Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

“Sir Gerald!” said Mazael.

  Sir Gerald descended the steps to the chapel, his sheathed longsword's pommel flashing in the morning son. Wesson trailed after, bearing Gerald’s shield.

  “Sir Mazael,” said Gerald. “I missed you at the feast. What detained you?”

  “I fell ill,” said Mazael.

  “You? You never take sick,” said Gerald. “Are you sure you are well?”

  “I feel fine now,” said Mazael. “You missed morning practice, Gerald.”

  “I wanted to attend morning prayer,” said Gerald with a sigh.

  Mazael laughed. “Why so glum? Confessing your sins puts you into a better mood for hours.”

  Gerald scowled. “You should try it.” Romaria snickered. “No, what upsets me is the chapel’s condition.”

  The ancient chapel dated back to the old kingdom of Dracaryl. The massive building had stone walls, high, narrow windows, and a domed roof. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon, Father of the Gods, rested atop the dome. “It looks fine to me.”

  “The outside does, yes,” said Gerald. “These old chapels were built like fortresses. In Dracaryl I suppose they were built to take blasts of dragon fire. It’s the interior that troubles me.”

  “What about it?” said Mazael.

  “A mess,” said Gerald. “I’ve rarely seen such open disrespect, Mazael! The floor looks as if it was used to stable horses. The pews are dusty and have been carved with all manner of vile obscenities. And those priests, and those acolytes.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen such an ill-trained bunch! They stumbled through the liturgy. I doubt they even know more than five or six words of High Tristafellin.”

  “Mitor was never one for piety,” said Mazael.

  “Your whole family seems that way,” said Gerald.

  “That’s insulting,” said Romaria.

  Gerald shrugged. “Mazael is hardly the most pious of men, but he’s not a blasphemer. Lord Mitor borders upon it.”

  “Perhaps we’ll be fortunate and the gods will strike Mitor dead,” said Mazael.

  “Let’s leave this place,” said Gerald. “I do not like it. No doubt Lord Mitor is awaiting us for breakfast.”

  Mazael laughed. “I doubt it. Lord Mitor feasted last night. He might rouse himself in time for supper, though I wouldn’t wager on it.”

  “Lord Mitor reminds me of Wesson’s father,” said Gerald. “They call him Lord Tancred the Tankard. I’ve seen him drink like a fish. But Lord Mitor and Lady Marcelle.” Gerald shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man drink so much. It was as if they drank to escape all the demons of all the hells. And the court followed suit. Such debauchery. And I shudder to think what followed in the hay lofts and in the dark corners.”

  Mazael laughed. “We need to find you a wife.”

  “Why?” said Gerald.

  Mazael laughed harder and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

  He led Romaria and Gerald around the back of the chapel and towards the kitchen’s rear door. He felt eyes on him as he walked. Servants faltered in their stride and armsmen gaped.

  “They’re staring at us,” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Romaria. “They’re staring at Mazael. They saw the way he fought.”

  “That’s hardly new,” said Gerald. “Sir Mazael has always fought well.”

  “Yes, but he defeated Sir Albron in sword practice,” said Romaria.

  Gerald whistled. “That will raise attention.”

  Mazael snorted. “It shouldn’t. It wasn’t impressive. Yes, yes, I know, Romaria. If I could defeat him, then the great and powerful Lord Richard should have little difficulty vanquishing Albron.”

  “Is Lord Mitor incapable of leading his own armies?” said Romaria.

  Mazael snorted. “What do you think? In armor, Mitor would look like a pear in chain mail.”

  They came to the back of the kitchens. A stout old woman brandished a broom, herding a trio of clucking chickens back into an old coop. Mazael felt heat radiating from the ovens, and he stepped through the back door. The kitchens were vast, a dozen ovens ablaze as cooks labored to feed the castle's armsmen, servants, and nobles.

  “Sir Mazael!”

  Mazael turned. A young woman in a soot-stained apron approached. Her sweat-stained clothes stuck to her body. It made for a pleasant sight.

  Especially since when Mazael had last seen her, Bethany had a noose around her neck.

  “Do you remember me?” said Bethy. “Or do you go about saving women and children so often that it’s all another day’s work to you?”

  Gerald laughed. “You’d be surprised what occupies Sir Mazael’s days, lady.”

  “And how are you faring in the kitchens, Bethy?” said Mazael.

  Bethy sighed. “Well enough, I suppose. Master Cramton has taken over the kitchens.” The fat man bellowed orders on the other side of the room. “Lord Mitor had no one running things, if you can believe it. I miss the old inn, though.”

  “At least you’re alive,” said Romaria.

  “That’s true,” said Bethy. She grinned, her teeth white in her sooty face. “I saw you beat Albron, Sir Mazael. You whipped him right and good.”

  Mazael shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”

  “Aye, I’ve never seen a man fight like you, so I have!” said Bethy. “And if there’s ever a man that deserved a good whipping, it was that Sir Albron.”

  Mazael thought of Rachel. “I couldn’t disagree.”

  Bethy’s eyes sparkled. “But, oh, the way you and the lady fought!”

  “You fought a woman?” said Gerald.

  Romaria turned on him. “So? He couldn’t beat me.”

  “He couldn’t? But...it...is not chivalrous,” said Gerald.

  “I’d never seen anything like it, Sir Gerald,” said Bethy. “They moved together, and so fast, so...graceful, it was like watching a great ball, where the lords and ladies wear their silks. Except it was swords, instead of silks, I suppose.”

  “She beat you?” said Gerald, incredulous.

  “Oh, no, my lord handsome knight,” said Bethy. “No one won. It was a stalemate, just like in the songs.”

  “Songs? I wonder what Mattias Comorian would say of that,” said Mazael.

  “Who?” said Romaria.

  “Just a jongleur I met,” said Mazael, wondering what had brought him to mind.

  “Their swords crashed together,” said Bethy, “and then they shattered, and all that was left was the splintered hilts. I’d never seen anything so wondrous as that fight, so I have. Neither had half of those armsmen, too, the way they stood about with their mouths hanging open.” She snorted. “It’s the likes of them that are supposed to defend us from the Dragonslayer lord? I’m betting that if Sir Mazael and the Lady Romaria stood together, they could fight his army themselves.”

  “A pity I missed this,” said Gerald. “The gods know I wouldn’t have missed much by passing up on morning prayers.”

  Bethy wrinkled her nose. “Bah, I don’t hold with that lot, those chapel priests with their mutterings. They spend half their time drunk and the other half staring at me and the other girls as if they’d like to see us with no clothes.” She winked at Gerald. “Of course, you do too, but with you, it’s different.” Wesson smothered a snicker.

  “But...” said Gerald. “I most certainly—I did—I didn’t, I mean—”

  “Oh, but I’m being rude!” said Bethy. “Why, you likely came here for food, not to listen to me babble! Master Cramton would bellow my ears off if he saw me standing about chattering with you hungry. Let me run and get you some food.” She winked at Gerald again and hurried off, leaving the young knight speechless.

  “Sir Mazael is right,” said Romaria. “He does need to find you a wife.”

  Gerald sighed.

  “And what of you, Sir Mazael?” said Romaria. “Have you no plans to wed?”

  Mazael laughed and looked over the bustling kitchen. “I doubt it.”

  Gera
ld laughed. “My father will likely find some pretty but brainless minor noblewoman for you. You’re almost two-and-thirty. He has said that it was past time you married.”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Your father acts only for power and prestige. Were I Lord of Castle Cravenlock, he’d offer his daughter.”

  “The Elderborn believe that marriages are fate, the joining of two hearts,” said Romaria.

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” said Mazael. “Marriage is about lust and money. Love is a ploy for the jongleurs’ songs.”

  “I am not hungry. Excuse me,” said Romaria.

  “She’s a strange woman,” said Gerald, tugging at his mustache.

  “Yes, but I don’t hold it against her,” said Mazael. Women either bored him or inspired lust, but he had never met anyone like her before. And he had never met anyone who could have fought him to a standstill.

  Bethy returned, bearing hollowed heels of bread filled with steaming beef. “Here you are." She smiled at Gerald. “I put a bit of extra in yours.”

  “I’m sure he’s flattered,” said Mazael. “Anything to drink?”

  “Oh!” said Bethy. “I’d forgotten.” She disappeared into the chaos of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a pitcher of ale. “Now, drink up."

  “Gladly,” said Mazael. He drained a large part of the pitcher and handed it to Gerald. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” said Bethy. “For you, we’d prepare a feast, we would! Besides, with Lord Mitor sick as an old dog from too much drink, we needn't worry about preparing his breakfast.”

  Gerald snorted. “That’s hardly appropriate!”

  Bethy smiled at him. “Oh, but it’s true, isn’t it? I bet you tell the truth all the time, don’t you?”

  “A knight must strive to act honestly and honorably at all times,” announced Gerald.

  Bethy laughed. “Oh...so they swear,” she said. She shook her head. “But give me a copper coin for every one that doesn’t...why, I’d have more money than the Lord Dragonslayer. But you and Sir Mazael, you’re different. This isn’t your place.” Her eyes darted back and forth, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Lord Mitor and Lady Rachel and Sir Albron and...that wizard, the Briaultan fellow...they’re all bad sorts, all of them.”

  “Not Rachel,” said Mazael. “What are you saying?”

  “Leave,” said Bethy. “Right now. This isn’t a good place. I don’t think you’re welcome here. You take Lady Romaria and your squire and your friends and leave and don’t ever come back.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Mazael.

  Bethy paled. “I’ve...said too much...I’m just babbling...I’m a bit tired...”

  She spun and ran away.

  ***