Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  A single leaf floated on the breeze and Geraldo snatched it out of the air like a striking snake. He turned it over in his hands and examined its surface, then he pressed it to his face and inhaled its scent. Crisp and fresh. Clean, mountain pine.

  ‘Red,’ de Luna breathed. He looked over his shoulder at his first mate. ‘Take her in, Tohias. We will unload any who wish to leave here, take on board supplies and then head straight back out to sea. Make it quick. As quick as you can.’

  ‘Captain?’ Tohias looked utterly mystified. They had not even dropped anchor yet.

  ‘Back out to sea, Tohias. Be ready to receive guests.’ With that, he dived over the side and into the harbour.

  He didn’t make a splash when he hit the water, simply vanishing beneath the waves and melting into their embrace. He became a shadow beneath the crystal surface, a liquid blur that could only be glimpsed out of the corner of the eye. The kind of shape that could be mistaken for a dolphin, perhaps. A fleeting vision that gave rise to legends of merfolk.

  For Giraldo the change represented the ultimate in freedom, the rare chance to be completely at one with his magic. He felt the colossal tug of the tide, the caress of the wind across the surface, the hidden currents lurking in the unknown depths, and he revelled in it. The power of the ocean was unlike any other in this world. He flashed through the water, escaping the harbour, and flowed upstream at the speed of thought. In his mind’s eye he saw a huge bow-shaped lake flanked by mountains, a place he had not visited for many years.

  The river narrowed steadily and became a stream. He raced through the alpine foothills, leaping up waterfalls and through deep, underground ways, ever higher, until he could go no further. He scattered shoals of fish, which reformed behind him, unfazed by his passing.

  His essence erupted from a spring high on the mountains and became snow, the shock of his arrival sending an avalanche down the slopes to bury forests and valleys below. He briefly emerged from the ice as he crested the mountains, his lower body nothing more than a whirling blizzard. He laughed with the release of it all and his voice echoed around the peaks. Then he was beneath the surface again, nothing more than a ripple that plunged toward its destination.

  Lake Geneva

  Switzerland

  ‘IT’S BEAUTIFUL!’ TAGAN exclaimed as they descended a grassy hillside. The lake was huge, and even from their elevated position they could not see its entire length. ‘How big is it?’

  ‘Many leagues.’ Warin replied gruffly. He glanced over his shoulder at her and nodded. ‘But do not worry, we do not have to walk around. De Luna should be here.’

  The Shapeshifter was peering past her, as if looking for something. Tagan glanced over her shoulder, but only grass and the dark crags lay above them. ‘What are you looking for?’ Her curiosity was piqued.

  Warin turned back toward the lake and shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered absently. ‘I thought I heard something. But clearly I did not.’ For whatever reason, this seemed to irritate him.

  After a day of travel and another night of rest, Mathias had recovered considerably. Warin produced a pouch of herbs from somewhere within his leathers and brewed them up over one of Tagan’s fires. It had smelled terrible and tasted worse, but the young man began to feel better within minutes of drinking it

  ‘I assume you know where we are meeting him, then?’ Mathias said with a grin. ‘Because if it was just “the big lake,” then we’re going to be looking for each other for a while.’

  Warin grunted in what Mathias chose to believe was amusement rather than irritation. ‘You don’t need to worry, he will find us.’

  Since the night in the cave, the Shapeshifter had been surly and withdrawn, or as Mathias had said to Tagan the previous night, more surly and withdrawn. She smiled, but she didn’t laugh, and Mathias was forced to admit that something was obviously bothering their curious new friend.

  They continued down the hillside in silence until they reached the lake shore, a quiet pebble beach disturbed only by the gentle lap of waves and the wind in the trees. The mountains beyond the expanse of water were massive, their tops draped with snow and their steep flanks dark and rugged.

  ‘Did you really mean for us to cross them?’ Mathias said, gesturing to the cyclopean peaks.

  Warin nodded. ‘Yes. The sea lies beyond them.’

  ‘But now we won’t have to because your friend is coming to get us?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I hope.’

  ‘You hope?’

  Warin turned to Mathias with a look of exasperation on his face. ‘Yes, I hope. I sent him a message that I want to meet him, but I don’t know how long it will take. He travels the seas and the seas spread far. If he is close, then perhaps he will come soon. If not, then we wait.’ He shifted uncomfortably and looked up the hillside again. ‘For as long as we can.’

  ‘But you don’t want to wait, do you?’ Mathias said. He picked up a stone and threw it out over the lake. It arced through the air and then plunged into the water with a satisfying splash.

  What happened next brought a small scream to Tagan’s lips. A shimmering figure rose from the mirrored surface of the lake; the unmistakable shape of a man, tall and well-built. The shape was completely translucent, and she could make out the trees and mountains behind it. She clutched onto Mathias’s arm and stumbled backwards.

  The water man took a few steps forward until its feet met the lake shore and then began to fill in, assuming colour and texture. Transparency became flesh and skin, and even clothes shimmered into being. The process travelled upwards, beginning at the legs and ending with the face and head. A handsome face, Tagan could not help but notice from her vantage point behind Mathias. The face broke into a huge grin and Giraldo de Luna, the Pirate King, caught Warin the Red, the Shapeshifter up in an exuberant hug.

  ‘Red!’ There was genuine pleasure in the greeting and Tagan smiled a little at the embarrassed expression on Warin’s face. ‘You old dog, how have you been? How many years has it been?’

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ came the curt reply, but none of them missed the affection in the brown eyes, or could ignore the warmth in the tone. ‘You’re still as ugly as ever, I see.’ He wormed his way out of Giraldo’s embrace. ‘Glad you could spare the time in your busy life to join us.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed this for all the gold in the world. An invitation from my old friend Red! I knew it was coming, and when I got your leaf... how could I refuse?’

  Warin shook his head. ‘You always were an odd one.’

  ‘Are you going to introduce me?’ Giraldo’s eyes had flicked to Mathias briefly and lingered just that little bit longer than would normally be considered appropriate on Tagan. ‘These are two fine young people you bring with you.’

  ‘The boy is Mathias. The girl is Tagan. His betrothed.’ Warin said the word sternly.

  ‘Betrothed? Ah, my disappointment knows no bounds.’ Giraldo stepped forward and took Tagan’s hand in his own. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. Her face instantly went bright pink and an unexpected giggle left her. Giraldo held onto her hand for a little longer. ‘I smell the flame on this one, Red. Is she...?’

  ‘Blessed with the spark, yes. Now let go of her hand. You’re making the girl uncomfortable.’

  Tagan opened her mouth to say that it was all right, but no words came out. Instead, she took her hand from Giraldo and put it awkwardly behind her back. She suddenly wanted to giggle, and she was not normally much given to giggling.

  Mathias watched the entire exchange with a strange expression on his face. Giraldo examined Tagan with indulgent amusement for a moment or two longer, but when he turned to Mathias, the levity was gone, replaced by something entirely more serious.

  ‘It is a great and grave thing you do.’ Giraldo studied Mathias, taking in everything about the young man in that intense glance.

  ‘How... you know about our journey? Has Warin already...’

  ‘Journey?’ Geraldo’s face spli
t into a grin again. ‘I was talking about marriage. It is a very serious thing, yes? You must promise to make her very happy, Mathias...?’

  ‘Mathias Eynon,’ he said and rolled his eyes. He kept his voice pleasant, but the distrust was apparent. ‘And you are Giraldo de Luna. Your reputation precedes you, sir.’

  The Pirate King burst into a fit of infectious, raucous laughter. Mathias couldn’t help the slight smile that tweaked the edges of his lips. Eventually the laugh settled down and he wiped eyes that were completely dry.

  ‘My reputation? What have you been telling the boy, Red?’

  ‘The truth,’ was the response. ‘What else do I know?’ The Shapeshifter’s words had silenced the pirate, although he still chuckled quietly as he studied Mathias thoughtfully.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you remind me of somebody I once knew when I was young. He was a good man. Maybe even a great man; and I don’t know many of them, to be sure.’

  Further discussion was cut off by the thunderous report of hooves. Mathias turned and looked back up the hillside they had only recently descended to see a group of horsemen bearing down on them. Warin cursed quietly and Tagan glared at him.

  ‘You knew we were being followed.’ Her tone was accusing; the Shapeshifter did nothing to deny it.

  ‘I felt in the earth that there were men at our backs, but we were ahead of them. I had hoped to be gone from here before they arrived. It seems we are not so fortunate.’

  As the men drew closer they saw that the horses were in terrible condition, their flanks lathered in sweat and painfully thin. Their riders were little better, their eyes ringed by dark circles and their cheeks hollow. They charged with a grim determination, though, and when the final rider came in sight, Mathias immediately understood why.

  ‘That’s an Inquisitor!’ His eyes widened in fear and shock. It was impossible to be sure behind the mask, but Mathias suspected that it was the same one he had seen at the stone circle in Wales. The man who had probably killed Wyn.

  Giraldo sniffed and drew his weapons. ‘They don’t look like much, do they, Red? What do you say? You take the five on the left and I’ll take the five on the right?’

  The horsemen spread out as they approached, forming a line that the magi could not hope to escape on foot. The Inquisitor hung back and slowed his steed to a more sedate pace, cantering along behind his warriors.

  ‘Warin,’ Mathias hissed to the Shapeshifter. ‘I think that’s the same Inquisitor that was after us at home!’

  Warin’s head snapped around and he fixed Mathias with a look of such primal ferocity that the young man shrank back in shock. ‘The one that killed Adelmo?’ He shook his head and snarled. ‘And destroyed the circle?’

  Mathias nodded.

  There was an inrush of air and Warin was gone, and in his place stood an enormous red-furred bear. The beast reared up on its hind legs to tower close to ten feet in height. It opened its mighty jaws and bellowed a challenge at the oncoming warriors. The sound was deafening, and a couple of the horses reared in terror, throwing their riders to the ground.

  Giraldo looked askance at the massive animal as it crashed back onto all fours. ‘I’ll take that as a “yes,” then.’ He turned to Mathias and Tagan and flashed them a dazzling smile. ‘Don’t worry. Just stay out of the way and we will have all this sorted out in a moment. We have them outnumbered, after all.’

  Warin took off at a lumbering run, his massive bulk quickly gaining speed as he charged. Giraldo, by contrast, looked as though he were out for a casual stroll as he walked toward the horsemen. It was a ludicrous sight, the great beast and the peacock preparing to make war on trained warriors, and Mathias could not help but fear for them. He felt small and powerless, and he hated it. Tagan slipped her hand into his, and together they watched their friends prove their fears baseless.

  There was a tangible moment of terrible calm before the impact, a frozen tableau of peace before the explosion of violence that followed. Warin surged into the first of the horses, knocking it to the ground. A second horseman tried to strike at him as he did so, the sword missing his hide by a whisker. The first knight rolled to his feet and turned just as the bear lunged over his thrashing horse. He had a heartbeat to look shocked before one of the bear’s massive paws struck him in the chest, hurling his body into the air, trailing blood.

  Giraldo leapt between the two closest horsemen, his sword and dagger flickering faster than they could raise their weapons in defence. The Pirate King balanced nimbly, one foot on each steed, as their owners flopped limply from the saddle. They were not dead, but they would also require substantial care to get back on their feet. Giraldo hopped onto the back of one of the vacant horses and from there sprang at the next.

  ‘They could really do it!’ Tagan’s voice was breathless. Her awe at the prowess of the two magi eclipsed her horror at the violence taking place yards from where she stood. Warin swatted another warrior from his horse, clamped his jaws around the screaming man and shook him like a rag doll until the struggling stopped. He and Giraldo seemed invincible.

  Then the Inquisitor galloped from behind the mêlée with a pistol drawn and trained directly on Mathias. Tagan saw him. There was no time to cry out; without even thinking, she stepped in front of the man she loved and spread her hands in denial.

  The pistol roared.

  Warin and Geraldo turned at the sound of gunfire and were just in time to see Tagan blasted backwards into Mathias and the pair of them driven into the lake by the impact. A cry of very human denial escaped Warin’s lips as he once again assumed human form. He barged one of the unhorsed knights aside and dived into the water. De Luna was there a moment later and vanished beneath the surface.

  The Lord Inquisitor cantered to a stop and drew his second pistol. Then he waited.

  He waited a long time.

  Eleven

  The Island of the Seer

  Denmark

  THE ISLAND WAS remote enough from the mainland that it offered privacy, but still allowed those who dared to petition for her services to make their way there. The difficulties travelling to the island presented were manifold and thus, visiting the seer was the last, desperate act of those poor souls who sorely craved the benefit of her wisdom and her remarkable skills.

  The weather at this time of the year did not make the crossing from the village on the mainland a pleasant experience. The coracles that had to be rowed across the choppy, treacherous waters and navigated into the rocky cove were small and unreliable. Local legend said that only those with honest and entirely unselfish need could make it to the seer’s island alive.

  The sky that morning was a leaden grey, threatening another deluge of cold rain that would soon become sleet and snow. A sliver of silvery-gold outlined the dark clouds, but it was the only hint of daylight in an omen-heavy sky. The wind raced across the caps of the waves, whipping them into foam, and howled mournfully around the jagged coast. Strange, twilight shadows haunted the cliffs and sighed in despair at the little vessel bobbing in the sea.

  The boat’s single occupant tugged at the oars, riding the crest of another violent wave that seemed determined to send him back to the mainland, but his resolve was strong. He was trying to reach the Seer’s island for good reason, and he would get there whatever it took. He was Brynjolf Gellirson. Over many a tankard of good ale, he had boasted that he feared nothing. Why, then, was he so scared now?

  The rising gale dragged the swell into something more than he could handle and he felt the balance of the tiny boat starting to slip from his control. Still Brynjolf rowed, purpose setting his jaw in a grim line. He had too much at stake to give up now. Other, lesser men would have been beaten by the elements and allowed the tides to carry them away, battered and defeated. It happened often. Even the most determined and the most desperate, the strongest and the most able would struggle against the storm for hours, even days, but fatigue or despair would eventually overtake them. Crushed and exhausted, they surrendered t
hemselves back to the tides. The winds would slowly drop and the gentlest of sea breezes would carry them back to the coast.

  Not Brynjolf. He would not be turned back. It had taken every ounce of courage he possessed to make the attempt on the Seer’s island. He had never shied away from a challenge in his entire life, and he was not about to start.

  ‘Seer!’ He screamed to be heard over the wind. It blew his long flaxen hair about his face and whipped it into his eyes like sharp twine. ‘I will not be defeated! I must speak with you!’ The boat shuddered beneath him, banking so sharply that he was flung to its wooden bottom. He got splinters in his cheek and the sting was exacerbated by the salt water. His eyes blurred, and he struggled to get back to his feet.

  ‘Eyja!’ He poured his heart and soul into his cry, and prayed to the gods—to whom he at least swore quiet allegiance—that she would hear the desperation that had driven him out here.

  As he screamed the Seer’s name, there was a momentary break in the cruel weather. The wind hesitated, and buoyed by the change, Brynjolf tried again. ‘Eyja, please! I must see you!’ He cringed, anticipating the storm’s return. But to his surprise, the gale died abruptly. There was no gradual decline from hurricane to breeze; just the merest whisper of an autumn zephyr that brought a hint of winter to Brynjolf’s senses. The sea calmed as though the maelstrom had never been. The waves remained foam-tipped, but the surface became calm enough for him to row to the sanctuary of Eyja’s cove.

  You are a brave man, Brynjolf Gellirson, to use my name so freely. Brave, or foolish. Which are you?

  Her voice came on the gusts lapping the waters around the coracle, as he secured it against the pull of the tide. It whispered in his ears, in his thoughts, and above all else, in his soul. Her voice was gentle, the caress of a quiet lover, and he felt his anxieties and troubles float away.