Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “What?” said the brothers in unison.

  “Take command,” said Mazael, turning his borrowed horse around. “Both of you. You are both sons of Lord Malden, and you should take command.”

  “But this is your victory!” said Gerald

  “I have to return to Knightcastle,” said Mazael. “Amalric said something before he died. There might be another San-keth assassin lurking at Knightcastle, instructed to kill Lord Malden if the Dominiars lost the battle.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. “A...final revenge, you might say. I have to stop it.”

  “Let us come with you,” said Gerald. “You might need our help.”

  “No!” said Mazael. “Sir Tobias is right. You must follow up on our victory. Secure Tumblestone and take the army further south. With the Dominiar command broken...you'll be able to claim most of Mastaria before they recover. I must go alone. Though I will take Trocend with me, and Harune Dustfoot, and...” He almost asked for Lucan and caught himself. “If they are still alive.”

  They were the only ones with the power to fight besides Mazael.

  “They both are, so far as I know,” said Gerald.

  “Good. Have them meet me at the pass,” said Mazael, turning the horse.

  “Lord Mazael!” said Adalar, running to his side, “I will come with you.”

  “No!,” said Mazael, stopping. Amalric had almost gotten the boy killed. Mazael looked at Adalar's weary, smoke-grimed face. Adalar did not look much like a boy, at least not any more. “You'll stay here, help Sir Gerald and Sir Tobias.”

  “They've squires already,” said Adalar.

  “I know,” said Mazael, “but not as a squire.” He rolled from the saddle, and pretended to wince in pain, even though his leg felt better. No sense in reawakening Adalar's old suspicions. “You saved my life, Adalar. Amalric would have killed me, if you hadn't struck him.”

  “But...” said Adalar.

  “Be quiet and kneel,” said Mazael, drawing Lion.

  Adalar's eyes went wide, but he knelt. Mazael put the flat of the blade on one of Adalar's shoulders, and then the other, saying the ritual words as he did so.

  “Now, rise,” said Mazael, “Sir Adalar Greatheart.”

  “Thank you,” said Adalar, “Lord Mazael, thank you. I don't deserve this. Not after...”

  “We all make mistakes,” said Mazael, climbing back into the saddle. He didn't need to fake a grunt of pain. And he had made far greater mistake than any Adalar would ever make. “Now, go.”

  He didn't look back, but booted the borrowed horse to a gallop.

  ###

  Mazael found Lucan walking among the tents, clad again in his black cloak and coat, and no doubt wrapped in his mind-clouding glamour. Lucan turned and looked up at him.

  “It's done, then?” said Lucan.

  “Yes,” said Mazael, “Amalric is dead.”

  “Straganis must be dead,” said Lucan. “No one attempted any arcane attacks during the battle.” He laughed, smirking. “Amalric must have killed him, once he ceased to serve any purpose. And to think I made such efforts to prepare for our battle!”

  “I thought as much,” said Mazael. “Lucan. I need your help again.”

  “Such a surprise,” said Lucan.

  “Are you with me or not?”

  “Yes,” said Lucan, “yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Then get a horse,” said Mazael.

  ###

  Mazael rode north with Lucan and Harune and Trocend, leaving the army in the hands of Gerald and Tobias. He hoped they did not lead the men to disaster. But with Amalric dead, and the Dominiar Order shattered, they ought to face no serious opposition.

  And something far more dangerous awaited Mazael at Knightcastle.

  “Sister,” muttered Mazael to himself, over and over again, “sister.”

  Two and a half days later, they reined up before the barbican of Knightcastle.

  “What news?” shouted the armsman at the gate, looking at them. “Have we been defeated? Are the Dominiars coming?”

  “We are victorious,” said Mazael. “Amalric Galbraith is slain, Tumblestone is safe, the Dominiars are broken, and Sir Gerald and Sir Tobias are leading the army into Mastaria.” He hesitated. “Where is Lady Morebeth?”

  “Praying for victory in the Kings' Chapel,” said the guard. He grinned. “The gods must have heard her.”

  “The gods,” said Mazael. “I'm sure.” He pointed up at the Hall of Triumphs, where the Roland banners blew in the breeze. “Go tell Lord Malden the good news. I...will say prayers for thanksgiving for our victory in the Kings' Chapel, then go to Lord Malden myself. Make sure I am not disturbed.”

  “My lord,” said the guard.

  Mazael rode through the tiers of Knightcastle, past the high stone towers, the mighty walls, and into the High Court. They reined up before the Kings' Chapel and slid from the saddle. Mazael thrust open the chapel doors and strode inside, the others following. Shafts of multicolored light shone through the stained-glass windows, throwing pools of color across the floor. A blaze of candles surrounded the altar.

  Morebeth Galbraith stood near the altar rail, still in widow’s black, her red braids wrapped about her head like a crown. She turned to face him, keen gray eyes flicking over his companions, and then a brilliant smile cracked through her icy mask. It sent an electric jolt of desire through Mazael's nerves.

  “My lord Mazael,” said Morebeth, “you have returned to me.”

  “I have,” said Mazael. “Amalric is dead.”

  “I knew you would defeat him,” said Morebeth. “I knew you were the stronger.” Her blood-red eyebrows creased. “Though why are you not with the army?”

  “I know,” said Mazael.

  “Know what?” said Morebeth.

  “I know,” said Mazael, “that you are pregnant.”

  A flicker of something, perhaps anger, but certainly not fear, flashed across Morebeth's face. “I told you that I could not have children. Do you mean to drag my shame before these rogues?”

  “Don't lie to me,” said Mazael. “I know.”

  Trocend muttered, “You dragged me away from the field for this tawdry...”

  Morebeth shifted, gray eyes narrowing, and Mazael glimpsed the slight curve of her stomach, even beneath the heavy black fabric of her gown. “Perhaps I am. But maybe you are the father, my lord.”

  Trocend kept muttering, and Lucan gave him a black look.

  “No,” said Mazael. “You were already with child when I met you.”

  “And,” said Morebeth, her eyes cold and sharp as knives, “who is the father?”

  “Amalric Galbraith,” said Mazael. “Your brother.”

  Morebeth said nothing.

  “What?” said Trocend. “What is this? Are you accusing Lady Morebeth of incest? Why should we do such a thing? Why...”

  “Because,” said Mazael, “Amalric Galbraith is...was...Demonsouled. And so is Lady Morebeth.”

  Mazael stared hard with her cold gray eyes, eyes that were mirror images of Mazael's own.

  “What?” rasped Trocend.

  “The Old Demon came to our mother,” said Morebeth, her voice soft, “twenty-seven years ago. Nine months later Amalric and I were born. We were both children of the Old Demon.” Her eyes glittered. “As are you, my lord Mazael, my lover...my brother.”

  Trocend rocked back, gray hair sliding across his waxy face. “Lord Mazael...you...you are Demonsouled?”

  Mazael nodded, not turning around, not taking his eyes from Morebeth.

  “I always knew I was different,” said Morebeth, her voice deadly soft. “After I had my first moon's blood, the Old Demon came to us, told Amalric and I the truth. We were the grandchildren of the Great Demon, heirs to a dead god...and the world belonged to us. He told us of the Destroyer, how one of his children would claim the Great Demon's throne.”

  “And you believed him?” said Mazael. “He is a liar...”

  “Of course he is!” snapped Morebeth
. “Do you think me a fool?” She smirked. “Amalric believed every word, swore that he would prove himself, swore that he would become the Destroyer. He was always strong, but a fool.” She glared at Mazael. “He always thought of me as his servant, his footstool. So I swore that even if he became the Destroyer, the world would still be mine.”

  “You are a madwoman,” said Trocend, voice hoarse, “a servant of dark...”

  “Be silent, old man,” snapped Morebeth. There was such power in her tone, such dark iron, that Trocend flinched back. “You know nothing.”

  “The child,” said Mazael. “Amalric's child.”

  “He thought the child his,” said Morebeth, “but it is mine, now and always. A child of the Old Demon has power. You know it well. But...ah, if two children of the Old Demon lay together and had a child...what power would might child have? What strength? And if I guided that child from birth, ruled it all my life...it would become an extension of my will.” Her eyes shone with a fevered light, a light Mazael knew well. He had seen it Amalric's eyes, and had felt that same madness himself. “My child would become the Destroyer, and rule the earth...and I would rule the child. Let Amalric prance and rave, lead his armies of deluded fools, slaughter a few cities. I would rule him in the end.”

  “But it's over,” said Lucan, stepping past Trocend. “Amalric is dead, and we know what you are.”

  “It will never be done,” said Morebeth. “I seduced Amalric, let him impregnate me...and then I heard of Lord Mazael.” She turned her eyes on him, and they filled with such desire that Mazael felt his own tainted blood burn in response. “A child of the Old Demon who found the strength to defy our beloved father? I could not believe such a thing. I had to learn the truth of it.”

  “So,” said Mazael, forcing out the words, “so you sent Blackfang and his San-keth changelings to kill me...to test me.”

  “Yes,” said Morebeth. “Amalric thought the plan his own. But I said a few quiet words to him, just a few, and he sent Blackfang to kill you.”

  “A foolish attempt,” said Lucan. “Blackfang was weak, and I crushed him.”

  “All the San-keth are weak,” said Morebeth, “for their faith is in a god that failed them. My faith is in myself, and I am not weak.” She stepped towards Mazael. “And nor are you, my brother. I sent Straganis to test you, and still you survived. And then you came to Knightcastle and I saw you with my own eyes, ah, how my blood burned for you.” Her fingers brushed Mazael's face and lips, sending fire down his nerves. “You could have been the Destroyer...oh, there is such strength in you, Mazael. Such power.”

  “Hawks,” whispered Mazael.

  Morebeth lifted an eyebrow.

  “You told me how much you loved falconry,” said Mazael, “how you could shape a hawk into a weapon of your will. Amalric was your hawk, wasn't he?” Morebeth gave him a slow nod. “And now...and now you've made me into your new hawk.”

  “Yes,” said Morebeth, brushing his lips again with her fingertips. “Does that trouble you so?”

  “It enrages me!” said Mazael. “I rejected the Old Demon...I will not become your slave.” And yet, and yet, she still made his blood race and his nerves crackle. She could make him king of the world, and she would be his queen...

  “My poor hawk,” breathed Morebeth. “Always at war with yourself, always fighting against the power of your soul. Is that what you want? Always to be split in half, never to be whole, at one with yourself?”

  “I...” said Mazael. “I...”

  “I can make you more than you are,” said Morebeth, “help you to become what you should be. I can purge my womb of Amalric's spawn, and then you and I will have a child together. We can raise him to be the Destroyer, and then we will rule the earth, you and I.”

  “The half of my soul that I fight,” said Mazael, “the half that you have embraced...it will make monsters of us. I know what it almost made of me. I have seen what it made of Amalric, what it made of you. Don't you understand?” His voice rose, pleading. “The Old Demon betrays his children. He makes us strong, then devours us in the end.”

  “Do you still think me a fool?” said Morebeth, her voice cracking like a whip. “Do you think I did not know? I read it in his eyes. It is not his destiny to become the Destroyer, though he yearns to take the Great Demon's throne for his own. So instead he waits until one of us becomes the Destroyer...so he can devour us and usurp our power.” Her eyes gleamed like sword blades. “But I will become stronger first...and I will devour him. Come with me, Mazael. We can destroy the Old Demon, take the Great Demon's throne together, and rule over the earth as a god and a goddess.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “What right do we have? And how many innocents will we slaughter? How many thousands, millions, will we kill? No. I rejected the Old Demon,” and it took all his will to keep speaking, “and I reject you.”

  Morebeth stared at him for a long moment. “So you mean to kill me?”

  Mazael drew Lion. “If I must.”

  Morebeth laughed at him, long and high and mocking. “You mean to kill me? Yes, four strong men to kill one lone, unarmed woman?” She sounded amused, not at all frightened.

  “Demonsouled or not,” said Trocend, his mouth in a grim line. “I think the four of us are more than strong enough to destroy you.”

  “Are you, old man?” said Morebeth. Her gaze swept over them. “Mazael could be a god, but he rejects his heritage, and cripples himself. And you, false monk? Will you stop me? I know what I am. But you have spent your life pretending to be something you are not. Can your lies stand against my truth?”

  Trocend did not answer.

  Her gaze shifted to Lucan. “And you, Dragon's Shadow. The son of Richard Mandragon, but he rejected you. The apprentice of Marstan, yet you were nothing to him but a means of immortality. You could be a necromancer of power, yet you reject what you are. You reject yourself. You think to stop me?”

  “I swore,” said Lucan, voice cold and dark as his eyes, “that what happened to me would happen to no other. I will not let you inflict on others what I have endured.”

  “And you,” said Morebeth, looking at Harune Dustfoot. “You. Ang-kath. Oh, I know you. Do not think your shabby disguise can fool my eyes. Your kind has always fought to defend the mortal races. Yet do they honor you, or even know of your sacrifices? Those that do know of you fear and loathe you. When you fall here, will anyone know? Or care?”

  “The path of justice and righteousness,” said Harune, “is my path, whatever the cost.”

  “Fools all,” said Morebeth. She turned from them and walked to the altar.

  And then, to Mazael's astonishment, she began to undress.

  She slipped off her shoes, kicking them across the floor. Her hands undid the back of her gown with quick, sure motions, and she slid out of the garment and flung it aside. The sight filled Mazael with desire, made his Demonsouled blood burn, even knowing what he now knew about her. She pulled off her undergarments and stood naked and pale before them. One of her red braids came lose, stark against her white shoulder.

  “What is this?” said Trocend, half-laughing. “Harlot! Do you think to throw yourself at us in exchange for mercy?”

  “Strange,” murmured Morebeth. She showed no sign of shame, or even embarrassment. “How did Lord Malden become so powerful with a fool like you for an adviser?” Her eyes flicked to Mazael. “Tell me. Did our father try to devour you?”

  “He did,” said Mazael, his heart racing from a mixture of lust and sudden alarm.

  “Yes,” said Morebeth. “He changed...didn't he?”

  “He became a monster,” said Mazael, “his true form.”

  “It is a power only the greatest of Demonsouled possess,” said Morebeth. Her eyes began to glimmer with red light, not the haze that Amalric's eyes had possessed, but a fierce, piercing glow deep in her pupils. “To shed their moral guise, to become something more than human...my dear Brother Trocend. Do you think I took off my gown to seduce you?” She la
ughed. “It is a fine gown. I don't want to get your blood on it.”

  She took a quick, gliding step forward, and then another.

  Lion jolted in Mazael's hand, shimmering with azure flames.

  And then Morebeth changed.

  Her blood-red hair spread over her entire body, crimson bristles like iron spines rising from her pale flesh. Muscles writhed beneath the skin, her arms and legs bulging. Her flanks rippled, the flesh parting like clay, and four more spindly legs emerged from her belly, clawed and ridged, armored with spine-like hairs. Curving, pincer-like fangs burst from her mouth, her teeth sharpening into fangs. Her entire body bulged and rippled, swelling and growing larger.

  The entire transformation took place in less that three heartbeats. Morebeth had become a monstrous, crimson spider, her body the size of a large horse, limbs like tree trunks, curved fangs gleaming with bubbling slime.

  “A giant insect?” said Trocend, his voice shaking, his face ashen, “is that the best you could do...”

  The spider moved like a storm.

  Mazael did not even have time to get Lion up before a foreleg struck him like a falling boulder. The blow knocked him back into a pew, the wood shattering to kindling. Mazael groaned and clawed back to his feet, trying to ignore his groaning bones.

  Harune gripped his sword, his human guise slipping away. His scales flared an angry red. Lucan and Trocend both began chanting, tracing arcane sigils with their fingers. The air rippled, and a half-dozen ghostly wolves appeared before Lucan, while Trocend summoned a pair of monstrosities that looked like winged squids. Mazael raced back towards Morebeth, while Lucan's and Trocend's spirit-creatures circled around her, keeping out of reach of her spined legs and poisoned fangs. Mazael quickened his pace, readying Lion for a decisive blow. If the spirit-creatures distracted her, Mazael could get close enough...

  Then the spider jumped.

  Morebeth blurred over the spirit-creatures in a red arc, landing behind Lucan and Trocend. They both whirled, chanting spells. Morebeth was faster. She lashed out with a foreleg, sent both Trocend and Lucan sprawling to the chapel floor. Harune leapt at her, moving with the speed of a striking serpent, his sword stabbing like a snake's forked tongue. Morebeth skittered and danced, claws clacking against the flagstones. She struck out, sent Harune flying into the wall, and then Trocend's and Lucan's spirit-creatures sprang upon her. The wolves scrambled over her bulbous back, biting and clawing, while the squid-things lashed at her fanged head. Morebeth bucked and heaved, ghastly snarls coming from her inhuman jaws, and for a moment Mazael thought she was finished.