Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  Now it seemed he had miscalculated.

  ‘Their combined might against our armies...’ The young prince allowed the words to drip from his tongue slowly. ‘Even with the Lionheart, we would not stand a chance. Without more men and more weapons, defeating them would be impossible.’ He cringed, anticipating retribution from his father. He was surprised, therefore, when Richard simply sighed and shook his head.

  ‘It would be difficult, my boy,’ he said. ‘Difficult, but nothing is impossible. The price of that victory, though...’ He fell into a deep brooding silence as he stared at the boy whom he loved more than anything in the world. The words of the demon came back to haunt him again.

  When the sun sets on the day of the solstice, young Richard must stand within the circle at Salisbury. I will hold your pact fulfilled, and your line will endure forever, as was promised. England will have a king unlike any in history, and all will fall before him. What more could any father ask?

  There were two paths open to him now; he could taste them, like blood in his mouth.

  Victory. Defeat.

  Two paths. And the cost was great for both. If the army were defeated, then there was every chance that the Vatican would turn its attention to England and look to bring the wayward child back to the ways of the parent Church. The House of Plantagenet would be broken. England would once again fall under the influence of the arcane, and all that they had worked for—a century of rule—would have been for nothing. Plantagenet would be a forgotten name, consigned to the annals of history. He would be the shame of his forebears, and his descendants, should they be permitted to live, would do so in ignominy and exile.

  But victory came with a different price. He lifted his eyes again to look at the young prince.

  ‘A king unlike any in history,’ he murmured, beneath his breath. That was what Melusine had called him. Somehow the idea chilled him to the bone. But what father would not want greatness for his child? The King put his head in his hands, misery settling about him.

  What price victory?

  What price?

  The Sahara Desert

  Morocco

  THEY MADE SWIFT passage. The knowledge that Weaver and his men were close on their heels had a remarkable effect on even Giraldo’s lethargy. The camels proved to be remarkably swift when spurred on and with Warin at their head, the sands of the Sahara Desert passed in a dusty haze behind them.

  But after an hour’s hard riding in the oppressive heat, the camels faltered and slowed. This came as some relief to Mathias and Tagan. The long ride in the mountains had been difficult and arduous, but at least the climate had been bearable and the animals they rode were familiar. The camels had a longer, bumpier gait that jarred them with every stride.

  ‘We cannot tarry,’ said Giraldo, urgency in his tone. ‘I have never known a hunter like this Inquisitor. He must have run men and beasts to death to get here. And he always knows how to find us! How can a man know such things without the gift?’ His voice had lost all of its airy lightness, becoming threatening and dark. ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, Giraldo, please,’ said Eyja. ‘You are frightening the children. Everything will be just fine. Have a little faith in your friends, will you?’

  ‘A little faith,’ he retorted. ‘One is presently a camel, one is too old to leave, and the other... the other is...’

  A long, awkward pause.

  ‘Do continue,’ Eyja said in a pleasant, tinkling voice that rang in the air. ‘What am I?’

  It was past midday and the desert air was hazy with the heat. Giraldo seemed to be steaming ever so slightly in his saddle.

  The pirate’s silence dragged on a little further, passing beyond the merely awkward and into something else. The two clashed silently and Mathias’s eyes moved from the one to the other, waiting on the outcome.

  He never got it. Tagan’s voice rose in panic and she pointed back the way they had ridden. ‘Look!’

  They looked, all of them. Even Warin-as-camel turned his head to the cloud of dust on the far horizon.

  ‘They are coming,’ said Giraldo in a grim tone. ‘We have sat bickering for too long.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Giraldo.’ The camel vanished as Warin took human form once more and stomped over to stand beside Eyja. He offered a hand up to Eyja, helping her climb down from her own beast. She thanked him demurely and brushed her hands lightly across the front of her gown.

  ‘If beasts and blades and storms do nothing to turn this man from his course, perhaps we should test his resolve with all three at once. Warin, will you join with me? Set your will against this foe once again?’

  Warin nodded, his expression dark. ‘This Inquisitor has done enough. I will kill him if I have to.’

  The two of them clasped hands for the briefest of moments and then turned their attention to the oncoming plume of dust.

  ‘FASTER!’ WEAVER DUG his heels into the horse’s flank. ‘We are upon them!’

  Sir Anthony and his remaining knights followed in the Lord Inquisitor’s wake. Within minutes of leaving the Vanguard, they had thrown gold at the horse merchant and taken his best and swiftest creatures, the beautiful Arab horses that Tagan had so admired earlier. Seven riders had left Anfa. One had been thrown barely two miles from the city gates, unused to riding such skittish animals. He had landed badly, breaking his ankle, but had waved the rest of them on and turned awkwardly to return to the town.

  ‘My lord, look.’ One of the riders pointed ahead where the tracks that marked the group’s passage were no longer half-buried by the shifting sands. ‘We are gaining on them.’

  ‘Then be wary. I will not let this quarry escape. Not again.’ They pushed on, the sand scouring their skin and the sun baking their backs as they rode. After the gruelling ride across France, the return journey and the storm at sea, the knights were as eager as Weaver to end the chase.

  Almost as eager.

  Unlike the knights, the Lord Inquisitor showed no signs of flagging; even his time behind the oar did not seem to have fatigued him. It was as though he’d passed beyond the limits of mortal flesh. Charles Weaver seemed beyond pain and weakness, driven to the point of obsession.

  And he seemed, by turns, to be utterly ruthless and startlingly kind. Sir Anthony could not decide what was the real Charles Weaver.

  ‘My lord!’ This time, the cry was not one of triumph, but of horror. Weaver raised his masked face and looked to where the man pointed. A wall of sand was moving towards them at an impossible pace.

  ‘Sandstorm!’

  IT HAD BEGUN as nothing more than a handful of sand. Warin squatted down and gathered up a scoop of the hot Sahara dust in his rough, calloused hands. It did not trickle between his fingers, but held its shape in his cupped palms, like a tiny, ochre pyramid. He held the gathered sand before him and lifted his arms slowly to the sky. Eyja touched his arm gently and her voice lifted in the sweet soprano Mathias had heard her use on her arrival in the English Channel. Her call to the winds was answered by a skirling sirocco that plucked streamers from the dunes and twisted its way around Warin. The grains shifted gently, changing from mere sand to something living.

  ‘Beautiful,’ breathed Giraldo, his earlier irritation seemingly forgotten. ‘It has been so long since I watched the two of them work together. So very beautiful.’

  ‘I prefer “practical,”’ grunted Warin, who crouched again and set the tiny dust devil down on the ground before him. It spun gracefully, twisting from side to side and growing in size and strength.

  At first it was a dervish of sand, hovering a fraction of an inch above the ground, but as it grew, it began to take on shape and form. The arcane wind was something more than just a storm, although as it began to rush toward the pursuing figures it became very apparent that a wall of sand was building in its wake. Creatures became distinguishable within the body of the storm. Limbs. Ears. Tails.

  ‘Wolves,’ breathed Tagan softly. Of course it would be wolves.

  The sand-wolves threw bac
k their heads and howled, a sound like the cry of the wind across dry rocks and bone. It filled the air like a mournful dirge and raced ahead of the growing dust-storm like a harbinger of doom. It built up speed as it moved across the dunes, a wall of razor-sharp sand billowing behind it.

  ‘Will it hurt them?’

  Giraldo and Mathias turned to Tagan, who was staring after the disappearing sand-wolves. ‘It depends how quickly they find shelter,’ replied Giraldo carefully. He sighed softly. ‘Probably,’ he admitted. She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘After what men like him did to Wyn... to every mage dragged before a trial... to Mathias’s father... they can feel our retribution. At our hands, the Inquisition will suffer for their folly.’ The words were archaic and decidedly un-Tagan. Mathias felt something curdle deep in his soul as he stared at her.

  Giraldo, however, studied the young woman’s face carefully. ‘We are close to our destination,’ he said. ‘It tells.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tagan had turned away and was looking out to the east, her eyes cool and calm, her expression neutral. She did not seem to be completely her usual self.

  ‘Akhgar,’ said Giraldo. Tagan turned her head in his direction slightly and inclined it in the briefest of acknowledging nods.

  With a sudden release of energy that set all of Mathias’s senses buzzing, Eyja and Warin relinquished control of the storm. Both of them looked immensely wearied by the magic and leaned heavily against one another for support. Giraldo looked them over with a practised eye. ‘They will be fine. Two minutes to rest and then we need to move. Time is precious. My friends, Akhgar is near.’

  A SHE REGARDED the approaching storm, Weaver reluctantly conceded that they must take cover. They rode hard, desperate to reach the comparative shelter of the nearby dunes. The horses, sensitive to the urgency of their riders, became even harder to control and the men struggled to steer them.

  The storm struck minutes before they all reached the edge of the dune and for a fleeting moment, Charles Weaver swore he saw the body of a vast, glistening wolf in the heart of the wall of sand that lashed against his armoured body and bounced off his masked face. The protection, minimal though it was, meant he fared better than two of his knights and most of the horses. The screams of man and beast rose in the howling winds as the sand blinded them and scored bloody tracks in their flesh. One horse, maddened by the horror, threw and trampled its rider before disappearing from view, galloping off as fast as its legs would carry it. The noise and the chaos were terrifying and Weaver’s men huddled in the lee of the dune, helpless to defend themselves against the eldritch wind and biting sand. They pulled their cloaks about them and waited as the desert threatened to swallow them whole.

  Charles Weaver roared his defiance right back, something greater than resolve glittering in his eyes.

  ‘WHAT DO YOU mean, the Wanderer is near?’ Mathias reached out and caught Giraldo’s arm. ‘What’s wrong with Tagan?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong,’ replied the Pirate King. He looked down at Mathias’s hand on his arm and frowned slightly. Mathias reluctantly released him. ‘Tagan’s connection is to fire, yes? It is natural that Akhgar would reach out to her.’

  Tagan smiled at Mathias and he felt, rather than saw, that she was still the woman he knew.

  ‘We are ready to travel,’ Eyja said, in a voice paled with weariness. ‘The storm should delay them, but given the persistence of our foe we should certainly be away.’ Giraldo helped her to climb back onto her camel. The animals had stood chewing contentedly, barely even paying attention to what was going on around them.

  Warin shifted form once more, hanging his head slightly with his own weariness, and the party set off at a loping gait. The day had passed into afternoon and the sun’s relentless heat continued to sap their collective strength. But for Giraldo’s ability to produce water on a whim, they would surely be as dead as the skeletal remains they passed; unfortunate animals and travellers who had lost their way among the dunes.

  Mathias rode his camel as close as he could to Tagan, concern for her still nagging at him. He reached over to touch her hand with his own and she swung her head to look at him. The smile she gave him was as warm and sweet as ever it had been, and yet there was a strange sadness in her eyes that worried him. He squeezed her hand once more and released it, riding on in continued silence. The camaraderie of Anfa had dissolved with the discovery of their pursuers. Now there was a sense of terrible urgency that Mathias realised had always been there.

  The desert was vast, and silent. As they travelled, Mathias began to understand just why camels were called ‘ships.’ The endless desert was just like the seas across which they had travelled; both were treacherous, and both were blessed with their own aching beauty.

  It was the treachery that came first and foremost to Mathias’s mind when he suddenly found a spear levelled at his face. They hadn’t even seen the five men in sand-coloured robes rising up from the dunes to form a threatening circle around them. The lead tribesman said something in a language that Mathias did not understand.

  It seemed the other thing the desert shared with the seas was pirates.

  Fifteen

  The Sahara Desert

  Morocco

  MATHIAS HAD MADE many assumptions since the beginning of his journey; assumptions based on his own inexperience and lack of understanding. When he had learned that their destination was an oasis, he had imagined something similar to the one they had stopped at earlier: a small pool of water with a few palm trees standing limply beside it. Nothing could have prepared him for the lush green wilderness where Akhgar ibn Atash and his tribe made their home.

  The camp was based in a hollow between two dunes that sparkled in the dying remnants of the afternoon sun. As they rode closer, Mathias leaned towards one of the dunes and took a handful of sand. Tiny fragments of glass glittered amongst the silvery-gold grains.

  Mathias had never seen so many tents. A veritable town surrounded the crystal-clear pool at the heart of the oasis. Everywhere there were signs of life. Men, women, children, and animals large and small roamed between the tents, living peacefully amidst the beauty of this unexpected paradise. Water was being drawn from the pool and the smell of cook fires made the young man’s stomach rumble. It had been the better part of a full day since they had last eaten, and only now did he realise how hungry he was.

  With a delighted cry, Giraldo took off at full speed towards the pool of water, nimbly dodged a small huddle of children playing at its edge and dived into its crystal depths. There was such joy and exuberance in his laughter as the children turned to join in with the stranger splashing them that even Warin, now changed back to human form, cracked a smile.

  The leader of the warriors who had brought them to this place, a swarthy man with long, gleaming hair falling around a sunweathered, sand-beaten face, spoke a few words to Eyja, pointing towards first one large tent and then another. She nodded and replied to him for several moments.

  ‘He says that Akhgar will send for us when he is ready. Until then, we are free to relax in the shade of that tent there. We could all use a little food and rest.’

  ‘But what of the Inquisitor?’ Mathias could not shake his concern, and it put a childish tremor into his voice that shamed him. ‘If he is alive, he will be right behind us.’

  ‘They will not find this oasis,’ said Warin. ‘It is protected. It is... hidden. Do not worry about it. Not for now. Eyja is right. You need to rest and eat.’ He grumbled slightly and put a hand to his stomach. ‘Actually, so do I.’

  Tagan looked up from the back of her camel. ‘I am tired,’ she said and her voice was tiny. Concerned for her health, and even more for her strange behaviour, Mathias reached up to help her down from the animal. His arm stole around her protectively and he drew her close to his side.

  ‘You need some sleep, my love,’ he said softly, and she leaned into him gratefully.

  Giraldo was perfectly happy where he was and so th
ey let him be. The remaining four headed towards the tent that had been indicated by the tribesman and entered gratefully into its cool interior.

  Sumptuous was not a word that Mathias had ever had cause to use, but it applied perfectly to the interior of the colourful pavilion. Hand-woven rugs in threads dyed the most glorious shades decorated the floor. Silk-covered cushions littered the ground, offering places to sit or rest. A long, low table was covered with food—fresh and dried fruits and cured meats of all kinds, some familiar, others less so.

  ‘Mathias, settle Tagan comfortably. She looks exhausted.’ Eyja took charge. ‘Water first, I think, and a little of the fruit if she feels she can manage it. Then you will eat, too.’

  Warin was critically examining the laden table, his nose wrinkling amid the whiskery beard. ‘Delicate,’ he complained, snatching up a handful of dried figs and cramming them in his mouth. ‘No real food here at all.’

  It didn’t stop him, Mathias observed, from taking his fill. He accepted a goblet of crystal clear water from Eyja and gave it to Tagan, who sipped it gratefully. He took a goblet for himself and drank deeply, thankful to be free of the hint of slightly rank animal that had tainted the water they’d drunk since leaving Anfa.

  Tagan settled down amidst the cushions and closed her eyes with a little sigh. Eyja knelt beside her, putting a hand to her forehead. Mathias hovered anxiously.

  ‘Do not fear for her,’ said Eyja, not looking up. ‘She suffers in the heat. A little sleep, a little more water and she will be fine.’ She stroked Tagan’s tangled curls gently as the young woman fell asleep. ‘She is very fair-skinned. The desert is not the place for an English rose. More exotic flowers grow here. But none so tough.’