Demonsouled Omnibus One, Page 2

  The jongleur tapped a finger against his jaw. “It...was at an inn in Mastaria, I believe, during Sir Mandor Roland’s march against Castle Dominus. A village called Deep Creek, as I recall...”

  Mazael frowned. “I remember! It was the night before the battle. That fool Sir Mandor—pardons, Gerald, but he was—spent the night celebrating at the inn. You were the jongleur he had brought from Deep Creek for his entertainment.”

  “I remember now,” said Gerald.

  The jongleur smiled and executed a florid bow. “Mattias Comorian, a simple musician, at your service.”

  “How did you come to be here?” said Mazael, indicating for Mattias to take a seat. “Mastaria is on the other side of the kingdom. I had thought most the villagers of Deep Creek slain in the battle.”

  “Most were,” said Mattias. “I suspected that ill fortune would soon fall upon Sir Mandor. I slipped away after the noble knight had gone to bed. Not long after, the Knights Dominiar struck. I watched the slaughter for a while, then escaped to the north.” He paused. “Did Sir Mandor chance to survive?”

  “No,” said Gerald. A shadow crossed his face. “He...ah, rose, and rallied the defenders, but he was wounded, and died soon after.” Mazael concealed his contempt. Mandor had lain snoring in bed when the Dominiars attacked. Gerald's older brother caught two arrows in the gut and another in the leg. Mandor died three days later, weeping and feverish, as the remnants of his army straggled north.

  “Ah,” said Mattias, sipping at his ale. “My deepest condolences, my lord knight. At any rate, Lord Malden - and Sir Mazael here, I might add - prevailed over the Dominiars, and I resumed my wanderings. I visited Swordor, and spent some time in Redwater and Ravenmark shortly before the old Lord of Ravenmark disappeared. I performed in the Crown Prince’s great city of Barellion for a time, and fortunately left before those riots burned down half the city. Dreadful, that. Then I traveled across the Green Plain during the succession struggle, and just in the last year made my way to the Grim Marches.”

  “Quite a journey,” said Gerald.

  Mattias laughed. His gray eyes glittered. “Ah, my lord knight, it is nothing. In my time, I have visited half the world, I fear.”

  “You seem to have had singular bad luck in your travels,” said Mazael. “The war in Mastaria, the succession troubles in the Green Plain, the uprising in Barellion...why, it’s as if troubles sprout where you walk.”

  “I pity I cannot make wheat and barley sprout where I walk,” said Mattias, grinning. “Why, the lords of the Green Plain would shower me with riches to tramp about their fields, and I never would need work again.”

  Mazael and Gerald laughed. Wesson even smiled a little.

  “And now, it seems, my bad luck has struck again,” said Mattias. “Rumors of war sprout in the Grim Marches.”

  Mazael grimaced. “You must hear more than most. All we’ve heard are peasants’ gossip, each word more outrageous than the last.”

  Mattias laughed. “I fear knowledgeable peasants are as numerous as flying sheep, my lord. Every mercenary in the kingdom is making for Castle Cravenlock. The rumors say that Lord Mitor plans to rise against Lord Richard, the way the Dragonslayer rose against old Lord Adalon.” Mattias frowned and continued. “Those living near the Great Forest claim that the Elderborn—” Mazael thought it odd that a jongleur would use the wood elves’ proper name, “—plan to march from their forest and take bloody vengeance. And the closer you get to Castle Cravenlock, my lord, the wilder the rumors get. I met a peasant who swore that a malicious wizard was stirring up trouble. I have heard tales of ghosts rising from graveyards, and of snake-cults worshipping in cellars.” Mattias snorted. “To believe these fools, you’d think that the Old Demon himself haunted the Grim Marches.”

  “Aye, well, my father sent us as his emissaries,” said Gerald. “I know not what is happening, but with the gods’ blessing, we can end these disturbances without bloodshed.”

  Mattias sighed and rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard. “Ah, your hope warms my heart, my young lord, but I know otherwise. When lords quarrel, the law is set aside in favor of swords. You know those peculiar blood roses that bloom in the Grim Marches? Well, the peasants say that only blood can irrigate those flowers, and we’ll have blood roses as far as the eye can see before this business is done.”

  Mazael blinked. For a moment, it seemed as if he could see blood. Not drops or pools, or even streams, but a sea of blood stretching as far as his eye could survey. He blinked again and shook away the disturbing vision.

  “What makes you say that?” he said at last.

  “Your family, my lord knight, and the Mandragons have hated each other for centuries,” said Mattias. “Every child in the Grim Marches knows as much. Should it come to war, and I do hope that it does not, these proud lords will settle their differences with arms, not words.”

  “We’ll not know until we try,” said Gerald, crossing his arms, “and I am determined that we shall try.”

  Mattias smiled. “Ah, forgive me, for I am an old, old man, and I have forgotten the hopes of youth. I wish you the best of luck, my young lord, and hope all goes well with you.”

  “If the gods will it,” said Gerald.

  Mattias’s eyes glinted. “I find, my lord, that the gods favor those who make their own luck. In that spirit, let me pass along a tidbit of news to you. Sir Tanam Crowley is in the area.”

  “Sir Tanam Crowley?” said Gerald. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I have,” said Mazael. “He’s Lord Richard’s most trusted vassal. When the Mandragons rose against my father, Sir Tanam was the first to join the Dragonslayer.”

  “Indeed,” said Mattias. “And Sir Tanam would like to make the youngest son of Lord Malden and Lord Mitor’s brother his master’s ...enforced guests, no?”

  Gerald’s tankard slammed down on the table. “Is that a threat? Are you asking us to buy your silence?”

  Mattias spread his hands. “You wound me, my lord knight! I might believe that war is coming, but that does not mean I do not wish for peace! Lords have markedly short tempers in war, I fear, and an incautious jongleur might find himself shorter by a head.”

  “Very well,” said Gerald. “I trust you’ll not spread news of our meeting?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael. “He could shout our names from the rooftops. If there’s trouble between here and Castle Cravenlock, it’ll find us one way or another.”

  “Then once this business has blown over,” said Mattias, “I can tell my grandchildren that I spoke with two knights of the mighty noble houses of Roland and Cravenlock.”

  “You don’t look that old,” said Gerald. “You have grandchildren?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mattias. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Many, in fact.”

  “Jongleur!” bellowed a mercenary in a boiled leather breastplate and dirty furs. “More music, I say, more music!” The crowd took up the cry. The assembled freebooters roared for music.

  “Ah, duty calls,” said Mattias. “I must say, it was a pleasure speaking with you. It is good to know that someone survived the carnage at Deep Creek.”

  “You as well,” said Gerald. Mazael nodded.

  Mattias Comorian hopped back onto the stage and strummed the strings of his harp. “Let us make merry, my friends, for the past is gone and the future is dark, and all we have is today!” He pointed into the crowd. “You sir, you have a drum, and you, yes, you with the lute. Come up here, my friends, and let us make music for dancing!” The two men climbed onto the stage. Men shoved aside tables and chairs to make room. Mazael saw a good number of peasant girls from the local farms. The girls eyed the mercenaries, the mercenaries eyed the girls, and Mazael supposed that many of the girls would lose their virtue tonight in the grass behind the inn or in the hay of the stables. He hoped they stayed away from his horses.

  Mattias and his conscripted musicians struck up a lively tune. The drunken mercenaries and the farm girls began to dance. G
erald looked intrigued, to Mazael's surprise. The pious knight rarely enjoyed himself. Perhaps tonight would become a first.

  “I say, Mazael, I believe I will indulge,” said Gerald. He stood and frowned. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Mazael waved a hand at him. “Go. I think I will retire early.”

  Gerald laughed. “You’re joking. You were so eager to find a whore earlier. You might not need to. That girl, the one with the brown eyes? She has been staring at you since she came in.”

  “Maybe later,” said Mazael. Gerald shrugged and joined the dance, Wesson following his master.

  Mazael finished his ale and felt the drink warm his insides. For a moment he considered joining the dance, perhaps finding a willing girl for later, but brushed the notion aside. He felt tired and sick. Maybe the food had been bad. If so, the innkeeper would regret it.

  Mazael climbed the stairs, leaving the dance behind, and pushed open the door to their room. Wesson had piled their armor and supplies in the corner, and a single narrow bed rested under the window.

  He shut the door behind him, undid his sword belt, and claimed the bed. Gerald and Wesson could have the floor.

  “See, Gerald?” he muttered. “You’re right. There are rewards for virtue. I get the bed and you don’t.”

  2

  Mazael Meets Sir Tanam Crowley

  Mazael opened his eyes and saw the sun's first rays painting the wall. Wesson lay on the floor, snoring. There was no sign of Gerald. Perhaps Lord Malden’s youngest son had overcome his inhibitions.

  Mazael found the chamber pot, relieved himself, and pulled on his boots. Then he picked up his sword belt and buckled it about his waist. A small mirror hung on the wall over the bed, and Mazael drew his sword and stared into the mirror.

  Sunlight glimmered off the razor edge of his blade and danced off the golden hilt. The sword’s pommel was a golden lion’s head with ruby eyes and a roaring mouth. For four years now, Mazael had carried this blade, after Sir Commander Aeternis of the Knights Dominiar had offered it up in surrender. Mazael had named it Lion and carried it at his side ever since.

  Mazael sheathed the blade and tapped the squire with his boot. “Get our armor and supplies ready. I want to leave within the hour. I’ll find Sir Gerald.” Wesson sighed and got to work.

  Mazael stepped out into the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots, but otherwise the inn was quiet. No doubt the mercenaries were sleeping off hangovers. A man lay facedown in the hallway, snoring, his trousers gone.

  “Watch for splinters, friend,” muttered Mazael.

  He found Gerald sprawled in a bed three rooms over, tangled with the blankets. No one was with him, so far as Mazael could see. Mazael shook Gerald’s shoulder. Mazael shook his shoulder, and when Gerald did not respond, he reached down and pinched the younger knight's nose shut.

  Gerald came awake with a snort. “Gods, what ...blast it all, Mazael, how many times have I asked you not to do that?”

  “You sleep like a stone,” said Mazael. He grinned. “What did I tell you, when you were a squire? Sleep too deeply, and someone might make sure you never wake.”

  Gerald didn’t answer. He rubbed his eyes, groaning. “Ah, the light! And my head!” His eyes bulged and he sat bolt upright. “Where ...my clothes ...oh, gods in heaven, what did I do?”

  “Had a good time, from the looks of things,” said Mazael.

  “I don’t remember!” said Gerald.

  “A ripping good time, then,” said Mazael.

  “I have sinned!” said Gerald. “I have dishonored myself...I could have deflowered some virtuous young maid...oh, I must do penance...”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael. “You get weepy when you’re drunk, not lecherous. Now get up, get dressed, and get your gear. I want to get over the Northwater bridge and past the village of White Rock today.”

  Gerald nodded and climbed out of bed. “I shall never drink so much again.”

  “It’s usually a good idea to stop after a while,” said Mazael.

  “I shall take a vow to abstain from spirits for the rest of my days!”

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  Mazael returned to his room and looked out the window. It faced to the east, and he saw the steep gully of the Northwater. A wide wooden bridge crossed the river here, the only crossing for a day in either direction.

  The perfect spot for an ambush, come to think of it.

  “Help me with my armor, Wesson,” said Mazael.

  Mazael wore light armor for a knight. He could move much faster than most men, and heavy armor only slowed him down. He wore a mail hauberk with a breastplate that had seen much use, steel plates for his shoulders, bracers for his forearms, and leather gauntlets backed with steel disks. His helmet was the style used by the foot soldiers of ancient Tristafel, with an open face and metal flaps to protect the ears and jaw.

  Gerald came in as Mazael redid his sword belt. Despite his hangover, Gerald had managed to shave, trim his mustache, and style his hair. “You’re armoring yourself? Why?”

  Mazael hefted a heavy war hammer with a black steel head and an oaken haft. He had taken the hammer from a dead Knight Dominiar after Sir Commander Aeternis’s defeat. Sharp as it was, Lion could not cut through solid steel plate. The Mastarian hammer did an admirable job of crushing armor and smashing bone in one solid swing.

  “Caution,” Mazael said. He slung the hammer over his shoulder. “With all these mercenaries streaming towards Castle Cravenlock, more than a few might decide to go bandit.”

  “True,” said Sir Gerald. “Wesson! My armor!”

  Unlike Mazael’s battle-scarred armor, Gerald’s armor gleamed with a mirror shine. Gerald wore a steel breastplate and chain hauberk, a mail coif, and a conical helm. Gauntlets of steel plate protected his hands, and he attached steel greaves to his legs. Over his armor he wore a blue surcoat with the gray greathelm sigil of the Rolands. His sword, a dagger, and a mace crowned with the greathelm of Roland hung from his belt. Wesson received the unenviable task of carrying Sir Gerald’s heavy oak shield.

  “I say, you should fight with a shield,” said Gerald.

  “Slows you down,” said Mazael. He glanced out the window.

  “Yes, but better to be slow than dead. Sooner or later, some screaming fool will come at you with an axe. What will you do then?” Gerald frowned. “Mazael, what are you looking at?”

  A great plume of dust rose to the east. After a moment, he saw a column of riders cross the bridge - thirty of them, at least. The lead rider carried a banner, and a woman shared his saddle.

  “Riders,” Mazael said. “They’re coming this way.”

  “Those are armored lancers,” said Gerald, and his eyes widened. “That’s the Dragonslayer’s banner.”

  The banner of the Mandragons, a black dragon on a red background, flapped from the lead rider’s lance. Beneath it flew a smaller banner, depicting a crow perched on a gray rock against a field of green.

  “And that's Sir Tanam Crowley's banner,” said Mazael. The lead riders thundered into the inn’s courtyard and reined up, sweat lathering their horses.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing here?” said Gerald. “And at this hour in the morning? From the look of those horses, they must have been riding all night!”

  Mazael spotted Sir Tanam as the knight slid off his horse. His narrow features and long nose had earned him the nickname “the Old Crow”. Two of Crowley's men lifted the woman from the saddle. She wore an elegant riding gown, yet her wrists had been bound and a hood pulled over her face.

  “I suspect a great many of our questions will be answered in the next few minutes,” said Gerald.

  “Take off your surcoat,” said Mazael.

  “What?”

  “Do it!” said Mazael. “That prisoner has the look of a noblewoman. If Lord Richard sent the Old Crow to kidnap her, what do you think he'll do with one of Malden Roland's sons?”

  Gerald nodded, pulled off his surcoat, and kicke
d it under the bed. Mazael heard the door to the inn bang open, followed by heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs. His hand curled around Lion’s hilt. “We may need to make a run for it.”

  A moment later an armored man, wearing a surcoat quartered with the black dragon of Mandragon and the crow of Crowley, peered into their room. “If you’re fighting men, make your way to the common room at once. Sir Tanam Crowley is hiring, and you’ll have the chance to make some gold.”

  Mazael and Gerald nodded. The armsman moved down the hall, banging on doors and awakening slumbering mercenaries.

  “Maybe that’s why Sir Tanam is here,” said Mazael, striding into the hall. “Perhaps Lord Richard sent him to hire away all of Lord Mitor’s mercenaries.”

  “He could do it,” said Gerald. “Not a day passes without Father complaining about the Mandragons' gold.”

  A half-dozen sleepy mercenaries stomped past, a pair of Crowley armsmen herding them down the stairs. Mazael waited until they had passed, then gestured for Gerald and Wesson to follow him. They stopped on the landing of the stairs, overlooking the common room.

  A dozen armsmen waited in the common room with as many mercenaries. Sir Tanam stood on a table, rubbing his thin nose. He had taken off his helmet, and Mazael could have killed him with a thrown dagger to the throat. Crowley’s prisoner stood behind him, two men holding her arms.

  “Roger, is this all?” said Sir Tanam, his voice clipped and precise.

  “Aye, sir, it is,” said a soldier.

  “Very well, then,” said Tanam. He cleared his throat. “I am Sir Tanam Crowley of Crows’ Rock, vassal to Lord Richard Mandragon of Swordgrim.”

  Bleary-eyed silence answered this pronouncement. Mazael leaned forward, trying to see under the prisoner’s hood.

  Tanam grimaced. “Lord Richard has commanded that I make for Swordgrim with all haste, and I ask for your assistance.”

  The mercenaries stared at him.

  Tanam cleared his throat. “Paid assistance.”

  The mercenaries smiled.