But the wards held. Barely, but they held. The shaman turned to face Lucan, beginning the spell to summon lightning once more.
And Lucan was left with no other choice.
He poured his will into the black staff , bending all his thought upon it. The staff shivered beneath his skin, like something alive, and grew cold against his fingers. Crimson light flickered in the depths of the carved sigils, as if the staff had been filled with burning blood.
And then power flooded into Lucan, power beyond anything he had ever used on his own, sweet and intoxicating. His weariness and pain fell away, as if his veins had filled with fire.
Was this, he wondered, what Mazael Cravenlock felt all the time?
Lucan had learned about Mazael’s Demonsouled heritage a year ago. The blood of the Demonsouled held great power, but the blood of a child of the Old Demon held even greater might. Lucan had stolen a vial of that blood, and only its strength, its power, had allowed him to survive the brutal fight with Morebeth Galbraith in the Kings’ Chapel of Knightcastle.
But the power of that blood had burned away in moments.
So Lucan had created this staff with a vial of Mazael’s blood, stolen as the Lord of Castle Cravenlock slept. Then Lucan forged the staff in his secret workshop below Castle Cravenlock, imbuing it with the power of Mazael’s Demonsouled blood.
Power that Lucan could now draw upon at will. He had not told Mazael. Mazael recognized the need to fight dark powers, but not the necessity to use any tool available in that fight.
Lucan screamed out a spell and thrust the staff, the carved sigils ablaze with crimson light. His spell struck the Malrag shaman and hammered through its wards with overpowering force. The top off the inn exploded, the remaining tiles and most of the roof beams shattering. Lucan’s will seized the Malrag shaman, flung it from the roof, and hurled it against the cobblestones of the square like an insect beneath a boot.
Bones shattered, black blood splattering against the inn’s walls, and the light of the shaman’s third eye went out.
Lucan bellowed in triumph and turned, the staff blazing in his hand. He would crush the Malrags, first, destroy them one by one. None of them could stand against his power! And then he would kill Lord Mazael and his men, seize control of Castle Cravenlock. And from there, Lucan would destroy his father and his brother, make them pay for all they had done to him. The Grim Marches were his! The world was his! He would…
The crimson light winked out, smoke rising from the staff’s carvings.
And the power drained away from Lucan, along with the madness inspired by Demonsouled magic.
He fell to his knees as pain wracked him. His stomach twisted, and Lucan empted his guts onto the cobblestones. It got worse, every time. Every time he drew upon the staff’s power, the madness grew more violent, the aftereffects more painful.
Using the staff could kill him, Lucan knew.
Yet he could not stop using it, could not stop craving it. It was just as well the staff only sustained short bursts of power. If it did not, he would use the Demonsouled power until it drove him insane and he killed everyone in sight. Or until the Cravenlock armsmen overwhelmed him and killed him.
Not for the first time, Lucan wondered how Mazael managed to live with such dark power in his mind.
###
Mazael and the balekhan spun in their mad dance.
He held Lion’s hilt in both hands. The balekhan’s great black sword had long since smashed Mazael’s shield to kindling, the torn leather straps still dangling from his armored forearm. The balekhan was far stronger than Mazael, far stronger than any human, but Mazael was faster, even in his armor. He danced around the balekhan’s armored form, Lion stabbing and thrusting at the weak points in the black plate . He scored three hits on the balekhan, minor wounds that sizzled beneath Lion’s azure flame, wounds that had slowed the huge Malrag.
Yet the creature remained as strong as ever.
The battle rage filled Mazael, making him stronger, faster. But he dared not give into it. He knew that if he surrendered to the Demonsouled rage, it would consume him, make him into a monster. A woman he loved had died to save him from his darker half.
He would not let her death be in vain. Not now, not ever.
But he would take down this damned Malrag for daring to attack his people and his lands.
Mazael caught the descending black sword in a high parry, arms trembling with the strain. There was no way he could hold a parry against the balekhan’s strength. So he rolled his wrists and sidestepped, Lion’s blade licking at the gap in the balekhan’s shoulder plates. The huge Malrag reeled in pain, yellowed fangs bared in a snarl. It might have been stronger, but Lion’s azure flame seemed to hurt the balekhan far more than the physical wounds. He thrust at the balekhan’s face before it could react, and the Malrag flinched back, eyes narrowed against the sword’s fire. If Mazael could get close enough, he could drive Lion through the helm’s eye slit and end the fight.
And then the inn exploded.
The thunderclap rang over the square. For a brief instant the battle paused as the struggling knights, militiamen, and Malrags looked at the Three Swords Inn. Mazael glimpsed Lucan, standing in a halo of blood-colored light, a burning staff clenched in his fists. He saw the inn's roof rip apart, as if torn by invisible hands, saw the Malrag shaman driven to the ground with terrific, bone-crushing force.
That blood-colored light shining from Lucan’s staff. Something about it called to Mazael, made his tainted blood rise, as if in recognition…
The balekhan recognized Mazael’s distraction and surged forward.
Mazael just got Lion up in time to beat aside the thrust aimed for his heart, but the sword banged off his shoulder, denting the armor. Mazael rocked back on his heels as the balekhan came at him, its sword a storm of flickering black metal. Mazael retreated, working Lion left and right to beat aside the attacks.
Then the balekhan’s sword came around in a massive sideways cut, and Mazael could not dodge in time. The blow bounced off his cuirass with a scream of tortured metal, and the force sent Mazael falling hard to the ground. He scrambled backwards, trying to get out of reach, but the balekhan loomed over him, sword raised for the killing blow.
A dark shape sprang past Mazael, snarling.
The balekhan hesitated, turning to meet the new threat, and the dark shape leapt upon the Malrag leader. Mazael had a brief glimpse of black fur, of flashing white fangs and teeth. The balekhan fell to one knee with a cry of rage, greatsword blurring, but the dark shape twisted to the side, and avoided the blow.
It was Mazael’s opening.
He surged to his feet, ignoring the ache in his chest, all his strength and weight behind Lion’s point. The blade drove through the slit in the masked helm, plunging deep into the Malrag’s left eye. Fire exploded from Lion, erupting out the balekhan’s nostrils and fanged mouth.
The balekhan fell at Mazael’s feet with a clatter of black armor. He wrenched Lion free from the smoking helm and looked for the dark shape that had assisted him.
A great black wolf stood a few paces away, watching him. It was the biggest wolf Mazael had ever seen, almost the size of a small horse. Its claws and fangs were like ivory daggers, and its jaws looked as if they could bite through steel plate. The wolf's eyes were blue, like polished sapphire mirrors.
And in every way, the wolf was identical to the one Mazael had seen in his dream.
He gazed at the wolf in astonishment. Was he hallucinating? Had he gone mad? But no - some of the nearby militiamen gazed at the wolf with unease.
Mazael took a step towards the wolf.
It turned and fled, moving with terrific speed, and vanished into the darkness.
Chapter 3 - The Wolves Gather
The battle was over by dawn.
With the balekhan and shaman slain, the Malrags lost both their leadership and the advantage of the shaman's magical power. Caught between the militiamen and the knights, the Malrags fell
one by one. Some groups of Malrags broke and ran, escaping down the town's streets or vanishing through the ruined gate.
Bands of militia hunted the Malrags in the streets, while those who escaped through the gate found Sir Hagen and his knights.
As the sun rose over the carnage in the town square, Mazael stood on the church steps. Sir Hagen, Sir Nathan, and Timothy stood with him, along with a short, lean man in leather armor splattered with Malrag blood. Neville was the mayor of the town, and the captain of the militia.
There was no sign of Lucan.
"How many?" said Mazael.
He heard singing coming from within the church, as the priests gave thanks for their deliverance. And weeping, as well.
Not everyone had been delivered.
"The lads are counting," said Neville. "Three hundred Malrags, we think. Maybe three hundred and twenty-five."
"How the devil did three hundred damned Malrags get so close to the town without anyone noticing?" said Hagen, scowling. He had come through the fight unscathed, his sword and armor dark with Malrag blood. "We send out patrols every day."
"Odds are those men are dead," said Nathan, voice quiet. "The Malrags may look like beasts or devils, but they are cunning. Undoubtedly they slew the scouts to mask their approach." He shook his head. "Some of the Malrags had heads dangling from their belts. Our scouts, I fear."
"The legends say Malrags live in mountain holes," said Hagen. "We're six days' march from the Great Mountains, my lord. If three hundred Malrags made it all the way to Cravenlock Town...there are undoubtedly other warbands loose on the plains."
"An invasion, then," said Timothy.
"One problem at a time," said Mazael. "How many men did we lose?"
"Nine knights," said Hagen. "Seventeen of the armsmen."
"Thirty-five of my militiamen," said Neville. He shook his head and looked at the bodies laid out before the church steps, their faces covered by cloaks. "We've a lot of widows, this morning."
"Forty-five men wounded," said Timothy. He looked exhausted, his coat and face smudged with blood, both Malrag and human. "Perhaps thirty of them will see another sunrise."
"Damnation," said Mazael.
"It could have been much worse," said Nathan. "Sixty-one of our men slain, for three hundred of the Malrags? Devils these things might be, but one mounted man is still worth seven men, or devils, on foot."
"Aye," said Neville. "I was certain we could not hold, my lord. It is well you arrived when you did."
Mazael looked at the shrouded corpses. "Not soon enough."
"But we were victorious," said Hagen.
"For now," said Mazael. "There are undoubtedly more of those things on the plains. We'll need to prepare, at once."
"Your commands, then?" said Nathan.
"First, get the gate rebuilt," said Mazael. "If more Malrags show up, I want to be ready for them. Once the gate is done, dig a ditch around the wall. We don't have any water to flood it, but anything that slows the Malrags down will be useful."
"It shall be done, my lord," said Neville.
"Keep the militia ready," said Mazael. "Daily drill. The town must be guarded at all times. I want no more Malrags to set foot in Cravenlock Town. And if these Malrags were part of a larger host, we may need to take the field against them. The militia must be ready for that."
Neville swallowed, but bowed. "My lord."
"Sir Hagen," said Mazael. "Send patrols. Knights and mounted armsmen, well-armed and equipped. They're to scout the countryside for two days' ride in all directions and report back. I want no more surprise attacks."
"As you say," said Hagen, looking over the town with a grim eye. "If any Malrags come within five leagues of castle or town, they shall regret it sorely."
"Good," said Mazael. "Timothy, see to the wounded. You set a warding alarm over the castle against undead and San-keth." An alarm that had saved their lives last year, when the San-keth cleric Blackfang had attacked. "Can you ward the town and castle against the Malrags?"
"I can, though it shall take time," said Timothy. "And I will need Malrag blood for the spell," he looked over the square, "though it seems plenty is it hand. And I shall certainly need Lucan's assistance."
"Where the devil is Lucan, anyway?" said Mazael. "Did that shaman strike him down?"
"I don't know," said Timothy. "He...almost lost the fight, I think. But I was able to distract the shaman, draw its attention long enough for Lucan to strike back."
"Which he did with vigor," said Mazael, looking at the ruined top floor of the Three Swords Inn.
"He was still alive then," said Timothy. "After that, he disappeared." He hesitated. "Perhaps one of the Malrag warriors slew him."
"I doubt that," said Mazael. It would take more than a mere Malrag warrior to strike down Lucan Mandragon, the Dragon's Shadow. "When he is found, tell him to attend to me at once. Meanwhile, we all have a great deal of work to do."
They went about their tasks. Mazael found Challenger and rode from one end of the town to the other, from the ruined gate to the church steps and back again. He praised the militiamen, knights, and armsmen who had shown conspicuous valor during the battle. He bade the workmen laboring at the gate and moat to work hard, reminding them that the lives of their wives and children depended upon their efforts. He spoke with the women who had lost husbands and sons during the fight, promising that they would receive their share of charity from the church, and that anyone who tried to prey upon the widows and orphans of Cravenlock Town would feel his displeasure.
In truth, he had little work to do. But Mazael had led armies in battle before, and he knew that above all else, armies needed leadership. The men needed to know that their lord would look after their safety, that he appreciated and relied upon their efforts, that he had a plan for crushing their enemies.
So he rode through the town, speaking to his people.
Sometimes, when he spoke to the widows, he fingered the silver coin hanging from its chain at his belt. Romaria had carried that coin, had used it as a focus for the minor spells she knew. At least, she had carried until that terrible day when the Old Demon killed her before the altar of Castle Cravenlock's chapel.
Ah, but he wished she were here now. The people of Castle Cravenlock and its town were Mazael's - his to defend, his to protect.
His, and his alone. A burden he could share with no one.
Later that morning, the squires arrived from the castle, summoned by Sir Hagen to tend to their knights. Rufus Highgate looked at the carnage with shocked eyes. The boy had seen bloodshed before - almost all noble-born children had - but never on such scale.
And certainly he had never seen a dead Malrag before.
Yet the boy summoned his resolve, and tended to Mazael's armor and weapons. Mazael bade him to fetch some food, and Rufus returned with a skin of wine and half a loaf of dark bread. The wounded had been laid out in the church, and the Three Swords' common room had been taken over by Neville and Sir Hagen, so Mazael circled around to the back of the church, to the graveyard, to sit and eat.
And to rest. Just for a moment.
Most of the town's dead were buried outside the walls, and so the graveyard was ancient, its monuments and crypts centuries old. Mazael sat against the low stone wall encircling the graveyard.
Just a moment to eat and rest.
He fell asleep before taking a bite.
###
And as he slept, Mazael dreamed:
He stood alone in the Grim Marches, Lion in his hand. The empty grasslands stretched away in all directions. A cold wind blew past Mazael, tugging at his cloak and setting the grasses to rustling. Storm clouds writhed and danced overhead, flashing with lightning.
Green lighting. Like the lightning the Malrag shaman had called down.
Mazael looked to the east. Far in the distance he saw the dark mass of the Great Mountains, the division between the lands of the kingdom and the barbarian realms beyond. He had seen those mountains dozens, hundr
eds of times, in his life. Yet now they crawled with dark shapes, misshapen figures beyond count.
Malrags, tens of thousands of Malrags.
They were coming. A great host of Malrags, bent upon destroying and burning everything in their path. He gritted his teeth and set himself, raising Lion. Let them come! He would carve his way through them, make them pay in blood for every step they took upon his lands...
The Malrag horde moved.
But they did not go west, towards Castle Cravenlock and the Grim Marches.
Instead they went south.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 79