Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘At last,’ she said to the air. ‘It has been too long.’

  The breezes around her lifted her long blonde hair around her exquisite face and, drawing the cloak tightly around her body, she allowed her whole being to become one with the wind.

  The Desert

  Morocco

  A FLAME FLARED brightly in the cool dark of the tent.

  Outside, he could see the moon beginning to rise over the dunes, bringing a smile to his face. It would not be long now. He could feel it in his bones. The little fire flickered and danced, scattering weird shadows around the expansive pavilion. It illuminated the piles of rugs and cushions, shone from polished gold and reflected in the goblet of dark wine beside him.

  The old man rolled the fire around his hand and then pressed it into the bowl of tobacco. Thick, heady smoke immediately began to rise from it, and he put the stem between his teeth. He took a long draw on the pipe and leaned back, his eyes closed, and breathed the night air of the desert.

  He could wait. He had already waited a long time.

  Genoa

  Italy

  THEY HAD RETREATED to Giraldo’s cabin and dried off, and were now gratefully sipping on the brandy he had insisted that they sample for what he called ‘medicinal purposes.’

  ‘That man was an Inquisitor,’ Mathias said, coughing a little as the fiery liquid burned a trail down his throat.

  ‘Strange, though,’ pondered Giraldo, ‘that he should try to kill you and not me.’

  Warin made a noise and grumbled softly. ‘Everything in this world is not always about you, despite what you may believe.’

  Giraldo’s expression was one of exaggerated hurt, but he continued, unperturbed. ‘As hard as it may be for you to believe, Red, I do expect the sun to rise even if I am not there to see it. No. I mean why would he shoot for Mathias and not your hairy, obvious self... or me? We were the ones attacking, after all.’ He put the question to Mathias. ‘What do you think? What’s your secret? What’s the attraction?’

  Mathias felt the faintest of smiles tug at the sides of his mouth. It was hard not to be caught up in Giraldo’s energy. He considered his answer for a moment. ‘I can’t be entirely sure, but it could have been the same man I saw in Wales. He could have been hunting us since then. It’s... the kind of thing they do.’

  Giraldo frowned. ‘This Inquisitor is a very determined man, to chase you all the way from England. Those men he had with him wore the livery of English knights. They looked half dead, and so did their animals. How did he know where to look?’

  Mathias shrugged and shook his head. ‘He is good at his job. They hunt down those they consider their quarry. They are very good at finding people. To be perfectly honest, I’m still not sure how we got away. I remember falling into the lake, and then it felt like a current was tugging me along, as if I was in a river. Then... then we were here.’ Giving the thought voice did not make it seem any less ludicrous.

  Giraldo sketched a bow, sweeping the floor with his featherplumed hat. ‘I am not just a pretty face, lad. I have many tricks up my sleeves.’ He winked at Tagan, who coloured again and suppressed a smile.

  ‘If one of your Inquisitors and his knights can track us through the forest and over the mountains, then that can only mean that they came across France.’ Warin had clearly been giving the matter some thought, and he made the pronouncement in a dark voice. ‘That can only mean one thing.’ There was a grim pause as he allowed the information to sink in.

  ‘War,’ Giraldo said quietly.

  Warin nodded and gulped some of the brandy.

  ‘Then what, precisely, are we supposed to do now?’ Mathias looked from one to the other. ‘Is this what Wyn was afraid of? Isn’t war precisely what Melusine was trying to achieve?’

  Giraldo hissed between his teeth at the mention of the demon’s name. ‘Please don’t use that name on my ship. Hermione is a gentle lady and I would not want her soiled.’ He sipped his own drink and gave a small sigh of appreciation. He swirled the liquid around in the beautiful crystal-stemmed glass and then spoke carefully. ‘I think we need to talk to... her.’

  Warin glared daggers at him, and pointedly looked the other way.

  ‘You mean She Who Sees?’ Tagan replied, reading Warin’s reaction.

  ‘That is one of her names, though she has many. She lives alone, far in the north, a long way from here. We will be many weeks at sea.’ Giraldo looked thoughtful.

  ‘Can’t you just... do what you did before? Take us there quickly, like you did in the lake?’ Mathias asked.

  ‘Sadly, no. I cannot do that,’ Giraldo replied apologetically.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I have never been there. I would not know where to go. No. If we wish to find her we must look for her. In this, we will be no different from the others who seek her.’

  ‘And how, exactly, will we do that?’ Warin turned back to the conversation, his expression controlled, but unreadable. ‘If England has gone to war, the Channel will be thick with their navy. Your boat will not be so lovely when she is full of holes, eh?’

  ‘“Ship,” please,’ Giraldo corrected, his voice pained. ‘She is a ship. And my delightful lady of the sea will see us safely through. The English will never catch her.’

  He said the words with a great deal more confidence than he felt.

  Lake Geneva

  Switzerland

  CHARLES WEAVER STARED at the still surface of the lake for several long minutes before he finally holstered his pistol. He was certain that at least one of the targets had eluded him. Despite his best efforts here, the hunt would have to continue. He steered his horse away from the shore and back to where Sir Anthony was helping one of the fallen knights to his feet.

  The three men who had been unhorsed by the man in the ridiculous hat were only wounded. Two sported lumps the size of eggs on their skulls, but apart from an appalling headache they would live. The third, however, had been left blind. Blood seeped from a deep gash that split his face from ear to ear. It was to this man that Sir Anthony attended.

  Those who had been savaged by the bear had been less fortunate. Three knights and two horses lay sprawled in death, their torn bodies cooling in the afternoon sunshine. Weaver looked down at them through the slits in his mask and silently commended them for their service. They had not been mercenaries who spilled blood for coin, but bold, brave knights who had given their lives in service to their King.

  ‘My lord,’ Sir Anthony said evenly. ‘Sir William is gravely wounded, and he can ride no further. What would you have us do?’

  The Lord Inquisitor turned from the dead men to look at Sir William. It was painfully clear that his days behind the lance were over, and should he return to England, he would live out the rest of his life a broken man, reliant on others to tend to his needs. Weaver did not know if Sir William was married, and neither did he particularly care. At his age he could well have a son in training as a squire; if so, he would certainly never see the lad’s face again.

  ‘Sir William,’ Weaver rumbled. ‘You have done a great service to the Crown, but now it is ended. Your wounds are grave, we are far from home and our prey yet eludes us.’

  ‘My lord,’ Sir Anthony protested. ‘You surely cannot mean to continue? We have no idea where the magi have gone.’

  ‘On the contrary, I know exactly where they have gone; and more, I know exactly where they are going. We may yet run them to ground. But we must leave immediately and ride hard for the west.’

  ‘Lord Inquisitor...’ Sir Anthony began to protest again, but the wounded Sir William pushed him gently aside, standing unaided.

  ‘Lord Inquisitor Weaver, it has been my honour to ride at your side.’ He spoke with great formality. ‘But I will not hinder you in your duty, nor will I burden these good knights with my care. I would ask that you inform the Lady Margaret that I died well in my service to King Richard, and...’ His voice faltered for a moment, but he set his jaw and continued. ‘
And tell my son that his father will always proud of him.’

  Weaver dismounted and walked to where the man stood. ‘It shall be as you say. Your courage does you credit, William Lyttle. The King himself will hear of it, I promise you.’ Without further hesitation, he drew his dagger and plunged it into the knight’s heart in one swift, fluid movement. Sir William grunted quietly and slid from the blade.

  ‘Bury the dead,’ Weaver ordered, looking down at Sir William. He bent to wipe the blade of his dagger on the grass and slid it back into its sheath. ‘We must move quickly, but no Englishman’s grave should go unmarked.’ He turned to look at his surviving knights. ‘Then we ride.’

  Ten miles outside Paris

  France

  YOUR MAJESTY.

  Sir Thomas Thirwell was seated behind a table at the rear of his pavilion, quill in hand. Outside, the afternoon sky was black with smoke and heavy with the acrid stink of alchemical fire. The roar of cannons and the cries of the artillery crews as they worked filled the air, along with the clatter of armour and muffled sounds of impact.

  Progress has been swift and the army of King Henri is driven before us.

  There had been no further resistance, and the army had marched unopposed across the French countryside, laying waste to anything arcane—and plenty that was not. Most of the people in the towns and villages surrounding Paris had retreated within its walls before the gates had closed. Those that hadn’t were now dead or gone, and only scorched ruins surrounded the city.

  The King’s court magi have sealed Paris with their powers, and have warded the city against attack, but it weakens with each passing day.

  The first shots fired had been repulsed with flares of pallid light, but as the siege ran into days and then weeks, the magic faltered. The cannons began to strike stone instead of spells, and gradually the defences had begun to crumble. Sir Thomas believed King Henri’s magi must surely be worn down to nothing...

  The end was near.

  Upon my honour, the city will be yours before year’s end. Sir Thomas Thirwell.

  Twelve

  November, 1589

  The Hermione

  Off the coast of France

  THE WEATHER REMAINED fine for the majority of their journey, apart from a single, unexpected squall that blew up as they plied the Portuguese coast. They had all been soaked through as they worked up on deck, apart from the Pirate King, who—perhaps unsurprisingly, given what they had seen of him—was apparently immune to the depredations of the weather.

  It was a useful time for them all. For Mathias and Tagan, it was an opportunity to practise the new talents they had discovered. Warin and Giraldo both seemed to relish an opportunity to guide the pair of them. After the first few days around the Pirate King, Mathias slowly began to let go of his suspicions and relax. Tagan allowed Giraldo to flirt with her, but it soon became apparent that was all there was to it.

  The days were filled with a combination of arcane lessons and an endless parade of tasks that seemed to need doing on board a ship. Giraldo’s attitude from the start was that there were no passengers on the Hermione, and he found work for all his new guests that kept them busy during the day and ensured they slept well at night. Even Warin had a job, and it was one that surprised both Mathias and Tagan.

  ‘You’re working in the galley?’ Mathias laughed, without truly knowing why. Warin tightened the straps of the decidedly off-white apron.

  ‘Did you taste that muck we ate last night? The man doesn’t know salt from sugar. I have cooked for you before. Is it really that surprising?’

  Mathias had to concede that he had a point. It was still entertaining, however, to witness Warin barking orders at the ship’s boy, a fifteen-year-old Spaniard who didn’t speak a word of English or German. Somehow, the two managed to communicate, and the quality of the ship meals improved radically.

  Tagan proved to be remarkable with knots and rope work, and she could more often than not be found beneath the shade of a sail rigged on deck for the purpose, netting in her lap, or stitching torn sails and clothing. She had adapted to life on board the Hermione as if she had been born to it and proved, very early on, that she could drink with the best of them. That endeared her to the ship’s crew, whose early hesitation about a woman on board soon gave way to a kind of rough affection. Mathias didn’t fear for her safety. He suspected that after a couple of weeks in her company, every one of Giraldo’s crew would leap to her defence in a heartbeat.

  He spent a lot of his own time climbing the ship’s rigging, or scrubbing the decks, or generally fetching and carrying as others dictated. He didn’t mind at all. Indeed, he welcomed the chance to keep busy. It took a lot of the worry from him and gave him other things to think about. Hard work and good food filled his body out to more of a man’s shape, and light brown stubble, so pale as to be barely visible, speckled his face most of the time.

  It was however, the lessons in magic that Mathias and Tagan came to love the most. Tagan’s tuition was, by its very nature, limited. Giraldo had suggested that the conjuration of fire on board a vessel sealed with tar and carrying kegs of gun powder might not, in all senses, be wise. It was hard to argue with the logic and as such, they had not attempted to replicate her feat of melting bullets in flight.

  Lessons took place early in the morning, usually after the crew had risen and after the night-watch had gone to their bunks. They had been travelling now for five weeks and Mathias was well used to the routine.

  ‘Good morning, lad.’ Warin lounged amidst the ropes on the ship’s deck, a pipe in the corner of his mouth. Sweet-smelling smoke curled from the barrel as he sucked at the rich tobacco that Giraldo had finally deigned to share with him. ‘Ready for practice?’

  Mathias nodded, and Warin’s eyes shifted to Tagan. ‘What do you think, girl? You proud of him yet?’ In the weeks of travel, Mathias’s ability to shapeshift had grown gradually faster and smoother, and entirely less convoluted. Tagan smiled.

  ‘I was proud of him to begin with, Warin,’ she said. The gruff man wrinkled his nose and waved dismissively. She laughed.

  ‘Both of you, this morning,’ said Warin, getting up from his ropethrone. ‘We must start to teach you how to pool your magic with mine and de Luna’s... if he ever arrives.’ He said this last in a louder voice. ‘Wherever he might be.’

  ‘He’s up here, Red,’ came Giraldo’s voice and there was something tense in his tone. All three of them looked up to watch him swing down from the rigging with the sort of casual grace that Mathias could only ever hope to attain. Unless he changed into the thing Warin had called a ‘monkey’ again, of course.

  That had been fun.

  ‘No lessons today,’ said the Pirate King, landing on the deck with a soft-booted thump. ‘We’re entering the Channel.’

  The Channel

  Between England and France

  THE EARLY MISTS had not cleared in the cool morning, and pale, ethereal fingers curled around the prow of the ship, wreathing the figurehead in an intangible disguise. The Hermione had dropped her sails and the crew took to the oars, sculling slowly as they approached.

  ‘Port side, Captain!’ the lookout in the crow’s nest far above them called out, his voice clear and strong. Giraldo moved to stand by the deck rail. He looked out across the water and drew a breath.

  The broken hulk of a ship, bearing the tattered remnants of a torn French flag, only two of the fleurs de lis still visible. loomed up out of the mists. Giraldo’s face was grim as he studied the damage to its hull. The fog lifted briefly and Tagan put a hand over her mouth as the first bloated corpses became visible. They were floating amidst a maze of broken ships and wreckage that had once been the French fleet.

  Worse than this grisly sight, somehow, was the silence. The only sounds were the slap of the water and the creak of wood as the wrecks settled. Tide and weather had worked on the remains, dragging them from the site of the battle, but it was clear that King Richard’s ships had exacted a terribl
e toll.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ Tagan whispered, her eyes bright with fear and compassion.

  ‘It is war,’ said Giraldo, pragmatically. ‘Slow us down, Tohias. We need to negotiate this graveyard.’ His own face was strained. They all knew from the tales told around the dinner table each night that Giraldo de Luna did not take lives lightly. To witness such slaughter, such horror was anathema to them all. Even Warin, a hunter by nature, looked on the carnage and shuddered.

  Progress was excruciatingly slow. More than once, the Hermione snagged her hull on a piece of wreckage, or her oars became fouled by sails or the remains of the dead. More bodies bobbed to the surface, and Tagan could no longer look at the wreckage. The very tangible evidence of war was appalling and alien to her.

  Mathias glanced at her as she moved away from the rail, his eyes filled with concern and sympathy. He was finding it no easier. He had been raised a man of the country, to whom life was precious. A man whose only plans had been to marry the girl he loved and bring beautiful, happy children into the world. War was not something he had ever thought to see.

  ‘All French, Captain,’ said Tohias, who was carefully studying the ships. ‘Not an English ship amongst them.’ His thickly accented Spanish voice cut through the grim scene cleanly.

  ‘Richard’s fleet must be exceptional,’ observed Giraldo. ‘It looks like the French made a fight of it, and they would have had magic on their side. To see this much destruction does not bode...’

  ‘Ship to starboard!’ The cry came from above. ‘Approaching.’

  ‘A survivor?’ The Pirate King squinted through the mists.

  ‘No, Captain. It’s flying English colours.’

  Giraldo cursed furiously. ‘Tagan, get below decks,’ he ordered. ‘You can help with the guns, but carefully, yes?’ He unsheathed his blade and hurried to the prow. Mathias went to Tagan’s side, and she gave him a quick, fierce hug. There was no time for words; she hurried below, where the gun crews were rushing to their stations.