Trocend and Timothy found another dozen scouts, who soon came to bloody ends. How long before Amalric noticed that his scouts were no longer returning?
They pushed far ahead, following the road alongside Knights' Bay. The sun dropped beneath the waters, turning the waves the color of blood. Mazael had seen such things in his dreams often enough, seas of real blood, and hoped it was not an omen. After darkness fell, they camped. It was only another few hours ride to Tumblestone, and Mazael wanted both the men and horses rested for the battle.
A faint red glow illuminated the sky to the north, shining even as the sun vanished. He wondered if Tumblestone had burned to ashes. Despite that grim thought, he managed to fall asleep for a few hours.
They woke again before the sun rose, and rode northward. The land opened into a broad, sandy plain between Knights' Bay and the mountain ridge. Small villages dotted the plain, home to fishing and farming folk who had once fed the townsmen of Tumblestone. Now plumes of smoke rose from burned timbers, stark against the dawn sky. Bloodstained stakes surrounded the ruins like grisly flowers, bloated corpses dangling from the jagged points.
Amalric had left no one alive.
Smoke filled the sky ahead. He heard the echoes of ringing swords, the groan of siege engines, and the throaty shouts of dying men. The land rose in a gentle swell, covered in patches of tough grasses. Mazael and his commanders reached the top of the hill, reined up, and looked down at Tumblestone.
The city sat on a small peninsula jutting into Knights' Bay, ringed by massive stone walls. South of the city lay a deep harbor, now filled with the smoldering husks of burned ships. A road led from the city's gates and into the mountain pass, past crumbling, weather-worn hills. The city took its name from the occasional rock slides that tumbled off the ridge and into Knights' Bay. Memories flooded through Mazael's mind. He had fought the Dominiars here, five years past, defeating Sir Commander Aeternis's army and trapping Grand Master Malleus on the wrong side of the mountains.
And now another Dominiar army filled the plain before Tumblestone.
Mazael stared at the sea of tents, at the siege towers, at the catapults, at the black-armored Dominiar footmen swarming towards Tumblestone like ants.
“Gods save us,” said Lord Tancred. “There are at least twenty thousand of them.”
Arrows shrieked from Tumblestone's battlements, raining down on the advancing Dominiar ranks. The Dominiar footmen locked their shields and kept coming. The siege towers groaned and rattled forward, pushed by straining soldiers. One of the catapults fired, flinging a ball of raging flame over Tumblestone's walls.
“They must have been fighting all night,” said Galan, sweeping his gaze over the battlefield. He pointed. “Look. A wrecked tower there, and there. And corpses everywhere. Lord Rainier must have beaten off a dozen assaults.” His frown deepened. “And there...”
Mazael followed his pointing finger, and glimpsed a figure carrying a sword that burned with crimson flames.
“But the Knights themselves!” said Tobias, waving his hand. “Look! The horses are tethered, the Knights lounging in their tents. Their footmen are pressing the siege. They're not prepared to fight horsemen! If we strike now, now, we can sweep them away!”
Mazael's hands tightened around Mantle's reins. His gamble had paid off. If they struck hard, they might drive the entire host of the Dominiar Order into the sea...
Or, of course, it might be a trap.
“Go to your commands,” said Mazael, voice hoarse. If this was a trap, then he had no choice but to walk into it, sword in hand. Perhaps the Old Demon had indeed manipulated everything to bring Mazael here. But if he had, then Mazael intended to die fighting. “Sir Tobias, take the left wing. Sir Galan, take your Justiciar Knights to the right. I will command the center myself. Ride them down, push them back from the walls, drive them into the sea. Kill as many of the Knights themselves as possible; if they can mount up and rally, we're finished. Go.” He wheeled Mantle around and galloped back to the lines. A squire hurried up, leading Chariot, while another carried Mazael's helmet, lance and shield. He pulled on the helmet and climbed up into Chariot's saddle, taking the shield and the lance. It was a heavy war lance, far stronger than the flimsy things used in tournaments. Chariot neighed and pawed the earth, sensing Mazael's worry and excitement. Mazael gave orders to the squires, who galloped off, carrying his orders to the men.
The army walked their horses to the top of the hill. The siege towers had moved closer to the walls. The catapults still flung balls of fire over the walls and into the smoldering city. At least most of the buildings inside the walls were stone. A battering ram crawled towards the gates, pulled by men safe beneath wooden panels.
Mazael waited as Lord Malden's household knights, vassals, and the Justiciar Knights formed up behind him. It was maybe a half-mile to Tumblestone, and they sat in clear view, yet the Dominiars were so focused on the falling city that they did not notice. More and more black-armored footmen marched towards the walls.
“Sir Aulus,” said Mazael, “now.”
Sir Aulus raised a trumpet and blew a long blast. The other standard-bearers blew their trumpets, the brassy notes ringing in Mazael's ears. Some of the footmen whirled, turned, staring up at the hill.
Mazael raised his lance and booted Chariot to a gallop, racing down the hill. Behind him the earth thundered as the knights spurred their own destriers forward, the air ringing with their shouts. A surge of panic went through the Dominiar army like a ripple through a pond. Mazael let Chariot's reins drop, balanced his shield in one hand and his lance in the other, and set himself.
An instant later the knights crashed into the ranks of the Dominiar footmen. The sound was like the heavens splitting asunder. Mazael’s lance caught a Dominiar footman through the throat, and another died in a screaming red flash beneath Chariot's hooves.
Some Dominiar footmen turned and fled. Most perished, either struck down or trampled.
Mazael and his knights thundered through the Dominiar army.
3
Brothers
Adalar drifted awake, his bloody chin brushing against his chest.
He sat inside one of the Dominiars' tents, his hands bound to a heavy wooden stake with thick rope. He had tried to break free, but the rope had rubbed his wrists raw. Then a Dominiar sergeant had entered and kicked him until he passed out.
Now Adalar felt awful, his head aching, his mouth drier than dust. He had vomited out his stomach hours ago, but his gut kept twisting. Adalar groaned and doubled over, then jerked upright as the rope grated against his bloody wrists.
He leaned back against the stake, drenched in sweat.
He wished Amalric would just kill him. But it amused the Demonsouled monster to keep him alive. He suspected that Amalric would kill him in front of Lord Mazael, just to satisfy his cruel nature.
Adalar sobbed into his shoulder. If only he hadn't believed Amalric's honeyed words. If only he had warned Lord Mazael.
It was all Adalar's fault.
He had seen terrible things, seen the Dominiars round up villagers, seen children impaled on stakes, screaming as the jagged wood tore through their flesh. He had watched Amalric ride through fields of bloody stakes, his laughter drowning out the screams. If only Adalar had warned Lord Mazael. None of this would have happened. The slaughtered villagers would yet live.
And Adalar would not sit in this tent, praying for death.
Someone shrieked in pain.
Adalar looked towards the tent's flap, blinking sweat from his eyes. A Dominiar footman staggered inside, face twisted with fury, blood frothing from his lips. He took a step towards Adalar, and then pitched over onto his face.
A broken war lance jutted from his back. A dagger rolled from his fingers, coming to a halt near Adalar’s boot. Through the tent flap he saw horsemen galloping past, fleeing Dominiar footmen, the flash of a Cravenlock banner.
Adalar felt a stab of terrified hope. Lord Mazael had come!
He strained and stretched out with his boot, trying to drag the dagger towards him.
###
Mazael's war lance killed another Dominiar footman, Chariot trampling still another. Most of the footmen had fled, and those that stood and fought were trampled. Mazael rocked in the saddle with every blow, his bones thrumming with the thunder of the charge. Everywhere he looked he saw the Dominiars throwing down their weapons, running.
He felt a surge of wild exaltation. They were winning.
The speed of their charge took them through the Dominiar camp, past the gates of Tumblestone. Many of the household knights and Justiciars, no strangers to warfare, had equipped themselves with torches before leaving the camp. Now the siege towers, catapults, and tents began blazing, greasy black smoke staining the sky. The orderly lines of the Dominiar army had broken, some fleeing towards the hills, others sprinting for the mountain pass. Mazael watched them go, his mind spinning new plans. They had to hunt down the Dominiars, force them to surrender, or else they would regroup, he had to send word for Lord Rainier to sortie from Tumblestone...
A new rumble went through the ground, a counterpoint to the horses' stamping hooves, and Mazael saw a great mass of black-armored horsemen wheel around the burning tents. There were at least two thousand of them, the standard-bearers carrying black banners adorned with eight-pointed silver stars.
Amalric, it seemed, had formed up the Dominiar Knights faster than Mazael had thought possible. The Dominiars lined up for a charge, presenting a wall of horses and black-armored Knights.
“Sir Aulus!” roared Mazael, riding to his standard-bearer's side. “Sound a halt! Now! Now!”
Sir Aulus nodded, wiping sweat and blood from his face, and trumpeted the halt. The other standard-bearers followed the call, trumpets ringing. The charge slowed to a halt, the knights and vassals reining up. The Justiciars and household knights, seeing the danger, formed up, and the vassals and their followers hastened to follow suit.
A storm of horns rang out from the Dominiars, and their Knights thundered forward in a black wave, banners flapping.
“Sir Aulus!” said Mazael, wheeling Chariot around. “The charge! Now!”
Sir Aulus blew the trumpet. Mazael put spurs to Chariot, and the big horse leapt forward with an excited whinny. Behind him Lord Malden's knights roared forward, and the two masses of horseman surged at each other like hammer blows. Mazael set himself in the saddle, shield ready on his left arm, lance raised in his right.
The charges smashed together with a thunderous crash, clouds of dust swirling, men and horses screaming, blood spilling into the ground. Mazael caught a lance blow on his shield, his arm burning with pain, and unhorsed a Dominiar in the same motion. The Knight fell backwards with a scream and vanished beneath the pounding hooves. The two armies disintegrated into pure chaos, into duels and battles between small bands. Mazael roared, giving himself over to the mayhem. Generalship was now useless; the outcome of a thousand different fights would decide the battle. He struck down a Dominiar trying to kill Sir Commander Galan, killed another on the verge of taking one of the household knights.
The Mazael wheeled, and saw Amalric Galbraith on horseback, encased head-to-foot in black plate, a lance in one hand and shield in another. Their eyes locked over the raging chaos of the battlefield.
The force of Amalric's gaze struck Mazael like a physical blow. Amalric's black eyes had developed a glowing reddish gaze.
Just like the eyes of the Old Demon.
Amalric wheeled his horse around, lance leveled.
Mazael yelled and spurred Chariot forward.
###
Adalar strained, every muscle groaning. The edge of his heel touched the dagger's edge. Adalar wrenched forward, almost yanking his arms from their sockets, and hooked his foot back.
His boot dragged the dagger a few inches closer. Adalar sank back, panting. If he could just drag the dagger to him, cut his bonds, and get out his this wretched tent...
He smelled something burning.
Adalar looked over and saw the tent catch on fire.
His fear burst into full-fledged panic. He kicked out, dragging the dagger closer. The fire spread to the tent's roof, billowing acrid smoke. Either Adalar would choke to death, or the tent would collapse and he would burn to death. He got the dagger to his knee and stared at it, wondering how he would get it to his bound hands.
The smoke sent Adalar into a coughing fit.
He twisted his hips, drawing back his legs, and clapped the dagger between his boots. Then Adalar rocked back, lifting his rigid legs. His knees and hips screamed with the strain, yet forced his legs back. His scrabbling fingers closed around the dagger's blade.
He dropped his legs, reversed the dagger, and began sawing at the rope, back and forth, back and forth. Adalar snarled in frustration and terror, still coughing. He was going to die here, the rope wouldn't break, the smoke would fill his lungs and choke him or the flaming canvas would fall...
The rope snapped. Adalar jerked to his feet, battered muscles cramping, and half-limped, half-fell from the burning tent. He flung himself to the ground, breathing great gulps of blessedly smoke-free air, his arms and legs twitching.
Some time later he managed to look up, saw the battle raging around him.
“Amalric,” Adalar spat, voice raspy from the smoke. He lurched to his feet, snatched up a discarded battle-axe, and limped into the battle. “Amalric!”
The Demonsouled monster would kill him, no doubt. But at least Adalar would die fighting the evil, rather in thrall to its subtle lies. He was through listening to Amalric.
Adalar limped in search of his enemy.
###
Chariot galloped towards Amalric, hooves tearing at the ground, Mazael’s hands tightening about shield and lance. Amalric thundered towards him like a storm, black cloak billowing out behind him.
They came together with a tremendous crash. The impact of Amalric's lance tore away the top of Mazael's shield, the lance's head scraping against Mazael's shoulder. But Mazael's lance slammed into Amalric's belly, the force of his charge sending the point through steel plate and chain. Amalric catapulted backwards out of the saddle and fell to the ground, armor clattering. His destrier panicked and bolted off into the melee. Chariot tore past, and Mazael reined up, wheeling his horse around, shifting his lance to an overhand grip. If he could strike before Amalric recovered, he could end this with one solid blow.
Amalric rose, cast aside his lance, and drew his sword. Red gold blazed in the sunlight.
Mazael kicked Chariot to a gallop. He had seen that sword before, in his dreams. The Old Demon had offered it to him, promising power and mastery of the world, if Mazael but murdered his brother and his sister.
Amalric's sword exploded into raging crimson flames, fingers of shadow crawling through the fire. The sense of power radiating from the weapon washed over Mazael, called to his Demonsouled blood. Chariot raced forward and Mazael raised his lance, preparing to pin Amalric to the ground. Amalric made no move to dodge, no move to run.
Then Amalric twisted to the side, moving so fast than Mazael only saw a blur of black steel and red fire. The sword of the Destroyer rose and fell in a screaming inferno, and tore through Chariot's neck in a single terrible blow. Chariot’s body managed a few more strides of its own volition and then collapsed, flinging Mazael from the saddle. He tucked his shoulder, rolled, and came to one knee, stunned and sore.
He had never seen anyone strike off a horse's head with one blow.
“Lord Mazael,” said Amalric, striding towards him. Mazael stood, drawing Lion. “My brother.” He laughed, a hideous grin twisting his face. His red-glazed eyes blazed with madness, stark against his pale face and black hair. Mazael sensed the strength in him, power that blazed like the sword of the Destroyer.
He wondered if the full weight of Demonsouled power had broken Amalric's mind, as had almost happened to
Mazael.
“I knew you would come,” said Amalric. The battle raged around them like a storm. “I have been waiting for you, brother.”
“The Old Demon gave you that, didn't he?” said Mazael.
“My father,” said Amalric. “You betrayed him!” He spat, the red glaze in his eyes brightening. “I am the Destroyer! I will claim the throne of the Great Demon, and all the kingdoms of the earth shall be mine.”
“You damned fool,” said Mazael. “It's all lies. The Old Demon cares nothing for you. Listen to me! He'll let you wax strong, then murder you and harvest your strength for his own.”
“What do you know of power?” said Amalric. “You rejected your very blood. You are a wolf, and yet choose to live as a sheep.” He lifted his burning sword. “You are the fool, not I!”
“The Old Demon told me himself,” said Mazael, “when he tried to kill me, after I denied him. He will betray you!”
Amalric laughed, face twisted with the murderous glee Mazael knew so well, and took his sword in both hands.
Lion jolted in Mazael’s hand, the edges shimmering. The blade blazed with raging azure flames. Mazael felt a wave of eagerness rush into him from the sword as its ancient magic stirred to life.
Lion had been created to destroy the powers of darkness, and the sword yearned to fulfill its purpose.
Amalric hesitated, his eyes fixing on the sapphire flames, and then sprang forward with a roar. Mazael just got his damaged shield up in time.
The sword of the Destroyer tore through the wood as if it did not exist. The shield disintegrated in a spray of splinters, the blow knocking Mazael backwards. Amalric roared and struck again, the Destroyer's sword howling like an inferno. Mazael ducked under the blow, and the sword's edge clipped his helmet. Mazael lost his balance and fell backwards. Amalric sprang forward, sword raised for the kill, and Mazael just got Lion up to parry. For an instant he expected Amalric's sword to shatter Lion, for the blade to plunge deep into his skull...
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 71