Demonsouled

by Jonathan Moeller

They reined up a mile south of Castle Cravenlock, the watch fires atop the castle's towers throwing back the night.

  “Gods in heaven,” said Lucan. “What an ugly castle. We ought to raze it with the San-keth inside.”

  Mazael looked at the dark-cloaked wizard. “Beautiful, no. Strong, yes. We’re going to try to take this heap so your father doesn’t lose five thousand men storming it.”

  “And Simonian and the priest of the traitor god must be made to face justice,” said Sil Tarithyn.

  “I see they’ve taken greater precautions since our last visit,” said Sir Nathan. “The watch fires are new, and if there are extra guards on the walls.”

  Romaria laughed. “Hardly surprising. We did practically walk out of their temple.”

  “And now we’re walking back in,” said Timothy. “I rather wish the irony were lost on me.”

  “I do believe this is when my lord ardmorgan and I part from your company, Sir Mazael,” said Lucan.

  Sil Tarithyn and his warriors would scale the castle walls with Lucan Mandragon. They would then sweep through the castle and kill as many of the armsmen and snake worshippers as they could find. Mazael had every confidence that Sil Tarithyn’s Elderborn warriors would more than match Mitor's disorganized and undisciplined men. Lucan would assist the Elderborn, but save his magical strength for a battle with Simonian or Skhath.

  Mazael and his companions would use the secret entrance Bethy described. With luck, the majority of the soldiers would have been drawn off by Sil Tarithyn’s attack. Mazael hoped to take Skhath and Simonian unawares - even with Lucan's aid, he did not think they could defeat the San-keth cleric and the Demonsouled wizard without the aid of surprise. For safety’s sake, Mazael had left the squires with Lord Richard.

  Mazael nodded. “Good luck to you, Lucan, my lord ardmorgan.”

  Lucan smirked. “Don’t worry for me, Lord Mazael. I make my own luck.”

  “The Mother of our People shall bless our efforts this day,” said Sil Tarithyn. He adjusted the string on his great black bow. “We fight against great evil. If it is her will that any of us shall fall, then we shall depart gladly, knowing we have helped rid the earth of an abomination.”

  “And good luck to you too,” said Mazael. Sil Tarithyn, Lucan, and the Elderborn warriors moved towards the castle like silent wolves. “Gerald, the tabards.”

  Gerald produced black tabards marked with the three crossed silver swords of Castle Cravenlock, and Mazael and his companions donned them. With luck, they could pass as another band of Cravenlock armsmen. Mazael doubted the lax soldiers would spare them more than a perfunctory glance.

  The reek of the camp grew stronger as they drew closer. They rode through the hodgepodge tangle of tents, stables, heaps of supplies, and flapping banners. Lord Richard would tear through this rabble like a hot poker. A drunken man in a Cravenlock tabard, bereft of his trousers, chased after a giggling woman, and both ran past without sparing Mazael another glance.

  The ground grew steeper and rockier as they approached the base of the castle's hill, and Mazael reined up.

  “Here,” said Mazael. “Bethy said the door would be here, between those two boulders.” A worn path let to a wide gap between two lichen-spotted boulders.

  “You there! Halt!”

  Mazael turned, reaching into his cloak for Lion's hilt. Three men in Cravenlock tabards and chain mail hurried up the hill.

  “This section of the camp is forbidden to common soldiers,” said an armsman. Mazael saw the green lines of a serpent tattoo on his forehead. “Only those who have taken sacred oaths of fealty to Lord Mitor are allowed here.”

  “Sacred oaths?” said Mazael. “You mean those who have knelt and kissed that filthy slime-crawling worm?”

  “Blasphemy!” snarled the soldiers.

  An armsman peered forward. “I know you! Sir Mazael! Take...”

  Mazael rammed Lion through the armsman's face. Another soldier turned to attack, and Gerald's longsword plunged into his neck. The survivor ran, and made it three steps before Romaria's arrow lanced into his back and sent him tumbling down the slope.

  “We should conceal the bodies,” said Gerald.

  Mazael shook his head. “No time. Besides, I’ll wager that it isn’t uncommon for some of these thugs to wind up dead in the morning.”

  They dismounted, secured the horses, and hurried up the path. Concealed between the boulders stood a flat plane of weathered rock, its surface pitted by wind and rain and moss. Mazael knelt and brushed away a pile of pebbles and dust, revealing a smooth lump of red granite, out of place among the gray rock, just as Bethy had described. He clenched a fist and pressed it into the stone, pushing the stone into the earth. There was a click, and the weathered rock face slid aside to reveal a dark opening. Timothy stepped into the passage, muttered a spell, and lifted his fist, the glow from his fingers illuminating at tunnel leading into the temple complex. After the others had entered, Mazael pressed a stone in the wall, and the door slid shut behind them.

  “Let’s pay Simonian and Skhath a visit, shall we?” said Mazael. They stripped off their Cravenlock tabards and dropped them by the door. Mazael drew Lion, the sword's edges beginning to glow.

  Creatures of dark magic were nearby.

  The passageway sloped upwards, the walls and floor caked with the dust of ages. Romaria ranged ahead, scouting, and returned in a few moments.

  “This corridor opens into the dungeon that held us,” said Romaria. “There’s a guardroom with about six armsmen. I think two more are guarding the cells.”

  “We can take them,” said Mazael.

  “It sounds like there's a ceremony going on the temple," said Romaria. "I could hear the chanting. And the cells are full. Every one of them has at least one prisoner, some more than one.”

  “Mitor makes new friends so quickly," said Mazael. "Did you happen to see who was in there?”

  Romaria shook her head. “I didn’t want to get that close.”

  “I doubt they’ll be fond of Mitor,” said Silar. “We may have found some potential allies.”

  “Well,” said Mazael. “Let’s find out.”

  He followed Romaria into the familiar dungeon corridor, torch-cast shadows dancing on the walls. A guard looked up, and Mazael recognized one of the armsmen who had guarded his cell. The soldier just had time to gasp before Lion ripped across his throat. Another guard stood at the far end of the corridor, and shouted out an alarm. The door behind him burst open, and a half-dozen armsmen raced out.

  Mazael dropped into a crouch as he heard the creak of Romaria's bow. An arrow flew over his head and flung the lead soldier to the ground. The next man tried to rush him, and Mazael blocked, sidestepped, and killed the armsman with a single quick trust. The survivors came at him in a single confused rush. Mazael backpedaled, snapping Lion back and forth as he parried and blocked.

  Timothy shouted a spell and flung out his hand. Golden lights flashed around an armsman, and the man yawned, blinked, and slumped to the ground. With a cry of alarm the remaining soldiers threw down their weapons and ran. Romaria’s bow twanged, flinging another man to the floor. Silar leapt forward, wrapped his arms around an armsman's throat, and smashed the man's head into the wall with a hideous crack. Sir Nathan and Sir Gerald shoved forward, their swords raised.

  The fight was over a few heartbeats later.

  “Is everyone all right?” said Mazael.

  “For now,” said Sir Nathan.

  “I say, I say!” came a voice from a cell. “What is going on? Who is out there? Damn you! Mitor!”

  Mazael frowned. “I recognize that voice. Find the keys.”

  Romaria found them in the guardroom, and Mazael opened the cell door and found himself face-to-face with Sir Commander Galan Hawking.

  “Sir Mazael?” said Galan. “Mitor said he had killed you.”

  Mazael snorted. “You ought to know better than to trust Mitor by now.”

  Galan swore. “Gods, yes. To think
I had been led like a sheep by that fat fool...”

  “How did you wind up down here?” said Mazael.

  “One of my knights saw Mitor’s soldiers take a group of children captive from the town,” said Galan. “They reported to me, we followed the armsmen, and discovered this pit of evil beneath the castle.” His eyes had a brittle, frantic light. “Such vileness. The Knights Justiciar are sworn to destroy such creatures.” He laughed, his voice hysterical. “I’d never dreamed San-keth were more than children’s fables. I suppose I’ll see a Demonsouled quite shortly.”

  “You have. Simonian,” said Mazael.

  Galan coughed. “Not surprising. That wizard is a foul one. Why didn’t I see it? How could I have been so blind to all this?” He raked his trembling fingers through his hair. “Gods above, gods above, oh merciful gods...”

  Mazael grabbed the Justiciar by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop babbling. How many of your men are down here?”

  “Eight others, my preceptors,” said Hawking. He grimaced. “Simonian put us to sleep with sorcery. When we awoke, we were here. Mitor told my forces that I had departed for Swordor to beseech the Grand Master to bring the Justiciar armies to our cause.” He spat on the floor. “Gods be praised that I did not. To think that I had allied myself with Mitor and that serpent priest...a creature of such vileness...”

  “You know better now,” said Mazael. “A tribe of the Elderborn and the Dragon’s Shadow are attacking the castle as we speak. Lord Richard’s army is a few hours away. He will smash through Mitor’s men and those mercenaries. If you want to undo some of the damage you’ve done, get to your men and get them clear. Or, better yet, have them fight alongside Lord Richard’s men.”

  “Lord Richard!” said Sir Commander Galan. “Gods! I cannot decide who I hate more, him or Lord Mitor. A usurper versus a heretic, eh? What a choice! And wood elves? What good will come from consorting with those forest demons?” He grimaced. “I suppose we cannot pick and choose our allies. I shall command my men fight alongside the usurping Dragonslayer, since I have no other choice.”

  Mazael smirked. “How heartening. The passage is that way. Go, now. I doubt you have much time.”

  “I shall send two of my preceptors,” said Hawking. His eyes bright and feverish with guilt. “I will stay and fight besides you, Sir Mazael...rather, Lord Mazael. One way or the other, we shall make you Lord of Castle Cravenlock once this night is over.”

  “Their armor and weapons are likely in the guardroom, same as ours were,” said Romaria.

  “Very well,” said Mazael. “Hurry up and arm yourselves. We haven’t much time.”

  Romaria opened the other cell doors, and the Justiciar preceptors stumbled. Hawking commanded two of them to return to their camp and prepare the knights and sergeants for battle.

  Hawking pointed at a door on the opposite wall of the guardroom. “That door opens into some storerooms. Beyond that is the blasphemous temple.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “One of the castle servants got us out the cells. She knew all these rooms.”

  “Then let us go,” said Sir Commander Galan.

  Mazael kicked down the door, stepping into a high vaulted corridor. Polished red granite gleamed like fire, and closed doors rested in niches. A knot of Cravenlock armsmen stood some distance down the corridor. Besides them stood a skeletal figure with a serpent wrapped around its spine. For a moment Mazael thought it was Skhath, but this San-keth was smaller, its scales not so bright. Lion burst into hot blue flame, and the armsmen turned and flinched.

  “Kill them!” screeched the San-keth priest. The armsmen raised their weapons and charged, while the priests began hissing a spell.

  Mazael ran at them, Romaria raising her bow. Sir Commander Galan howled and charged, his preceptors a half-step behind. The San-keth’s black-slit eyes fixed on Mazael, and its carrier lifted a skeletal hand.

  Timothy stepped forward and shouted a word. Multicolored sparks flared up the San-keth’s enchanted skeleton, and the creature reeled, its incantation dissolving into an angry hiss. Mazael stabbed at it, and the undead carrier disintegrated into a heap of smoking bones. The San-keth reared out of the wreckage, fangs bared, and Mazael took its head off.

  The battle was over quickly, with the Cravenlock armsmen overwhelmed and slain. The hall ended in a double set of black doors. Chanting rose from behind the doors, yet Mazael heard screams and bellowed commands echoing from other chambers.

  “It seems as if Sil Tarithyn and the Dragon’s Shadow have made their presence known,” said Mazael. The massive doors were locked and barred. “Timothy, if you please!”

  The young wizard nodded and began another incantation. He pointed at the doors, and Mazael heard the bar shatter and fall to the floor. The doors swung open with a slow groan, and Timothy grunted and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  Mazael stepped through the doors and into the temple, his boots clicking against the blood-red marble floor, the walls and pillars with their ghastly carvings rising around him. The huge statue of the serpent god loomed over the altar. A fresh corpse lay atop the altar, blood running down its sides, and a ring of people knelt before the dais, Mitor, Marcelle, Rachel, and Lord Roget and Lord Marcus among them. Skhath stood before the kneeling supplicants, a golden chalice in his skeletal hands.

  “Drink you now of this blood, offered up to great Sepharivaim,” said Skhath.

  "Skhath!" roared Mazael, lifting Lion.

  The San-keth reared back and hissed. “You! Kill him! I command...”

  The doors on the other wall of the temple burst open, and a pair of screaming armsmen burst through. “Lord Mitor! Lord Mitor! We’re under attack...” The man’s scream ended in a wet gurgle as an Elderborn arrow sank into his chest.

  “Stop them!” howled Mitor. “Kill Mazael, kill him now!”

  “Mitor!” roared Sir Commander Galan. “Face me, you sniveling liar!”

  Everything exploded into chaos. The Cravenlock armsmen in the temple drew their weapons. Skhath threw the chalice to the ground and reached for Rachel. Lord Roget Hunterson fell to his knees, clutching his chest, while Lord Marcus Trand sprinted for the doors. Skhath grabbed Rachel and pulled her up. Arrows hissed through the open doors.

  Mazael charged, Romaria a half-step behind him. An armsman brandished a mace and sprang at Mazael. Mazael parried the mace, Lion ringing from the force of the blow, and Romaria took off the man's head with a powerful two-handed cut.

  They fought their way through the press side-by-side. Galan Hawking howled with fury, striking left and right. Sir Nathan bellowed commands, taking command of the Justiciars as Galan raged. Mazael saw Skhath, Mitor, Marcelle, and Rachel running for a shadowed staircase under the balcony. He growled and launched a backhand that gutted a Cravenlock soldier.

  “We’ve got to catch them!” said Mazael. Romaria gave him a worried glance, and nodded.

  A soldier came at Mazael armed with a war axe and a heavy shield. Mazael beat aside his attack and went on the offensive, Lion flashing and spinning in a storm of blue flame. The man's axe clipped Mazael's shoulder, but he twisted and stabbed, Lion's point plunging into the man's heart.

  He already felt the wound on his shoulder healing itself as the armsman fell.

  Then they were in the clear. Mazael saw Elderborn running along the balcony, sending arrows lancing down. The air rang with screams and crashing steel. Mazael and Romaria jumped past a pair of dying men and ran for the staircase.

  The staircase was as twisted as a serpent and as narrow as a needle’s eye. Mazael heard Mitor’s labored breath above him, and the grinding of stone against stone. Then the stairs ended in a closed stone door with no sign of a handle. Another one of the castle's hidden doors, no doubt. He had to find the trigger.

  Rachel was on the other side of that door.

  “Look for a hidden key or switch,” Mazael said. Romaria nodded and began searching.

  “Damn you!” Mazael hear Mitor’s voice through cracks in th
e stone wall. “Damn you!”

  “Silence!” said Skhath. “Simonian, you miserable traitor! I shall sink my fangs into your lying...”

  “Come now,” came Simonian’s amused voice. “We both know you can do no such thing. If you wish to escape, simply take horses and flee through the gate.”

  “Save us!” said Marcelle. “Save us, save us!”

  “We cannot leave through the gate! The courtyard is thick with the Elderborn.” Skhath’s voice rose to a sibilant snarl. “You must use your arts to take us from this place. It is our only hope!”

  “Your only hope,” said Simonian, and he laughed. “You have brought this on yourself. Did you really think you could conquer the Grim Marches with Mitor as your patsy?” His laughter redoubled. “You poor fool. It’s rather amusing. You and Mitor both wanted to conquer the Grim Marches. Now Lord Richard, or Lord Mazael, most likely, will kill you both. A fine joke.”

  “Kill Mazael, at least!” screamed Mitor. “Damn you, wizard, I bought your services! Kill him!”

  “Why should I do that?” said Simonian. “I have no argument with Lord Mazael.”

  “Don’t call him that!” said Mitor. “I am Lord of Castle Cravenlock, I am liege lord of the Grim Marches...”

  “Lord Mazael is more than you,” said Simonian. “More than any of you crawling mortals.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this!” said Rachel. Her was voice so soft Mazael could barely hear it. “Mazael isn’t the monster you think he is. He could show mercy yet, if we surrender. Skhath, please, there’s still a way to end...”

  “Do not touch me!” said Skhath. Mazael heard a crackle of a spell and Rachel’s scream.

  “I will kill you for this betrayal, you faithless infidel,” said Skhath. “I shall do that, at least.”

  Simonian roared with laughter. “How do you propose to do that? Think, Skhath! Do you know what the ultimate irony is? You have failed in your purpose, but in doing so, have fulfilled mine perfectly...”

  “Got it!” said Romaria. She pressed her fingers into a crack between two stones.

  The stone door slid aside with a groan, opening below the balcony in the castle's chapel. Dozens of candles on the altar threw back the darkness, revealing windows that had been painted over with scenes from the San-keth temple. Simonian stood atop the altar, cloaked in his dark robes, while Skhath, Mitor, and Marcelle stared up at the necromancer. A leather weapons belt hung from Skhath’s shoulder, holding a sheathed longsword and a pair of daggers.

  Rachel lay sprawled at the foot of the dais, eyes closed.

  “Ah!” said Simonian. “It’s seems I won’t have to kill you after all. Lord Mazael will do that for me.” Simonian made a spinning gesture with his hand and faded from sight. Skhath hissed and lunged for the necromancer, but his skeletal fingers raked only empty air.

  “He’s still there,” said Romaria. “It’s an illusion. He’s made himself invisible.”

  “Mazael Cravenlock,” said Skhath. “You have made a ruin of everything! By the true god, I should have killed you!”

  “Probably,” said Mazael.

  Mitor’s cowered behind the serpent priest. “Kill him, Skhath, oh, please, kill him now.” Mitor was haggard, his face sallow with terror. Mazael felt a moment of pity, but contempt soon replaced it. Mitor had brought this disaster on himself.

  “It needn’t come to this, Sir Mazael,” said Skhath. “Lord of Castle Cravenlock? Bah! You’ll be the Dragonslayer’s slave, just as Lord Adalon and Mitor were. But I can change that. With the power of Karag Tormeth and great Sepharivaim behind you, you could become liege lord of the Grim Marches, even king...”

  “Shut up,” said Mazael, striding through the rows of pews.

  “It doesn’t seem as if slithering Sepharivaim’s power did Lady Arissa much good,” said Romaria. “Nor did it do Mitor any good. Do you think Mazael is that stupid?”

  “You want to kill me? You still have the chance.” Mazael lifted Lion. “Try.” He slapped the flat of his blade against Romaria’s sword, the blue flames spreading to her weapon.

  Romaria swung her heavy sword in a loop. “Shall we see if a half-breed wild woman is a match for a full-blooded serpent?”

  Skhath shoved Mitor and Marcelle in front of him. “You think I shall fall as easily as Simonian's zuvembies or Mitor’s idiot soldiers? I shall not. I have the power of Sepharivaim behind me, humans. It is time you learned to fear his strength!”

  Skhath snatched the daggers from his weapons belt, the dark blades gleaming with poison. Mazael raised his sword in guard to block any thrown daggers. Mitor and Marcelle were both screaming, begging.

  Then the serpent priest stepped forward and slammed the daggers into the Lord and Lady of Castle Cravenlock.

  Mazael froze in astonishment. Mitor fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on Mazael. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. Marcelle managed to stand for a moment longer, blood trickling down her face, then she collapsed atop her husband. Blood dripped from their mouths and ears in a gathering dark pool.

  “Why did you do that?” said Romaria. She looked as stunned as Mazael.

  Skhath laughed and Lion burned white-hot.

  The blood oozed over Mitor’s face and transformed it into a gruesome mask, his clothes sizzling and smoking as the black blood touched them. Their blood flowed over their Mitor and Marcelle's bodies like a coat of paint, filling the chapel with a hideous stench. Mazael could not take his eyes from the ghastly sight.

  “Mazael! He’s casting a spell!” said Romaria.

  Mazael’s eyes snapped up as Skhath’s dead hands flickered in a spell. Green light danced up his arms. “Fool! See the wrath of Sepharivaim!”

  Black blood covered Mitor and Marcelle’s naked bodies from head to foot.

  Then the corpses moved.

  “Simonian prided himself on his necromancy,” said Skhath. “I do not need his help! He has nothing to match the wrath of Sepharivaim.”

  The two corpses stood, the black blood making them look like animated shadows. They moved with a sliding, deadly grace, a far cry above the shuffling zuvembies, or even the armored warriors Mazael had fought in the temple corridor.

  “Kill them both,” said Skhath. “Kill the unbelievers!”

  The creatures lunged at Mazael, fingers hooked into claws. Skhath reached over his skeleton’s shoulder and drew the sword.

  Mazael leapt back as Mitor’s animated corpse clawed at him, leaving a trail of black bloodstains on the floor. He worked his sword in intricate circles, the monstrosity flinching away from the fire in his sword. He saw Romaria struggling against Marcelle’s corpse.

  Skhath strode towards him, sword grasped in skeletal hand. “When I faced you before, I had to hold back, lest you discover my true nature.” The serpent’s hissing laughter echoed. “Now I need not.”

  His spellbound skeleton moved with grace and power. Mazael knew that if he could get his sword through Skhath’s defense the magical fires would rip apart the skeleton. But the serpent priest moved too fast. Mitor's corpse grabbed for Mazael, the thing’s fingers brushing his shoulder, and a deathly chill sank into his left arm. Skhath’s silvery sword bit through Mazael’s armor and skidded off a rib. Mazael grunted and staggered back to a guard stance, feeling his blood stick to the inside of his tunic. He heard Romaria’s rapid breathing and muttered curses as she struggled.

  “I shall make you confess the glory of Sepharivaim before I take your life!” howled Skhath. His sword went high, then low, and angled in a stab for Mazael’s chest. Mazael beat aside the thrust and slashed, and Skhath rolled his wrists and caught the blow. Mazael tensed his legs and shoved. Skhath's undead skeleton was lighter than Mazael, and the serpent priest reeled back. Mazael lunged forward for the kill, but Mitor's blood-soaked corpse interposed itself. Bloody fingers raked across Mazael's cuirass, the chill sinking deep into his chest. The cold in his chest slowed him just long enough for Skhath to tear a gash down his leg. Ma
zael realized he could not face both Skath and the animated corpse by himself.

  Romaria had been driven to the other side of the chapel, near the barred doors that opened into the courtyard. She wielded her bastard sword with both hands, the blue flame of her blade bathing her face in an azure glow. Marcelle’s corpse had been slashed and torn in a dozen places, yet it still pressed forward.

  Mazael attacked at Mitor’s corpse in a flurry of slashes. The thing retreated from his attack, and he scored a minor hit on its shoulder. The black blood shriveled away, revealing a patch of white flesh, a keening wail escaping Mitor's mouth. But Mazael didn’t dare press the attack with Skhath’s sword darting and stabbing. The tip of the serpent priest’s blade nicked off Mazael’s helm. The blow staggered him, and he barely parried a strike that would have driven through his heart.

  Skhath’s hissing laughter filled Mazael’s ears.

  Mazael grimaced and took Lion in both hands as Skhath and Mitor's corpse drove him towards the wall. Once they had him against the wall, he couldn't evade their blows, and they stood between him and Romaria.

  Mazael growled. Some of the battle-rage welled up in his mind. He welcomed it.

  He parried Skhath’s next slash and shoved hard. Skhath stumbled, skeletal feet clacking against the floor. Mazael wheeled left just as Mitor reached for him, twisting his sword, and Mitor’s hand clamped around Lion’s blade instead. There was a brilliant blue flash, and the undead thing wailed. It fell back, most of its left arm gone, the stump a sizzling mass of burned flesh.

  Mazael sprinted past Mitor’s wailing corpse, Lion clenched in both fists. Skhath seized his sword and rose to one knee, but Mazael was past him in a second. He heard the Mitor-thing in pursuit. Mazael ignored them. He had one chance to do this right.

  Romaria and Marcelle’s corpse moved in an intricate dance. Romaria’s eyes fixed on Mazael’s for a moment, and then she backed away from the dead thing, letting it drive her towards the wall. Mazael heard Skhath and Mitor’s corpse behind him.

  He sprang at Marcelle's corpse. It started to turn, but too late. Mazael brought Lion down in a huge two-handed cut, the blade slashing through Marcelle's shoulder and into her chest. Blue fire blazed, black blood shriveling. The creature shrieked, its voice a knife against Mazael’s ears. Romaria drove her sword into Marcelle's ruined chest. There was another flash of blue fire, brighter than before. Mazael caught a brief glimpse of Marcelle, the black blood burned away, thrashing like a landed fish on their blades. Then her body withered into black, stinking ash.

  Mazael spun in time to catch Skhath’s enraged thrust. The serpent priest went on the offensive, swinging his gleaming sword in mighty two-handed blows. Romaria launched a looping swing, and Skhath hopped back, the bones of his carrier clacking.

  “Kill him!” hissed Skhath.

  Mitor’s corpse lurched forward, and Mazael slashed Lion across the corpse’s chest. Romaria took off its right arm with another chop. It wailed and stumbled back, the black blood crumbling from Mitor's pale body. Mazael saw Mitor’s face, the bloodshot green eyes dead and staring, and stabbed Lion into Mitor's chest. Blue fire burst through the dead thing, and Mitor’s corpse shuddered and disintegrated into a spray of ashes.

  Skhath backed away from them, sword raised in guard. His head swiveled back and forth as he looked for some means of escape.

  “No tricks left, snake?” said Romaria. “Seems the might of Sepharivaim wasn’t so great.”

  “Blasphemer,” said Skhath, his voice a dry whisper. He ran forward, sword raised high.

  Mazael moved to parry, but Skhath’s coils suddenly unwound from the skeleton’s spine. The serpent, hurled forward by its carrier’s momentum, flew like an arrow for Mazael’s face. Skhath’s jaws yawned wide, revealing gleaming white fangs. Mazael tried to change his parry in time.

  Romaria’s sword tore a long gash on Skhath’s scaled flank. The force of her blow knocked the San-keth aside, and the serpent struck the ground, writhing and hissing. Mazael lashed out and struck the headless skeleton, smashing it with a single blow.

  Skhath slithered towards the altar, leaving a trail of fresh blood. Mazael overtook the writhing serpent and brought his foot down, pinning Skhath behind the head. Skhath hissed and cursed, spitting venom, but his jaws could not reach Mazael’s leg.

  “Stop this! Stop this!” said Skhath. “You dare not touch a servant of Sepharivaim, you dare not, he will avenge, Sepharivaim, save me, protect me...”

  Mazael’s sword came down and ended the creature’s frantic prayers. He kicked the staring head aside in disgust. The long scaled body stopped its thrashing and lay very still. The chapel fell silent.

  Rachel still lay at the base of the altar. Her clothes were shredded and torn, her skin marked with bruises and cuts. Mazael looked at his sister and felt such a peculiar mixture of pity and rage that he thought his head would explode. Rachel had helped bring about all the darkness that had befallen the Grim Marches. She deserved to die just as much as Mitor had. Yet Rachel had been a prisoner here for the last fifteen years. And Mitor had paid enough for both of them.

  Romaria touched his arm. “Don’t. There’s been enough death already.”

  “It’s not finished yet,” said Mazael. “Is he still here?”

  Romaria nodded. She pulled a silver coin from her belt and made it dance across her fingers as she cast a spell. There was a flash, and Simonian appeared atop the altar, his invisibility dispelled.

  His murky eyes shone with amusement.

  “Well,” said Simonian. “That was impressive. Mightier men than you have fallen to the wrath of Sepharivaim.”

  “Who are you?” said Romaria.

  “I am who I am, dear lady,” said Simonian.

  “No,” said Romaria. “I recognize the spell upon you now. It’s the same sort of spell Skhath always wore when he masqueraded as Sir Albron Eastwater. Who are you? Another San-keth priest?”

  “No,” said Mazael. “What are you?”

  Simonian laughed. “Perceptive, is she not? Well...why not? This beard itches terribly. And it is the end of things...why should you now not know the truth?”

  Simonian's face began to shimmer and ripple, the features morphing and changing like sculptor's putty. His features flowed into those of Lord Adalon Cravenlock, the grinning Lord Adalon Mazael had seen in his dreams. The faces of a dozen men appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then the illusion vanished, revealing a lean, hawk-nosed face with a trimmed beard and cold gray eyes.

  It was Mattias Comorian, the jongleur he had met at Eastwater inn weeks ago.

  “Is...is that his true form?” said Mazael.

  “No,” said Romaria. “There’s still an illusion there.”

  Mattias laughed. “This is what I looked like as a mortal man, many years ago.” The jongleur’s smoother voice had replaced Simonian’s rough tones. “If you were to gaze upon me in all my glory...the sight would rather destroy your minds.”

  “You were here all along!” said Mazael. “You were at the inn. You were Simonian. And you were the thing in my dreams, weren’t you?" His mind spun at the realiziation, filling with dread. "What manner of creature are you?”

  “Why, the same as you,” said the thing standing atop the altar.

  “What is your name? Who are you, really?” said Romaria. “Answer!”

  The creature laughed. “Names? What is a name? I’ve had so many in my life. Call me Mattias. It’s my favorite. But in Briault I am known as Simonian the Necromancer. In Ritoria, mothers used to call me Old Man Ghoul. They still warn their children, lest I snatch them away. The Travish peasants still whisper tales of Margath the Terrible.” He smiled, as if recalling a fond memory. “There was Cristiphar Barragon, who convinced the last Mandrag king to lead Dracaryl to its downfall. I was Marugot the Warlock, who advised King Julius Roland to wage war to the ruin of his land. Sir Trakis of Richtofar, who counseled the Patriarch of Cristafel to lead his holy war into Travia and turn the rivers red with bl
ood.” He laughed. “Ah, names, names, so many names I have worn! I’ve lost count. The Elderborn call me sar’diskhar, the Hand of Chaos. But the High Elderborn name is closest to the truth, closest to what they called me in the palaces of Tristafel long ago...altamane’malevagr...the Old Demon.”

  Mazael remembered all the tales he had heard in his life, all the times peasants had cursed and muttered the words “Old Demon.” Fear and rage coursed through him in equal measure.

  But also a sensation of strange rightness. As if for the first time he had met someone who truly was like himself.

  “But you needn’t call me any of those names,” said Mattias, the Old Demon, spreading his arms wide. “There is only one thing you can call me.”

  “What?” said Mazael.

  “Father,” said Mattias.

  Mazael looked at Mattias’s cold gray eyes.

  The eyes were mirror images of his own.

  “No,” said Mazael. “That...that cannot be.”

  “Oh, but it is,” said Mattias, grinning. “Don’t you see? How many Cravenlocks have gray eyes? Look at your miserable mother. How she despised her husband, how she lusted for power!” He leered. “She would have done anything for someone who could bring her power. Look at your wretched, dead brother and your foolish sister. You are beyond them. You see, they were Lord Adalon’s children, but you are my son. You are more than simply Demonsouled! Most of our so-called kindred have but the barest thread of my father’s magic in their souls. But I am his son, the son of a god, and you are my son!”

  “Don’t listen to him, Mazael,” said Romaria.

  “How...how can this be?” said Mazael. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold his sword. “I...

  Mattias smiled. “Don’t you see, my son? Our father, the Great Demon, died long ago. We are his heirs, his descendants. The world belongs to us. Come with me, Mazael, and I will teach you. I will show you all you can accomplish with the power in your soul. I will show you how to transcend death, to live beyond the mortal fools who crawl across this world like cattle. I will show you how to rule them, to make them dance to your will.”

  “You don’t have the right,” said Romaria. “The Great Demon didn’t have the right.”

  The Old Demon laughed. “My dear lady, I have the right to do whatever I wish. And so does Mazael. You, and those like you, belong to us.”

  “No,” said Romaria. “Don’t listen to him. You’ve heard what he’s done. You’ve seen the vileness he has wrought here.”

  “I know,” said Mazael. “I know.” Romaria was right. Yet he felt the power within. Mattias’s words had coaxed it out of the dark corners of his soul. It was sweeter than anything he’d known.

  He wanted it so badly.

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Romaria. “You don’t have to. I’m here with you.”

  Mattias snorted. “How cloying. Do you obey her will in all matters? You are more than her and can become greater still. I offer you the power of the gods, and you heed a half-breed mortal?”

  “You’re a liar,” said Mazael.

  A glimmer of red fire flashed in Mattias’s eyes. “Am I?”

  “Yes,” said Romaria. “He’s seen the evil you’ve raised. He’s seen what the demon power does. I swore an oath, when I left Deepforest Keep, to bring an end to your evil.”

  Mattias flexed his fingers. “Try.”

  Romaria obliged, her bow coming up with blinding speed. Mazael ran towards the altar, Lion blazing like a torch.

  The Old Demon was faster.

  His hand shot forward, a rune etched in lines of fire burning on his palm. It exploded in a flash of red-orange light. Romaria’s bow burst into flames, and the force knocked Mazael over and sent him tumbling down the dais steps, Lion flying from his hand. Romaria shrieked in agony, and a bolt of pain shot through Mazael's chest.

  Some time later, he had the strength to look up.

  Romaria lay sprawled across the dais steps near Rachel. Charred ribs jutted from the ruin of her chest, wisps of smoke rising from her clothes.. Mazael came to one knee and reached for her. She was dead.

  For a long time he stared at her.

  “You bastard,” said Mazael at last. The fury broiled up, and he welcomed it. “You murdering bastard!”

  Mattias raised his eyebrows. “Bastard? That’s cruel. She tried to kill me. Do I not have a right to defend myself?”

  “You killed her!” said Mazael.

  “She wanted to keep you from your destiny,” said Mattias. “She wanted to hold you back.” He smiled. “Besides, I didn’t kill Romaria.” He pointed. “She did.”

  Mazael looked at Rachel. “What?”

  “Lord Richard drove out the San-keth,” said Mattias. “Who do you think invited them back? She did. Who do you think convinced Mitor to allow it? Who do you think pulled Lord Marcus and Lord Roget into the worship of Sepharivaim? And who allowed Skhath to mate with her...”

  “Be quiet!” said Mazael. But the anger surged beneath his mind like a river of molten iron.

  “She did,” hissed Mattias. A grin spread across his face like a sore. “It is her fault! Kill her! Do justice. Take the power, if for no other reason than that. You think you will become evil? Bah! Take up your power and do justice, Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Rachel Cravenlock is responsible for all that has befallen. She is responsible for Romaria’s death. Kill her. Avenge all the evil that has fallen on these lands!”

  Mazael stood and drew a dagger. Rachel lay at his feet, her breath fluttering in her chest. He saw the runes marking her arms and the emerald serpent scribed on her forehead. Romaria was dead because of her. The Grim Marches were at war because of her. This woman, this whore deserved death for what she had done. The rage spread through his veins like molten metal. His hand clenched around the dagger’s hilt...

  Something struck his boot, and he looked down. A charred apple lay against his foot. It had rolled from Romaria’s burnt cloak.

  A rush of memories surged through Mazael. He remembered meeting Rachel for the first time, remembered how she had always agreed with him. She had not been a strong child, nor had she grown into a strong woman. He remembered when Lord Adalon had sent him away. While he had fought, drunk, and whored his way across the kingdom, Rachel had been left here alone with Skhath and Mitor and worse creatures. She had done terrible things.

  But Mazael had almost done terrible things, too.

  He tossed the dagger aside. “No.”

  Mattias blinked. “No?”

  “I can forgive Rachel for what she’s done,” said Mazael. “But she didn’t kill Romaria. You did.”

  “She betrayed you!” said Mattias. “She lied to you...”

  “And so did you,” said Mazael. “Don’t talk to me of lies, not when you weave them yourself.” A cold certainty rose in his mind. “You’ve been here from the beginning, haven’t you? You said so yourself. Skhath had fulfilled your purpose, you told him.”

  Mattias’s cold gray eyes glittered. “You could not possibly understand my purpose. Skhath? Skhath was a fool! He thought he could carve an empire for himself. Mitor wanted power. I offered him the tiniest crumbs of it, and he followed me like a braying donkey after a carrot. And your mother wanted power so badly she would have done anything for me.” He grinned. “And she did. Don’t you see, Mazael, my son? It has all been for you.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mazael.

  “I came to the Grim Marches to father you. I made you what you are. It was my seed that put the power into your soul,” said Mattias. A glimmer of red light shone in his eyes, and his mouth seemed like a pit into nothingness. “Don’t you see? Everything I have done has made you stronger, made you greater. Who do you think told Lady Arissa to make Lord Adalon send you away? Why do you think I made fools such as Skhath and Mitor dance to my tune? You have it in you to become greater than any mortal, greater than any Demonsouled that has ever lived! My designs called out your power, forced you to confront it, and now you can embra
ce it.”

  “My entire life has been nothing more than your lie?” yelled Mazael.

  “Yes,” hissed Mattias. He spread his arms, looming on the altar like a dark god. “Look at what I have done for you. Who can stand against you? Think of what you can become! Lord of the Grim Marches? King? Master of the world? Ten thousand years from now men will still speak the name of Mazael the Destroyer with fear and reverence! I will only offer once more. Embrace your destiny and take what is yours!” Power and strength seemed to roll off the Old Demon like smoke, and fear struck Mazael to the heart.

  Mazael looked at Romaria, at Rachel, at the burned apple. His hand clenched around Silar’s holy symbol.

  He looked into his father’s cold, burning eyes. “No. No! You murdered Othar and Romaria, and the gods know how many others, and for what? Nothing. I will not give in to the madness you gave me. No. I deny you.”

  Mattias reeled in disbelief. “No? No!” He threw back his head and laughed, cords standing out in his neck. “I knew your will was strong. You are the first of my children who ever resisted the call.”

  The hair on the back of Mazael’s neck stood up. “There are others?”

  Mattias grinned, revealing teeth that had become yellow and twisted. “Many others. You have merely hastened your fate, you know.” His hands came up to his shoulders and grasped the hood of his robes. “I never lose. My children serve me for a time. But in the end, they always rebel.”

  “And then you kill them?” said Mazael. Lion was too far away for him to reach.

  “Oh, no,” said Mattias. “You’re going to have a very rare honor, my son. You’re going to see my true face, without the illusion.” He pulled his hood up, masking his face in shadows. “And I never kill my children.”

  He threw back the hood.

  Mattias’s skin had become gray and rotten. His face was gaunt and angular, a demon’s face. Curved black horns rose from his brow and curled down his cheeks. Burning red eyes glared out from beneath matted, greasy hair. His teeth had become twisted fangs, his mouth a bottomless black pit.

  “I DEVOUR THEM!” roared the Old Demon, his voice thundering with the fury of the abyss.

  He leapt from the altar, his black robes billowing like a pair of wings.

  Mattias’s mouth yawned impossibly wide, opening like the gates of hell. Mazael could not reach Lion. All he had was Silar’s holy symbol. He could still save himself. If he submitted to Mattias, submitted to the Old Demon . . .

  “Gods help me,” Mazael said, throwing up his fist.

  Something jerked in his fist, and Mattias howled. Silar’s holy symbol trembled, a rime of white light flashing across the steel, and the Old Demon took a step back.

  “Help me,” whispered Mazael. He fought his terror and stepped forward, the light from the three interlocked rings flashing.

  “What is this?” hissed Mattias.

  “Get out of here,” said Mazael. “Leave the Grim Marches and never return. I can’t possibly kill you. You’re stronger than I. But this is my castle now. You made it that way. And I command you to leave. Now.” A curious feeling of calm swept over him. The symbol pulsed with power. He could not defeat Mattias by himself. But perhaps he was not alone.

  “You dare!” hissed Mattias. “No one commands me!” He leapt, claws extended for Mazael’s throat.

  Mazael thrust the holy symbol at the Old Demon’s face. The metal exploded with white radiance, and the light filled the chapel, driving back the shadows. Mattias howled in pain, his clawed hands raised to cover his eyes.

  “Go,” said Mazael. “Go and never return.”

  Mattias staggered back. “You...ah, Mazael, I must compliment you. No one has ever had the strength to stop me. Ah, you are greater than my power, I see that now. I...will go.” He turned, slumped in his dark robes.

  Mazael’s hand lowered. “You will?”

  Mattias shuddered. “Yes.” He whirled. “With your soul in my hand!”

  The Old Demon moved with inhuman speed. Mazael yelled and lifted the holy symbol, and Mattias's clawed hand closed around Mazael's. His father's skin felt cold and dead. The white light from the symbol flickered as Mattias pushed Mazael back. The Old Demon’s lips writhed in a ghastly grin.

  “You are mine,” hissed Mattias.

  “Go,” said Mazael. Mattias snarled, his black tongue scraping against his teeth. “Go!” Something shifted in Mazael. An iron, determined fury flowed from the symbol and filled him.

  Mattias flinched.

  “Go! In the name of Amatheon and Amater and Joraviar and all the gods of heaven, I command you, BE GONE!”

  The words boomed like thunder, ripping from Mazael’s throat with awesome force. The symbol exploded with white fire, flinging Mattias to the floor. The defaced windows of the chapel shattered, and glass shards rained to the floor, the barred doors exploding open. Rachel sighed, the runes and serpent mark vanishing from her skin. Mattias slammed into the altar, cringing from the blazing fire.

  “BE GONE!” said Mazael. The floor trembled with the sound of his words. The terrible might of the Old Demon seemed insignificant before the thundering fire. “GO AND NEVER RETURN!”

  Mattias howled and fled for the door. His black robes billowed behind him, becoming longer and darker, taking the shape of dark wings. With a final cry he leapt through the ruined doors and took to the air. The black, winged thing flew away to the east, vanishing into the pale pink sky. The fire from the symbol pulsed in one final burst, and faded away.

  Mazael sank to his knees, too weary and too overcome by grief and wonder to stand. Outside, the sounds of fighting faded as dawn broke.

  ***

  Chapter XII

  1

  Lord Marcus Trand’s Last Stand