Demonsouled Omnibus One Read online

  DEMONSOULED

  Jonathan Moeller

  For fans of Robert E. Howard, David Gemmell, and Raymond E. Feist, here is a new story of sword and 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.

  Other books by the author

  The Third Soul Series

  The Testing

  The Assassins

  The Blood Shaman

  The High Demon

  The Burning Child

  The Outlaw Adept

  The Black Paladin

  The Tomb of Baligant

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  The Ghosts Series

  Child of the Ghosts

  Ghost in the Flames

  Ghost in the Blood

  Ghost in the Storm

  Ghost in the Stone

  Ghost in the Forge

  Ghost Dagger (World of the Ghosts novella)

  Ghost Aria (World of the Ghosts short story)

  The Demonsouled Series

  Demonsouled

  Soul of Tyrants

  Soul of Serpents

  Soul of Dragons

  Soul of Sorcery

  Soul of Skulls

  Soul of Swords

  The Dragon's Shadow (World of the Demonsouled novella)

  The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)

  The Tower of Endless Worlds Series

  The Tower of Endless Worlds

  A Knight of the Sacred Blade

  A Wizard of the White Council

  The Destroyer of Worlds

  $1.99 Dark Fantasy

  Driven and Other Stories

  The Devil's Agent

  Angel Sword and Other Stories

  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

  Originally published in hardcover by Five Star, May 2005

  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.

  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

  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!’”

  “Sing something else!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry.

  The jongleur stopped. “My apologies, good sirs!” he called out, smiling. “What shall I sing for you instead? ‘The Song of the Serpents’, perhaps, or ‘The Fall of Tristafel’?”

  “What’s this, a funeral?” yelled a drunken voice. “Sing something good! ‘The Virgin with Five Veils’!” The jongleur took a flourishing bo
w and began to sing. “There was a girl with raven hair and the curves of a goddess...”

  “What a morbid fellow,” said Gerald. “It’s a wonder he’s able to earn his bread. ‘The Song of the Demon Child’ and ‘The Fall of Tristafel’ indeed! I’ve never heard ‘The Song of the Serpents’, though. Probably some dreadful story of demons, to judge from this fellow’s tastes.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Snakes. It tells how the god of the serpent people rebelled against heaven. In punishment the other gods took the arms and legs from the serpents and made them crawl through the dust.”

  Gerald shuddered. He hated snakes. “Gods be praised, the food is here.”

  A plump, pretty barmaid in a tightly laced dress gave them their food. Gerald thanked the woman. Mazael sent her off with a silver coin and a pinch on the bottom, earning a frown from Gerald. The jongleur continued “The Virgin with Five Veils” and soon had the mercenaries roaring along to the song. “The virgin girl danced and giggled, her body bounced and jiggled..."

  Gerald admonished his squire against such revels. Mazael downed his ale and called for another.

  The jongleur finished his song to thunderous applause as a storm of copper coins rained upon the stage.

  “Another song!” called out a man.

  “Grant me a short rest first, my generous friends!” said the jongleur, sweeping up the coins. “For you all have mighty voices, and I fear I shall ruin mine if I dared compete!” The assembled ruffians laughed and went back to their drinking. Mazael took a drink of ale to wash down some beef, draining half the tankard in three big gulps.

  When he looked up, the jongleur stood over their table, a smile on his bearded face. “Pardon, my lords...but have we met before?”

  Mazael frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But...are you not Sir Mazael Cravenlock, my lord? And is your companion not Sir Gerald Roland?” said the jongleur.

  Mazael’s teeth clenched. He had wanted to reach Castle Cravenlock unseen. “How do you know who I am?” A quick dagger thrust between the ribs could kill the jongleur...