Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘We don’t want to be left alone.’ Bachir released a wheezing laugh, polluting the air around him with abominable halitosis. ‘We want to be feared. We aren’t merchants, we’re the wolves of the sea. Murderers. Robbers. Rapists.’ He leaned forward. ‘We get what we want by taking what we want.’

  It was a truth that caused Giraldo’s heart to sink. This was a man that could not be reasoned with through words or glamour. It was possible that Bachir entirely lacked the empathy required for even the smallest manipulation. He had encountered others like him over the years, but he had won them all over in the end. This time, it seemed, it would be different. He heard several swords being pulled; the rasp of steel against leather and the unmistakable click of a crossbow being readied. His crew was still on board the Hermione. He was alone against a group of very angry men who wanted his blood. He was outnumbered sixteen to one.

  The odds, he mused as he slowly lowered his feet to the floor, were not good at all. Sixteen to one.

  For a moment, he came uncommonly close to feeling sorry for them.

  The road to Strasbourg

  France

  THE CART HORSES they had taken from Troyes were weaker than the war horses on which they had begun their journey. The land over the last five leagues had become more rugged, the fields and grasses giving way to hills as they pushed ever eastward. Weaver estimated that within a day or so they would leave France behind.

  Knowing that they were closing on their objective, the Lord Inquisitor eased the pace, if only a little. The horses would not last much longer, and farms were becoming more scattered, sometimes with leagues between them. By the time the sun set on their second day, both the men and the horses were barely coping. The knights had only managed a couple of hours of rest in Troyes before Weaver had kicked them awake and moved them on. None of them questioned the growing inferno spreading throughout the town. It was no great struggle to fathom what had happened, and none of them cared to question the actions of the Lord Inquisitor.

  Near dusk they came upon a substantial farm with a stable and several large barns. To the relief of the party, Weaver called a halt. The men gratefully fell from their saddles, stumbling into the nearest building, too weary to chase the residents from their home. They sprawled in the hay and dropped into dreamless sleep. Even the Lord Inquisitor could feel the compelling lure of rest and the ache in his bones.

  Tired as he was, he still forced his way into the house and put the family to flight, sending them running into the gathering gloom with bellowed curses and a shot from his pistol. It did not matter that they would return. By the time they did, Weaver and his men would be long gone.

  The Lord Inquisitor sank onto one of the recently-vacated straw pallets and lay back. He only intended to close his eyes for a moment, to rest his back and his throbbing legs. He had been troubled of late, and true sleep had been elusive, but the constant travel, the alchemical potions and the lack of real food finally conspired against him and he was asleep within seconds.

  When his eyes opened, he was in another place, an unfamiliar place. The sky above was a deep, rich blue, and smeared with unfamiliar stars. There was no moon, but the landscape around him was clearly visible. The tall, tawny grass in which he lay seemed to glow softly. Weaver got to his feet and looked around, perplexed by his surroundings.

  Grassy, rolling plains stretched away in all directions, rippling in a wind he could not feel. Trees dotted the landscape, but they were unlike any trees he had ever seen before. They were incredibly tall, their slim trunks towering over a hundred feet into the sky. Skeletal limbs drooped from them, tapering into twigs heavy with clusters of pale, pearlescent fruit. These too were surrounded by a faint luminescence, like the gas bulbs developed in the workshops of London.

  In one direction, the horizon was a mass of knotted black spires, darker still than the sky. In the other direction, at the top of a hill, stood a figure clad in a mantle of white fire. Weaver squinted and managed to make out hints of silver amidst the light, and as many as six arms. The figure was much larger than a man; it would have towered over him, were he stood beside it. The Lord Inquisitor raised his hand in greeting, without fully understanding his own actions. Instantly the thing was gone, faster than he could blink, leaving nothing but wavering grass in its wake.

  A painfully discordant wail came from behind him.

  Weaver turned to see a fleet of winged shapes spilling across the sky from the direction of the spires, and a terrible sense of foreboding filled him. He looked toward the dark horizon, and to his horror, something looked back.

  His vision blurred and he had the sensation of flying across the plains at great speed, the ochre grass and mighty trees racing beneath him. The land became bleak and broken, then alive with a sick light that spilled from deep fissures. Then he was among the spires, razor sharp pillars of knotted black glass flickering past on either side.

  A great maw opened ahead of him, and he found himself within an impossible palace, its dimensions defying his understanding and its angles beyond human comprehension. He screamed as the insane geometry spiralled about him, and he began to rise, until he was surrounded by towering pillars of different heights.

  He was still screaming, the clawing madness of the place searing his mind until he was sure his skull would burst. He circled the pillars and knew that atop each was something that would surely break his mind if he looked upon it. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears, but even the memory of the palace made him sick.

  Clashing, jarring sensations washed over him, every experience the human mind could understand, from its blackest pits to its greatest heights. Every one was tainted. Every one of them was subtly different.

  The eighth pillar was the tallest.

  He felt his sense of self pushed to the back of his mind, to the very remotest corner of what he knew as Charles Weaver. The thing atop the eighth pillar turned its gaze on him. With only a sliver of power it made him open his eyes.

  It was like looking into the sun. Weaver screamed, as his very existence crumbled to ash.

  ‘Hold him!’ a voice commanded. Strong hands held his arms and legs and a great weight lay upon his chest.

  The Lord Inquisitor thrashed and screamed, and despite his captors’ best efforts he cast them aside. He rolled to his feet and clawed at the mask on his face, gripping its metal edges. It wouldn’t come off.

  He opened his eyes to find his knights standing around him. Some of them had their hands on their swords and were looking at him as if they expected him to attack at any moment. Weaver dropped his hands to his sides and gulped air into his lungs. He was in the farmhouse he had taken. Warm sunlight streamed through the window and a gentle breeze plucked at his hair. He stood there for a moment, disoriented, and then his armour of composure dropped back into place. ‘We have rested too long,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘My lord, are you... is everything well?’ Sir Anthony asked hesitantly. ‘We tried to wake you, but...’

  ‘A dream,’ Weaver interrupted. ‘Nothing more.’

  The knights looked at each other, but relaxed a little. They all looked much better for a night of rest.

  ‘Get fresh horses, we leave immediately.’ Weaver barked out the command, all weakness banished. Sir Anthony nodded and led the warriors out. The Lord Inquisitor watched them go, his eyes haunted.

  Mahón

  Spain

  THERE HAD BEEN many brawls in the tavern over the years. Some were small, between two men maybe, over a game of cards. Other fights involved entire crews, and spilled out of the tavern onto the street. This one was remarkably one-sided. Afterwards, those who were able to leave the tavern were never quite able to recall all the details. Much later, the ‘Legend of the Hundred Man Brawl’ would be retold in taverns throughout the Mediterranean; just another story of the notorious Pirate King.

  Captain Bachir threw the first punch. That was one thing that was a definite fact. He surged to his feet, overturning the
table, and lunged for de Luna. The Pirate King stepped aside, avoiding the clumsy attack. Not a soul actually noticed him get to his feet. Bachir tripped on the vacated stool.

  ‘You don’t need to do this,’ Geraldo said in a mild tone. Bachir laughed nastily and got to his feet.

  ‘Afraid you’re going to lose, old man?’

  The Pirate King bristled and drew his sword.

  ‘Old? Why, I’m barely a day over twenty-five!’

  ‘Kill him!’ Bachir roared, and his crew rushed to obey.

  There was a snap as a barbed crossbow bolt flashed across the room. Despite the range and the bowman’s careful eye, he somehow missed, the shot instead finding its way into the chest of one of his companions. The man grunted and flipped over a table, dead before he hit the floor.

  Giraldo de Luna did not appear to move quickly, but he moved with such incredible grace it was as if the thugs were asleep, their movements jerky and lethargic. The Pirate King flowed between them, leaving a blur of colour in his wake. His sword was a living tongue of silver that flashed three times as he crossed the room. Then he stood before the bowman who had only just begun to reload.

  ‘That was unfortunate,’ Giraldo said to the wide-eyed thug. Behind him, three men howled in anguish as knives and cutlasses fell from severed fingers. The blade flashed again, cutting the bowstring and slicing a neat furrow through a pirate’s face, including his right eye. He toppled back, shrieking and clutching at his wound. Not a single drop of blood had touched de Luna’s finery, and he turned to regard Bachir who was still scrambling to his feet amidst the detritus of the table.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The Pirate King addressed the scowling mob closing ranks behind him. ‘Your captain is not a wise man. He is not even a good captain. Will you follow him, or will you follow a king?’ The air was charged with aggression, many of the other patrons taking the opportunity and cover of the brawl to settle some scores of their own. Giraldo made one last bid to puncture the tension and dispel the violence before it boiled over. ‘Or do I need to make my point clearer?’ He drew a dagger that perfectly matched his blade and quirked an eyebrow.

  ‘These men are mine, maggot! Kill him and his gold will be ours!’ Bachir bellowed at his crew. ‘We’ll all be kings before the sun sets tonight!’

  Geraldo sighed. Perhaps I am getting too old for this, he thought to himself.

  Then the tavern exploded into chaos.

  Giraldo banished the maudlin thought and leapt up onto the bar. He briefly crossed the sword and dagger across his chest in mocksalute and looked down at Bachir, who had drawn a massive cutlass and was pushing his men ahead of him through the brawl. Giraldo wrinkled his nose in distaste at this display of cowardice. ‘And you call yourself a captain?’

  Bachir shot him a black look and pushed closer. The Pirate King stepped and spun along the length of the bar while tankards and bottles sailed past. He kicked the first man who dared to approach directly in the face, sending him sprawling back into his fellows, then flipped from his perch and landed among them. Boots, clubs and knives descended on him from all sides, a directionless maelstrom of violence that had already spilled out of the tavern and into the market.

  None of the weapons, none of the men could touch him. He slipped through the press of bodies like a ghost, his blades wounding, crippling, but never killing. He was a flying ribbon of colour moving through a sea of the ugly and the drab. A bell started ringing outside, summoning the governor’s guard, and Giraldo smiled as he ducked a flying stool. It seemed he had outstayed his welcome in Mahón.

  Bachir’s men had grown less interested in him as their numbers dwindled and they became bogged down in the brawl, but Bachir himself seemed determined to have the Pirate King’s head. He cut down a man who stumbled into his path and cuffed another aside as he pushed through the throng. His eyes were wild with hatred; he was beyond reason, possibly even beyond sanity. He was certainly beyond good taste and style.

  ‘Captain Bachir!’ a voice yelled above the clamour. ‘The Hermione is leaving! She’s weighed anchor and is putting out to sea!’

  ‘Your crew have abandoned you, worm!’ Bachir roared. ‘They must despise you as much as the rest of us! I might even let them have your head once I’ve finished with you!’ He shoved through the crowd, his cutlass raised to strike Giraldo down.

  The Pirate King sighed and sheathed his weapons. The fight continued, but a strange pocket of tranquillity formed around him. The combatants seemed to avoid the space in which he stood, naturally, falling to his sides without notice. Bachir pushed into the space and stood before Giraldo, splattered with blood, chest heaving. Before he could strike, de Luna’s hand snapped out and tapped the burly captain on his barrel chest.

  ‘Enough,’ he declared quietly.

  Bachir stopped and his eyes bulged. He let go of his sword, and it vanished beneath the feet of the surging mob. ‘Enough,’ Giraldo said again. Bachir opened and closed his mouth, but only a strangled gurgle escaped his lips. His eyes rolled in panic and he clawed at his throat and chest with shaking hands.

  ‘Help... me...’ he managed to choke out to one of his men, who had finally made it to his side. He pawed at the pirate’s shirt, his jaw working uselessly a few more times, then vomited a great torrent of water.

  Bachir’s man pushed him away, staring in horror at his captain. The unfortunate captain sank to his knees, still clutching uselessly at his neck. Cords of muscle stood out like hawsers and veins bulged beneath his skin. All around him the fury of the brawl abated as more people turned to watch what was transpiring.

  ‘Enough,’ Giraldo declared for a third—and final—time. Bachir threw back his head and opened his mouth, and water fountained out. He stayed that way for a few heartbeats, like a piece of living statuary, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled to the floor where he lay in a spreading puddle of brine. Water continued to bubble from his dead lips.

  ‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ Giraldo de Luna said, dropping a bow before the stunned crowd like a street magician at the end of his trick, ‘I do believe my ship is leaving.’

  The effect of his calm statement was somewhat spoiled by the sounds of renewed fighting outside as the guard finally arrived to break up the disturbance. Pandemonium resumed, and the Pirate King seized the opportunity to make his exit. He slipped through the mob and back out into the sunshine, where he took a moment to brush a fleck of dust from his shoulder. He walked confidently, unchallenged. Then he saw the gang of armed guards pushing toward him and, tipping his hat to them, set off at a run.

  He barrelled across the market and out onto the quay, heading for the pier where the Hermione had been anchored. He could see her, sails billowing, as she pulled toward the open water. He gauged the distance. It was a long time since he had attempted anything quite this ambitious. Maybe, he thought, I’m too old for this. Maybe this will be the time that my magic fails me.

  There was only one way to know.

  Behind him, several of the guard were in hot pursuit. It seemed that the governor’s understanding did not stretch to civil disorder and brawling. Giraldo made a mental note not to return to Mahón for at least a year. A few bribes, a word in the right ear and everything would be all right again in time. An arrow whistled past his ear and buried itself in one of the pier posts.

  Maybe two years.

  Three, at the outside.

  With an athletic leap, Giraldo de Luna dived from the end of the landing stage just as the first of the guards reached for him. They skidded to a stop, not quite keen enough to follow him into the water, but brought up more bows to pick him off when he surfaced.

  There was no splash. There was no sound of de Luna’s body hitting the water. Instead, a few seconds later, the guards saw the lean figure of the Pirate King as he sprinted across the surface of the sea towards his departing ship.

  Ripples spread out beneath his boots and marked his passage across the waves. The guards fired from the pier, but de Luna l
aughed and spun as he ran and their arrows plunged harmlessly into the water. Giraldo ran as hard and as fast as he could until he was jogging alongside the Hermione.

  ‘Permission to come aboard, Tohias?’ Giraldo hollered up to his grinning first mate, who was already leaning over the side, the rope ladder in his hands.

  ‘One of these days, Captain, I’m not going to let you back on board,’ he called down before dropping the ladder. Giraldo swung himself easily onto the lower rungs and clambered up with the ease of years of practice.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not just yet.’ He raised his head to the sea air and inhaled the fresh, clean scent of freedom. There was another scent there, too; the second pressing matter of the day moved to the top of his mental list.

  ‘Set course for Genoa,’ he said, quietly. ‘We need to be ready to receive our guest.’

  Ten

  The Alps

  Switzerland

  THE MOUNTAINS OF Switzerland were nothing like the hills of Tagan’s homeland. She clung to the neck of Warin’s horse form as the beast made its way through the narrow passes. They had climbed to an altitude where a mist of cloud gathered below them, and she could not shake the sensation that she was flying high above. It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

  She was not as cold as she might have expected, despite the sudden drop in temperature. After a little practice, her growing ability to conjure fire from nowhere was certainly proving itself to be useful on this journey. Whenever they stopped for the night—be it in the edges of the vast spread of the Black Forest or the rocky outcroppings that protected them from the worst of the weather—she was able to provide them with warmth and a means to cook their simple camp food. In that way, at least, she felt she was contributing.