Demonsouled

DEMONSOULED

  Jonathan Moeller

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  Description

  Here is the first volume of the DEMONSOULED series, an epic saga of fantasy and sword & sorcery.

  Banished for fifteen years, the wandering knight Mazael Cravenlock returns home at last to the Grim Marches, only to find war and chaos. His brother plans a foolish and doomed rebellion. His sister hopes to wed a brutal and cruel knight. The whispers speak of living corpses that stalk the night, of demons that lurk in darkness, and a sinister snake-cult that waits in the shadows.

  Yet Mazael's darkest enemy waits elsewhere.

  Within his own tainted soul...

  First published in 2005 from Gale/Five Star, now updated and revised in a new electronic edition.

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  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

  Cover image copyright Sandaboy | Dreamstime.com - Beautiful Elf With A Knife In His Hand Photo & Carlos Caetano | Dreamstime.com & Daniil Peshkov | Dreamstime.com & © Prometeus | Dreamstime.com - Strong Man Photo

  All Rights Reserved

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law. 

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  Epigraph

  It is a fact, then, that in the heart of every man there lies a beast which only waits for an opportunity to storm and rage, in its desire to inflict pain on others, or, if they stand in his way, to kill them...

  -Arthur Schopenhauer

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  Chapter I

  1

  The Jongleur at the Inn

  Mazael Cravenlock saw the apple trees and smiled.

  He put spurs to his horse, a sturdy old gray palfrey named Mantle, and rode for the trees, ignoring Gerald's cry of protest. The setting sun painted the grass a deep crimson and the hot, dry wind of the Marches tugged at Mazael’s cloak and whipped at his face, but he was used to it. He had grown up here, after all.

  The apple trees rose at the shore of a clear pond, encircled by a low stone wall. Nearby stood a crumbling brick chimney and some foundation stones, all that remained of a small peasant house. The inhabitants of that house had likely been killed fifteen years past during Lord Richard Mandragon’s uprising against Lord Adalon Cravenlock. No one had claimed the land since then, to judge from the tall grass covering the old foundation.

  Mazael steered Mantle through the low wall's fallen gate and reined up beneath a tree. The apples hung heavy and red from their blossoms, and he plucked one with a gloved hand and took a bite.

  “Sir Mazael!”

  Mazael turned his saddle, chewing, and watched Sir Gerald Roland and his squire Wesson ride through the ruined gate. Gerald had inherited the aquiline features, blue eyes, and muscular body of his father. His shoulder-length hair shone like gold, and he had recently grown a mustache that he attended with the fanaticism of an Cirstarcian monk. Gerald was not wearing any armor - Mazael could have thrown his dagger and killed Gerald before the younger man could react.

  Instead, Mazael reached up and took another apple. “Hungry?”

  “Certainly.” Mazael tossed the apple. Gerald cut it in half with his dagger, taking half for himself, and feeding the other to his horse. “Wesson, would you care for an apple?”

  “No, Sir Gerald,” said Wesson, a pimpled youth of eleven. “I am not hungry.”

  “Pity,” said Mazael. A single sure sword stroke would kill Wesson. “Never pass up a chance for an apple, my boy.”

  Gerald snorted. “Never pass up a chance for fresh food, you mean. An opinion I wholly favor after all these travel rations, but I could never understand why you were so mad for apples. I prefer pears, myself.”

  Mazael flicked the core aside, and picked another apple for Mantle. “I might tell you someday.” The sun's setting rays caught in the pond, and for a moment the water resembled blood. Mazael shook off the thought.

  “Shall we stop here for the night?” said Gerald.

  “No,” said Mazael. “There’s an inn two miles east of here, just before the Northwater bridge. We can get there before dark.”

  Gerald laughed. “Are you in such a hurry to reach your brother’s castle? You told me that you’d rather be elsewhere.”

  “No, I’m in a hurry to have a bed and a hot meal. Fresh food is fine, but hot food is far better." Mantle finished the apple, and Mazael turned the palfrey around and rode back to the road and their other animals. Mazael and Gerald’s war horses stood grazing alongside a pair of pack mules laden with their supplies and armor. Wesson took the animals in hand and followed the two knights as they rode eastward.

  “I would rather be elsewhere,” said Mazael, “but since I am here, I would prefer to be within castle walls. I have no great eagerness to see my brother, but should war come, I’d rather be inside Castle Cravenlock than out in the open.”

  “We should have brought more men, as Father wished,” said Gerald. “With two or three hundred armsmen as escorts, attack would not trouble us.”

  Mazael snorted. “Yes, three hundred men with the banner of the Rolands flapping overhead? That would have drawn the eyes of every man from Knightcastle to Swordgrim. And how do you suppose Lord Richard Mandragon would react if he knew that Lord Malden Roland’s youngest son had brought an army to the Lord of Castle Cravenlock?”

  Gerald fell silent for a moment. “Do you really think it will come to war?”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Mitor’s a fool, but a slug as well. He’s too much a coward to rouse himself against the likes of Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer.”

  “I hope you are right. I have seen enough of war,” said Gerald.

  Mazael nodded. He had fought alongside Gerald when Lord Malden had invaded Mastaria. They had survived the bloody battles of Deep Creek, Castle Cateron, and the Siege of Tumblestone. The slaughter had sickened Mazael, yet some part of him had found it beautiful. He had relished the fighting, reveled in it. No enemy, common soldier or Knight Dominiar, could stand against him, and he had danced through their bloody blades.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Mazael. “Mitor might hate Lord Richard, but Lord Richard terrifies Mitor. And all anyone has heard are rumors of mercenaries and bandits. Most likely Mitor is simply hiring whores.” Mazael laughed.

  Gerald frowned. Lord Malden Roland’s youngest son had a pious streak that Mazael often found wearisome. Yet the young knight was the best friend Mazael had made since leaving Castle Cravenlock, and Gerald was one of only four people to whom Mazael would entrust his life.

  “I see lights up ahead,” said Gerald.

  Mazael saw the lights, and heard the rush of water. “The inn, most likely. At least, there was an inn here fifteen years ago. Just past that is the Northwater bridge and then it’s only another three days to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Finally,” said Gerald.

  Full dark fell by the time they reached the inn. It had changed little from what Mazael remembered. A high wall of sharpened wooden logs surrounded the rambling stone building, and torches burned in sconces atop the wooden palisade, casting a circle of light around the wall. A pair of crossbow-armed mercenaries stood guard before the crude gate.

  Mazael could have killed them both before they reacted.

  He reined up instead. “Ho, the inn!”

  The mercenaries trained their crossbows in Mazael’s direction. “Who’re you, and what’s your business?” said a mercenary with a broken nose and a shading of beard stubble.


  “A traveler,” said Mazael, “and my business is with a bed, hot food, ale, and a whore.” Gerald frowned, while Wesson looked intrigued.

  “You’ve the look of knights,” said the mercenary. “Pardon the questions, sirs, but in these dangerous times the innkeeper’s hired us to keep peace.”

  “That so?” said Mazael. “Danger from what?”

  “People have been disappearing near Lord Mitor’s castle. It’s the wood elves, I say,” said the mercenary, making the sign to ward off evil. “Lord Richard has stirred them up to make war on Lord Mitor. I’ve even heard tell that Lord Richard treats with dark powers, and has the Old Demon himself as an adviser.”

  “No,” said the second mercenary. “It’s the barbarians, come down out of the mountains. They’re the ones behind this. Lord Richard will raise his vassals and that black-hearted son of his, and smash them the way he smashes everyone who crosses him.”

  “Such fine tales,” said Mazael. He flipped them a copper coin. “Tell them in the common room and you might get a few more coins.”

  The mercenaries laughed, but Mazael heard the unease in their voices. “Aye, so we might, but everyone in these parts speak the same tales. People have been disappearing, and it’s the work of those wood devils, taking them off for their dark rituals.”

  “No, it’s the barbarians,” said the other mercenary. “They eat babies. My grandfather told me so when I was a lad.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the Old Demon and a troop of barbarians sacrificing people to the god of serpents,” said Mazael. “I want my ale, my bed, and my food.”

  “Very well, milord,” said the first mercenary. “Make no trouble, and we’ll make no trouble for you.”

  Mazael nodded. He rode through the gate, Gerald and Wesson behind him.

  “Do you think it’s true?” said Gerald. “Peasants have been disappearing?”

  Mazael shrugged. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Most likely Mitor has ordered virgins kidnapped for his bed.”

  The two knights dismounted, and Wesson received the task of stabling the mounts and carrying the armor and weapons into their room. Mazael did not remember his own years as a squire with any fondness. He pushed open the inn’s door and stepped inside.

  The common room was crowded with mercenaries and landless knights. Many looked drunk, and specks of fresh blood marked the floor. A bartender and a half-dozen serving girls hurried back and forth to the kitchen. Mazael marked some of the prettier ones.

  A man playing a harp stood atop a stage against the far wall. The jongleur wore simple clothes for one of his craft, plain boots and trousers and a tunic. Gray shot through his black hair and beard, and a hooked nose rested above his smiling lips. Mazael frowned, thought he recognized the man for a moment, then brushed away the odd feeling.

  The bartender came over. “What’ll it be, my lords?”

  “A room, and food for three,” said Mazael.

  The bartender licked his lips. He squirmed beneath Mazael’s gaze, something people often did. “First room at the top of the stairs. As for food, I’ve got a few joints of beef left, and some fresh bread...”

  “That will be fine,” said Mazael. He left some copper coins on the bar and went to find Gerald. Wesson lurched through the door, bearing an armful of armor. Mazael directed him to their room, and the boy clambered up the steps, huffing.

  Gerald had claimed a table near the jongleur’s stage, and Mazael joined him.

  “Look at this place,” said Gerald. “It’s packed full of mercenaries and ruffians of every stripe, and they are all making for Castle Cravenlock. It seems the rumors of your brother hiring men are true after all.”

  “I wonder why,” said Mazael. “Castle Cravenlock can only raise four thousand knights and armsmen. Swordgrim can raise eight thousand, and Lord Richard can call ten thousand more. If Mitor thinks to use this rabble to stand against the likes of Lord Richard, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

  “Perhaps he’s hired them for use against the wood elves,” suggested Gerald with a laugh.

  Mazael snorted. “What, the Elderborn? Hardly. They wouldn’t venture out unless Mitor devoted himself to burning down the Great Southern Forest. Besides, the Elderborn would cut through this lot,” he gestured, taking in the mercenaries, “faster than even the Dragonslayer.”

  “I was joking,” said Gerald. “Elderborn are a children’s fable, like faeries and Demonsouled...you’re not joking?”

  “No,” said Mazael. Wesson descended the stairs and sat at the table, panting.

  The jongleur ran his fingers over his harp and began another song.

  “Heart of darkness, soul of sin,

  a murderer’s bloody grin.

  So came the boy to his fate,

  dark son of a demon great.”

  The crowd’s boisterous enthusiasm dampened. “The Song of the Demon Child” was not often sung in busy inns.

  “I say, I detest that song,” said Gerald.

  Mazael looked up at the jongleur. “Why is that?” The jongleur's gray eyes gleamed keen and intent, his fingers dancing over the harp in accompaniment to his deep, rich voice.

  “Father Marion would always recite a few verses when he saw me, citing the fate of wicked children,” said Gerald.

  “The child met his dark father,

  before the church’s altar.

  ‘My dark child,’ said the demon.

  ‘Your glory has now begun.’”

  “I hope you didn’t let it bother you,” said Mazael. “Most priests couldn’t find their manhood with both hands.”

  Gerald frowned. “That’s hardly an appropriate example to set for Wesson.”

  Mazael shrugged. “If he wants to take a vow of chastity, let him become a monk.”

  “‘Your demon soul has power,

  curse the gods, curse Amater.

  Take that which is your dark right.

  Spurn heaven; claim your demon might!’”