Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

With the sword of the Destroyer in hand, Amalric strode into Castle Caerglamm.

  The castle had been taken and retaken many times during the Dominiars’ wars against the Old Kingdoms. Every conqueror had rebuilt the castle to suit their own whims, and added their own network of secret vaults and escape tunnels.

  Only Amalric knew them all.

  Deep below the earth, he opened a secret door and stepped into a torchlit vault.

  Dozens of changelings huddled against the walls, muttering to themselves. Sir Roger Gravesend sat with the female changeling, rubbing his injured jaw. Straganis stood in the center of the vault, whispering spells to himself, the fingers of his good arm writhing. Bit by bit a new arm emerged from the bloody stump of the old one, wet and fish-pale.

  “Archpriest! ” called Amalric, striding closer.

  “Sir Commander,” said Straganis, hissing. “Have you something for me?”

  “Yes,” said Amalric. “I do.”

  ###

  Roger Gravesend would have complained, but it hurt to talk. The right side of his jaw was a half-healed gash, and he lived in terror of infection. The wound made it painful to talk, to drink, even to eat. Of course, the massive bruise across his stomach would have made painful to eat in any case.

  He moaned again.

  “Shut your damned mouth,” said Calibah, pacing besides him. “I am sick to death of your whining.”

  Roger almost retorted, but she might have killed him. Besides, talking hurt too much.

  He turned away, and saw Amalric Galbraith walking towards Straganis. Roger watched with both interest and dread. Interest, because he still wanted to kill Mazael Cravenlock. Dread, because he did not want to face Mazael Cravenlock again. It was only sheer luck that Mazael had not killed him. Roger was tired of fighting, tired of hiding, tired of pain. He wanted to flee, to never have anything to do with the San-keth or Mazael Cravenlock again.

  Amalric said something, and lifted his sword.

  Something about that sword sent a jolt of terror down Sir Roger's spine. It looked forged from red gold, its pommel carved in the shape of a raging demon's head. Somehow, the sword looked hungry, thirsty for blood.

  And as Roger gazed fascinated at the weapon, the blade burst into raging red flames.

  Amalric wheeled and took off Straganis's head with a single slash.

  ###

  The sword of the Destroyer roared like an inferno

  Straganis’s head rolled across the floor. The tongue flicked once, poison drooling from the fangs. The monstrous, deformed body went into spasms.

  Amalric felt strength pouring into him like a river of molten steel. His own Demonsouled blood roared in response, filling him with power, encasing him in invincible armor.

  Straganis's body went still. The changelings gaped at him in stunned silence.

  “Master! ” shrieked the female changeling at Sir Roger's side. “Master! ” With a scream of rage she flung herself at Amalric, daggers in either hand, moving like a striking serpent.

  Yet to Amalric she seemed so terribly slow.

  He sidestepped and brought the sword hammering down. The blade ripped through her left shoulder, tore through her chest, and exploded from her right hip. She did not even have time to scream.

  Amalric laughed.

  The changelings rushed at him, yelling their rage. Sir Roger backed away, eyes wide.

  Amalric walked to meet them, laughing.

  ###

  Roger's back thumped against the stone wall. He heard a voice gibbering in utter horror, and realized it was his own.

  Amalric strode unhindered through the ranks of the changelings. His blazing sword struck right, left, right, left, and every blow sent a dead changeling sprawling to the ground. Sometimes the changelings managed to land a blow, but Amalric's wounds healed in heartbeats.

  Amalric laughed in fury the entire time. It reminded Sir Roger of Mazael Cravenlock.

  But a thousand times worse.

  Mazael Cravenlock was but a man. Amalric had become something alien. The rage in his eyes blazed like molten iron.

  Then the last changeling fell, and Roger was alone with Amalric.

  Amalric strode across the dead, kicking aside Calibah's head, his boots slapping against pools of blood. His sword blazed with the very fires of hell.

  Roger raised his sword with a shaking hand. Amalric swung in an almost lazy slash. Roger's sword shattered, the shards gashing his face and hands. He fell to his knees with a scream, blood dripping into his mouth.

  “Please,” he croaked, sobbing, “please, don't kill me, I'll serve you, I'll do anything. Just don't kill me...”

  How had things ever come to this?

  Amalric barely deigned to notice him.

  The burning blade came down, and Roger Gravesend lived just long enough to feel it split his skull.

  ###

  With nothing left to kill, the sword of the Destroyer went dim.

  Amalric gazed at the ripped corpses littering the vault. How many had tried to kill him? Yet he had killed them all, destroyed every last one of them without trace of injury.

  In fact, he had never felt better. The fires of his Demonsouled blood raged through him, filling him with rage and power.

  His work was not yet done.

  Amalric strode from the vault, leaving Straganis and his minions to rot. A short time later he pushed open a set of double doors and marched into Castle Caerglamm's great hall.

  The officers of the Dominiar Order sat around a long table covered with maps. Grand Master Malleus himself sat at their head, pointing at one of the maps, and looked up when Amalric entered.

  “Where have you been?” growled Sir Commander Aeternis. “The council started an hour past!”

  “Peace! ” said Malleus, raising a hand. “We are all brothers here, after all.”

  “No,” said Amalric, “we are not.”

  Malleus's white eyebrows lifted in angry surprise. “I beg your pardon, Sir Commander?”

  Amalric saw horrified shock flood into Malleus's eyes. Perhaps the bloodstains on Amalric's armor had warned the Grand Master. Or perhaps it was the fierce, exultant expression on Amalric's face, so different than his usual grim scowl. Whatever the reason, Malleus shot to his feet, fumbling for his sword, and so the blow that would have decapitated him plunged into his belly instead.

  Malleus toppled to the floor, clutching his stomach, blood leaking from his fingers.

  The sword of the Destroyer burst anew into raging flames.

  The commanders and preceptors of the Dominiar Order jumped to their feet with cries of shock and rage, drawing their weapons, and came at Amalric.

  “Traitor!” roared Aeternis. “You damned traitor!”

  Amalric laughed and met their attack, the sword roaring in his hand. He killed two preceptors and a commander, sent their bodies crumpling to the floor in sprays of blood. Then the sheer number of his enemies caught him, slamming him against the wall. Hands grabbed at his throat and hair, and sword and dagger points plunged into him.

  Aeternis's fingers dug into Amalric's throat.

  Amalric seized Aeternis's forearm with his free hand. It was an utterly useless hold; he had no leverage, no grip.

  Yet he snapped the bones of Aeternis's forearm. Aeternis fell back in pained shock, eyes bulging. Amalric heaved and pushed himself away from the wall.

  The commanders and preceptors of the Dominiar Order went flying, chaff in the wind before his Demonsouled strength. The wounds inflicted by their swords and daggers vanished like smoke. Amalric howled with laughter, stepped forward, and the slaughter began.

  He made it a point to kill Aeternis first. His boot slammed down, shattering Aeternis's sword hand. Aeternis rolled over with a groan, his useless arms held out before him. Amalric swung his blazing sword and reduced Aeternis's skull to bloody mush.

  The commanders and preceptors were skilled, hard men, veterans of the campaigns against the Old Kingdoms, knights who had defeated dozens of
foes in battle. Amalric had led most of them on campaign. None of them ran, and Amalric cut them all down, the sword of the Destroyer ripping through steel plate and chain mail like cloth.

  The last Dominiar died with a gurgling scream, Silence fell over the bloodstained hall. Amalric turned a slow circle, surveying the carnage. He wondered if he ought to feel grief. After all, these men had been his colleagues for years, his comrades, and some had been his mentors. And he had just murdered them all without mercy. He ought to feel grief.

  Instead, he felt nothing but a fierce joy, as if he had finally seized his destiny, as if he had finally become what he was meant to be.

  A wire clicked, and something hard slammed into his back, a burst of pain rocketing through him. He looked down and saw a crossbow bolt jutting from his stomach, the head battered and bloody from its passage through his armor and innards.

  Grand Master Malleus leaned against a chair, a crossbow clutched in his hands. His face was white and bloodless, his mouth twisted in a rictus of agony and rage. Amalric wondered how the dying old man had found the strength to aim the crossbow, let alone load it.

  “You were a son to me!” said Malleus, his voice thick with pain. The crossbow fell from his trembling hands. “How could you do this? How? How?”

  Amalric reached down and yanked the quarrel from his stomach. It ripped out a long gobbet of flesh. The wound burned like a hot coal, but pain no longer meant anything to Amalric. After all, the wound had already begun to close.

  Malleus's eyes widened. “This…this can’t...”

  Amalric strode across the room and shattered Malleus's elbows and knees in quick succession. The old man's howl of pain drowned out the snap of breaking bones. Amalric seized Malleus's collar and dragged him onto the balcony behind the great hall, overlooking the ocean far below.

  Amalric lifted Malleus high and flung the old man over the railing.

  Grand Master Malleus, the conqueror of the Old Kingdoms, screamed all the way down. He bounced off the cliffs once or twice and disappeared into the sea. Amalric watched the churning waters for a few moments, smiling, and walked back into the great hall.

  Some Dominiars and a few servants stood in the hall, gaping in horror at the slaughter. A few had fallen to their knees, weeping.

  “Sir Commander!” said one of the Dominiars, gazing at Amalric. “We had thought all the commanders were dead!”

  “Lord Malden sent the San-keth to murder the Grand Master and the commanders,” said Amalric. “I barely escaped. You can find the bodies of the San-keth in the vaults below the castle.”

  They stared at him.

  “Move! ” he roared, gesturing with his sword. The fire of his Demonsouled blood entered his voice, filling his words with power. “Shall we let this grievous blow go unavenged?”

  They ran.

  Amalric laughed. It had been so easy.

  ###

  “I will lead the armies of Knightrealm myself,” announced Lord Malden to the assembled vassals, standing on the dais of the Hall of Triumph. The squires had fitted him in his splendid silver-plated armor. Mazael stood below him, half-listening to the speeches, his thoughts dark and heavy.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye.

  A ragged, bloody man staggered from behind the nearest pillar. Dried blood caked his clothes, and Mazael glimpsed half-healed wounds through the rags. Yet the man’s hands remained sure and steady as they brought the crossbow up.

  Mazael saw the yellow glint of a changeling’s eyes.

  Somehow, one of them had survived.

  “My lord!” bellowed Mazael, springing at Lord Malden. “Down!”

  A pair of armsmen plunged their swords into the changeling, even as the crossbow fired. The errant bolt shot past Lord Malden’s ear and plunged into Sir Garain’s throat. The stout man fell down the steps of the dais, his head cracking hard against the marble floor.

  “Garain!” shouted Lord Malden.

  Mazael rushed to Garain’s side, ignoring the changeling’s dying scream. It was too late. Garain, Lord Malden’s eldest son, his chancellor and wisest counselor, had been dead even before he hit the floor.

  Lord Malden fell to his knees, weeping. All the court of Knightcastle looked on, waiting for Lord Malden to rise in vengeful wrath, as he had when Belifane and Mandor had been killed.

  Yet the old man did not rise, did not even look up as the priests and the physicians swarmed to his side.

  “Oh gods.” Mazael turned as Morebeth joined him. Her hands flew to her mouth, her gray eyes wide. “Oh gods. How…”

  “A changeling,” said Mazael, “the damned thing must have survived, must have hidden itself…”

  “What will you do now?” said Morebeth, voice quiet.

  Mazael looked at Lord Malden. Gerald and Tobias had joined their father, and Rachel was weeping. The Dominiars were coming with a child of the Old Demon, and the Lord of Knightcastle knelt broken and weeping by his dead son.

  “I don’t know,” said Mazael. “I don’t know.”

  ###

  An hour later the army of the Dominiars marched north, making for Tumblestone. Amalric's speech had filled them with madness and bloodlust, with a desire to put the lands of Knightrealm to fire and sword.

  Grand Master Amalric Galbraith rode at their head, the sword of the Destroyer in hand.

  Chapter 10

  1

  Champion of Knightcastle

  “You have to talk to him,” said Sir Tobias. For the first time that Mazael could recall, Tobias looked anxious, even frightened.

  Mazael did not blame him.

  Knightcastle had fallen into fearful paralysis. Lord Malden had disappeared into the Kings' Chapel, the ancient chapel of the Roland kings, and had not emerged since Sir Garain's murder three days past. The gathered armies of Knightrealm and the Justiciar Order waited outside Knightcastle, disturbed and uneasy.

  And dark rumors came from the south. Some whispers said that Malleus had marched, slaughtering every peasant in his path. Other rumors claimed that Malleus had already laid siege to Tumblestone. And the darkest rumor said Amalric Galbraith had murdered Malleus and seized command of the Dominiars, and now rode at their head with a sword of hellfire.

  “You have to talk to him,” said Tobias, again. His voice quavered. The realization that he was now the heir to Knightcastle had hit him hard.

  “Why would he listen to me?” said Mazael.

  He stood in the High Court with Morebeth, Tobias, Gerald, Trocend, and Rachel. All looked tired, and Trocend himself looked awful. Everyone had always assumed that one day Lord Malden would die, and Garain would become the new Lord of Knightcastle.

  His death had been hard.

  “He won't listen to us!” said Trocend. A slight tremor went through his blue-veined hands. “He sits in the chapel and broods over Sir Garain's body. Now is not the time for grief! The Dominiars are moving against us, and we can expect them to lay siege to Tumblestone any day. Yet Lord Malden does nothing.” He began to pace, shaking his head. “The vassals grow restless. Some want to return to their lands, to defend their keeps against the Dominiars. If that happens, we will lose Tumblestone, and the Dominiars will conquer us one by one. We must ride out and defeat them, with Lord Malden at our head.”

  “I tried talking to him,” said Tobias. “He wouldn't listen. He just sat there, staring at nothing. I don't think he even noticed me. After a while I gave up and left.”

  “Garain could have talked sense into him,” said Gerald. Rachel squeezed his arm. “Garain always did, when our father was bent on doing something foolish. And now...and now...”

  They stood in grim silence for a moment.

  “He won't listen to me,” said Mazael.

  “He will,” said Rachel, trying to smile. “You shouted at him until he agreed to let Gerald marry me, didn't you?”

  “You were the only one who could ever argue with him,” said Tobias.

  Mazael lowered his head. He had tried to avoi
d this war, and now that the war had come, Lord Malden had lost the will to fight. It was a bitter irony. And if Lord Malden did not take command, did not lead his men to battle, the Dominiars would conquer Knightrealm

  And Amalric Galbraith would become the Destroyer, and the Old Demon would triumph.

  Mazael closed his fists. “I will talk to him.”

  He walked across the High Court, towards the Kings' Chapel, Morebeth following after him.

  “They need you,” said Morebeth.

  Mazael stopped, looked at her.

  “They need someone strong to lead them,” said Morebeth. Her face twisted. “Otherwise they will simply bicker and panic until Amalric comes to kill us all.”

  Mazael stared at her. Did she know Amalric was Demonsouled? He thought about telling her. But then she might realize the truth about his own nature. He could not risk that.

  “Amalric has to be stopped, whatever happens,” said Mazael. “We've...both seen what he is like.” Morebeth nodded, her gray eyes sad. “A man like him should not conquer a kingdom. He would become a tyrant.”

  “And you alone are strong enough to stop him,” said Morebeth. “If Lord Malden will not lead...then you must.”

  Mazael flinched. “Me?”

  “You,” said Morebeth, taking his hands. “You must. Neither Sir Tobias nor Sir Gerald can. There is no one else. You were once one of Lord Malden's household knights, were you not? His men still remember you, still respect you. Even the Justiciars will follow you. You saved Sir Commander Galan's life, after all.”

  “I'll do what I can,” said Mazael. “Wait here.”

  Morebeth nodded. “I doubt Lord Malden would be pleased to see me.”

  Mazael walked to the Chapel, opened the doors, and walked into the gloomy nave. Rays of colored light slanted through stained-glass windows celebrating the triumph of Rolands long dead. A half-dozen monks shuffled around the altar, burning incense, muttering prayers for Garain's soul. Garain himself lay on a bier, covered with a shroud, surrounded by a ring of candles.