Demonsouled Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Possibly,” said Mazael. “Don’t attack unless I give the word.”

  He remained motionless atop Hauberk as the approaching riders reined up. There were a dozen Elderborn in all, their pale features angular and inhuman, their eyes like polished disks of silver and gold. Their leader, the human man, rode a few steps forward. Unlike the Elderborn, he wore a leather cuirass with steel studs, his cloak held in place by an elaborate bronze brooch. A bronze torque encircled his right arm, and a slender bronze diadem rested upon his brow. Age and weather had turned his face to seamed brown leather, but his blue eyes remained sharp and intense beneath his black hair.

  Blue eyes, Mazael realized, exactly the same shape and color as Romaria’s.

  "So," said the blue-eyed man, his voice thick and rough. "You are Mazael Cravenlock?"

  "I am," said Mazael.

  "And do you know who I am?"

  "No," said Mazael. "But if were to guess, I would say you were Athaelin Greenshield, Lord of Deepforest Keep."

  The blue-eyed man gave a sharp nod. "Aye. That I am." He thumped his chest. "I am Athaelin, the Greenshield, Champion of Deepforest Keep and Defender of the Mountain."

  "What brings you to the Grim Marches, my lord?" said Mazael. "Have you ridden to aid us against the Malrags? For we have sore need of help."

  "A year ago," said Athaelin, as if Mazael had not spoken, "a messenger staggered beneath the Champion's Tower, wounded unto death. He bore a letter from you, telling of my daughter’s death at the hands of the Old Demon. I would have ridden north, to take my vengeance at once, but the Seer bade caution. That, and I had no idea where to find you. At last the druids fashioned this for me with their spells," he held up a stone compass, its obsidian needle pointing straight at Mazael, "and I rode to the Grim Marches. And when I came to the Grim Marches, I found the land overrun with Malrags."

  The Seer. Mazael remembered Romaria telling him of the ancient Elderborn druid, mighty in the magical arts of his people. He had prophesied that Mazael and Romaria would save each other, and that Romaria would save Deepforest Keep itself. His prophecy had proven half-correct; Romaria had indeed saved Mazael from himself. But after Romaria’s death, he had thought the rest of the Seer's prophecy to be rubbish.

  Now he was not so sure.

  "Are you Demonsouled?" said Athaelin, his rough voice snapping Mazael out of his recollections.

  "What?" said Mazael.

  "The Seer and the druids will not give me a straight answer," said Athaelin, moving his horse closer. "They do not see such things as humans do. But if you are Demonsouled, I will kill you for what you did to my daughter."

  "I did not kill Romaria!" said Mazael, voice hot with sudden anger.

  "Oh?" said Athaelin. "The Seer told me her destiny was bound with yours. And she came north, and rode with you against your brother and the Old Demon. And now she is slain." There was a hint of pain in the rough voice, the blue eyes tight. "A curious coincidence, no?"

  "I did not kill her!" said Mazael. He would not tell Athaelin the truth about his nature, not unless necessary. If the Elderborn knew that he was a child of the Old Demon, they would shoot him on the spot. "I tried to save her. I loved her."

  A stir went through the Elderborn, and Athaelin's eyes seemed to throw sparks.

  "You loved her?" he spat. "A curious way to show it, since she lies cold and dead!"

  "It was the Old Demon," said Mazael. "He slew her, before I could stop him."

  "A fine tale," said Athaelin. "I think it more likely that you are Demonsouled, that you slew Romaria with your own hands. That you now summoned the Malrags to the Grim Marches, and make war upon your neighbors..."

  Mazael hands curled into fists, Hauberk's reins squealing against his gauntlets. He did not want to waste time while Romaria needed his aid. "Listen to me! Romaria is still alive."

  "What?" said Athaelin, his voice cracking like a whip.

  "She was half-human, half-Elderborn," said Mazael. "When the Old Demon struck her down, the spell sundered her soul. The human half broke loose, while the Elderborn half remained in her flesh. The power of her Elderborn soul changed her, forced her into the form of a beast. But Lucan," he gestured at the black-cloaked wizard, "has a spell that can repair the damage. I have to find her. She was wounded in a fight against the Malrags, and I fear it is only a matter of time before they catch up to her."

  Athaelin glared, his expression becoming cold and deadly.

  "Do you seriously," he said, "expect me to believe such tripe? You slew my daughter, Demonsouled, and I will have vengeance for it." His glare shifted to Lucan. "And I know of you, Dragon's Shadow. Richard Mandragon's pet necromancer, isn't it? Try to use your filthy arts, and I'll see you dead."

  Lucan sneered. "Raise your hand against me, fool, and I will show you what my filthy arts can do."

  The Elderborn lifted their bows, and Lucan gestured, green light crackling around his fingertips. Mazael yanked Lion from its scabbard, sure that things had come to a fight, but Athaelin spurred his horse between Lucan and the Elderborn.

  “No!” said Athaelin. “This is between Mazael and me. I will not have anyone’s blood shed to avenge my daughter but my own. Will you face me fairly, Mazael Cravenlock? Or will you hide behind your wizard?”

  “Are you mad?” said Mazael. “Romaria is out there, we are surrounded by Malrag warbands, and you want to fight?”

  “Among the men of Deepforest Keep,” said Athaelin, “we settle our disputes with our own hands, and do not hide behind others. And you murdered my daughter. Will you then face me and answer my challenge?” His lip curled in contempt. “Or will you run and hide like a beaten dog?”

  “I did not kill Romaria,” said Mazael. “And if fighting you is the only way to prove it, then so be it.”

  “This is folly,” hissed Lucan, voice low. “You have nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing Athaelin. Assuming you do even can kill him. I wager he is a capable swordsman, and you haven’t recovered fully from those poisoned crossbow bolts.”

  Lucan was right. Athaelin had the hard hands and easy balance of a master swordsman. Mazael’s wounds had closed, but his shoulder and leg still ached, and from time to time a wave of dizziness from the calibah poison swept through him.

  “Nevertheless,” said Mazael, “I must do this.”

  He slid from Hauberk’s saddle, gripping the reins until the dizziness passed. Athaelin dismounted and dropped to the ground, moving with fluid grace. The Elderborn backed off, leaving Mazael and Athaelin in a ring about twenty paces across.

  “If he gains the upper hand,” murmured Lucan, “I will strike him down.”

  “Don’t,” said Mazael, though he doubted Lucan would listen.

  Athaelin drew his bastard sword over his shoulder, the steel glimmering, its edges razor-sharp. “Are you ready?”

  Mazael drew Lion. No azure flames appeared around its blade. Neither the Elderborn nor Athaelin were creatures of dark magic, after all. “I am.”

  “The defend yourself!”

  Athaelin came at him in a run, his sword blurring over his hand in a two-handed grip. Mazael parried, dodged the next blow, launched a thrust of his own. Athaelin beat aside the thrust and sidestepped, his sword swinging for Mazael’s neck. Mazael blocked the swing, Lion ringing against the bastard sword’s blade.

  For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

  “I did not kill Romaria,” said Mazael.

  “I doubt that very much,” said Athaelin. He circled to the left, and Mazael moved right. “First your letter arrives, claiming that Romaria died at the Old Demon’s hands. The Seer confirms that a Demonsouled slew her. Then I arrive to find the Grim Marches overrun by Malrags, and you claim that she lives again? Yes, I doubt that very much.”

  He attacked, his sword like a bar of steel lightning. Mazael parried once, twice, thrice. Athaelin’s fourth blow slipped past his guard and skidded across his chest, his armor just turning it. Had Mazael not been wear
ing his cuirass, the blow would have plunged into his heart.

  He backed away, breathing hard, his chest aching from the thrust.

  “Do you think I summoned the Malrags to make war upon my own lands?” said Mazael.

  Athaelin's teeth flashed in his weathered face. "The Demonsouled are filled with bloodlust. And a Demonsouled of sufficient power can command the Malrags." He shifted his sword to his right hand, the blade spinning in a slow circle at his side, like a serpent preparing to strike. "Perhaps you take joy in watching bloodshed and suffering. As you took joy in watching my daughter die."

  "I did not!" said Mazael, anger starting to fill him. "The Old Demon slew her in front of me! I would have stopped him, had I the power."

  "Ah!" said Athaelin, pointing his sword at Mazael. "A moment ago you said she still lives. Now you say that the Old Demon slew her in front of you..."

  "I thought the Old Demon slew her in front of me," said Mazael. "I didn't know his spell would cleave her soul."

  "Your story changes from minute to minute," said Athaelin. "Are you really such a miserable liar? Or perhaps you believe your tales yourself. The Demonsouled often go mad, their minds destroyed by the taint of their souls."

  Mazael hesitated, for an instant wondering if perhaps Athaelin spoke the truth.

  And in that moment, Athaelin struck.

  He leapt forward, all his strength and speed behind a two-handed slash. Mazael parried, but only just, and the force of the blow sent him staggering. He backed away as Athaelin came at him, the bastard sword rising and falling, his grip shifting from two-handed to one-handed and back again.

  And in a flash, Mazael recognized the movements.

  Romaria had used them against him, when they fought with practice swords in the courtyard of Castle Cravenlock. Athaelin's routines, his swings and slashes, were the same as the ones Romaria had used that spring morning. No doubt Romaria had learned them from him.

  And Mazael knew what he would do next.

  As Athaelin sidestepped and brought his sword around in a backhanded slash, Mazael dodged, the blade plunging past his face. Athaelin pivoted to recover his balance, but for a moment, he was open. Mazael could have plunged Lion into Athaelin's stomach, ripping through the leather cuirass and into muscle and flesh.

  Instead he slammed Lion's pommel into Athaelin's stomach, knocking the older man back. Athaelin recovered quickly, his bastard sword coming up in guard, his eyes narrowed with fresh wariness.

  "Do you know how I did that?" said Mazael, circling to his right. "Romaria showed me those attacks. Because she trusted me. Because I loved her."

  "Your mouth pollutes her name," said Athaelin.

  "She told me about you," said Mazael. "How you taught her to fight. How she loved Deepforest Keep, but she couldn't stay there."

  For a moment anguish flickered over Athaelin's face, but he kept circling Mazael.

  "And she could fight," said Mazael. "I would never have believed a woman could handle a sword so well. And she was the best archer I ever met. The best scout, the best tracker. Brave and bold, even though she was terrified of her fate. She told me about that, too, how half-breeds always succumb to the Elderborn half of their souls. And yet she carried on in the face of that. How could I not love her?"

  "You know nothing," said Athaelin.

  He attacked again, feinting in a low thrust, then bringing his blade up for a high cut. But Mazael had seen Romaria use this attack, and blocked it with ease.

  "She saved my life," Mazael said, Lion straining against Athaelin's sword. "I have many regrets, but my greatest is that I failed to save her." They broke apart, still circling. "I did not kill her...but if she had never met me, she would still live. I curse myself for it."

  "Do you think to inspire sympathy with this?" spat Athaelin.

  "And when I learned that she still lived," said Mazael, shaking his head, "that she still lived, and I could help her...I set out at once. I will help her, my lord Athaelin. Whatever the cost to myself, I will help her. Even if I have to go through you to do it."

  "Silence!" roared Athaelin, and sprinted at Mazael.

  His attack came with such fury and power that Mazael, in his weakened state, barely deflected it. He parried, and tried to dodge, but Athaelin bulled forward, one hand seizing Mazael's shoulder. The other drew back his bastard sword for a lethal thrust. Mazael twisted, caught the wrist of Athaelin's sword hand, and yanked. Athaelin stumbled, his sword point skidding off Mazael's cuirass. Mazael ripped free and brought his sword up, laying the edge against Athaelin's throat.

  In the same instant Athaelin's blade came to rest against Mazael's throat.

  For a moment they stood like that, staring at each other.

  He heard the creak as the Elderborn raised their bows, saw the flash of green light as Lucan began muttering a spell.

  "Lucan," said Mazael, Lion resting against the side of Athaelin's neck.

  "Hold," said Athaelin, his blade motionless against Mazael's throat.

  "Perhaps we should kill each other and have done with it,” said Mazael.

  Athaelin said nothing, his fingers tight against his sword's hilt.

  "But if I'm right," said Mazael. "I'm the only one who can help Romaria. Her only chance for aid. And if you kill me, she'll lose that chance."

  "You could be lying," hissed Athaelin, "preying upon an old man's grief."

  "Perhaps," said Mazael. "Or I'm telling the truth. I make this oath to you, Lord Athaelin. Go to Castle Cravenlock, seek out my armsmaster Sir Hagen Bridgebane, and tell him that I sent you. He will give you lodgings. I will return within two days, and I will have Romaria with me."

  "Or?" said Athaelin.

  "Or I will be dead," said Mazael. "And if I am not, if I do return without Romaria...you can cut me down yourself. I won't stop you."

  Lucan muttered something. It did not sound complimentary.

  "Your oath?" said Athaelin.

  "You have it," said Mazael.

  For a long moment Athaelin did not move. Then he lowered his sword, his eyes and face tight with anger and...hope, perhaps?

  "If you've led me false," said Athaelin. "I will kill you."

  "If I've led you false," said Mazael, lowering his own sword, "then I've also led myself false, and I won't be alive for you to kill, my lord."

  A wintry smile flickered across Athaelin's face. "I hope you are right. I hope I will see my daughter again, alive and well. But I fear you have only played upon an old man's foolish hope."

  He walked back to his horse, swung into his saddle, and gestured to the Elderborn.

  As one they rode to the north, towards Castle Cravenlock, leaving Mazael and Lucan behind.

  Chapter 14 - The Duel

  "You should have killed him," said Lucan at last.

  "No," said Mazael.

  Lucan snorted. "Then you should have let me kill him."

  "No!" said Mazael. "I will not kill Romaria's father."

  "Then he will kill you," said Lucan, "if we fail to return with Romaria. Or if she has gone mad, or..."

  "Enough," said Mazael. "If you are so displeased, I can do this without you."

  Lucan sighed. "No, you can't. You cannot cast the necessary spell without my aid."

  Mazael swung back up into Hauberk's saddle. "Can you still sense her?"

  "Aye." Lucan's eyes fluttered. "Three and a half miles to the south, I think. She's moving closer to us."

  "Then let's find her," said Mazael, and put his boots to Hauberk's flanks.

  ###

  The sky grew darker as they rode south, heavy gray clouds rolling overhead. The corpses of dead Malrags lay scattered here and there. To judge from their wounds and the black blood drying upon their gray flesh, they had not been dead for very long. No more than a few hours. No doubt they had fled from the battle outside Cravenlock Town, only to perish from their wounds here.

  Until their dark spirits were reborn once more.

  "That one is missing its throat
," said Lucan, pointing. "And that one was hamstrung."

  "Romaria," said Mazael.

  Lucan nodded.

  "Where is she?" said Mazael.

  "Nearby," said Lucan. He frowned, and pointed. "There. There!"

  Mazael twisted in his saddle, and saw the great black wolf.

  Romaria.

  She half ran, half limped, across the plain, making for a low hill. A ring of weathered stones, the foundation of some long-forgotten tower, topped the hill. The wolf had been wounded, her dark fur wet in places with blood.