. He’s…ah, in one of his moods.”

  Mazael shook his head. “You mean he’s enraged and wants to kill someone.”

  “Father does have his moods,” said Garain.

  Mazael opened his mouth to answer, then Gerald and Tobias barreled past.

  “Garain!” bellowed Tobias, catching up the smaller man in a bear hug. Garain coughed and pounded his brother on the back.

  “Ah, Brother Trocend!” said Garain. Trocend slid from the saddle with age-stiffened joints. “Good to see you again. I’m glad you got Lord Mazael and kin here safely.”

  “It was not easy,” said Trocend, moving with stiff steps. “Not at all.”

  “We’ve much to discuss,” said Garain. His tone became formal. “Lord Mazael! My lord father awaits you in the Hall of Triumphs, and bids you, your lady sister, and Sir Gerald to make your way there with all haste.”

  “We will,” said Mazael. Garain moved off with Trocend, both men speaking in low tones. Mazael wished he could overhear them. Trocend was Lord Malden’s seneschal, and secret court wizard, and Garain was his chancellor. Both men knew more of Lord Malden’s mind than anyone else.

  And conducted most of Knightrealm’s governance. Lord Malden was getting old, after all.

  Rachel squinted up at the Old Keep, the banner of the Rolands flapping seven hundred feet over their heads. “Is it a long walk to the Hall of Triumphs?”

  “Walk?” said Mazael, swinging back up into Mantle’s saddle.

  “But won’t we take our horses to the stable?” said Rachel.

  “My lady.” Gerald took her hand and kissed it. “Let me show you Knightcastle.”

  Mazael grinned, and they galloped through the lowest courtyard and up the ramp to the second curtain wall. They rode past the Garden of Lady Gwendolyn, where Gwendolyn Roland had wed Lord Randerly, adding Knightport to the Rolands’ holdings. Then they rode through the Court of Victors, a vast square filled with hundreds of statues, each of a lo
ng-dead Roland. Here, Gerald explained, stood statues of the Rolands that had conquered, yet fallen in battle.

  Stone images of two of Lord Malden’s sons stood there. Sir Mandor, who had died at the Battle of Deep Creek, slain by the Dominiars. Mazael had taken command of his army and taken Tumblestone. Next to Mandor’s statue stood the statue of Sir Belifane, who had died sixteen years ago fighting against Lord Richard.

  Lord Malden had not forgiven that when Mazael had left. Mazael doubted the last year had changed his mind.

  They climbed to the last barbican and curtain wall, and reined up the High Court. The Old Keep, grim and ancient and scarred, stood over them. On the opposite side stood a hall the size of a small cathedral, towering over the Court. Guards in gleaming mail and Roland tabards stood at the center of the court, around a bronze statue of the first King Roland on horseback.

  Mazael took a deep breath. He had come to Knightcastle.

  Now he just had to keep Lord Malden from killing him.

  Chapter 4

  1

  Lord Malden

  An army of squires arrived to take their horses. Knights and lords vied with each other for the honor of sending their sons to Lord Malden’s court, and Lord Malden had more squires than most lords had knights. Mazael slid from the saddle and handed Mantle to one of the fresh-faced squires, and warned another about Chariot’s foul temper.

  “Keep an eye on them, Adalar,” said Mazael. “Keep Chariot from biting.”

  Adalar gave him a distracted nod.

  Four men walked from the Hall of Triumph, wearing mail and the Roland colors. The lead man carried a herald’s staff and wore a velvet cap with an ornate silver badge. The herald stopped, thumped his staff against the stones, and bowed.

  “Lord Mazael. Lord Malden bids you to come before his seat at once, with the Lady Rachel and Sir Gerald. Lodgings have been prepared for your knights and followers.”