Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

The door opened into a scene from hell.

  Mazael stepped onto a balcony encircling a cavernous hall that resembled the interior of the great cathedral he had seen years ago in Barellion. That cathedral had been decorated with carvings of gods and saints. But here, statues and carvings of limbed serpents killing humans adorned this temple, this pit. A stone altar rested atop a dais at the end of the temple, overlooked by an enormous stone statue of a giant snake. It was an image of the serpent god Sepharivaim, worshipped by the San-keth people and by human apostates. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, strange incense, and blood. A dull, droning chant in bastardized Tristafellin rose from the floor. Mazael ignored Silar’s hiss of warning and stepped to the edge of the balcony.

  A great mass of people knelt before the altar. There were servants from the castle, Cravenlock armsmen, and men wearing the finer garb of knights.

  “Mitor,” said Mazael.

  Mitor knelt at the front of the crowd, his forehead resting against the crimson stone floor, Marcelle besides him. Lord Marcus Trand and Lord Roget Hunterson knelt behind Mitor like a pair of mongrel hounds crouching behind their master.

  “Rachel’s not here,” said Mazael.

  “I’m happy for you,” said Silar. “Let’s go.”

  “This is a dangerous place. We should leave. Now,” said Romaria.

  “Brother Silar is right,” said Nathan. “We must...”

  The reverberating crash of a great gong drowned out his words, its clang echoing through the temple. The kneeling men and women began wail in ecstasy and terror. A huge drum thundered, its vibrations thrumming through the stone.

  “Simonian,” whispered Romaria.

  Mazael saw the necromancer at the far end of the temple hall, cloaked in black robes, watching the worshippers with amused contempt.

  “Right,” said Mazael. “Let’s get...” He froze.

  Sir Albron Eastwater marched into sight, clad only in a loincloth around his waist. The kneeling men and women parted for him. Rachel walked on Albron's arm, clad only in a shift of translucent black gauze. Golden bracelets wrought in the shape of serpents glittered on her wrists and ankles, and crimson runes marked the pale length of her arms and legs. A diadem shaped like twisting silver serpents supporting a great golden cobra with glittering ruby eyes rested upon her brow.

  “She’s one of them,” said Mazael. Strange that he felt no pain, no rage.

  Only...surprise.

  “Gods,” said Sir Nathan. “Look!”

  Albron’s body began to shimmer, his flesh rippling as if dissolving into mist.

  “An illusion!” said Timothy, his voice an excited whisper. “That was the spell I sensed about him. An illusion, to hide his true form!”

  The illusion dissolved to reveal a moldering skeleton, sparks of green fire glimmering in its joints. It was the same green fire Mazael had seen in the empty eyes of the zuvembies. A huge emerald-scaled snake was coiled around the skeleton's spine, its tail dangling through the hip bone to brush against the floor. The snake’s head reared up in its place, its black-slit yellow eyes roved over the kneeling worshippers.

  Rachel’s arm remained hooked about the animated skeleton. Mazael wanted to scream.

  “A San-keth serpent priest,” said Silar. "Sir Albron's true identity."

  “Why is it riding that skeleton?” said Romaria.

  “The gods stripped the San-keth of their limbs,” said Silar, “so the serpent priests use their dark arts to transform human skeletons into undead carriers, of a sort. The priest can control the limbs through its necromancy.” Silar swallowed. “Sir Mazael, the markings on Lady Rachel’s arms...”

  “What about them?” said Mazael. He did not recognize his own voice.

  Silar met his gaze. “It means...”

  “Hail!” Mitor stood, his arms spread. “Hail to Most High Priest Skhath of Karag Tormeth. Hail to Rachel Cravenlock, his chosen, on whom he shall father children in the name of our great lord Sepharivaim!”

  “Children?” said Mazael.

  “They’re called calibah...changelings,” said Silar. “They’re half-human, half-San-keth. They...”

  “She lied to me,” said Mazael. “She said...she told me...”

  “I know,” said Romaria.

  “Lord Richard was right,” said Mazael. “They were all right. How could I not have seen it?” Fury rose to the forefront of his churning thoughts. “She lied, the wretched scheming...”

  Skhath’s voice was a sibilant, grating hiss, nothing like the illusionary Albron Eastwater's smooth voice. “The time is nigh. Soon our armies shall sweep Lord Richard and his impotent gods from this land. Soon the glory of our lord Sepharivaim shall shine over the lands of Dracaryl. The blood of our sacrifices shall turn the rivers red.” Rachel knelt before him, the thin fabric of her shift stretched tight against her body. “Soon shall Mitor Cravenlock, faithful servant of the true god, reign as king over the Grim Marches, over all lands. And soon shall the worship of Sepharivaim and his glory fill the world!”

  A roar of glee rose from the worshippers.

  “Like hell it will,” said Mazael. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll...”

  “Most High Priest!” Simonian's voice rang over the temple, and the necromancer pointed at the balcony. “Intruders disturb these sacred rites!”

  A dead silence fell over the hall. Mitor gaped at Mazael. Rachel saw Mazael and blanched, color flooding into her cheeks.

  “What? Him!” said Skhath. “Kill them!”

  The mob lurched to their feet and broke into a run. Rachel backed behind the altar, while Simonian and Skhath began casting spells.

  “Damn!” said Mazael. “Run!”

  “Not yet,” said Romaria. She raised her bow and began shooting.

  Her first arrow raked into Mitor’s side. Mitor shrieked, blood dripping down his robes. Her second arrow hummed towards Skhath, only to lodge in the skeleton's rib cage, but the San-keth cleric flinched and ceased his spell. Her third arrow lanced towards Simonian’s head.

  Purple fire flared from Simonian’s body and consumed the arrow an instant before it would have plunged into his flesh. The purple flames flashed, and a line of fire blasted towards Romaria. She ducked, and the line of flame carved a deep gash into the stone wall. Lion flared in Mazael’s fist, the lines of blue light growing into sapphire flame.

  “Now we run!” said Romaria.

  They sprinted towards the guardroom as Simonian finished his spell. Orbs of green fire flashed from his fingertips. Mazael ducked, but the green spheres shot over his head and veered to the right.

  “What were those lights?” said Mazael. He sprinted through the guardroom.

  “I don’t know,” said Timothy. “I’ve never seen such a spell!”

  “Nor I,” said Silar.

  Mazael raced into the great vaulted corridor. The green flames whirled and danced above them, and then vanished into the carved walls.

  “Perhaps his dark art failed,” said Sir Nathan.

  Hidden doors in the walls slid upon with a rumble, and out stepped ten gaunt figures armored in gleaming black breastplates, chain mail, and helms. Lion blazed in Mazael's fist, brighter than it had during the battle with the zuvembies. The creatures that had stepped out of the walls were not alive. Their flesh clung to their bones like dry leather, their empty eyes bright with necromancer's fire. Each carried a curving scimitar and a round shield, and the undead things moved with fluid, unearthly grace.

  “Gods have mercy,” said Sir Nathan.

  Silar stepped to the side. “This is great necromancy. These creatures are monstrosities out of legend.” The creatures moved into a semicircle, scimitars waving.

  “I don’t care if they’re the gatekeepers to hell itself,” said Mazael. The battle rage rose in his mind, and he welcomed it. “I mean to walk out of here. The gods pity whoever stands in my way!”

  Mazael spun, the flat of his sword banged against Romaria and Nathan’s blades, sheahing their weapons
in azure flames. He came out of his spin, took two running steps, and brought Lion down in a blazing arc for a creature’s head. The sword exploded through the creature's helm and sank into its skull. The green light in its eyes flickered and died, and the creature collapsed in a heap of bones and black armor.

  The other creatures came at Mazael in a rush, and he parried their attacks. Romaria and Nathan fought beside him, their blades rising and falling.

  Timothy stepped forward, breathing hard. His hands flew through a series of rapid gestures, red sparks flaring between his fingers. He flung the sparks at a pair of the creatures. They shuddered, sparks dancing up their withered limbs, and bones and armor flew in all directions.

  Mazael attacked a pair of the dead things, Lion crashing against shield and scimitar, blue flames reflecting in polished black armor. The creatures were deadly quick, their scimitars stabbing like the fangs of serpents. But they seemed so slow to Mazael, so very slow. His two-handed swing cut one in half with a blazing flash. The surviving creature came at him, scimitar raised high. Romaria’s sword rammed into its back, and blue fire drowned out the green. The creature crumpled to the marble floor, and Romaria's cool eyes met Mazael's.

  Some of his rage throttled back and he nodded.

  Mazael and Romaria spun through the press of monstrosities side-by-side. Romaria’s bastard sword crashed against black shields and Lion clanged against flashing scimitars. Romaria’s attack played out, and she stepped back. One of the creatures lunged for her and met Lion's point instead. Blue flame blasted through the creature, flinging it to the ground.

  Mazael parried the attacks of another creature. He realized the creatures were skillful, but could not handle more than one opponent at once. Mazael retreated, drawing the creature after him. It came at him, scimitar twirling, and never saw Romaria step up and plunge in her sword into its back.

  Mazael risked a glance around. Only three dead things still stood. Sir Nathan and Silar each fought one, while Timothy's face contorted as he fought to work another spell. Mazael ran towards them.

  He hacked at the creature Silar faced and took its hand off at the wrist. The creature twitched, and Silar’s hands lanced forward and tore the dead thing’s head from its crumbling shoulders.

  Sir Nathan pivoted, his heavy greatsword coming up over his head. His sword sheared through a dead thing’s chest, flames sputtering and dancing on the steel. The creature thrashed as its rotted form burned away. Silar’s hands darted out, clamping about the wrist of the sole surviving creature, and tore its arm away. The creature flailed, and Mazael and Romaria hacked it to pieces.

  Silence fell over the corridor.

  “Well fought,” said Sir Nathan.

  Silar grinned. “Simonian’s magic might have power, but the magic of old Tristafel is stronger still.”

  “Care to test that?”

  Mazael turned, Lion's power burning up his arm.

  Simonian stood before the twisting stairs to Mitor's rooms. His black robes cloaked him like wings of darkness, and his murky eyes danced with glee as they swept over the fallen creatures. “Impressive. Impressive indeed! I did not think even you would have the power to overthrow the warriors of the dead, Sir Mazael.”

  Mazael lifted Lion, the sword's glow bathing the corridor in blue-white light. “I mean to leave this pit. Stand aside, necromancer, or you’re next.”

  Simonian laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, not after what your half-breed friend did to poor Mitor.”

  Mazael stepped forward. “Why do you care? You asked me to kill Mitor. Get out of my way.”

  “Just why would you want to leave?” said Simonian. “If the most lovely Lady Romaria has slain Mitor, then you are Lord of Castle Cravenlock. You could overthrow the Mandragons. You could make yourself king. King of the world, perhaps. What’s to stop you?”

  “I don’t want to become Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” said Mazael.

  “Then why not turn around and make them pay for what they have done?” said Simonian. “Make Skhath pay. And Rachel, dear, sweet Lady Rachel, so innocent and kind, who would never betray you...”

  “Shut up,” said Mazael.

  “They are in disarray,” said Simonian. “The snake-kissing rabble wail to their slithering god for aid. Why not go back and finish it? I will help you, I will lend my arts to your cause. Together we will make Skhath pay for his sins. And together, we shall make Rachel pay for her treachery!”

  “I...” said Mazael. He wanted to make that wretched serpent Skhath pay. “I...can’t...I want...” He wanted to make Rachel pay.

  The rage burned through him in a black storm.

  “You raised the zuvembies,” said Romaria. She pointed her burning sword at Simonian. “Your necromancy killed Master Othar. Why should he listen to you?”

  “You are a liar and a deceiver,” said Sir Nathan.

  Mazael's mind cleared. “They’re right. You’re in my way. Last warning. Move.”

  Simonian sighed. “If it must come to this...” His hands snapped up and began moving in a spell.

  Mazael sprinted for the necromancer, Romaria and Sir Nathan a half-step behind. Simonian thrust his hand forward, green light glimmering at his fingertips, and Mazael lunged. Lion’s blazing point slid past the wizard’s hand and plunged into his chest, meeting no resistance at all. Mazael staggered, recovering his balance, while Simonian vanished in a scattering of smoke.

  “He’s gone,” said Nathan.

  “An illusion!” said Romaria. “He was never there at all.”

  Mazael heard Simonian’s voice. The necromancer stood by the temple doors, and Mazael raced for him.

  But it was too late. Simonian spread his arms wide. Green light exploded from his fingertips, stabbing into Mazael's eyes and sending lines of pain into his head. He heard Romaria scream, heard Sir Nathan shout a challenge.

  Mazael roared and managed to take another staggering step before everything fell into darkness.

  3

  Rachel’s True Love