Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  He still saw no sign of Adalar. Maybe Morebeth was right, and he had finally found some willing lass. Mazael hoped so. It would do Adalar some good.

  He walked alone to the Hall of Triumphs. Morning court had already begun, and Lord Malden did not like interruptions of his stately rituals. Mazael slipped through the door, past a pillar, up a stairwell, and to one of the balconies. Squires, minor knights, and a few petty lords leaned against the railing, watching the great lords in the Hall below. Their eyes widened when they saw him, and a few congratulated him on winning Lord Malden’s tournament. Mazael thanked them and moved away, leaning against the cold stone railing.

  Morning sunlight illuminated Lord Malden on his ornate throne. He did not look pleased. Before him sat Sir Garain and Brother Trocend at the councilors' table, and they also looked displeased. Mazael followed their gazes, and saw a dozen Dominiar Knights marching up the Hall’s length. At their head strode Grand Master Malleus, his black cloak flaring out behind him. Behind him came Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith, grim and silent. Morebeth walked on his arm, cold and rigid, inscrutable beneath her black veil.

  Mazael turned his head and saw Adalar leaning against the rail. His squire looked tired and haggard, dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Adalar.”

  Adalar whirled, hand fumbling for the dagger at his belt.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Nothing,” mumbled Adalar, shaking his head. “I was startled, that’s all.”

  Mazael laughed. “Long night?”

  “It was.”

  Mazael jerked his head at the Dominiars. “What’s happening?”

  “Malleus demanded to speak with Lord Malden in court this morning,” said Adalar. “I don’t know why.”

  Mazael scowled. “I think I do.” His stomach clenched.

  Lord Malden’s war against the Dominiars might begin right now.

  The Dominiars stopped before the stone dais. Amalric slipped his arm free from Morebeth’s and stepped forward, raising his voice. “The Grand Master of the Dominiar Order, Malleus, greets his brother the Lord of Knightcastle, and asks to speak on matters of grave import.”

  One of Lord Malden’s heralds stepped forward. “The wise and noble Lord Malden greets his brother, the Grand Master of the Dominiar Order, and bids him to speak at once.”

  Malleus stepped past Amalric and gave a slight bow. “Lord Malden, all men speak of your wisdom, your clemency, and your justice.” His stentorian voice carried the formal phrases over the Hall. “Indeed, what wrongdoer does not fear your wrath, or what villain your swift sword? Yet, my Lord Malden, an injustice lurks in your realm, an injustice that has lingered for five long years.”

  “Tumblestone,” whispered Mazael.

  “Tell me, Grand Master,” said Lord Malden. “Of what injustice do you speak?”

  “Beyond the southern border of your lands,” said Malleus, “there lies a fair city called Tumblestone, a thriving port, overthrowing with the riches of all the world. The Patriarch of the Holy Amathavian Church gave that city to the Dominiar Order, many long years ago. Our Order has guarded that city from all foes for centuries, shepherding its people in the ways of righteousness and godliness. Truly, the people of Tumblestone are the people of the Dominiar Order. And yet this city that has been guarded by the Grand Masters of our Order for centuries lies in the hands of another lord.” Malleus spread black-gloved hands. “Lord Malden, you are a man of justice and wisdom, prudence and mercy. Will you not restore the people of Tumblestone to their rightful guardians?”

  A dead silence reigned over the Hall for a moment, all eyes on Malleus and Lord Malden.

  “You speak,” said Lord Malden, “of justice and mercy. Yet is it not just to uphold a man’s rights? What of my rights, Grand Master? For, you see, Tumblestone is mine by right. By right of conquest, by right of blood. For it was my vassal, now Lord Mazael of Castle Cravenlock, who defeated Sir Commander Aeternis, who rode through the gates of Tumblestone in my name. It was Sir Mandor Roland, my son, my blood, who fell in the battle for the city.” Sir Mandor had actually been killed two weeks before Tumblestone, deep inside Mastaria, but Lord Malden had never let that inconvenient truth trouble him. “Sir Mandor spilled his blood to win Tumblestone for Knightcastle, for all the heirs of the great King Roland. Therefore Tumblestone is mine, noble Grand Master. Mine by right of conquest and right of blood.” He leaned back in his throne, keen eyes narrowed. “I will not give up that which has been so dearly bought.”

  “You will not?” said Malleus, his tone just as cold as Lord Malden’s. “I advise my Lord Malden to be wary. That which has been dearly bought can prove even more expensive to maintain.” His eyes wandered over Garain, then to Tobias. “A price even more painful can yet be exacted.”

  “And a just lord does not tolerate thieves,” said Lord Malden, almost snarling.

  “Indeed not,” said Malleus. “And a wise lord does not lay claim to stolen goods.” He shrugged. “And if a lord was foolish enough to buy stolen goods at a dear price, well…that is not the concern of the rightful owner.”

  “A fascinating point,” said Lord Malden. “Perhaps the sophists and the jurists can debate it at length in their dusty halls. But the point is meaningless. After all, Tumblestone is mine, now and forever, and I will not give it up.”

  “I urge wise Lord Malden to surrender Tumblestone,” said Malleus. “As all men know, goods obtained by theft, murder, and treachery only bring ruin and woe in the end.”

  Lord Malden’s eyes blazed, and he stood. “Has the Grand Master failed to hear me? I will not give up Tumblestone.” He glared down at Malleus. “And if any thieves come to take it from me…I will mount their heads on pikes over Tumblestone’s gates.”

  Malleus stiffened. His face remained calm, but his eyes narrowed to icy slits. “So be it.”

  He turned and marched from the Hall, the Dominiar Knights following.

  Chapter 7

  1

  Children of the Old Demon

  Lucan Mandragon was in a foul mood. He stalked through Castle Town’s bustling market square, past the ornate doors of the town’s church.

  Things had not been going well.

  That the changelings had infiltrated both Knightcastle and Castle Town to an alarming degree, Lucan had no doubt. Several of the Dominiars’ servants were also changelings. Lucan wondered if any Dominiars served the San-keth faith in secret. Or perhaps the San-keth just manipulated the Dominiars from the shadows.

  Either way, the San-keth planned to kill a great many lords, and Lucan had to stop them. Most of all, he had to find and kill Straganis. With Straganis dead, the changelings would have no leader, and Lucan could destroy them at his convenience.

  Yet finding Straganis had proven difficult.

  Three separate times, Lucan had captured and questioned changelings. After they failed to answer, he ripped into their minds with his spells, but to no avail. Straganis had laid magical protections over his minions’ thoughts, protections Lucan could not break.

  But that was no hindrance for one such as Lucan. He had killed the changelings, readied the appropriate necromantic incantations, and set out to summon their shades. Again, his efforts had been blocked. Somehow Straganis had bound the spirits of his minions, shielding them from any necromantic summons.

  And that left the vexing problem of Harune Dustfoot.

  One wandering cheese merchant ought to have been easy to find. Instead, Lucan had discovered no trace of the strange peddler. Even odder, no one remembered seeing him. In exasperation, Lucan worked spells, probing the thoughts of those he questioned, yet none of them remembered Harune Dustfoot. Yet their minds held a curious echo, almost as if…

  Lucan muttered a curse.

  It was almost as if someone had used a spell to erase all memories of Harune Dustfoot.

  And that didn’t take into account the problem of Brother Trocend. Lord Malden’s pet wizard had awakened to the danger of the San-keth chang
elings. Trocend possessed both potent divinatory magic and a small army of spies, hired assassins, and enslaved spirit-creatures to carry out his will. San-keth changelings had started turning up with their throats cut. While Lucan found the assistance useful, Trocend’s divinatory magic might discover his presence.

  And Trocend would not appreciate Lucan’s presence.

  Something heavy and feathered landed on Lucan’s shoulder.

  “G’day, squire!” The tip of a beak brushed his ear. “Why, you look like a man in need of cheering up, so you do.”

  Lucan sighed. “I trust this is worth my time?”

  Mocker-Of-Hope had proven useful. The malicious little wretch could see the auras, the souls, of mortal men, and had spotted several changelings Lucan might have missed. Yet Lucan did not even want to think about what havoc the creature might wreak, should it escape from him.

  “Why, sir!” said the raven, speaking in the little-girl’s voice, “I would never disappoint you! It would hurt me ever so much! I have found something wondrous and glamorous and magical.” The voice giggled. “It’s delightful.”

  “Then stop babbling and show me.”

  Mocker-Of-Hope obliged, hopped from Lucan’s shoulder, and transformed into the shape of the tow-headed boy. “This way, squire, right this way.”

  They walked unnoticed and ignored through the crowds of Castle Town’s market. Lucan remained wrapped in his mind-clouding. No one paid any attention to Mocker-Of-Hope.

  “And once you’ve seen my wonder, squire,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, a weird gleam coming into his eyes, “you ought to go speak with Lord Mazael again, eh?”

  “Perhaps,” said Lucan. “If this news of yours merits it.”

  “Oh, it does, it does!” said Mocker-Of-Hope. His voice lost its human aspect, became low and grating. “It would be grand to see Lord Mazael again…to see the black fires in his blood…”

  Something about Mazael’s Demonsouled nature held Mocker-Of-Hope rapt with awe. The creature often seemed to speak of little else.

  “He could be so much stronger than he is,” said Mocker-Of-Hope, doing a mad little jig. “Why, he only uses the tiniest bit of his power, so he does. He could be mighty, one of the great.”

  “It is better that he does not,” said Lucan.

  Mocker-Of-Hope glared up at him. “He could become the Great Demon. He could be a god, and break your will like glass.” All humanity had fallen from his voice, and his eyes looked like ravenous mouths.

  Lucan feigned indifference. “This wonder you have discovered…it must not be so wondrous after all.”

  Mocker-Of-Hope shuddered. “Why, squire, you do me wrong!” He sounded the affable boy-thief again. “This way, so it is!” He scampered off, Lucan trailing after him.

  They stopped before a massive, three-story public house of dressed stone and wooden timbers. A wooden signboard showed a silver helm crowned with a golden diadem, painted in bright colors.

  “The Inn of the Crowned Helm,” said Lucan, scowling. Perhaps Lord Malden wished to become King Malden. Of course, Lucan’s own father no doubt desired a royal circlet. “What is so interesting about this?”

  Mocker-Of-Hope became a raven, settled on Lucan’s shoulder, and cawed at the door. Lucan shrugged, strengthened his mind-clouding, and stepped into the inn’s common room. The place looked like any other inn, albeit a bit more prosperous. Dozens of merchants sat around the tables, drinking, arguing, and haggling. Most spoke about the coming war between the Dominiar Order and Lord Malden. Such news would please Lucan’s father to no end, but he doubted Mocker-Of-Hope found it interesting.

  Lucan turned, and saw Harune Dustfoot. He sat alone in the corner, still in his dusty cloak and boots, frowning beneath his mop of dusty hair. Every now and again he took a long swig from his mug, still frowning.

  “Well,” muttered Lucan, “well, well.”

  “Peculiar, ain’t it, squire?” croaked Mocker-Of-Hope. “Like he’s not there, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” said Lucan.

  “I can see the souls of mortal blokes,” said the creature on Lucan’s shoulder. “Yours looks like a pile of ashes.” He sniggered. “But…this fellow, it’s like he’s not here, you know?”

  “I don’t,” said Lucan. He traced a sigil with his fingers, muttering an incantation, and worked the spell to sense magic. He sensed potent energies gathered within Mocker-Of-Hope, and some lesser magic on a few of the merchants, no doubt a petty enspelled trinket or two. Yet he sensed nothing from Harune Dustfoot.

  Nothing at all…

  Lucan frowned and tightened the focus of his spell.

  In fact, he sensed so little that it was as if Harune…wasn’t there at all.

  Lucan released the spell and began another, one to sense the thoughts and emotions of those around him. He finished the incantation and a welter of curious sensations filled his mind. The grumbling thoughts of the merchants flickered through his skull. Some were jovial, some cranky, some lustful, some bored. Mocker-Of-Hope’s mind felt like a black pit caked with dried blood. Lucan scowled, shook off the distractions, and focused his spell upon Harune Dustfoot.

  He sensed nothing, nothing at all. Either Harune had no thoughts, which was unlikely, or…

  Or he was encased in warding spells so powerful that Lucan’s magic could not penetrate them.

  Only a wizard of overmastering might, someone far stronger than Lucan, could have worked such spells. A powerful wizard, or perhaps…

  “Straganis,” whispered Lucan. Did the San-keth archpriest sit here disguised as a human, like a viper lying in wait? For a moment he contemplated striking, unleashing the full of his power at Harune.

  He hesitated, mind racing. If Straganis was here, Lucan’s power might prove insufficient. And he suspected something else was at play here. Why would a San-keth archpriest move disguised among Humans when changelings could spy for him?

  Harune rose, drained off the rest of his ale, and marched upstairs. Lucan followed, and saw him disappear into a room on the third floor.

  “Well,” said Lucan. “It appears you’ll get to see Lord Mazael again after all.”

  Mocker-Of-Hope cackled in delight.

  ###

  “Nothing,” said Timothy, shaking his head. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, his black coat rumpled. “There’s…a few times, when I felt changelings approaching.” He turned over the wire-wrapped crystal. “They’re here, somewhere. But I could never focus on them, though. I’m sorry.”

  “No matter,” said Mazael. “You might have deterred them from making an attempt on Lord Malden’s life.”

  They stood on the balcony outside Mazael’s rooms, watching the valley of the Riversteel. The tournament camp had vanished, only to have a new one rise in its place. Lordly banners flew over the tents, flapping in the wind.

  Lord Malden’s vassals gathered for war.

  “Keep watching Lord Malden and Lady Rachel,” said Mazael. “The changelings will try to kill them sooner or later.” He stared at the gathering tents and scowled. If the San-keth and Straganis wanted to kill Lord Malden, no better time would present itself.

  “My lord,” said Timothy. “You…should watch yourself, as well. The San-keth will most surely try to kill you as well.”

  Mazael grimaced. “Let them try.”

  A large raven landed on the railing, flapping its wings. Mazael thought it looked familiar.

  “What a remarkably ugly bird,” said Timothy.

  The raven somehow managed to give Timothy a dirty look.

  A dry, mocking voice answered him. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Lucan Mandragon stepped onto the balcony, wrapped in his dark cloak.

  Timothy gave a violent start. “Lucan! I thought you had stayed at Castle Cravenlock…”

  “No,” said Lucan. “I’ve been here…in disguise, you might say, the entire time. Lord Mazael thought a hidden spy might prove useful.”

  “I thought you were dead,” sa
id Mazael.

  “Again?” said Lucan. “Your lack of faith wounds me, as ever.”

  “You’ve found something?” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Lucan. “Harune Dustfoot.”

  “It’s taken you this long to find a peddler of cheese?” said Mazael.

  “For a peddler of cheese,” said Lucan with some asperity, “he possesses some remarkably potent wards against divination. I only stumbled upon him by…chance, of a sort.”

  “Do you think he’s in league with the San-keth?” said Mazael.

  “Possibly,” said Lucan, shrugging. “I had no way to tell.”

  “If he’s in league with the San-keth,” said Timothy, “why would he have sold a weapon of magic power to a Dominiar commander?”

  “You only have the word of Sir Commander Aeternis that he bought your sword from Harune,” Lucan gestured at Lion. “Suppose he lied to you?”

  “Aeternis isn’t the sort to lie,” said Mazael.

  “You did try to kill him,” said Timothy.

  “And he tried to kill me,” said Mazael. “That’s the way war works. And suppose Aeternis didn’t buy Lion from Harune Dustfoot? Then it’s just an unlikely coincidence that, as the Dominiar Order and Lord Malden prepare to go to war, there’s a merchant in Castle Town hiding beneath protective spells?”

  “It does seem unlikely,” said Timothy.

  “Well put,” said Lucan.

  “Where is he?” said Mazael.

  “The Inn of the Crowned Helm,” said Lucan.

  “Then let’s pay him a visit,” said Mazael. “Come with me, both of you.”

  “Both of us?” said Timothy.

  “Yes, both,” said Mazael. “If this Harune’s a wizard, or a San-keth cleric, I’ll need your help to deal with him. Don’t tell anyone about Lucan, though.”

  “I daresay,” said Timothy. “I doubt Lord Malden would welcome him.”

  “That,” said Lucan, “is perhaps understating the case.”