Seven changelings in Dominiar guise glided towards them, swords in hand.
They froze in shock, staring at Mazael.
Mazael sprang forward, yelling, Lion raised high. He cut down one changeling and wounded another before they had a chance to react. The rest dashed at him, swords slashing and stabbing. Mazael fell backwards, tripped over a sleeping maid, and rolled back to his feet. He parried a thrust aimed for his face and spun, his blade ripping apart a changeling's throat.
The maids woke up and began to scream. A sword cut open the inside of Mazael's left arm. He bellowed and hacked the head from another changeling.
Rachel sat up, blinking. “Mazael...” Her eyes widened in terror.
“Get out!” said Mazael. “Now! Run!”
Rachel scrambled up, kicking free from the blankets. A changeling vaulted over the bedpost, sword angled for her back. Mazael blocked the stab, and suffered a wound in his leg as another changeling seized the opening. His leg jerked and trembled. The changeling drove hard at him, feinting and thrusting. Mazael blocked, grunted, and kicked out his good leg, shattering the changeling's knee. The creature wailed and topped, and Mazael's counterstroke made a bloody ruin of his face.
“Mazael!” shouted Rachel.
“I told you to run!” growled Mazael. His leg throbbed and ached, but he could manage. Three of the changelings still stood, watching him with wary eyes.
“They'll kill...”
Mazael feinted forward, ignoring the pain. The leftmost changeling fell for the feint, and Mazael took off its hand. He wheeled aside, a weak thrust clanging off his breastplate, and decapitated another changeling.
The survivors fled, vanishing back into the Trysting Ways.
Mazael coughed and lurched towards the door, wincing. Rachel and her maids stood in a tight clump. “Is anyone hurt?”
One of the maids said, “I think you broke my wrist when you tripped over me.”
Mazael shoved past them and back into the hallway. “I weep for you. Now stay with me, for the gods' sake.” He broke into a run for Tobias’s rooms. “This isn't over yet.”
###
Lucan raced down the narrow corridor, his cloak flapping. He tore through the cobwebbed passages with reckless speed. If he did not reach his destination before Straganis, he would likely die.
Behind him he heard the creak of Straganis's legs, the tap of his claws against the stone floors.
“Flee, if you will!” said Straganis, his raspy voice echoing off the stonework. “It will not save you.”
Lucan whirled and began muttering a spell. Straganis hissed, skidded to a halt, and began casting. Lucan's magic summoned a spirit-creature, a beast of claws and fangs and spines that sprang at Straganis.
He did not wait to see what happened next, but turned and kept running. He heard Straganis snarl a spell, heard the shriek and crackle of magical force, and the spirit-creature's scream as Straganis's will hurtled it from the mortal world.
The clicking creak of Straganis's pursuit resumed.
###
Mazael heard someone shout, following by a gurgling scream of agony. Mazael didn't slow, but lowered his aching shoulder and slammed against the door. It burst from its frame, a torn hinge shrieking.
Sir Tobias stood in the corner, naked, his axe clutched in both hands. He bled from half a dozen wounds, and a band of changelings pressed at him, slashing. Three dead changelings lay on the floor. Sir Tobias's current mistress, the daughter of some minor lord, huddled beneath the blankets, screaming.
Tobias bellowed and hacked off a changeling's arm. A sword flicked out and marked his chest.
Mazael raced forward and plunged Lion through the back of a changeling. He kicked the corpse free, wheeled, and killed another. The survivors whirled to face Mazael, and Tobias took them from behind.
The battle ended very quickly.
“Gods damn these devils!” spat Tobias, wiping his forehead. “Do they ever give up?”
“No,” said Mazael, grabbing Tobias's shoulder. “Can you still fight?”
Tobias's eyes blazed. “I'll dash the brains from their skulls!”
“Good,” said Mazael. He gestured behind him, where Rachel and her maids hovered in the doorway. “Get dressed. Stay with the women. They're trying to kill Rachel, too.”
“What of you?” said Tobias, grabbing for his armor.
Mazael didn't answer, but shoved past Rachel's maids and into the corridor. He had to get to Gerald and Sir Garain and Lord Malden before the San-keth did. He wondered why the changelings had taken the guise of Dominiar footmen. Did they think to provoke a war between Lord Malden and the Dominiars? It seemed foolish. Lord Malden and the Grand Master were going to war anyway, with or without the encouragement of the San-keth.
Then the need for action silenced Mazael's thoughts, and he raced forward, Lion trailing a fine mist of bloody droplets.
“Lord Mazael!”
He glanced over his shoulder. Harune and Morebeth and Timothy ran behind him. Harune looked bruised and bloodied, his short sword stained with gore. Morebeth was untouched, but she had traded her dagger for a sword, no doubt seized from a corpse. Her gray eyes shone with a keen light.
“It's over in the Hall,” gasped Harune, panting. “The changelings are dead. Lady Morebeth sent the surviving knights and armsmen to Sir Garain's chambers.”
Morebeth did not seem winded. “These devils are here to kill Lord Malden and his kin, most likely.” Her unbound hair streamed behind her like a bloody banner.
“We're with you, my lord,” said Harune.
Mazael considered sending Morebeth to Tobias, but she would not listen, and seemed capable with the sword, besides. He'd never thought he would wind up fighting a battle side by side with Morebeth again, but needed all the aid he could find.
“Come with me,” he said, “quickly.”
Gerald occupied chambers in one of the Old Keep's turrets, with windows overlooking the lower tiers of Knightcastle and the Riversteel valley. The door was ancient oak, banded with iron, but posed no hindrance to Mazael's Demonsouled strength. The door shattered, and Mazael kicked his way over the debris.
The bed stood on the far side of the circular room, near the balcony. Gerald lay asleep, his squire Wesson snoring at the foot of the bed. Mazael saw no changelings, nor any sign of anything amiss.
A slight breeze blew through the doors.
Gerald sat up and blinked. “Mazael?” His frown deepened. “Lady Morebeth?” Wesson grunted, rubbing his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“Get your sword,” said Mazael. Wesson scrambled to his feet, drew Gerald's sword, and handed it over. Gerald rolled out of bed, nightshirt flapping around his ankles.
“But...what's going on?” said Gerald.
Mazael opened his mouth to answer.
A large part of the wall swung inward.
A dozen changelings rushed into the turret chamber, more racing after them. Mazael roared and wheeled to meet them, Lion blurring as he slashed. Wesson yelped and scooped up a mace from under the bed. Harune wielded his short sword like an axe, hewing heads and arms like wood. Morebeth thrust her sword like a rapier, fencing rather than fighting, but left numerous corpses in her wake.
Mazael wondered what had happened to Adalar.
More and more changelings poured out of the secret door, brandishing weapons. Mazael gutted one, beheaded another, and ducked beneath a looping blow. If he lived through this, he would make sure Lord Malden walled up every last one of those damned doors.
And still more changelings stormed into the room. Three dozen filled Gerald's bedchamber, crowding against the walls. Mazael had scarce enough room to swing, and yanked his dagger free, stabbing with his left hand while thrusting with his right. Blows clanged and skidded off his battered armor. He bellowed again and killed another changeling. Gods, how many changelings had Straganis smuggled into Knightcastle? Bit by bit, the sheer weight of the press drove Mazael and the others back towards the door. Ge
rald had been wounded thrice, blood soaking into his nightshirt, and his face had taken a waxen sheen.
“My lords, move!”
Timothy shoved past them, a foot-long copper tube in one hand. He began a rapid chant, his free hand tracing intricate gestures.
Mazael's eyes widened. “Get back! Get back!”
Timothy stood rigid, arm extended. Either the changelings had failed to recognize the danger of Timothy's magic, or they hadn't been at Tristgard. As one, they charged at him, swords raised.
Timothy finished his spell.
The end of the copper tube exploded in a raging gout of flame.
The blast of the spell hammered into the changelings, killing the first rank in an instant. The others went up in flames, clothes burning, flesh charring. They stumbled into the others, the flames spreading. Shrieks of agony rent the air, mingling with the roaring of the fires. The heat smote Mazael like a fist.
“Out!” coughed Timothy, flinging aside the copper tube. “Out!”
They stumbled out of the burning room. A few changelings chased them, screaming and wreathed in flames, and Mazael cut them down. Then the roof of the turret collapsed in a roar of smoke and embers, the heat washing out in waves. They ran back to the relative safety of the corridor, Mazael half-dragging both an exhausted Timothy and a wounded Gerald.
“I always forget how tiring that is,” mumbled Timothy, shaking his head.
“You set fire to my bed,” said Gerald, sounding dazed.
Armor clattered and swords rattled. Mazael turned and saw a dozen of Lord Malden's armsmen running up the hall, escorting Rachel and a half-dressed Sir Tobias.
“The castle is roused!” said Sir Tobias. “We'll hunt down every last one of those damned changelings!”
“Sir Gerald is wounded!” said Mazael. “See to him at once!” He stepped past Sir Gerald, making for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” said Morebeth.
“The Tower of Guard,” said Mazael. If the changelings had waylaid Trocend, kept him from reaching Lord Malden...
“My lord!” Timothy ran to his side, reeling a bit. “You'll not make it to the Tower in time. Come with me, quickly.” He beckoned, and Mazael scowled, but followed nonetheless.
They ran onto a balcony jutting from the side of the Old Keep, overlooking the second tier of Knightcastle's walls. Mazael saw the battlements of the Tower of Guard far below.
“Do you expect me to jump?” said Mazael. “It must be three hundred feet...”
“Yes, it is,” said Timothy, fumbling through his pockets. “And yes, I do.” He yanked free a bit of wire and an eagle's feather. “A spell I have. You can make the jump safely.”
“You're exhausted,” said Mazael.
Timothy nodded. “But I can still do this. My lord, you'll need this if you hope to save Lord Malden. Hold still.” Mazael complied. Timothy muttered under his breath, waving the wire and the feather in patterns. Blue light flashed from Timothy's hands, and Mazael felt a curious lightness, a thunderous rushing filled his ears.
“Now, my lord!” said Timothy, his voice muffled in Mazael's ears, “jump!”
Mazael shrugged, rammed Lion into its scabbard, vaulted the railing, and jumped. He plunged down, his cloak billowing behind him, and felt an instant of terrible fear.
Then his boots hit the battlements of the Tower of Guard with a gentle tap. Mazael reeled for a moment, his head spinning, then regained his balance. He had fallen over three hundred feet without injury.
He ran for the stairs.
###
Rough hands pulled away Adalar's blindfold.
The point of a dagger pressed against his throat.
“Keep silent, boy,” breathed a voice into his ear. “One word, one twitch, and you'll choke on your own blood. The Sir Commander wants you to see this.”
Adalar's eyes twitched back and forth. Through the opened door he saw a vast, opulent bedchamber, dominated by a bed the seize of a large wagon. Lord Malden lay sleeping in the bed, alongside a naked young woman Adalar recognized as Lady Claretta.
Amalric walked towards the bed, sword sliding from his scabbard with a gentle hiss.
###
A necromantic spell slammed into Lucan, a haze of green flames that threatened to rip the life and warmth from his flesh. He managed a warding spell, but the force still sent him sprawling.
Straganis raced down the corridor, moving ever closer.
Challenging Straganis might not have been a good idea.
Lucan looked up, gazed at the groin-vaulted ceiling, and realized where he was.
The ghost of a smile flicked across his face, and he rose, setting himself to meet Straganis's attack.
###
Mazael sprinted into the Tower of Guard's uppermost levels, where Lady Claretta had her chambers, and where Lord Malden often spent his nights. Two of Lord Malden's household knights stood at guard before the door, yawning and heavy-eyed. They glared at Mazael.
“What is your business here?” they said, staring at the bloodstains on Mazael's armor.
“You damned fools!” said Mazael, drawing Lion. “They've come to murder Lord Malden and you're standing here gaping? Get out of my way!”
The knights moved to block Mazael. He shoved them out of the way and hammered the door open. The bedroom was opulent with silken hangings and rich tapestries, as Lord Malden usually lodged his favorite mistress here. The bed was large and soft, because Lord Malden occasionally wished to spend time with more than once mistress at once. At the moment, it just held Lord Malden and Lady Claretta, both asleep.
On the far side of the bed stood a handful of Dominiar Knights, a half-dozen changelings disguised as Dominiar footmen, and Sir Commander Amalric Galbraith, a sword in his hand.
“Oh, gods,” mumbled one of Lord Malden's knights.
Amalric looked at Mazael, his eyes cold and sharp as the blade of his sword. “Lord Mazael.”
“You damned murderous bastard,” said Mazael, circling towards him. The Dominiar Knights and the changelings raised their weapons. “You're in league with the San-keth.”
“Hardly,” said Amalric, raising the sword. “We share a few common purposes, but nothing more.”
“Did you send the San-keth to kill me at Castle Cravenlock?” said Mazael. “And at Tristgard?”
“Straganis does as he pleases,” said Amalric. “If it amuses him to butcher a few enemies on the side, what is that to me? Your name meant nothing me until a few months past.” His eyes glinted. “Lord Malden is doddering old hypocrite, and will be removed for the greater glory of the Dominiar Order.”
“Villain,” said Mazael.
Lord Malden stirred, yawned.
“You are a debauched lecher, seduced by my whore of a sister,” said Amalric. “Speak to me of villainy, will you?”
“But I have not sent the San-keth to murder men in their beds!” said Mazael, stepping toward Amalric.
“What is this?” said Lord Malden, sitting up, gray hair tangled. He glared at Mazael, at Amalric, and back at Mazael. “If you two are going to kill each other, do it in the morning like civilized...” His voice trailed off as he saw the Dominiars and the changelings.
“Be silent, you old fool,” said Amalric. He stepped towards the bed.
Mazael raised his sword.
“Another step and I'll kill the boy,” said Amalric.
“What boy?” said Mazael.
Amalric gestured. “That boy.”
One of the Dominiars shoved Adalar forward, his hands bound, a gag in his mouth.
“You damned coward,” spat Mazael.
“I am nothing of the sort,” said Amalric, raising his sword. “I'll kill the old man first, then you.”
Lord Malden's hand blurred, dipped under his pillow, and reappeared with a dagger. Amalric's free hand lashed out and sent the old man sprawling across the pillows, the dagger falling from his hand. Lady Claretta sat up, clutching the blankets, and screamed.
Amalric
raised his sword for the blow.
Lord Malden's dagger clattered at Mazael's feet.
He snatched it up and flung it. It whirred past Amalric's ear and buried itself in the eye of the Dominiar holding Adalar. The Dominiar shrieked and stumbled back, clutching his face, and dropped Adalar. Amalric hesitated for just a second, and that was long enough for Mazael to block the thrust intended for Lord Malden's heart.
Lord Malden's household knights screamed and charged into the room.
“Impressive,” said Amalric, pressing against Mazael's block. “We already know you're my superior with a lance. Let us see who is better with the blade.”
He came at Mazael in a whirlwind of blows.
###
Straganis skittered into the vault, watching Lucan.
“You lack the strength to run?” he said.
“No,” said Lucan. “I am not running from you.” He backed away a bit more. If he could get Straganis a few more feet into the vault, just a few more feet...
“Fool,” said Straganis. “They all hold you in such fear. You are little more than a neophyte, a child dabbling with petty spells. I shall teach you proper arcane arts, once I enslave your spirit.”
“Such boastful words,” said Lucan, still backing away, heart racing. “Yet I still live.” His back bumped against the vault's wall.
Straganis cackled. “Not for long.”
He came into the center of the vault, and Lucan felt a fierce surge of triumph.
A fat raven flapped up, circled over Lucan's head, and changed into the boy-thief shape. Mocker-Of-Hope seized a rope dangling from the ceiling, swinging like a monkey.
Straganis laughed. “A lesser spirit-creature? It will not save...”
He looked up, saw the dangling corpses, and fell silent.
A dozen dead changelings hung from the ceiling, nooses around their necks. Necromantic sigils covered their faces and chests, sigils Lucan had painted in their own blood.
“Now!” shouted Lucan, beginning an incantation.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 65