Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

The air smelled of blood and rot.

  Mazael flickered in and out of consciousness. He realized that he sat on a cold stone floor, his back pressed against a rough wall. Steel cuffs pinned his arms to the wall, and a heavy chain bound his ankles. Incoherent images flickered across his thoughts. He saw Romaria, her eyes clear and her face smiling. He saw Sir Nathan and Master Othar. He saw his father. He saw Simonian. He saw Rachel with golden serpents wrapped around her wrists, crimson sigils scribed on her arms...

  The rage made his mind swim back into focus.

  Thin streams of torchlight leaked through in the narrow window, illuminating the straw-packed floor and the rusted chains. He groaned and leaned his head against the cold stone of the wall.

  His weapons and armor were gone, of course.

  Mazael jerked against the chains. What had happened to Romaria and the others? Were they locked away in other cells? Or had they been killed?

  A wave of guilt surged through him. How could he have been so stupid? The evidence had been right before his eyes. Yet he had insisted Rachel would never do such a thing. He had said and thought that over and over again. And now he would pay the price for it. At least he had sent Gerald and the squires away.

  “Out there!” yelled Mazael. “Can anyone hear me?”

  A shadow appeared in the small windows. “Keep quiet!”

  “Where are the others who were with me?” said Mazael. “What happened to them? Answer...”

  The door banged open. A pair of Cravenlock armsmen stormed inside. Both had the sigil of a twisting serpent tattooed upon their foreheads.

  “I said keep quiet,” said one guard.

  “Where are they?” said Mazael. “Tell...”

  The guard’s cudgel crashed into Mazael’s chin, smashing his head against the wall.

  “Keep your mouth shut, else I’ll shut it for you,” said the guard.

  “I’ll take that stick and shove it up...” said Mazael.

  They rained blows upon his head and torso. Mazael fought to keep his eyes open, fury howling through him. For a moment he thought he could tear the chains from the wall. Then a cudgel impacted his head with a loud crack, and everything went dark.

  Mazael awoke some time later. His head felt as if it had swollen to twice its normal size, and his breath whistled through new gaps in his teeth. His left eye would not open, and a stabbing pain filled his chest. Broken ribs, no doubt.

  “I’ll kill them,” he rasped. “By all the gods, I’ll kill them all, Rachel and Skhath and Simonian...”

  But he couldn’t. Skhath would kill him as soon as possible.

  How could he have been so foolish? He had trusted Rachel. And now he would die for it.

  “Rachel". Blood fell from his smashed lips. “I’ll kill her, at least.”

  “Why do you suffer this to continue?”

  Mazael’s head jerked up. Red eyes stared at him from the darkness of his cell.

  “Who?” he said.

  A shape took form in the darkness, and Simonian of Briault stepped out of the shadows and into the feeble light.

  “You,” said Mazael.

  “Indeed,” said Simonian. “I see your perceptions haven’t suffered.”

  “How did you get in here?” said Mazael.

  “Through the shadows,” said Simonian.

  “Magic?” said Mazael.

  “Of course,” said Simonian. “My arts give me mastery over many things.” He lifted one hand, sparks of green light dancing around his fingertips. “Shadows are the least of what I command. Illusions and the powers of the mind are mine. Even the dead respond to my call, as you have seen. But compared to power over men, these things are little more than the deceptions of a street magician.” He closed his fist, the lights vanishing. “I can bend nations to my will and make them dance to my song. What is that, I ask you, if not true power?”

  Mazael lifted his head to meet the wizard’s gaze. “Monstrous. As are you.”

  “Monstrous?” said Simonian. “There’s a fine word. Who calls me monstrous? Sir Nathan? That dried old stick? He lived in the castle for years and never knew of the San-keth. Blind, that’s what I’d call him, or monstrously stupid. Does young Timothy deBlanc call me monstrous? That stripling wields the simplest of simple magic. He can neither attain nor understand the powers I wield. And Romaria Greenshield calls me a monster?” He laughed. “Has she even told you what will happen to her?”

  “She told me that she only has half a human soul,” said Mazael. His head did not hurt so much. “She told me of the disease.”

  “Disease?” Simonian laughed. “She doesn’t even know the entire truth, does she? Oh, our fair Lady Romaria possess two halves of a soul. One half Elderborn and one half human. One half is infused with the magic of the earth and the other is the mundane piddling soul of a human. That's why her touch shields your dreams, incidentally - together you have one complete human soul. But that will do her no good, in the end.” He rocked his hand back and forth like a scale. “The conflict between the two halves of her soul shall destroy her. Either her human half shall win and she’ll waste away, or the magic in her Elderborn half will conquer, transforming her into a mindless, bloodthirsty beast. I rather imagine she’ll be less attractive to you then. If you wish to bed her, do it soon.”

  “Either kill me or leave me in peace,” Mazael spat. “Don’t waste my time with this nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” said Simonian. “How little you know.” He traced a finger through the blood drying on Mazael’s chest. “Those guards came close to killing you. Yet you seem rather well for a man who was on death’s door just a moment ago. Why, it’s as if your wounds are stitching themselves together before my very eyes.” His murky eyes filled with amusement. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Leave me in peace,” said Mazael.

  “And I saw the way you controlled the magic in that wretched Tristafellin blade,” said Simonian. “The last men who had the power to control such magic lived millennia ago. Yet here you are, a simple knight-errant with no training in the magical arts. Stronger and faster than any other man. Tell me, why do you suppose that is?”

  “Leave!” said Mazael, his voice stronger.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Simonian. “You’re Demonsouled, Mazael.” He smiled. “Like me.”

  It was a moment before Mazael could speak. “What?”

  “We are both Demonsouled, you and I. We share the same heritage,” said Simonian. “We are descendants of a long-dead god. The demon magic resides in our souls. I have embraced it and mastered it. With it I can wield magic far beyond the skill of any mortal. I did so long before you were born. And look at you, my kinsman. Your wounds heal as I speak. You can control other magic with your will. You can move faster and are stronger than any lesser man. All this, and you have barely tapped the tiniest part of what is possible! You have the potential to become one of the greatest Demonsouled who have ever existed.” He laughed. “If I am monstrous, as you claim, what does that make you? A saint?”

  “No,” said Mazael. The pain in his chest had lessened. “No. No! It is madness and insanity. I will not give in to it!”

  “Madness?” said Simonian. “It is power. Power to make yourself over as you will, to do as you wish, to make others do as you command. Why would you refuse such a thing? Because that fool Othar and that wretch Nathan told you? What do they know?”

  “They were better men than you,” said Mazael.

  “Is that so?” said Simonian. “Tell me, do they know of your true nature? I thought not. What would they say if they found out the truth? Master Othar was such a vigilant defender of this castle. So vigilant he walked into the protective spells warding this place, and didn’t notice as the magical fingers wrapped about his heart and squeezed. How would he have reacted if he had known his fine young student had a demon’s soul? And old Sir Nathan, that paragon of honor and loyalty. Do you think Sir Nathan would smile and pat you on the shoulder? Or would he take his greatsword
and plunge through your gut?”

  “I don’t want to hear this," said Mazael. "Sir Nathan was right. You are a liar. I won’t listen to you.”

  “Liar?” said Simonian. “You wound me. I don’t want to lie to you. I want to save you.”

  Mazael laughed. “Save me? You knock me out, leave me hanging in these chains, and you want to save me? You are a liar.”

  Simonian sneered. “And you deny the truth! I want to teach you to save yourself. Who knows of your true self? The half-breed Romaria? The monk Silar? Is that all? Romaria keeps your secret because of her own dichotomy, and Silar’s vision is darkened by the memory of his brother. But what of the others? What of Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald? Knights are sworn to slay demons and protect the innocent.” His mouth twisted in a mirthful grin. “What of the Cirstarcian monks? They kill Demonsouled and San-keth without mercy. Their full wrath would fall on this place, if they knew all its secrets. What of young Timothy deBlanc’s masters, the bloated magisters of Alborg? They ban all dark magic, save those practiced by themselves. What do you think they will do to you, if given the chance? And the great and noble Lord Richard Mandragon, slayer of dragons. Will he allow a Demonsouled in his realm? All the powers of this world are arrayed against you. How do you think you can survive?”

  “Shut up!” said Mazael.

  “And Most High Priest Skhath and his betrothed Lady Rachel Cravenlock,” said Simonian. “How Skhath would love to kill you! He thinks to transform the Grim Marches into a San-keth theocracy with himself as High Priest and Mitor as King.” Simonian laughed. “King! Mitor? Bah! He couldn’t rule a latrine. But you could rule so much more than the Grim Marches.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “Let me teach you,” said Simonian. “I can show you. I can tell you how to unlock the powers within you.” He made a fist. “The healing, the speed, the battle instincts, they are nothing before what you could do, what you could become.” He shook the chains binding Mazael’s wrists. “You could tear those chains like paper. You could shatter that door as if it were made of glass. And then you could kill them all. Mitor and his cronies, Skhath and his whore Rachel, all of them. What could stop you?”

  Mazael could not speak, remembering Silar's warnings.

  “And I would help you,” said Simonian. “Who could stand against us? There is nothing we cannot do. We could tear down this castle, if we chose. We could kill Lord Richard and reign over the Grim Marches. And then what? The impotent old king and the magisters? Mastaria and the Knights Dominiar? The world? What is to stop us?”

  “The gods,” said Mazael, thinking of Romaria. “Fate.”

  “The gods?” said Simonian. He snarled. “The gods care nothing for anything but themselves. Fate? I make my own fate. I can teach you to do the same.”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” said Mazael.

  “You would come to regret those words,” said Simonian. “Fortunately, I will not give you the chance.”

  “You can’t force me to do anything,” said Mazael.

  “Quite true,” said Simonian. “But I can help you to make the right choice.” He grinned. “Your friends are alive, you know.”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “My spell was fashioned to stun,” said Simonian. “They’re all well and safe, sharing cells near yours. They’re alive. For now.”

  “You bastard!” said Mazael. “If...”

  Simonian continued. “I would strongly advise you to accept my offer. If you don’t, why, I fear one of your friends will have a fatal encounter with my spells. Romaria, I think. And another one, and another, and another, until they’re all dead, unless you embrace the demon magic in your soul.” He smiled widened. “And after they’re dead, I’ll find Sir Gerald Roland and those squires. Such fine young men. I think I’ll let you watch as I kill Adalar. Or perhaps I’ll keep Sir Nathan alive to the last, and have you both watch as the boy chokes out his last. Wouldn’t that be thrilling? You already have the blood of so many enemies on that Tristafellin sword of yours. Why not add the blood of a few friends?”

  “You bastard,” said Mazael. “You murdering bastard!”

  Simonian titled his head to the side. “Ah. You have some visitors coming. I’ll let you speak with them in privacy. Think over what I have said once they are done. You’ll soon learn the wisdom of what I have to offer.” Simonian gave a small bow and stepped back into the shadows. His robes blurred with the darkness, and then the wizard was gone.

  Mazael's teeth ground as he fought to suppress his fury. A part of him wanted burst free from the chains and kill them all. The thought sickened him. Yet what choice did he have? Simonian was going to kill them. He was going to kill Romaria.

  “Gods,” whispered Mazael. “Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar. Help me, if you care. Don’t let me become like him. And save them from him. Please.” He hung his head. “Please.”

  Mazael sat in the darkness for a long time, his body tingling and shuddering as his Demonsouled nature did its healing work. His chest and face itched as the cuts and bruises faded. He felt a deep crawling as his cracked rib pulled itself together. His swollen eye leaked blood, and then he could see through it once more. Stabs of agony in his jaw as new teeth rose from his gums. He wondered what the armsmen would say when they saw him recovered from the beating. He could not help but laugh at the thought. It kept him from crying.

  A rattle in the lock jerked Mazael out of his daze. The door opened, spilling brilliant torchlight into the darkened cell. Mazael squinted against the glare.

  “Leave us,” said a harsh voice. The smell of dusty bone mingled with the dry stench of a serpent’s scales. “My future consort and I wish to speak with Sir Mazael alone.”

  “As you wish, Most High Priest,” said one of the armsmen.

  Skhath stepped into the cell, green fire flashing about the joints of his animated skeleton. The San-keth's coils shifted against the skeleton's spine, his black-slit yellow eyes fixed on Mazael. Rachel stood at his side, dressed in a black gown.

  “I should kill you,” said Skhath.

  “Do it, then,” said Mazael. “Slither off that skeleton and we’ll see who’s stronger.”

  Skhath made a strange hissing sound, and his mouth yawned open to reveal a pair of glistening ivory fangs. “I ought to. Great Sepharivaim has given his people this gift. We can kill with a single kiss.”

  “Great Sepharivaim?” said Mazael. “The same great Sepharivaim who gave his people arms and legs? Oh, wait, I had forgotten. Without that magicked skeleton, you’d crawl in the dust like the worm you are.”

  “It was the human and Elderborn gods,” said Skhath. “They stole our limbs from us for daring to challenge their tyranny. And we shall regain what was taken from us one day. We shall take all the world when Sepharivaim rises in glory.”

  “That,” said Mazael, “is the worst tale I’ve ever heard. Try telling it in the town tavern. You might get a crust of bread.”

  “You ask for death,” said Skhath.

  “Why not have Rachel do it?” spat Mazael. “She’s willing to let you crawl into her and father monsters in her womb. She should be more than willing to kill me.”

  “Mazael,” said Rachel, her voice anguished. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” said Mazael. “Tell you the truth? Perhaps you’re right. Why should I? You didn’t bother to tell me.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Rachel. “You couldn’t. How could I have told you?” She knelt besides him. “It’s not so bad. What have the Amathavian gods ever done for us? They let Lord Richard overthrow Father. He wasted away and died from failure. If he had listened to Mother, none of it would have happened. She knew the true way, the way of Sepharivaim. He rewards his followers.” She took one of his hands. “Why is this such a bad thing? Skhath came after Father died and told Mitor of the true way. Why don’t you join us? Mitor can’t have children. He can’t even lie with a woman anymore, his health is so bad. With the powe
r of Sepharivaim behind us, Mitor and Skhath will conquer the Grim Marches. Mitor will become king and Skhath High Priest. When Mitor dies, you’ll be the new king of the Grim Marches.” She smiled. “Join us, Mazael. You can be a king! We...”

  Mazael spat in her face.

  She flinched away.

  “You’re worse devils than Simonian!” Mazael said. “You are all serpents, you and him and Skhath! Why should I believe any of you? Go to hell, all of you, to whatever pit Skhath and his crawling god came from!” Rachel turned away from him, crying.

  “Foolish human,” said Skhath. “Do you not see that there is no other way?”

  “Simonian said much the same thing,” said Mazael. “I didn’t believe him, either.”

  Skhath hissed. “Simonian was here? The necromancer plays dangerous games. He is not a true believer. Still, he has his uses. I shall have to kill him one day.” Skhath made that strange sound, his fangs bared. Mazael realized that it was a laugh. “It’s odd. He even suggested the idea to me.”

  “The idea?” said Mazael.

  “There has always been a temple beneath this castle,” said Skhath. “It has lain abandoned for centuries. The Lady Arissa dabbled in the true way for a time, amongst other things, but she lacked the strength for her ambitions. The archpriests of Karag Tormeth sent me here to reopen the temple beneath Castle Cravenlock. I arrived, disguised as a human knight, during Lord Richard’s uprising. As I watched the fighting, a most wondrous idea came to me. My people prefer to work out of the shadows, using humans as our puppets. But this human Dragonslayer led a force scarce half the size of his foe’s and defeated it through superior battle tactics. Why could I not do the same?” Skhath’s skeletal fists clenched. “I will do what no other follower of the true way has done. I will raise a nation to the glory of Sepharivaim. I shall purge the Grim Marches of the Amathavians and their gods. The rivers shall darken with their blood. The power of Sepharivaim shall rise over the Grim Marches.”

  “Grand plans, from a thing that has no arms or legs of its own,” said Mazael.

  “Enjoy your tongue, while you can,” said Skhath. “I shall relieve you of it soon enough. I would have killed you once Simonian had taken you, but Rachel pleaded for your life. Since she will birth changelings to slay the enemies of great Sepharivaim, I will heed her words. I shall give you one day to decide. Either embrace mighty Sepharivaim and swear to serve his servants the San-keth, or else I shall put you and all your companions to death.” His fork-tipped tongue flicked at the air. “Your bodies shall be raised as carriers in the service of Sepharivaim’s priests. Your body would serve me nicely. Think upon what I have said. The day of the San-keth rises over the Grim Marches. Stand with me and rise with me, or stand with Lord Richard Mandragon and be swept away.” Skhath made the laughing sound. “It is your choice. Come, Rachel. Let us leave this wretch to decide his fate.”

  Skhath swept out of the cell. Rachel looked at Mazael, still crying. She turned her back and followed the San-keth priest into the hall. The door slammed shut after them, blocking out the light.

  It was hopeless. Lord Richard would not march for another three days. Simonian and Skhath would kill Mazael’s companions tomorrow. There was no way out of this stinking dungeon.

  But there was one way, wasn't there? The demon magic within his soul. All that power, waiting for him to touch it. To make him strong and powerful.

  To make him like Simonian...

  “No,” whispered Mazael. He shook his head. “No.”

  But was there any other way? Romaria would die if he did not act. Yet he knew the awful power of the demon power. He could have killed every man in Castle Cravenlock the morning of Master Othar’s funeral.

  “Gods help me,” Mazael said. “If you’re there, help me.”

  Simonian’s words echoed in his head over and over again. Mazael felt as if his heart had transformed into an orb of pulsing fire, his blood into burning metal. He tried to push out the fire in his mind. He would not succumb!

  But it was of no use.

  He could not stop thinking of Rachel, and thinking about her poured oil upon the fire of his rage. Why should he not claim the demon magic within him? He could snap these chains, break through the door, and free his friends. He could smash Skhath’s skeleton and choke the wretched serpent to death. He could rip Simonian’s lying tongue from his bearded head. And he could tear Rachel’s black heart from her chest.

  Yes...

  There was a thump outside the door, followed by a low conversation. Keys jingled, and the door swung open.

  “Sir Mazael?”

  Mazael’s fury drained away and left a slight sick feeling.

  He stared in astonishment. Bethy stood in the doorway, keys dangling from her fist. Behind her stood fat Cramton, beads of sweat sliding down his forehead. The two armsmen lay at their feet.

  “Sir Mazael!” said Bethy. “You must wake up!”

  “I’m awake,” said Mazael. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s no time,” said Bethy. She hurried into the cell and began opening the locks that held his chains. “Can you walk? We heard the guards beating you.”

  “I’m fine,” said Mazael.

  “You’re certain, now?” said Bethy. The shackles on his ankles fell away. “It sounded bad.”

  Mazael forced a grin. “They didn’t do a good job. What’s going on?”

  “We’re getting out of here,” said Bethy. “We’ve heard the rumors, me and Cramton. We know the Dragonslayer lord and all his men are coming. We’re getting out of here, before the Dragonslayer comes.”

  “Yes,” said Cramton. “It’s not safe. Lord Mitor and the other snake-worshippers take a different child from the countryside every day now for their sacrifices.”

  “We didn’t take the oaths,” said Bethy. She went to work on the shackles binding his arms. “Not like the others did. That’s why Brogan and his men burned down the Three Swords. They kissed the snake, but we didn’t. I tried to warn you, Sir Mazael, that day in the kitchen...”

  “But we didn’t dare tell you the whole truth!” wailed Cramton. “Lord Mitor and the snake priest would’ve known, I say. They always know what they shouldn’t.”

  “Dark arts, I tell you,” said Bethy. “We were afraid.”

  “That’s fine,” said Mazael. He got to his feet in one motion, ignoring Bethy’s outstretched hand and astonished stare. “You found your nerve now.”

  “We heard you were to be sacrificed to the snake god tomorrow,” said Bethy. “We couldn’t let that happen. You helped us.”

  “I’m grateful,” said Mazael. He stepped out into the corridor.

  “Take us with you,” said Bethy. “The others from the inn took the oath and kissed the snake. Even Cramton’s family. They were scared. Me and old Cramton are the only ones left who haven’t. We can show you the way out. Please, please, take us with you. I don’t want to give my soul to the snake god.”

  “Nor do I,” said Cramton. “I’m afraid of snakes, I fear.”

  Mazael nodded. “Did you kill the guards?”

  Bethy gave him a wicked grin. “No! We just brought them some ale, that’s all. Must work up a thirst, standing down here all day. Of course, we mixed it with some sleeping draught..”

  Mazael laughed. “Let’s get the others, and get out of this hellhole. Lord Richard is expecting me.”

  Bethy unlocked Sir Nathan's cell, and the old knight blinked with astonishment. “Mazael? How...”

  “No time for talk!” said Bethy. “Pardons, my lord knight, but they kept your weapons and armor in the storeroom at the end of the hall.”

  “Of course. I’d best get our weapons,” said Nathan. “Cramton, with me.”

  “We know a tunnel that leads right to the courtyard from here,” said Bethy. She undid another lock. “It opens up near the stables. I guess one of those snake priests dug it for a quick escape.”

  She pushed open the door. After a moment, Romaria staggered out, blinki
ng at the light.

  “You’re all right,” Romaria said. She stared into Mazael’s face. “Are you...”

  “I’m fine,” Mazael lied.

  “No, you’re not,” said Romaria.

  Timothy and Silar emerged from their cells. Sir Nathan and Cramton returned, bundles of armor and weapons in hand. Romaria took her bastard sword and bow from Cramton. Mazael took his chain hauberk, helm, breastplate, and leather gauntlets from Nathan. After he secured the armor, he reached for Lion.

  As his hand closed about the hilt, a jolt of pain shot up his arm, and the blade glimmered with blue flames.

  As if he were a creature of dark magic.

  “What is it?” said Romaria.

  Mazael stared at the sword. “Nothing.” He buckled his sword belt about his waist and drew the blade. The metal glimmered in the torchlight, but the flames did not reappear.

  “Is everyone ready?” said Cramton.

  “They’d best be,” said Bethy, “cause we’re going.” She pointed. “That way goes back to the black temple, the way we came. Let’s go this way instead. We know the way up to the courtyard.”

  She snatched a torch from the wall and set off down the corridor, Mazael and the others following with weapons drawn. Bethy stopped and put her ear to the cold stone wall. She nodded and pressed a jutting piece of masonry. A part of the wall slid back, revealing a corridor that spiraled up into the rock.

  “This goes up to the courtyard,” said Bethy. “The other way keeps going down, past the snake temple. It opens up between two boulders at the base of the hill near the west wall.”

  “Why do we not take that way?” said Timothy. “Surely, it would be easier to escape if we fled the castle!”

  “Explain to me how we are to outrun Mitor’s troops without horses,” said Mazael.

  “Ah,” said Timothy.

  They climbed up the steps, and the stairs ended in a large room that looked as if it had served as a barracks long ago. Splintered remnants of furniture filled the corners, along with some dusty bones. A massive iron-bound door rested in a narrow alcove. The dark oak planks looked long stiffened to the hardness of granite.

  “Here,” said Bethy. “There’s another stair behind that door. It opens up in the wall behind the stables.”

  “How did you find all this?” said Sir Nathan. “I had never dreamed there were such extensive catacombs beneath the castle.”

  “Lord Mitor and the snake-kissers went down here when you and Sir Mazael weren’t at the castle,” said Bethy. “They all go to the temple and never anywhere else. I don’t think they even know what’s all down here.”

  She pulled a key of corroded black iron from a pocket in her dress and thrust it into the lock. “Turn, damn you.” She jiggled the key. “Turn...”

  The key shattered in Bethy’s hand and clattered to the floor.

  “Oh, dear,” said Cramton.

  “Oh, gods,” said Bethy. She stuck a finger in the lock. “It’s jammed. There’s no other way up to the courtyard.”

  “We could still go through the door at the base of the hill,” said Timothy.

  “Not likely,” said Sir Nathan. “That door will open right into the mercenary camp. Without horses, we’d never make it through them.”

  “We may have to go through the temple and Mitor’s living quarters,” said Romaria. “We got in that way, after all.”

  Mazael shook his head. “No. If there’s a ceremony in the temple, they’ll spot us there. And if there’s not, someone will see us in the castle, certainly in Mitor’s chambers.” He lifted Lion. “We’ll have to cut through the door.”

  “But it’s half a foot thick and hard as iron!” said Bethy. “Your swords would chip away before you put a dent in it.”

  Mazael swore. “Timothy, do you have any magic that might work?”

  “Perhaps,” said Timothy. “But Simonian or the San-keth priest might sense such a spell.”

  “Then we’ll go through the temple,” said Mazael. They would certainly perish, but perhaps he would have the chance to kill Rachel first.

  “Wait,” said Silar. “There may be another way. A moment, please.”

  The lean monk stepped towards the door and closed his eyes. His spread his arms, palms flat, and lifted them above his head. His breathing became rhythmic, his lips moving through a whispered chant.

  “What is he doing?” said Sir Nathan.

  “This is no time to be praying!” said Timothy.

  “On the contrary!” said Cramton.

  Silar’s hands clenched into fists, his chant rising in volume. “For my flesh is iron, for my flesh is stone, for the gods are might, and my fists are their vessel, for my flesh is iron, for my flesh is stone, for the gods are might...” His body swayed with the rhythm of his chant, and his eyes snapped open. “And my fists are their vessel!” His fists blurred. The door shuddered with his first blow. It splintered on his second. Iron-shod wood bent inward on the third.

  The fourth shattered the door in a spray of wooden splinters and twisted iron shards.

  “Gods in heaven, man!” said Sir Nathan. “How in their name did you do that?”

  Silar took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Twenty years of discipline and meditation, and you can do that, too. Come along, now. We haven’t the time to loiter.” Mazael shook his head and followed Bethy through the door.

  The stairs ended in a circular room with a sandy floor, the ceiling a maze of beams and planks. Mazael supposed they were in the foundations of a tower.

  “Here,” said Bethy. “The trigger is right here.”

  She pushed a stone, and a portion of the wall slid aside. Feeble rays of morning sunlight glinted into the dark chamber. Mazael saw at the hindquarters of a gray horse, and the smell of manure and straw washed over him.

  “The stables,” said Bethy.

  Mazael stepped past her and through the opened doorway. He saw Chariot and the other horses, the big stallion snorting and pawing the ground in irritation. No one had disturbed their mounts, thankfully.

  “This way,” said Mazael. “Timothy, steal some horses for Bethy and Cramton.” The wizard nodded, straw rustling beneath his boots. “Hurry. The castle will awake soon.”

  “Those that aren’t sleeping off last night’s festivities, at any rate,” said Silar.

  “I can’t ride a horse!” said Bethy. “I don’t know how.”

  “Sir Nathan, she’ll ride with you,” said Mazael.

  The courtyard was dark and empty, and a few guards paced on the walls. Four men stood guard at the barbican gate. At least the portcullis was up.

  “Mitor’s learned something from our entry, I see,” said Nathan.

  “We can ride down the men at the gate,” said Silar. “But do you see the two crossbowmen on the barbican rampart?”

  “My lord knight,” said Timothy. “My sleep enchantment. It is a simple spell, and weak enough to avoid Simonian’s notice.”

  “Can you get both?” said Mazael.

  Timothy grimaced. “No.”

  “It’s only sixty yards. I’ll get the other,” said Romaria. She strung her bow.

  Timothy raised his right hand and began to chant, yellowish light flaring at his fingertips. Mazael saw one of the crossbowmen fall. The other man turned as Romaria's bow twanged. The armsman shuddered, a arrow sprouting from his throat, and collapsed behind the battlements.

  “Go,” said Mazael.

  They rode out across the courtyard. The guards at the barbican paid no notice until Mazael was twenty paces away.

  One of the armsmen stepped forward, a bored expression on his face. “Most High Priest Skhath has ordered no patrols for this...”

  Mazael spurred Chariot, and the guard just had time to scream before Lion opened his throat. Romaria slew another, her blade splitting his head down the middle. One guard gripped his halberd with both hands and tried to charge her from behind. Mazael batted aside the thrust and Chariot kicked out, stunning the armsman. The
sole survivor turned and tried to run for the keep. As he ran past Silar’s horse, the monk’s palm shot out. The armsman's head snapped back, and he joined his companions on the ground.

  “We’d best make haste,” said Sir Nathan.

  They galloped through the barbican gates, past the town, and north to Lord Richard’s waiting armies.

  ***

  Chapter X

  1

  Wrath of the Dragonslayer