Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “It is only a suspicion,” said Lucan. “Nothing more. And what you saw could very well have been an illusion. You loved Romaria…much as I once loved Tymaen. If Tymaen appeared before me again, beckoning to me…I don’t know if I could disbelieve it. Could you?”

  Mazael said nothing.

  “But there is a way,” said Lucan, “to determine whether what you saw was the real Romaria Greenshield or not.”

  “How?” said Mazael.

  “The tomb,” said Lucan. “Go to the crypt below the chapel. If her body remains there, then you will know that you saw only an illusion of some kind.”

  Mazael nodded. That made sense. But first, he had responsibilities. He walked along the town’s wall, to the Cravenlock banner flying over a mass of horsemen. Dead Malrags carpeted the ground, interspersed here and there with the body of a slain knight or armsman.

  Mazael saw no sign of Ultorin. The renegade Dominiar had escaped, again.

  Lucan paused for a moment, frowning at the ground. Then he knelt, scooped up some dirt, and followed Mazael.

  “This was a trap for us,” said Mazael, “wasn’t it?”

  “Aye,” said Lucan. “We survived it, though.”

  If just barely.

  A short walk brought Mazael to his gathered men.

  “My lord!” said Sir Aulus, straightening in the saddle. “We thought you slain!”

  Mazael made himself smile. “It will take more than Ultorin and his Malrags to finish me. What news?”

  “The Malrags are broken,” said Sir Hagen, maneuvering his horse alongside Aulus’s. “Most of them are slain, taken in the charge or shot down by the militiamen on the walls, and the rest have fled. Sir Tanam’s men are pursuing them.”

  “Where’s Sir Gerald?” said Mazael. Gods, if he had gotten Rachel’s husband and Lord Malden’s youngest son killed…

  “I’m here,” said Gerald, striding past the horses. His armor was battered, and stained with Malrag blood, but he looked otherwise unharmed. “I lost my horse to a Malrag spear. Gods, those devils are fierce fighters.”

  “Aye,” said Hagen, “but we sent them running! Didn’t we, lads?”

  A cheer went up from the men.

  “Hagen,” said Mazael. “Take command here. Have Timothy and Circan see to the wounded.”

  “Where will you be?” said Gerald. “Surely you don’t mean to ride out in pursuit of Ultorin by yourself?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “I…have an urgent errand at the castle that cannot wait. See to things here, Hagen. I will return shortly.”

  He took the horse of a slain armsman and left, Lucan following him.

  ###

  A short time later Mazael reined up before the doors of Castle Cravenlock’s chapel. It looked like a smaller version of the town’s church, with the same domed roof, high windows, and solid walls of dark stone. Rufus raced from the stables to take his reins.

  “My lord,” said Rufus. “What has happened? Are…”

  “We are victorious,” said Mazael. “The Malrags have been driven back. Wait here.” He saw Rachel hurrying down from the ramparts, skirts gathered in her hands as she ran. “Tell Lady Rachel that the Malrags were defeated and Gerald is safe. Don’t let her follow me.”

  “But my lord,” said Rufus. “I…”

  “Do as I say!” said Mazael, pushing open the chapel’s doors, Lucan following.

  The chapel was almost full, mostly with women and the priests. The wives and mothers and sisters and daughters of his knights and armsmen, come to pray for their sons and brothers and husbands and fathers. They turned hopeful, terrified eyes towards him.

  Some of those women had become widows and orphans today.

  One of the priests hurried over, his brown robe rustling against the floor. "My lord? Are...are we victorious?"

  "We are," said Mazael, and a relieved sigh went through the women. He wondered how many of them would weep before the day was done. "I need to get into the crypt. Now."

  The priest blinked. "The crypt? But..."

  "Now," said Mazael.

  The priest took one look at his expression and hastened to obey. He led Mazael around the dais and altar, past the spot where the Old Demon had slain Romaria, to the back of the chapel. A massive iron door stood in the wall, and the priest unlocked it, revealing a set of stone stairs descending into darkness.

  "I will fetch candles, my lord," said the priest.

  Lucan smiled and lifted his hand, a ball of blue light hovering over his palm. "No need. I brought my own."

  The priest made the sign to ward off evil, and Mazael descended into the crypt. Lucan followed, his ball of light throwing back the darkness, bathing everything in a pale blue glow. The stairs ended in Castle Cravenlock's crypt, a massive series of vaults supported by pillars of glistening brick. The air was damp and cold and chill. The dead of the House of Cravenlock lined the walls, lying in stone niches sealed by leaden plates. Each plate held the name of the deceased, along with an epitaph.

  "Here," said Mazael. "We laid her here."

  He walked along the wall, past the tomb of Lord Adalon, whom he had believed to be his father, and Lady Arissa, his mother, who had hated him. Next to them lay his two older brothers, both slain in Lord Adalon's war with Lord Richard. Besides them rested a niche for Mitor Cravenlock. An empty niche - Skhath's necromancy had destroyed Mitor's body utterly, leaving not even ashes to bury.

  Romaria Greenshield's tomb lay besides them.

  Mazael took a deep breath...and stopped.

  The niche was open. The leaden plate lay forgotten upon the floor. Mazael stepped forward, reaching into the niche.

  "Light, damn it," he said. "Get the light here."

  Lucan lifted his hand, the blue light shining brighter. Inside the niche Mazael saw an open wooden coffin, its lids and sides scored with deep grooves, as if from razor-edged claws. Within the coffin lay the shattered remains of a bastard sword, its blade broken by the Old Demon's powerful magic.

  But there was no trace of Romaria. No corpse, no bones. Nothing.

  She was gone.

  “Oh, gods,” said Mazael. “I buried her alive.”

  Lucan blinked. “My lord?”

  “I buried her alive,” said Mazael. He barely recognized the sound of his own voice. “I loved her, and she was wounded, and I buried her alive! I am fool!” He had Lion in his hand now, his shouts echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Those damned priests! Why didn't they tell me? It is their responsibility to tend the crypt, why didn't they tell me?”

  “Lord Mazael...”

  “I did this to her!” said Mazael. He started towards the crypt stairs, Lion still in his hand. “The priests will answer to me! They'll tell me why they didn't hear her screaming, asking for help...”

  Something slapped him hard across the shoulders, sent him to the crypt floor with a clatter of armor. Mazael rolled to one knee, stunned. Lucan stood over him, hand raised, eyes narrowed and pale face tense.

  He had just cast a spell at Mazael. That alone shocked Mazael back to lucidity. Lucan had never before lifted his hand against him.

  “Forgive me,” said Lucan, “but in your...state of mind, it seemed unwise to let you confront the priests.”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. The chapel was still no doubt full of frightened women. How would they have reacted to their lord stalking out the crypt, waving his sword and screaming threats at the priests? “Yes, yes, you're right.” He got to his feet, rammed Lion back into its scabbard. “But...Romaria. How is this even possible? I know what death looks like, and I saw her die.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lucan.

  “You said you had a suspicion?” said Mazael.

  Lucan nodded. “Lady Romaria was half-human, half-Elderborn. Such hybrids are incredibly rare, for a very good reason. The souls of humans and Elderborn do not easily mingle, and the soul of a child born to an Elderborn parent and a human parent is often...unstable. Sometimes spectacularly so.”

  “Unstab
le?” said Mazael. “What do you mean?”

  Lucan's voice took on the cold, distant tone it often did when he spoke with Marstan's knowledge. “The Elderborn are not like us, Lord Mazael. Their souls are infused with earth magic, ancient and fell. Much in the same way that the Demonsouled half of your soul is infused with power, though the Elderborn are not tainted in the same way as the Demonsouled. The Elderborn can become far more powerful wizards than any human. They command the earth and elements, make the very rocks attack their foes. And they often have the power to change their shapes, to take on the forms of birds and beasts.”

  “Beasts?” said Mazael. “Like the a black wolf?”

  “Yes. And that explains how she...survived the Old Demon's attack. The Old Demon struck her down with magic. And when he did, I believe, he fractured her soul. The spell expelled the human half of her soul from her body, and it latched onto the nearest available home.”

  “Where?” said Mazael.

  Lucan smirked. No doubt Marstan had once smirked in the same way. “Why, you, my lord.”

  “Me?”

  “You are only half-human yourself. Or a quarter-human, technically, since I suppose the Old Demon is only half-human. Which means you do not possess a complete human soul.” His dark eyes bored into Mazael. “The human half of Romaria's soul fused with yours. And you made her effectively immortal, my lord. Death is the permanent sundering of soul and flesh, with the soul moving to the world beyond ours. But the human half of her soul was anchored to yours. It could not move on. Which means, I believe, the Elderborn half of her soul remained trapped in her damaged body. And the Elderborn half healed the wound the Old Demon dealt her.”

  “So she lay in agony for the last two years?” said Mazael, horrified.

  “Probably not,” said Lucan. “From what you described, the Old Demon's spell likely destroyed her heart and lungs. It would take years to repair the damage. Look – see the edges on the coffin, on the lead plate? Those cuts are fresh. No dust. Odds are she only clawed her way out of the tomb recently. Perhaps only a few hours before the first Malrag raid on Cravenlock Town.”

  “And that's why I dreamed of a black wolf,” said Mazael. In some ways it was a relief – he had feared the Old Demon had sent the dreams. “Because half her soul was fused to mine. Ultorin wounded her, during our fight, and I...felt it. Only faintly. But I still felt it.”

  Lucan nodded.

  “We have to find a way to help her,” said Mazael. “If there is a way to help her?”

  “Perhaps,” said Lucan. “I...know a spell. A bit of Marstan's lore. It will expel the human half of Romaria's soul from you. It will return to her body, if you're close enough.”

  “How close?” said Mazael.

  Lucan shrugged. “Close. At least five yards. You might have to be touching her for it to work.”

  “And how am I to manage that?” said Mazael. “She's terrified of me. And why not? I brought about her death, even if I did not will it. Whenever I've tried to approach her, she fled.”

  “Yet she aided you in battle,” said Lucan. “Against the balekhan, against Ultorin himself. Clearly, she still has some feeling for you.” He sighed. “Though, I must warn you. Obviously she has undergone a great deal of torment. Even if we restore her soul, her mind might well be destroyed.”

  “She might go mad, you mean,” said Mazael.

  Lucan nodded.

  “We must still try,” said Mazael. “I cannot...leave her like this. I owe her too much. I love her too much.”

  “So be it,” said Lucan. “You will have my aid.”

  “How will we even find her?” said Mazael.

  Lucan grinned, just for a moment. It made him look young. “With this.” He reached into his cloak, withdrew a pouch filled with earth. “Romaria's blood spilled upon the earth when Ultorin wounded her. Not much, true...but enough that I can track her. To the ends of the earth, if need be.”

  “Much as Circan can do with my nephew,” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Lucan.

  “Then we shall go at once,” said Mazael, gripping the younger man's shoulder. “Lucan, thank you. You are a true and loyal friend. Without your aid, I would have been slain a dozen times over the last year. And probably a dozen more times since the Malrags came.”

  Guilt flickered over Lucan's expression. “I am not a good man, my lord. I am not. I have only done the best I can.”

  Mazael nodded. “Let us go.”

  ###

  Mazael walked into the courtyard to find his men and Sir Tanam's waiting for him. Rachel clung to Gerald, cleaning the blood and sweat from his face and armor. Squires hurried back and forth, tending to the horses and armor.

  “We're here, my lord,” said Sir Hagen, his black-bearded face grim.

  “Good,” said Mazael. “Gerald!” Gerald walked over, Rachel still at his side. “Sir Hagen, Gerald. Both of you take command here. I...have a task, and I will return by nightfall.”

  “A task?” said Gerald. “What manner of task? Do you require my aid?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Lucan and I will go alone. Any extra men will only slow us.”

  Sir Hagen scowled. “That is not wise, my lord. The countryside is crawling with Malrag scouting parties.”

  “Aye,” said Sir Tanam. “My men think the Malrags' main host is on the move. So they'll have scouting parties out. As formidable as you are with that burning sword, and as powerful as my lord Lucan's arts are, I doubt the two of you can overcome a hundred Malrags.”

  “This is something I must do alone,” said Mazael. “I owe a debt, and must discharge it. Trust me on this.”

  Rachel stared at him, a strange expression on her face. Ever since they had been children, she had been able to judge his mood simply by looking at him.

  “This is,” said Rachel, voice soft, “something Lord Mazael has to do, I think.”

  At last the men nodded. They did not look happy, but they nodded.

  “Keep Toraine from making trouble while I'm gone,” said Mazael, and he called for Rufus to bring him a horse.

  ###

  An hour later Mazael rode south, atop an ill-tempered destrier named Hauberk, Lucan riding at his side. Lucan held a vial of bloodstained earth in his left hand, staff in his right, and every so often muttered a spell.

  “Perhaps four miles to the south,” said Lucan, blinking. “Maybe five. She's moving...but not quickly. We can overtake her, I think, and...”

  He frowned, twisting in his saddle.

  Mazael followed his gaze, saw a group of horsemen riding across the plains.

  Towards them, actually. They flew no banners, and from a distance, their armor and clothing looked...strange. As they drew closer, Mazael saw that they wore leather and furs, cloaks of gray wolfskin hanging heavy from their shoulders.

  A breath hissed through Lucan's teeth.

  “What is it?” said Mazael.

  “Those riders,” said Lucan. “They're Elderborn.”

  Chapter 13 - The Lord of Deepforest Keep

  “The Elderborn?” said Mazael, astonished. “Here?”

  “Perhaps they’ve come to aid us against the Malrags,” said Lucan, but there was doubt in his voice. “Sil Tarithyn came to White Rock, to fight against the Old Demon’s undead.”

  “Only because they strayed into the Great Southern Forest,” said Mazael. “And I have never heard of the Elderborn coming this far north.”

  “Perhaps they came in pursuit of a Malrag warband,” said Lucan.

  Mazael squinted. One of the Elderborn riders carried a banner, a black field with a green shield upon it.

  “That banner,” he said.

  “I don’t recognize it,” said Lucan.

  Mazael took a deep breath. “Romaria described it to me. It’s the banner of Deepforest Keep. Of her father, Lord Athaelin.”

  “Did you not write him, telling him of her death?” said Lucan.

  “I did,” said Mazael, watching the riders draw closer. �
��I sent the letter with a messenger. A messenger that never returned.” All the Elderborn were armed with the great bows they fired to deadly effect, quivers of obsidian-tipped arrows at their belts. At their head rode a human man, tall and strong, with thick black hair and a graying beard. A bronze shield hung from his back, and the hilt of a bastard sword jutted over his right shoulder.

  Similar to the sword that lay broken in Romaria’s empty tomb.

  “Ah,” said Lucan, raising his staff. “They want to kill you, don’t they?”