Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Aye,” said Mazael, “that’s true enough. But…Morebeth, the Demonsouled are real.” Again he felt tempted to tell her everything, but dismissed it as a dangerous idea. “I have seen one. A necromancer, Simonian, in league with the San-keth at Castle Cravenlock. He was Demonsouled, could wield arcane arts of awful power.”

  “If you have seen them,” said Morebeth, “then I believe you.”

  “Simonian’s still alive,” said Mazael. Again he remembered the Old Demon’s taunting dream. It seemed to be coming true, yet Mazael could think of nothing to stop it. “I wonder if this war is his doing, if we are dancing on his strings.”

  “I doubt that,” said Morebeth. “You are no man’s puppet.”

  “You cheer me.”

  Morebeth’s cold smile glinted across her face. “I but tell the truth. If it cheers you, well and good.”

  They came to Audea’s Garden and sat side by side on one of the marble benches. The garden looked had grown greener with the spring, and some of the flowers had even begun to bloom. Morebeth’s slim fingers laced with Mazael’s.

  “Will you fight when the time comes?” she said.

  “I will,” said Mazael, staring at the grass. “I don’t have any other choice. I told Lord Malden I would. It’s the only way to keep the horrors of war from my lands.” He shook his head. “So instead I will bring the horrors of war to another land.”

  “Shall I tell you what I think?” said Morebeth.

  Mazael nodded.

  “You don’t have enough faith in yourself,” said Morebeth. “You will win this war, I know. Not Lord Malden, not Sir Tobias, not the Justiciars. You will win it, not them. The Dominiars cannot stop you.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael.

  “And after this is done,” said Morebeth, “we should wed.”

  Mazael looked at her in astonishment. “We should what?”

  “I know why you haven’t wed already,” said Morebeth. Mazael felt a twinge of alarm. Did she know about his true nature? Had she learned his secret?

  “Why?” said Mazael.

  Morebeth’s fingers tightened about his. “Because you want Castle Cravenlock to pass to your sister’s children, do you not? Because then Castle Cravenlock will be bound to both Richard Mandragon and Malden Roland, and neither will be able to wage war against the other.”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “How did you know?”

  “It is plain to see, if you care to look,” said Morebeth. “Most men yearn for sons to carry on their names. That is a very noble sacrifice to make.”

  “It may not be as noble as you think,” said Mazael.

  “But why should you deny yourself the comfort and companionship of a wife?” said Morebeth. “The life of a monk was meant for some men, but not for you. I cannot bear children, and we can lie together without fear.”

  “I don’t love you,” said Mazael.

  Morebeth lifted her eyebrows. “Of course you don’t. Nor I you. But what has love to do with marriage? Nothing, we both know. And are we children, to sit here and prattle about love? No.” Her gray eyes turned distant. “No, I know what love is. I felt it for my lord husband, when he lived. Sometimes it is like a fire that devours you completely. And sometimes it is a thing that grows slowly over time, like water wearing away a rock.” She turned her eyes back to him. “When a lord and a lady marry, most times they have never even laid eyes on each other, let alone love each other.” She leaned forward and gave him a light kiss. “We are already friends. Is that not enough?”

  Mazael said nothing, his mind struggling.

  “I know you have mistresses,” said Morebeth.

  Mazael jerked. “How did you know that?”

  “Because I’ve known you long enough,” said Morebeth. “You may sleep with peasant women, and they may give you a little comfort, for a little while. But you can never trust them, and they are not your companions. They are not your equals.”

  “But you are,” said Mazael.

  “You know that I am,” said Morebeth. The familiar wicked glint came into her eyes. “You may even keep your mistresses, if you please, so long as you are always ready to satisfy me when I feel the need.”

  “Your brother will never approve,” said Mazael.

  “Of course he won’t,” said Morebeth. “But I don’t care. I hold my lands in my own right, small as they are. He is not my guardian, and I am not his ward. He has no right to declare whom I will or will not wed.” Her eyes glittered. “And what does his approval matter? What will he do, attack your lands? You are already going to war against him.”

  Mazael laughed. “I am, aren’t I?” He sobered. “But will you leave your lands, your home, to live at Castle Cravenlock?”

  “I will,” said Morebeth. “Mastaria means nothing to me. The Dominiar Order means nothing to me, and my brother has long ceased to care anything for me.”

  Mazael nodded.

  “So,” said Morebeth, “I am asking you to marry me. I know it is unseemly, a woman asking a man, but that doesn’t trouble me. Will you wed me, my lord? Shall I be your lady, and you my lord?”

  Mazael stared at her. He didn’t love her, not as he had loved Romaria. But Morebeth was right. That didn’t matter. Amalric would fly into a rage, and Lord Richard might not even approve. But Mazael didn’t care. He didn’t love Morebeth, but thought he might learn to do so.

  And he was so tired of facing his burdens alone.

  “Yes,” said Mazael, “we shall.”

  She gave him a lingering kiss, a kiss that somehow promised much more.

  “I just hope,” said Mazael, “that I can live long enough to wed.”

  “My lord,” whispered Morebeth into his ear. “You need not fear. Amalric is not as strong as he looks. You are the stronger. The future belongs to you and I, not to him.” She pushed away from him. “Now let us speak no more of wars, and just walk together.”

  Mazael took her hand, and allowed her to lead him from Audea’s Garden.

  ###

  Adalar hastened through the maze of Knightcastle’s corridors.

  He should have stayed in Mazael’s rooms, waiting on his lord. But he could not, not without flinching. Every time he looked at Mazael, he saw again the wounds closing of their own accord. He thought of Mazael’s rage and fury, his prowess in battle.

  What if Mazael Cravenlock was Demonsouled?

  And what about Mazael’s mistresses? The mere fact that Mazael had mistresses grated on Adalar. Should not a true knight lie only with his wife? But what if Mazael was truly Demonsouled? What if his mistresses became pregnant with demon spawn? Suppose Mazael sired monsters on his lovers, or went mad and killed everyone in Knightcastle? How many innocent people might die in the resultant bloodbath?

  Yet if Adalar had the power to prevent it…

  His resolve stiffened, he came to the corner turret that held the Dominiars’ guest quarters. Two Dominiar knights stood before the tower’s door, the afternoon sun glimmering off their gleaming black breastplates. One stepped to the side, pulling open the door.

  “Young sir,” said the Dominiar, “you are expected. The Sir Commander awaits you within.”

  Adalar managed an awkward bow and stepped inside.

  He entered a large solarium, the sun glimmering through the high windows. The chamber had a splendid view of the Riversteel valley. In the center of the room a polished table reflected the sun, surrounded by comfortable chairs. A few clerks in Dominiar livery sat there, writing letters.

  Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith stood by the windows, rimmed in the red sunlight. He wore a black tunic and a black cloak with a brooch shaped like the Dominiar silver star.

  “Sir Commander,” said Adalar, bowing. “You sent for me?”

  Amalric turned. “I did.” He beckoned. “Please, come with me.”

  They walked in silence past the clerks, up the spiral stairs, to the turret’s roof. They stood alone on the battlements, the wind rising from the valley below. The banners of the Rola
nds billowed and snapped overhead.

  “Have you,” said Amalric, “given any more thought to my offer?”

  “Sir Commander?” said Adalar.

  Amalric turned dark eyes towards him. “On joining the Dominiars.”

  Adalar looked away. “I have. I don’t know yet, Sir Commander. I have to think about it.”

  Amalric nodded. “Do that. It is a momentous decision, to join our noble Order, and not one that should be lightly made.” He paused. “Though I think you would make an excellent Dominiar Knight.”

  “Thank you,” said Adalar, who could think of nothing else to say.

  “Your loyalty to Lord Mazael holds you back, does it not?” said Amalric.

  “I am loyal to Lord Mazael,” said Amalric. Despite everything that had happened, he had no wish to betray Mazael.

  “Why?”

  Adalar blinked, taken aback. “He is my lord. My father thinks well of him. Lord Mitor was a cruel and lawless lord. Lord Mazael defeated him, defeated the San-keth and Simonian, and brought justice back to Castle Cravenlock. I think he might bring even prosperity to the Grim Marches, some day.”

  “Perhaps he might,” said Amalric, gazing down at the lower levels of the castle. “He is a courageous man. Assuming his mind and soul remained uncorrupted, of course.”

  “They will,” said Adalar, hating the doubt in his voice.

  “Did you know that he is bedding my sister?” said Amalric, voice flat.

  “I did,” said Adalar.

  “And do you approve?”

  “No,” said Adalar. “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because a knight, a true knight, only sleeps with his lady wife,” said Adalar.

  “Yes, quite right,” said Amalric. “She’s a widow, you know.”

  “I did,” said Adalar. “Ah…the veil and the black gown made that quite clear.”

  “Do you know how her husband died? Sir Brandon Clemand. Or, rather, how they say he died?”

  “Ah…he fell in battle,” said Adalar. “During your campaign against the Old Kingdoms.”

  Amalric glanced at him. “A knight always speaks truly.”

  Adalar tensed. “They say you killed him.” He felt Amalric’s gaze. “I mean, that you…put him in the front line of battle, during a siege, and then pulled your men back. The archers focused on him and shot him from his horse.” Amalric regarded him without expression.

  Then a ghost of a smile touched Amalric’s face. “Thank you. You were honest with me, and I shall be honest with you. Do you know how Sir Brandon really died?”

  Adalar’s mouth went dry. “How?”

  “Exactly as you told me,” said Amalric. “We had laid siege to a stronghold of the pagan sorcerers. Sir Brandon had command of the first wave. Yet I gave secret orders to his officers to pull back, orders I did not share with Sir Brandon. When the attack pulled back, the archers turned their fire on Sir Brandon, and he fell dead with a hundred arrows in him.”

  Adalar backed away from Amalric, backed away until he slammed into the battlements. “You killed your sister’s husband.”

  “I did,” said Amalric. “Do you know why?”

  Adalar shook his head, wondering if he could make a run for the stairs.

  “Because he was Demonsouled,” said Amalric.

  “What?” breathed Adalar.

  “There were a hundred arrows in him because it took a hundred arrows to kill him,” said Amalric. “After the first volley, he rose, roaring in rage, ripping the arrows from the wounds. It took eight volleys to bring him down.”

  “You mean the wounds healed?” said Adalar, clutching the rough stone.

  “Before our very eyes,” said Amalric. “It is one of the signs of Demonsouled blood. Along with rage and battle madness and an insatiable lust for women. Does it sound familiar, squire?”

  Adalar said nothing.

  “My sister is a troubled woman,” said Amalric. “She has always been steeped in dark arts, obsessed with a desire for occult power. She knew Sir Brandon was Demonsouled when she wed him. She wanted to control him with her wiles and her body, and through him, to rule the kingdoms of men.” He paused. “And now the same thing happens to Lord Mazael.”

  “Lord Mazael is not Demonsouled,” said Adalar, his voice little more than a weak croak.

  “Adalar,” said Amalric. “You are loyal to your lord, and that is admirable. But do not lie to yourself.”

  “In Tristgard,” whispered Adalar. “He took four crossbow bolts. It should have killed him. At first I though it was just good fortune, that it wasn’t the gods’ will that he fall there. But then I saw him in the church, and his wounds…it, they, they just closed before my eyes. And again, when you wounded him during the tournament. And his rage, and his…his…” Adalar raked shaking fingers through his hair. “Gods, gods, he is Demonsouled.”

  Amalric nodded. “I am glad you could see the truth.”

  Adalar flinched. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

  “I may have to,” said Amalric, shaking his head. “But I hope we are not yet too late.”

  “Too late for what?” said Adalar.

  “Sir Brandon Clemand was once a good and loyal Dominiar Knight,” said Amalric. “His Demonsouled nature was locked away within him, imprisoned by his faith and his duty.” His black eyes turned flinty. “Lady Morebeth drew the darkness out of him. Morebeth corrupted him, ruined him, and drove him to his death. I had no choice but to kill him, squire, no choice at all! If he lived, think what he could have done. What he could have become.”

  “Why didn’t you stop Morebeth?” said Adalar, seeing her in a new, darker light. He had been angered to see Lord Mazael seducing a widow still in mourning black. But had it been the other way around? Had Morebeth seduced Lord Mazael? “Why did you let her do it?”

  “She is my sister,” said Amalric. “I thought the best of her. I refused to believe my eyes, even when I saw the evidence before them.” He sighed. “A good man became a monster and died because of my error. I regret that. And I will not let it happen again.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Adalar.

  “I think,” said Amalric, pacing, “I think Morebeth wants Mazael to kill Lord Malden, to seize Knightcastle and Knightrealm for himself. With her ruling at his side, of course.”

  “Can you stop her?” said Adalar. “Couldn’t…couldn’t you simply kill her?”

  Amalric scowled. “My sister, squire. A Dominiar Knight does not raise his hand against women. And I see her for what she is, along with a few of my trusted knights. But who else would, squire? You have, for you have seen Mazael’s unnatural powers. But most folk believe the Demonsouled to be a story to frighten children. Who would believe us?”

  Adalar clenched his fists. He remembered Mazael dancing with Lady Morebeth, walking with her along the walls of Knightcastle. Had she been a spider all along, weaving her poisoned web around him? “We have to do something.”

  Amalric nodded.

  “But what?” said Adalar.

  “We must set watch over Lord Mazael,” said Amalric. “Sooner or later Morebeth will twist him, convince him to kill Lord Malden. We must be ready to stop him. If we can stop him, if we can keep him from killing Lord Malden…we can show him the truth, turn him from the darkness within.”

  “I will help you however I can,” said Adalar, “if we can save Lord Mazael.”

  “Then this is what you must do,” said Amalric. “Do you know of the Trysting Ways?”

  “Aye,” said Adalar, nodding, “the secret passages in Knightcastle. The lords and ladies use them to visit their lovers in secret.”

  “Have you explored them?” said Amalric.

  “Somewhat,” said Adalar. “I…I thought San-keth assassins might try to use the Trysting Ways to get at Lord Mazael, or Lady Rachel. So I explored them as best I could, when I had the time.”

  “If Lord Mazael meant of his own accord to murder Lord Malden,” said Am
alric, “he would challenge him openly. But Morebeth will make him into a puppet, if she can. She will trick him into creeping through the Trysting Ways to murder Lord Malden in his sleep.”

  “Lord Mazael would never do anything like that!” said Adalar.

  “Neither would Sir Brandon, once,” said Amalric.

  Adalar said nothing.

  “Show us the Trysting Ways, Adalar,” said Amalric, “the secret doors, the passages, all of them. Then we can lie in wait for Mazael when Morebeth sends him to kill Lord Malden.” He spread his hands. “If we do…we can yet turn him from his black path.” His hands closed into fists. “And then with his help, we can stop Morebeth, keep her from ever corrupting another man.”

  “I will help you, Sir Commander,” said Adalar, relieved that he had at last found someone who understood, someone who could help Lord Mazael.

  “Good,” said Amalric. “Come to our quarters at midnight, and we will map out the Trysting Ways. Now go, and do not tell anyone of this.”

  Adalar nodded, bowed, and departed.

  He came back to the High Court just in time to hear the heralds proclaim the betrothal of Lord Mazael Cravenlock and Lady Morebeth Galbraith.

  3

  Harune Dustfoot’s Veil

  Something bothered Timothy, had bothered him since the confrontation with Harune at the Inn of the Crowned Helm.

  But what?

  Timothy spent most of his time following Lord Malden at a distance, his divinatory spells focused on the Lord of Knightcastle. So far no threats had shown themselves. Every now and again Timothy caught a flicker at the edge of his senses, like dry scales brushing against stone. There were changelings in the castle, Timothy knew, but none had shown themselves.

  He could wait as long as necessary. Lord Mazael wanted to stop this war, and Timothy would do everything in his power to help him. Timothy had seen too much war in his life. His homeland had been rent by civil war in his youth, and his parents and brothers burned to death as raiders looted their farm. He had seen the devastation Lord Mitor’s mad war had brought to the Grim Marches.