Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘Because that is what he is. To you, anyway. I would usually know him as Adelmo. The men of the north know him as Asmund; those of the south, Alexander. It is who he is. You call me the Shapeshifter, because that is what I am. The Pirate King is just that. The Wanderer...’ A faint hint of reverence came into Warin’s voice. ‘The Wanderer, he is never where you left him.’

  ‘But what are you?’ Mathias was feeling bold enough to ask this question again. He still had no idea what Wyn expected of him, or what it had to do with the revelations about the demon. It had seemed to him last night, whilst Warin had been demonstrating his considerable skills, that the Shapeshifter’s magic was far, far beyond anything he had ever seen in his entire life. ‘Please, Warin. If you will not come with us, at least do us the honour of explaining what this is all about.’

  ‘It is not my place. Ardwyad...’

  ‘Enough!’

  Mathias had had enough of ignorance and evasive answers. All his life, he had been a quiet young man, placid and good-natured. He had never raised his voice to anybody other than Wyn, and the old man had taught him to respect his elders in return. The simple community in which he had grown to manhood had taught him kindness and compassion. The old man and the village were probably both now gone, and the stress of the last day and Warin’s truculence finally overcame him in an explosive outburst.

  ‘All my life,’ he said, forcing the words around his sudden anger, ‘all my life I have been given half-truths and lies. My mother never told me the truth about my father’s death. I had to learn that after she died. My adoptive father tells me a tale about a demon that he believed was hunting him. I am sent, by magic I never knew existed, to a country to which I have never been, to meet a man who will not be reasoned with and who continues to talk to me as if I were a child. Enough! I want answers, and you, Warin the Red’—Mathias levelled an accusing finger at the stocky man—‘you are going to start providing them.’

  Tagan stared aghast at the unexpected outburst and Mathias flushed with indignation. There would be a time, much later, that he would come to regret his demand.

  Warin tipped his head to one side and then he nodded curtly before he began to speak, his voice low and passionate. His manner held Mathias and Tagan in thrall from the moment he began. Outlandish as the tale proved, it was spoken with such conviction that there was little room to doubt that he, at least, believed every word he was saying.

  ‘Demons are real,’ he began. ‘Not in the way that the Church would have you believe, or not entirely. They dwell in a land much like our own. It has forests’—Warin gestured expansively to the surrounding woodland—‘it has seas, plains, many things you would understand. It also has many things you would not. It is like a shadow of our world. It is the same shape but is very different, yes?’ The two young people nodded. Warin stoked the fire and continued.

  ‘That place has many names: Elysium, Samsara, and Niflheim. Some magi have named it the Aetherworld. It is from there that all magic flows, and it is often closer to us than we think.’

  ‘You mean... the stone circles?’ Tagan interrupted. Warin nodded.

  ‘Yes, that is where the veil between the world of men and the Aetherworld is at its weakest. You have heard not to go into a circle at twilight? That is when the worlds are in close. It is where old tales about mushroom rings comes from. Bad things will snatch you away, or carry off your children. The demons, though, they cannot cross over. They are things of magic. Without magic, they are like fish, plucked from the river.’

  ‘But Wyn showed me a vision of a demon. Stalking the battlefield at Bosworth. Killing magi.’

  Warin shook his head. ‘What you saw was nothing more than a shade. They can be given power in our world for a short time, with blood, or gold, or dreams. A sacrifice of some kind. It differs for each. But they cannot remain for long.’

  Warin’s hand stroked the back of the dog’s ears and she whimpered softly, lying down at the Shapeshifter’s feet and gazing up at him with adoring eyes. His tone became deeply sorrowful. ‘But always they are trying to find a way, trying to get into our world, to take what is ours and make it theirs.’

  Mathias became aware that Tagan’s fingers had closed around his and he squeezed her hand in return. Warin stared up at the leaden skies, where clouds gathered, heavy with the promise of rain.

  ‘Sometimes the Church says that a man is possessed, or that a witch has a demon in her, but that is wrong. They say it because it gives them power, not because it is true. A demon cannot wear the flesh of a man. A summoned shade may have the face of an angel, but you can feel its evil, feel its wrongness. You cannot invite that into you. To do so, even for a little while, brings madness. It rots the mind and body, the soul.’

  ‘So, if they can’t stay here, even through possession, what is it that they want with us?’ Mathias asked. He had only experienced the presence of Melusine through Wyn’s illusion, and couldn’t imagine what the appalling reality of it might feel like.

  ‘Purchase. Permanence. They need to forge their pure vessel.’ Mathias suddenly remembered Wyn mentioning something about a vessel as he had prepared for the ritual on the hill. ‘They whisper in the ears of men who lust for power, conquest and war. Men who might forge a dynasty. There have been others before Richard— Caligula, Xerxes, Genghis Khan, Vlad Draculesti—but always people have risen to stop them. Their bloodlines have died or been too weak.’

  ‘But not this time,’ Mathias said in alarm. ‘Wyn said that he had hoped that the vessel would not be born during my life. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that after generations, one has finally come who can endure true possession. One who can host a demon without withering and decay. One who will wield magic like a god and force the nations of men to their knees, driven by a master of power beyond reckoning.’

  ‘Melusine,’ Mathias breathed. Warin nodded slowly.

  ‘Richard wages war on magic because through his family, she has led him to do so. Magic is the only thing that can threaten her. It is the defence of the world of men against the Aetherworld. And when the time comes, she will use her power to tear down the veil. The demons will spill through and enslave humanity to their will.’

  There was a long pause, and Mathias stared in open horror at Warin.

  ‘And you will stand by and just let this happen? Wyn sent us here because he believed you would help us!’

  Warin could not meet Mathias’s eye. He stared down at the ground, running his hand through the hound’s fur. ‘The earth will endure. Evil comes and goes, but the earth will endure. It always does.’

  ‘But we will not. You are happy to hide in your forest and let people suffer and die as long as your precious earth survives, is that right?’ The young man’s voice was thick with indignation.

  Warin surged to his feet, his face a dark, furious mask. ‘And you would be a hero, is that right, boy? Men are weak! They bicker and fight and serve only their own greed. You might have been shown Richard’s corruption at Bosworth Field, but did Wyn also tell you that Tudor bargained with the demon as well?’ There was thick, heavy sarcasm around the name that Mathias’s adoptive father had used. The Shapeshifter turned from the pair, shoulders heaving. His voice, when he spoke, was composed once again. ‘Kings. Princes. Nobles. Even if this time is different, it will only happen again. There will always be another.’

  Tagan got to her feet and hesitantly went to Warin’s side. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘At least come with us for a while, tell us what we must do, where we must go. At least for a while.’

  For a long time she thought the Shapeshifter would not answer, but then he sighed and turned to look at her. ‘Very well,’ he said with evident reluctance. ‘We will go back to the circle and I will send you back to your land.’ Her face dropped, but then he continued. ‘But I will come with you back to England to speak with Adelmo. I will see this King Richard for myself.’

  ‘His name is Wyn,’
Mathias said, though the relief in his voice was obvious.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Warin replied sombrely.

  The road to Paris

  France

  THE ARMY MOVED quickly, considering its size. A huge plume of soot and dust trailed in its wake and mingled with the rising pillars of smoke to the northwest. Dieppe burned. Nothing had been spared. Those few able to escape the destruction fled before the English and a bow wave of terror now spread south ahead of the advance.

  Weaver rode at the head of the army. Sir Thomas Thirwell, King Richard’s personal banner bearer, rode at his side, proudly flying the royal colours. A number of the nobility had protested his brazen approach, fearing that he would present an easy target for enemy magi should they come upon them on the road. The Inquisitor had silenced them with a word. He would not be cowed. The idea that magi might actively seek him out was an irony he found grimly amusing.

  They passed farms and hamlets, all of which bore signs of hurried evacuation. The signs of open magic use were everywhere. Fields tended by animated tools, rain artificially brought to crops, animals corralled by fences of air. At one point they came upon a line of windmills that turned enthusiastically despite the feeble breeze of the day. All were put to the torch in turn, to expunge the stain of the arcane.

  The Lord Inquisitor stopped to observe a plough as it turned the earth of an empty field, but waved the army to continue on. There were no oxen in the traces, no man to steer it. The tool simply worked up and down in neat lines of its own accord, following the arcane instruction of the magic that animated it.

  ‘An honest man does honest work,’ Weaver growled. ‘Shall I send for some serfs to pull the thing apart, my lord?’ Sir Thomas said. Weaver thought he detected a trace of scorn in the man’s voice, but dismissed it as irrelevant. There were many among the court who did not fully grasp how insidious magic could be.

  ‘No. Inform one of the dragon’s-breath crews to melt it down as they pass. That should be thorough enough.’ One of the quickfooted messengers sprinted off toward the rear of the column without needing further instruction.

  ‘We cannot scour every magical blasphemy from the land, my lord,’ Thirwell said. ‘The King expects Paris to fall before...’

  ‘I know what the King expects,’ Weaver snapped. Sir Thomas was a bear of a man, like his father and grandfather before him. He was made larger still by the bulk of his armour, and sat astride his horse with the confident ease of a warrior. Yet he seemed to shrink before the Lord Inquisitor. ‘And he should not concern himself. We will tear down the walls of Paris before...’ Then he stopped, midsentence.

  Since the incident in Wales, the flashes of inspiration had become more regular and more comfortable. Thus far, they had also proven to be entirely accurate on every occasion. He was suddenly certain that the people who had vanished at the ritual site a few weeks ago were to the east. He was even more strongly certain that he had to find them as soon as possible. The urgency of the knowledge was startling.

  ‘My lord?’ Thirwell asked. ‘Are you quite well? Should I send for an apothecary?’

  ‘No. No. I am quite well.’ He turned to the gang of runners that followed at his heels like ducklings around their mother. ‘Send word to the noble lords. I need the ten best from their retinues, stripped of armour and ready to ride.’ One of the boys bobbed his head and hurried away. ‘You, fetch me the master alchemist.’ Another scampered off toward the rear of the host. Weaver turned to regard Sir Thomas again. ‘I must leave, and I must do so immediately. Until I return, command of the army and the siege of Paris falls to you.’

  The banner bearer looked aghast. ‘But my lord, the nobles will not defer to me. There are many amongst them who will...’

  ‘They can and they will.’ Weaver cut him off. ‘Any that don’t will answer to me upon my return. Is that understood?’

  Sir Thomas nodded reluctantly and fell back in line with the army.

  Bavaria

  Germany

  THE RETURN JOURNEY through the forest was spent in complete silence. Mathias was still smarting at Warin’s attitude, and Tagan was caught up in the dark majesty of the forest the Shapeshifter called home. They pushed through fern-choked dells, up grassy hillsides and over clear, bubbling brooks. They were evidently taking a more circuitous route back to the circle.

  The only sounds beyond that of water and wind were Warin’s occasional mutterings—in German—to the dog who padded at his side. Once or twice, the animal disappeared into the undergrowth, only to return a few minutes later and continue at his side.

  Mathias broke the silence eventually. His anger had cooled now, and some of the things Warin had said sparked his interest. He also wanted to find an opportunity to apologise.

  ‘You said that I could do what you do,’ he began. Warin turned and studied him.

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded grumpily. ‘It is possible. I feel a strong flow of the earth magic through you. But it takes many years. It is not easy. You need the patience of the mountains and the trees, the solid nature of rock and stone. You are too old. Too full of fancy.’ He lapsed back into a sullen silence and strode on.

  ‘Wyn never told me that I had that sort of potential,’ Mathias pressed on. ‘I am keen to learn what I can from you whilst I have the chance. Would you consider...?’

  Warin held up a hand that stopped Mathias and Tagan in their tracks. The blacksmith’s daughter had been gazing around the woodland, enthralled by its eerie beauty, and collided with the suddenly still Mathias. She opened her mouth to complain, but Warin hushed her with a look that could have frozen lakes.

  ‘Something... is not right,’ muttered the Shapeshifter. ‘We must go carefully. The circle is close, but it is in pain. The earth itself cries out.’ He looked at Mathias, then at Tagan. ‘Tell me. Do you feel it?’

  Mathias blinked, then remembered the strange calm that had filled the stone circle back home. He was not feeling that now. The air felt charged, like the moment before a predator springs. The forest groaned with the tension. He shook his head slowly. ‘I feel... something,’ he said in response. ‘But I don’t know...’

  Warin’s expression became grim. ‘Something is wrong,’ he said.

  They hurried on, Warin now filled with a cautious urgency. The closer they came to the circle, the more pronounced the sense of disquiet, until they emerged from the trees into the rocky clearing of their arrival. The stones still stood. Moss and lichen clung to their sides. There was nothing obviously different, yet the sense of wrongness was palpable.

  ‘With me,’ Warin growled. ‘Into the circle.’ At his command, they hesitantly stepped between the stones and shuffled through the dead needles and ferns to the centre.

  ‘Warin, how are you going to get us back? Wyn needed all of the elders with him to work the spell,’ Tagan asked quietly.

  ‘Wyn... is old. His time is almost over. I am not so old and my strength is greater. The magic is simple enough.’ Mathias looked at the Shapeshifter, but there was no trace of arrogance in him. It was a simple statement of fact.

  ‘Now quiet. I must speak with the earth. Then we will be on our way.’

  Mathias and Tagan watched with interest as Warin closed his eyes. His lips worked within the burnished hair of his beard, silently mouthing words, and then he grew still. The sense of foreboding that had filled and surrounded the circle slowly drained away, replaced by a stillness that was equally uncomfortable. The calm before the storm, Mathias thought.

  For several long moments nothing happened. Mathias looked at Tagan, who gave a little shake of her head. Neither wanted to break the awkward silence. Then Warin’s eyes snapped open and he gasped.

  ‘Warin?’ Tagan took a step toward the man as he staggered, as if momentarily drunk.

  ‘It is gone,’ he said hoarsely, his ruddy face pale with shock.

  ‘What’s gone?’ Tagan, ever sensitive to other people’s moods, stepped a little closer to him. Warin stared at her, and to her shock, h
is eyes were filled with tears. Of misery or of rage, she could not be sure. She reached for him to comfort him in some way, but he stumbled away from her, gasping ragged breaths, his hands balled into fists.

  ‘The circle,’ he said in response to her question. ‘The circle you came from is gone. The earth. The earth, she weeps for its loss.’

  ‘How can it be gone?’ But even as Mathias asked the question, he knew the answer. ‘Those men... the ones who appeared just as the magic took hold. They must have destroyed it!’ An icy fear clutched at him. ‘If the Circle is gone... then Wyn...’

  ‘Dead.’

  Warin spoke the single word with leaden finality. He turned back to the pair and there was a fey, amber light in his eyes. ‘It is not for the likes of men to uproot the bones of the world.’ His voice boomed with power. The stones around the circle came alive with intricate, curving ochre script that pulsed in time with the rhythm of his words. The trees surrounding them groaned and seemed to lean away from the enraged magus.

  ‘This sacrilege will not go unanswered or unpunished,’ Warin continued. Mathias felt the ground shake at the proclamation and he recoiled from the Shapeshifter, putting his arms protectively around Tagan as he did so. Then the magus let out a long, shuddering breath and normality resumed. The stones faded and he was once again just Warin.

  ‘Warin... if the circle in Wales has gone...’ Tagan’s voice was small; tiny and childlike. Mathias looked at her. He had known in his heart that Wyn was dead, and he feared what that meant for the rest of the village. Fear and guilt tempered with a bizarre sense of relief warred within him. Guilt because she had been dragged into this madness, and relief because she was here with him and might have escaped a terrible fate at the hands of the King’s Inquisition.

  ‘Then I cannot send you back.’ Warin finished the words for her. ‘And we have a long way to go.’ Gone was the affected cantankerousness. In its place was a man of conviction and focus; someone who had been reawakened to the world and found it not to his liking. ‘No man, be he king, mage or pauper, should attempt to unseat the old magics of the world. We need to travel, boy. You, me, her.’ He pointed at each in turn. ‘We will find the others that you seek, and together this wrong will be righted.’