Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

Mocker-Of-Hope blurred, became a nightmarish shape of leathery skin and talons, and spun. His claws sheared through the ropes, and the corpses fell in a ring around Straganis. Lucan finished his spell, necromantic energy shimmering around his fingers.

  The corpses rose to their feet with terrifying speed and grace. Lucan had spent days preparing them, laying spells of strength and speed over their rotting flesh, burning latent magic in their flesh.

  They flung themselves at Straganis, tearing and biting. Straganis’s first spell blasted steaming chunks of meat across the room, and the second reduced a corpse to crumbling ash. Yet the sheer weight of his undead attackers bore Straganis down, drove him to the floor.

  An axe leaned in a corner. Lucan seized it and raced for Straganis, the weapon raised high. He knew Straganis had armored himself in wards to turn most spells, but he doubted the San-keth had raised spells against material weapons.

  His theory was confirmed when the axe took off Straganis’s arm. A yellowish ooze burst from the wound, and Straganis screamed, the corpses tearing at his flesh. Lucan brought the axe up again, intending to take Straganis's head.

  Straganis tore his remaining arm free, gestured, and shouted an incantation. Mist swirled about his maimed form, and he vanished, pulled back into the spirit world. Lucan's axe clanged off the stone floor, numbing his arms. The animated corpses stood and began wandering around the room, seeking for their quarry.

  “Damn it!” snarled Lucan. So much effort had gone into the preparations, and he had been forced to use, again, the necromantic arts he had inherited from Marstan, yet Straganis had still escaped. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  The outburst irritated him, and he throttled himself back. He ought to have learned greater self-control, by now. He couldn't afford to lose his temper and kill everyone who annoyed him.

  Something tittered. Lucan turned and saw Mocker-Of-Hope, wearing the shape of the noble girl.

  “Why, sir!” she said. “That was ever so funny.”

  “We failed,” said Lucan.

  Mocker-Of-Hope blurred, became the boy-thief, still chuckling. “But, squire! Why, the expression on that snaky devil's face. Course, he doesn't have a proper face, not really, if you follow me.” He pointed. “But I bet he'll not be causing you trouble for some time, so he won't.”

  The severed arm of Straganis's carrier lay on the floor in a pool of yellow slime. It had already begun to rot, and the stench was terrible. Lucan sighed, waved his hand, and canceled the necromancy binding the dead changelings.

  They fell to the ground in a chorus of meaty thumps.

  “Come,” said Lucan. “More blood will be spilled, before this night is done.”

  The fat raven gave a satisfied caw and settled on Lucan's shoulder.

  ###

  Sparks flew, and Lion clanged in Mazael's hands.

  Amalric was fast and strong, his blade everywhere at once. It took all of Mazael's skill and strength to keep from losing a limb, or even his head to Amalric's sword. He inflicted a half-dozen minor wounds, and Amalric gave the same back to him.

  The Demonsouled rage began to rise, filling Mazael with fire, numbing the pain of his wounds.

  They battled, hacking and stabbing. A half-dozen of Lord Malden's household knights charged into the room, rushing the Dominiars and the changelings. Corpses fell like leaves in an autumn forest. Mazael's foot tangled in the legs of a dead knight, and he almost lost his balance. Amalric's sword lashed out and skidded off Mazael's forearm, drawing blood. He snarled, kicked free of the corpse, and parried a vicious cut aimed at his head.

  More changelings rushed from the Trysting Ways, weapons raised. More household knights and armsmen ran through the door, yelling. Amalric flew into a raging whirlwind of harsh blows, trying to cut down Mazael and get to Lord Malden. Mazael held his ground against Amalric's fury. Sooner or later the armsmen and knights would push back the changelings...

  Someone howled in hate. Mazael glanced sidelong just in time to see Sir Roger Gravesend lunge at him, a Dominiar war hammer raised high. The blow crashed into Mazael's left shoulder, crushing armor plates and shattering the bones. The pain plunged into him like a burning spear, and his arm went numb.

  “You bastard!” shrieked Roger. His eyes were wide and wild, his beard unkempt, and he looked utterly mad. “I'll smash your damned head in! I'll...”

  Mazael ducked under Amalric's next blow and kicked out. His boot slammed hard into Sir Roger's stomach, sent him reeling. Amalric's next slash skidded off the top of Mazael's helmet. Mazael staggered with the blow, snarled through the pain, and stabbed even as Amalric raised his sword for an overhand slash.

  Lion's point plunged into Amalric's left armpit and burst through the top of his shoulder, scraping against the inside of his armor. Amalric roared in pain and fury and lurched backwards, almost tearing Lion from Mazael's grasp.

  Sir Roger bellowed and swung the hammer in a loop. Mazael staggered away from the whirling blow and lashed out. Lion's bloodstained tip caught Sir Roger across the jaw. Sir Roger groaned and dropped the hammer, clutching his face.

  “Damned traitor!” spat Mazael. Roger half-lurched, half-crawled away, and Mazael stalked after him. “You've gotten away three times before, but this time...”

  Amalric's sword cracked into the side of Mazael's helmet. His head rang like a bell, and he almost toppled, Lion's point scraping against the floor. Amalric pressed forward, sword angled for a killing blow. Mazael ducked under the blow and struck back, Lion smacking into Amalric's wounded shoulder. The armor turned the edge, but Amalric snarled in pain and staggered back a step.

  More armsmen poured into the room, yelling and attacking the changelings. Amalric looked around with furious eyes, backing towards the door.

  “Fall back!” he yelled, gesturing with his bloody sword. “Fall back!” The changelings raced for the door into the Trysting Ways. Amalric turned one last murderous glance at Mazael, then disappeared through the hidden door. Mazael tried to chase after him, but his head ached and his stomach swam, and it was all he could do to stand. Instead he leaned on his sword and waited, the warmth of his unnatural healing abilities spreading through him.

  Bit by bit the pain began to ease.

  The door the Trysting Ways slammed shut. The armsmen rushed forward and began pounding at it, trying to pry it open. Amalric and his men must have blocked it somehow. Mazael waited until his head stopped spinning, then rushed forward to help rip the door open.

  They swarmed into the Trysting Ways, but Amalric, the Dominiars, and the changelings had vanished from the Trysting Ways.

  And they had taken Adalar with them

  ###

  Someone slammed Adalar against a wall, the back of his head cracking against the stone. His vision blurred, and when it cleared, he saw one of the hard-faced Dominiar Knights scowling at him.

  “Sir Commander!” said the Dominiar. “We should kill him and leave him behind.”

  Amalric appeared behind the Dominiar's shoulder. “No. Take him with us.” His wounds seemed to trouble him at all.

  “Sir Commander!” said the Dominiar. “Every man in Knightcastle will be on our trail! It will be half a miracle if we make it to Mastaria alive...”

  “We will escape without difficulty,” said Amalric, turning. “Now, come. And take the boy. He may prove useful as a hostage.”

  Adalar's eyes fell on Amalric's left shoulder, on the grisly wound beneath the torn cloth and broken armor.

  The flesh writhed and twisted like clay. The edges of torn skin pulled back together.

  The wound was healing.

  Adalar's breath wheezed in a terrified gasp.

  Amalric Galbraith, Sir Commander of the Dominiar Order, was Demonsouled.

  Amalric caught Adalar's eye, smiled.

  “You ought,” he said, “to have paid better attention.”

  The Dominiar looked at Adalar, grinning. “The Sir Commander's going to rule the world someday.”

  Adalar scre
amed into his gag.

  “Make sure he causes no trouble,” said Amalric, turning away, black cloak swirling around him.

  Something hard slammed into the back of his head, and everything went black.

  ###

  At Lord Malden’s command, Mazael and the others scoured the Trysting Ways from top to bottom. They found the corpses of dozens of dead changelings, some of their bodies mutilated and marked with arcane sigils. They also found an ancient vault in Knightrealm's depths, where the Dominiars and the changelings had hidden dozens of horses for their escape. The vault opened into a tunnel that led into the Riversteel valley.

  They found no trace of Straganis, nor Amalric Galbraith, nor Sir Roger Gravesend.

  And no sign at all of Adalar.

  2

  The Faithful Ones

  Dawn sent pale rays of sunlight through the balcony door.

  “I have to go after him,” said Mazael.

  “Hush,” said Morebeth, rubbing his back. The bones in his left shoulder had more or less healed, but he still sported a hideous greenish-purple bruise. Most of the cuts had dwindled to livid red streaks. Mazael had tried to stay out of Morebeth's sight, lest she notice his healing, but she insisted on tending him.

  Either she hadn't noticed his healing ability, or she didn't care. Sometimes Mazael wondered just how much she knew about him.

  “You are not riding after them,” said Morebeth. “You might be able to take wounds that would kill a dozen lesser men, but you're exhausted. And you're not invincible. They'd kill you.”

  “They kidnapped my squire,” said Mazael. “I have to go after them.” Dear gods, what would he tell Adalar's father?

  “You will,” said Morebeth. “With Lord Malden, when he marches against Mastaria. You'll crush the Dominiars like bugs, and rescue Adalar.” Her slender fingers kneaded his skin, coaxing away the pain. “Mayhap you'll become the first King of Mastaria?”

  He looked at her. “And you my queen?” He felt a pang. Romaria had said much the same thing when he agonized over becoming Lord of Castle Cravenlock.

  “Of course,” said Morebeth. “I would make a grand queen. And you would make a fine king.”

  Mazael laughed. It made his injured ribs hurt. “How gracious.”

  “Go to sleep,” she said, standing.

  He caught her wrist. “Maybe I don't want to sleep.”

  “Maybe you don't,” said Morebeth, “but I do.” She smiled. “Later. Lord Malden is having his war council at noon. You had best be there.”

  Mazael sighed. “I know.” There didn't seem any way to stop the war, now that a Dominiar officer had tried to murder Lord Malden in his bed. Mazael wondered if Amalric had acted on his own, or if he had just followed Malleus’s orders.

  Or maybe Straganis commanded them both. Mazael didn't know. But war was now inevitable.

  He wondered if that was the Old Demon's wish.

  “Rest.” Morebeth gave him a soft kiss. “I'll see you at the war council.” She went into the corridor, where her maids waited, and left.

  Mazael closed his eyes.

  “There's far too much work for us to sleep.”

  Mazael grabbed for his dagger.

  Lucan Mandragon sat slumped in a chair, wrapped in his dark cloak. He looked battered, bruised, and very tired.

  “You're alive,” said Mazael.

  “I don't feel it,” said Lucan, “but I am.”

  “And Straganis is dead?” said Mazael.

  Lucan scowled. “No. He did lose an arm. Though he can probably graft a new one onto that damned carrier of his.” He started to rise, winced, and sat back down.

  “Are you wounded?” said Mazael.

  “I’ve been better.” Lucan blinked bloodshot eyes. “I envy you. Another day and you'll not have a mark on you.”

  “It comes at a price,” said Mazael.

  “Yes.” Lucan winced again and stood. “Perhaps. But it must be a useful power.”

  “Enough of this,” said Mazael. “What do you think?”

  Lucan sneered. “I have thoughts on many matters. Which ones would you like to hear?”

  “Are the San-keth controlling Amalric Galbraith?” said Mazael. “Is Grand Master Malleus in league with the San-keth? Did he order these assassinations? Did he even know about it?”

  Lucan thought about it. “I don't know.”

  Mazael grunted. “Helpful.”

  “It hardly matters,” said Lucan, glancing at Mazael's bloodstained tunic, lying crumpled in the corner. “Amalric Galbraith just tried to assassinate Lord Malden. Not all those Dominiars were San-keth changelings. Perhaps the San-keth commanded Amalric, or perhaps he commanded the San-keth, or Malleus commanded them, or their orders all came from Straganis. It no longer matters. Either the Dominiars will destroy Knightcastle, or Lord Malden will destroy the Dominiars.” He shrugged. “We can do nothing to stop it.”

  “It does matter,” said Mazael. “Before the changelings came...I had another dream of the Old Demon. He told me that I was going to die.”

  “Yet you still live, do you not?”

  “It was a close thing,” said Mazael. “So we are going to war. Is that the will of Lord Malden, or Grand Master Malleus, or the Old Demon?”

  Lucan grunted. “All three, most likely.”

  “Then how are we going to stop this?” said Mazael.

  Someone knocked.

  Mazael glared at the door and picked up Lion. “Enter.”

  The door swung open, and Timothy and Harune Dustfoot entered.

  “My lord,” said Timothy, bowing.

  “You did well, Timothy,” said Mazael. “You saved our lives in Gerald's room. Thank you.”

  Timothy still had soot on his forehead. “My lord. Thank you. But...ah, you may not be so pleased with what I have to tell you.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “What is it?”

  Lucan leaned forward in sudden interest, his eyes fixed on Harune.

  “I just ask,” said Timothy, “that you don't kill Harune...at least, give him a chance to speak.”

  Mazael frowned. “Why? What has he come to say?”

  Timothy swallowed and stepped aside. “Perhaps I had best let him speak. I will wait outside, if you have need of me.” He bowed against and vanished into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

  “Well?” said Mazael. “I appreciate your aid against the changelings. But what do you want?”

  “Lord Mazael,” said Harune, clearing his throat. “Everything I have told you is true.”

  “But?” said Mazael.

  “I did not tell you everything.”

  Lucan smirked. “Such a surprise.”

  “I did not tell you the entire truth of who I am,” said Harune. “Just as you did not tell me the entire truth.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael, his fingers tightening around Lion's hilt.

  “I'll show you,” said Harune.

  He spread his hands, shimmered, and disappeared.

  Mazael sprang up, raising his sword. Lucan surged forward, muttering an incantation.

  In Harune Dustfoot's place stood a San-keth.

  At least, it looked like a San-keth.

  Its body was shaped like a human man's, but with scales, a serpent's head, and a long, thick tail. For a moment Mazael was reminded of Straganis. But Straganis's limbs were hideous, an unnatural fusing of stolen flesh into a ghastly carrier. This creature stood on its own legs, gestured with its own hands.

  It was a San-keth with arms and legs.

  “What is this?” said Lucan. “Are you some new breed of San-keth?”

  “I am not San-keth,” said the creature with a marked sibilance.

  “Then what are you?” said Mazael. “Speak!”

  “I am the San-keth as they should be, as they once were,” said Harune. “I am Ang-kath.”

  “The Ang-kath?” said Mazael. “What is an Ang-kath?”

  “How did the San-keth come to be?” said Harune.

&n
bsp; Mazael stared at the serpent man. “They...were once a race of serpent people, with arms and legs.” He remembered Skhath hissing the story at him,. “But they sided with the Great Demon in the last days of Tristafel. And the Great Demon was destroyed and they were defeated. So as punishment, the gods stripped the San-keth of their limbs, condemning them to crawl in the dust, and imprisoned Sepharivaim in the form of a giant snake.”

  “Again, that is the truth,” said Harune. His scales changed color as he spoke, shifting from dark green to pale red and back again. “But that is not the entire truth.”

  “Then what is the whole truth?” said Mazael.

  “These primordial snake people,” said Lucan, his eyes gleaming, “these ancestors of the San-keth...not all of them worshiped the Great Demon?”

  Harune no longer had human expressions, but he seemed pleased. “Most did. Perhaps eight out of every ten. But a bare remnant did not follow Sepharivaim in his madness. And when the great cataclysm came, when the Great Demon was annihilated and Tristafel destroyed, my ancestors were spared the cruel fate of the San-keth.” His scales turned a sorrowful purple. “On that terrible day our race was split in two. The faithless ones, the San-keth, became as you know them now. But some had remained faithful, and took on themselves a new name. The Ang-kath, the faithful ones.”

  “Your people,” said Mazael.

  “The San-keth are my people, too,” said Harune. “Our lost brothers.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” said Mazael. “Why share your secret?”

  “Because you, Lord Mazael, you have the power to aid my people in their task,” said Harune.

  “And what is that task?” said Lucan.

  “Ever since that terrible day when our people were divided,” said Harune, “the San-keth have sought revenge. They want to see the races of man destroyed and broken. They want to free mad Sepharivaim from his imprisonment. They wish to make themselves lords and masters of the earth, all other races their slaves.” He paused, forked tongue lashing at the air. “And we, the Ang-kath, work to stop them.”

  “Tristafel perished three thousand years ago,” said Mazael. “You have struggled for so long?”