Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

Sunlight rose over the eastern horizon of the Grim Marches and spilled across the plain.

  Mazael walked the courtyard ramparts, as he had every morning of his youth. The bleary-eyed night watchmen bowed or offered a salute as he passed. Word of Captain Brogan’s fate had gotten around.

  Mazael felt better. Sleeping from sunset to sunrise would do that. He bit into the apple had taken from the castle’s orchards.

  The memory of the strange dream had faded. Most likely it had come from his anger at Mitor and Rachael. And he had been living off travel rations for a month, and a month of travel rations would sicken anyone. And Mitor Cravenlock could upset the strongest stomach.

  He flicked the apple’s core into the courtyard. Another few days and he would depart Castle Cravenlock and leave Mitor to his ruin. But what would become of Rachel when Lord Richard crushed Mitor’s delusions of liege lordship? Mazael considered abducting her himself and taking her back to Knightcastle. She would be better off at Lord Malden’s court than in the clutches of Mitor and Albron Eastwater.

  Mazael decided to consider it later. Sleep had slowed his muscles, and he needed morning sword practice to loosen them.

  “Sir Mazael?”

  Timothy deBlanc climbed up the rampart stairs, his black cloak fluttering in the wind. On the collar and shoulders of his black cloak he wore a variety of small metal badges marked with different sigils. Each sigil represented a magical spell he had learned.

  “You’re up early,” said Mazael.

  “Revels...ah, do not agree with me, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “We appear to share that preference.”

  “I enjoy a feast as well as any man,” said Mazael. “But I prefer my own company to that of certain others.”

  “I cannot hold drink very well, I must confess. I left quickly. Yet Master Othar had already drained four tankards of ale!” said Timothy.

  Mazael laughed. “He’s not what you expected?”

  “No, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “Ah...I do not mean that as an insult, please understand. He’s skilled in the magical arts. In just the last afternoon, he showed me a dozen ways to improve upon my spells.”

  Mazael nodded. “Lord Mitor should have kept him as court wizard.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Timothy. “Master Othar is a skilled master wizard, but this Simonian of Briault...Simonian is...unknown.”

  “Simonian is a lying schemer, you mean to say,” said Mazael. “Lady Romaria thinks he is the wizard she seeks.”

  “It is possible,” said Timothy. “Briault is full of practitioners of dark arts, warlocks and necromancers...or so I’ve read. I’ve never actually been there.” He coughed into his fist. “I...ah, well, it’s a terrible breach of etiquette, but my curiosity got the better...”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “I cast one of the minor spells before I left the feast. One to sense the presence of magic,” said Timothy. “Simonian has a spell resting upon him.”

  Mazael frowned. “What sort of spell?”

  “I...don’t know, my lord knight,” said Timothy. “I didn’t recognize it. And I feared Simonian might notice me, so I released my spell before I could seek further.”

  “That was likely wise,” said Mazael. He remembered the gleeful amusement in Simonian’s eyes. “He seems dangerous. If he suspected you of meddling, I doubt he would spare you harm.”

  Timothy tugged at his beard. “I’ve lately had no shortage of men trying to kill me.”

  “I’ll have to tell this to Master Othar,” said Mazael. “He likely has a spell that can reveal more about Simonian. Thank you.”

  “Yes. And...there is another reason I’d like to speak with you this morning, my lord knight,” said Timothy.

  “Well, out with it,” said Mazael.

  Timothy cleared his throat. “Ah...I would like to swear to your service...if you’ll take me, that is.”

  Mazael frowned. “You mean Lord Mitor’s service?”

  Timothy shook his head. “No, Sir Mazael. Your service.”

  “Why?” said Mazael. “I thought you had come all this way to learn from Master Othar.”

  “Well, yes,” said Timothy. “But Master Othar hardly needs help executing his duties. And he is a good man, my lord knight...but this castle...” He shrugged. “I do not like it here. That is all I can say.”

  Mazael laughed. “You’re not alone in that, wizard. Go on.”

  “And...” Timothy shrugged. “I would rather serve you, my lord knight, than swear to your brother Lord Mitor.” He sighed. “The gallows in the town...I have seen many such executions in my life. I always wanted to put a stop to it, but I had not, and still do not have, the power. Sir Mazael, you are the sort of man who has that power, and I would follow you.”

  Mazael snorted. “Don’t fill your head with notions of chivalry and adventure, wizard. My life is a hard one. If you swear to me, you’ll spend your days riding back and forth on Lord Malden’s errands in fair, and usually foul, weather, with bad food.”

  “I understand,” said Timothy. “I spent most my youth sleeping under trees, and I slept in a bare stone cell during my time at Alborg.”

  “If you’re determined...well, then, who am I to turn away help?” said Mazael. He drew Lion. “Kneel.” Timothy knelt, and Mazael laid the flat of the blade on the wizard’s right shoulder. “Timothy deBlanc, wizard of Travia, do you swear to be my true and faithful servant?”

  “Yes, Sir Mazael,” said Timothy.

  “In return, I swear to provide you with food, clothing, and the protection of my sword. Do you accept this oath?” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said Timothy.

  “It’s done, then,” said Mazael. He offered his hand and helped Timothy back up.

  “So quickly?” said Timothy.

  Mazael frowned. “The full version of those oaths are longer. I don’t have the time or patience to recite them, even if I could remember them. First a squire and then a wizard. I’ll have a bloody court of my own by the time I return to Knightcastle.” He frowned. “Speaking of which, here’s your first task. Find where my squire has gotten...”

  “Oh,” said Timothy. “He’s over there.”

  Adalar Greatheart jogged up the rampart stairs. Mazael could have killed the boy with a quick push and a long fall to the courtyard, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.

  “I went to your rooms, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar, “but you weren’t there.”

  “I rose early," said Mazael. "Take a room in my chambers in the King’s Tower.”

  “Would that be inconvenient?” said Adalar.

  Mazael snorted. “Inconvenient? There’s room to quarter an army in the King’s Tower.”

  “Thank you, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I’ll move my possessions in at once...”

  Mazael waved his hand. “Do it later. Now, you can tell me where Sir Albron keeps morning arms practice.” He frowned. “Sir Albron does have morning arms practice, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course,” said Adalar. “It is held over on the other side of the castle, in the courtyard between the armory and the barracks.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Below them, Castle Cravenlock came awake as servants hurried to their duties. Squires and grooms descended on the stables. The watch changed, tired night guards going for their beds, while rested men came to take their places on the ramparts. Singing rose from the castle's chapel, and a deep red glow and the sound of ringing metal came from the forges. Suits of chain mail rested on wooden stands, while completed swords and maces leaned against the forges’ walls. The smell of cooking bread rose from the kitchen, and Mazael's stomach rumbled. Perhaps he would pay a visit to the kitchens later.

  They made a complete circuit of the castle’s walls and came to the stretch of rampart overlooking the yard between the barracks and the armory. Two hundred armsmen milled about, bearing wooden practice weapons, Sir Albron directing them. Further down the battlements, Mazael saw see Sir Nathan and Master Othar. Rachel s
tood with them, her eyes on Sir Albron. Mazael grimaced, stiffened his resolve, and went to join them.

  “Father,” said Adalar.

  “Adalar. Sir Mazael,” said Nathan. Rachel’s hands clutched at her sleeves.

  “Sir Nathan,” said Mazael.

  “I trust you are well? Adalar told me of your sickness,” said Nathan.

  “I’m well enough,” said Mazael. “After a night of sleep and emptying my guts into the chamber pot, I feel fine.”

  “A pity you missed the feast, boy,” said Othar. He rapped the tip of his cane against a battlement. “A man should never pass up an opportunity for fine food and strong drink, I say.”

  “You ate and drank to disgraceful excess, as always,” said Nathan.

  “Absolutely!” said Othar. “I’m an old man, Sir Nathan. I want to enjoy my last years on earth. If I’d wanted a life of austerity, I’d have joined the Cirstarcians.”

  “I’m older than you,” said Nathan.

  Othar waved a meaty hand. “Yes, yes, obey your elders and all of that.” He winked at Adalar. “My boy, let me give you a piece of valuable advice. Just because a man is your elder does not necessarily mean that he is your better.”

  “I know,” said Mazael, thinking of Mitor.

  “Do not poison my son’s mind,” said Nathan.

  Othar rolled his eyes. “Poison? You wound me, old friend. I just want to insure that the boy has proper appreciation for the gift that is life.” He slapped Mazael on the shoulder. “Now, if it wasn’t for me, Mazael would be as dry and dull as you.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” said Nathan.

  “Besides, if we do not enjoy life, then all that is left is our worries and cares,” said Othar. He frowned. “And there are so many of those.”

  “Lady Rachel,” said Mazael, “how are you this morning?”

  Rachel smiled, her eyes fever bright. “I...I am well. And you?”

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “Where is Mitor?”

  “Lord Mitor...does not usually rise before noon,” said Rachel. “Nor the lady Marcelle.”

  Othar snorted. “Bah! And you say I drink to excess, Nathan.”

  “I left early, as well,” said Rachel. “Albron and Mitor often discuss matters of state during the meal. I find that leaves me with little appetite.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Mazael, “considering ‘matters of state’ just gave you three days in the company of Sir Tanam Crowley.”

  “I wanted to rise early,” said Rachel. “Albron likes it when I come to watch him train the men.”

  “Does he, now?” said Mazael. “Rachel, I think you’re making a mistake, marrying him. But I suppose it’s your mistake to make.”

  “It’s not a mistake!” said Rachel. “You just don’t know him as I do.”

  “And how well do you know him?” said Mazael. “I hope better than I, for what I saw was not very complimentary.”

  “He’s...a hard man to really know,” said Rachel. “But...inside, he’s very brave, and very daring.”

  "But not brave enough to go after Sir Tanam to get you back," said Mazael.

  Rachel had no answer for that.

  “A brave man inside,” said Othar, shaking his bearded head, a strange look on his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I had best retreat to my workroom. Lord Mitor will have a thunderstorm of a hangover when he awakes. I had best have some medicinal elixir prepared.”

  Mazael spat. “Lord Mitor has seen fit to make Simonian his court wizard. Is a medicinal elixir out of reach of his great arts?”

  Othar shrugged. “I do not know. Besides, Simonian left on one of his ‘errands’ shortly after the feast. No one has seen him since.”

  “Will you need my assistance?” said Timothy.

  Othar laughed. “My boy, I prepared medicinal elixirs decades before you were born. I do believe I shall be fine.” He left, his cane thumping against the ramparts.

  “Mazael,” said Rachel, “I know we don’t agree on everything, but you are right about Simonian.”

  “I am?” said Mazael.

  “I don’t know about all these rumors of dark magic and the like,” said Rachel, “but he is a very dangerous man. His eyes give me nightmares, sometimes. And he’s...powerful. He does things I don’t think any other wizard could do.”

  “I see,” said Mazael.

  Rachel’s voice fell lower. “I...I think Mitor should send him away, but he’ll never listen to me. Please, Mazael, stay far away from Simonian. It’s been so hard, here...if something were to happen to you, I think I would go mad.”

  Mazael remembered the amusement in the wizard’s flat gaze as he spoke of Mitor’s death. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  “He’s doing that wrong, you know,” said a woman’s voice.

  Mazael's hand fell to Lion's hilt as he whirled. Romaria Greenshield stood behind them. Mazael hadn’t heard her approach. She wore again her trousers, boots, tunic and worn green cloak, though a suit of steel-studded leather armor covered her torso. The hilt of her bastard sword poked out over her shoulder.

  Her grin cut like a dagger’s edge. “Did I startle you?”

  “I nearly cut you in two,” said Mazael.

  A flicker of fear flashed across Romaria's blue eyes. Mazael wondered if her bravado covered something else.

  “You nearly tried to cut me in two,” Romaria said.

  “I don’t try. I do,” said Mazael. He remembered how her skin felt and he grinned. Then he remembered the dream and his smile faded.

  “You did startle us,” said Sir Nathan. "Your skill at stealth must be considerable."

  Romaria smiled. “Thank you. It’s hard to keep in practice, but I try.” She bowed. “I am Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep.”

  Nathan bowed in return. “I had hoped to speak with you. I saw you at the feast, but did not have the opportunity. I am Sir Nathan Greatheart. Is your father well, my lady?”

  Romaria’s eyes widened. “Sir Nathan Greatheart?” She smiled. “Yes, he is well. In fact, he told me to give you his greetings, should I happen to meet you.”

  “You know Lord Athaelin?” said Rachel. “But I didn’t think anyone knew the Greenshields. Until I met Romaria, I thought Deepforest Keep legendary.”

  “Lord Athaelin and I knew each other in my youth,” said Nathan.

  Romaria laughed. “You saved his life, you mean.”

  Nathan shrugged. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “My father tells it differently,” said Romaria.

  “Knowing him, no doubt,” said Nathan. He watched her for a moment. “Is something amiss?”

  Romaria pointed to the courtyard. “Sir Albron. Those men are a mess.”

  Rachel’s eyes flashed. “Albron does his best.”

  “Then despair for the future of Castle Cravenlock,” said Romaria. “Half those men aren’t holding their weapons correctly. The other half at least have correct grips, but haven’t the slightest idea what to do with a blade.”

  Nathan grimaced. “I have offered to assist Sir Albron with training, but he has rebuffed my aid.”

  “He needs it,” said Mazael. “Sir Tanam’s crows could take this lot. Lord Richard’s veterans would annihilate them. If Mitor plans to go to war with Sir Albron training his soldiers...”

  “Mitor will win,” said Rachel. “You’ll see. He hasn’t told you...”

  Mazael frowned. “Told me what?” Rachel blanched.

  “Sir Mazael, I say!”

  Sir Albron walked towards the rampart stairs. “Are you going to join us?” His smile widened. “I have heard so much about the daring of Sir Mazael. Is it true, or does the great knight spend all his time in the company of women and old men?”

  “Albron!” said Rachel. “Please.”

  Mazael laughed. “Sir Albron, this old man did a better job of training Cravenlock armsmen than you ever could. As for the company of women, I think Lady Romaria could split your head down the middl
e.”

  “Oh, flattery,” said Romaria. A chorus of laughs burst from the armsmen, and Sir Albron silenced his men with a smiling glare.

  “Easy to say standing up there,” said Albron. “Why not come down here and prove your words?”

  “I think I will,” said Mazael. “Adalar, Timothy, with me.”

  “I shall join, as well,” said Nathan. “Perhaps you can teach me a few lessons, Sir Albron.”

  “And I,” said Romaria.

  Rachel gaped. “Lady...that’s...that’s hardly proper.”

  Albron laughed. “A woman? Lady Romaria, you mock me.”

  Romaria grinned at him. “Indeed? Consider this, Albron. If your men can defeat a woman of Deepforest Keep, then Lord Richard’s armies won’t even be a challenge.”

  Albron shook his head. “I won’t have it. In the barbarian wilds, women might waddle about in a man’s garb and with a man’s weapons. But you are in civilization now, Lady Romaria, and you will act in a civilized fashion.”

  “No,” said Sir Nathan. “If Lady Romaria possess a tenth part of her father’s nature, Sir Albron, then I would rather stand with her to death then spend an hour with the likes of you.”

  Albron's face hardened, and for a moment fury seem to rise off him in waves. His smile returned, but Mazael was certain he had glimpsed Albron’s true feelings. Perhaps Rachel had as well.

  “Well, then,” Albron said. “Humiliate yourself, Lady Romaria, if you wish. Stand with her, Sir Nathan, and prove yourself an old fool. It matters not to me. I did warn you. Come down, then, and let us practice the blades.”

  2

  Sword Dancers