Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, quietly and he dropped his hand, perplexed. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added. ‘I just didn’t sleep that well. I am a little out of sorts this morning. Yes. Let’s find the others.’ As if to make up for her reaction to his touch, she slipped her warm hand into his as they stepped out into the morning.

  It was as though the night had never happened. Activity around the oasis had clearly resumed some time ago and people moved around with the comfortable ease of routine. Mathias wondered for a moment why it was that the camp seemed smaller, until he saw one of the gaudy pavilions collapse. People were packing up their tents.

  ‘Where are they going?’ He asked the question aloud and Tagan shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But I am sure we will find out. Come on.’

  She tugged at his hand gently and pulled him towards Akhgar’s tent. The tribesman still remained at his post, and lowered his eyes respectfully as the two young people approached.

  ‘You are just in time,’ he said in his thickly accented voice. ‘The Wanderer’s time draws near. Soon he will sleep.’ He sounded saddened.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mathias. ‘You are sure we are..?’

  He left the question hanging and the tribesman flashed him a faintly indulgent smile. ‘Truth tell, my friend, I think the Wanderer has been waiting for you, yes? In you go.’

  They returned his smile, not quite so brightly, and ducked into the tent. The mood and the atmosphere were very different from the reunion that had taken place there the previous night. There was a sadness that permeated the air, and a sense of solemnity. Eyja immediately moved to Tagan and smiled.

  ‘He has been asking for you since he woke,’ she said softly and the young woman nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, gazing over at Akhgar. The old man’s breathing was shallow, his lungs rattling in a way that suggested every rise of his chest might be the very last. ‘I will go to him now.’ She squeezed Mathias’s hand gently and crossed to the dying elder. Eyja studied Mathias’s face momentarily as though looking for some sort of reaction. Seeing none, she relaxed a little.

  ‘All will be well, Mathias Eynon,’ she said. ‘I have seen a world where your strength and spirit reforge that which was broken. Your purity of spirit, your love and your sense of duty will lead you to great things.’

  She Who Sees. For the first time, Mathias understood the name by which she was known. ‘You really are a seeress,’ he said. It was a statement of fact, not a question. ‘Wyn once told me of the power of the seers. He also told me that people fear them.’

  ‘People fear the truth, Mathias. They live their lives in denial. When someone learns a great truth it is a cause for change, and change can be painful.’ She suddenly put her arms around him and drew him into an embrace. ‘Remember that, during the times ahead. Sometimes the truth is hidden by those who would spare their loved ones pain.’

  He did not understand her words, and yet he felt the weight of them. He glanced over to the dying Akhgar. Tagan knelt at his side, his hand in hers. She stroked his brow and held a cup of water to his parched lips. He spoke in a quiet voice that Mathias could not hear. After a moment or two, she looked up and beckoned him across.

  ‘He wants to talk to you,’ she said quietly. ‘Come over here.’

  Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, but filled with compassion of his own, Mathias obeyed, kneeling beside Tagan. He had barely spoken with the old man the previous day, content to let the magi tell their tale and have their reunion, but now it seemed that there was some final wisdom he wished to impart. As he looked down into the fading light of the old man’s eyes, Akhgar smiled up at him.

  ‘The Fulcrum,’ he said. ‘The balance on which events turn. Do you understand this name, Mathias Eynon?’ The words wheezed, every syllable taxing the poor, wizened creature.

  ‘No, sir, I don’t,’ he admitted. ‘I understand very little of what is going on, to be honest. All I have come to learn is that... people are depending on me for some reason. Wyn depended on me. Tagan depends on me.’ She smiled at him. ‘I take my responsibilities seriously. This must be what Wyn saw in me.’

  ‘Your aura is golden,’ said Akhgar. ‘A protector’s light. Do not let it dwindle and die out. You must look after Tagan. Will you do that for me, Mathias Eynon?’

  It could be mistaken for the dying ramblings of an old man, but Mathias knew that Akhgar was something more. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I have taken care of her since we were children. I see no reason for that to change.’

  ‘Good. Then there is one less thing for me to die worrying about.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes, that same little half-smile on his face. ‘This has been a good life. A long life. A hard life, yes. But a life that has granted more reward than I could have hoped for. My children, and their children, and their children beyond them live on. Akhgar ibn Atash’s name will not be lost.’ He let out a deeply contented sigh and the hand closed around Tagan’s briefly tightened.

  He did not draw another breath.

  IT WAS STRANGE to grieve for a man he had hardly known, but Akhgar’s death touched Mathias nonetheless. He retired to a quiet part of the oasis—difficult, with so much going on around him— and he let the tears come. He wept for all he had lost in his young life. For the death of a father he had never known, the loss of a mother who had never really recovered and the horrific loss of the man he had come to love as a parent. So much lost.

  But he had also gained. Tagan, a woman he loved beyond life itself. He had made new friends who had never treated him as anything but an equal despite the fact that he knew he was anything but. He had travelled, and he had seen things he could never have imagined.

  In the strangest way, the death of Akhgar ibn Atash freed Mathias from the chains of his past. He felt the strangest sense of liberation, gradually severing the last ties to a childhood that had been spent never quite understanding where he belonged in the world. Akhgar’s simple words had given him a sense of responsibility unlike anything he knew. In another man, the feeling might have been crushing. In Mathias Eynon, it lifted him to new heights.

  After Akhgar’s death, Tagan remained in the tent for a little longer, helping Eyja arrange the old man’s body for the funeral rites that the other three said they would perform. She seemed calm and composed, carrying herself with quiet pride. When she emerged, her eyes sought out Mathias and both women came to join him by the pool. Tagan seemed subdued.

  ‘It is the winter solstice today,’ Eyja said by way of greeting.

  Mathias was startled by this. ‘I hadn’t realised how much time had passed. When we left Wales, it was late summer. So far away.’ Not for the first time, he felt a pang of terrible homesickness. The stark beauty of the desert was undeniable, but Mathias yearned for the greenery of his childhood.

  Eyja sat down on one side of him and Tagan on the other. ‘You will have noticed that some of Akhgar’s people are leaving the oasis for a while,’ she said, as they watched them strike their tents. ‘They came to celebrate his passing, and now that he is gone, they have no reason to remain here. They will return to their hard lives out in the desert.’

  Mathias didn’t question it. He nodded. ‘To celebrate the life of a man as long-lived as Akhgar,’ he said softly, ‘is a wonderful thing. It still seems incredible, that his magic could sustain him so long. But aren’t they going to stay for his funeral?’

  ‘No,’ said Eyja. ‘Only his closest family, those born of his bloodline, will remain for the cremation.’ She smiled. ‘Born in fire, ended in fire. It is a most beautiful and fitting end for a most remarkable man.’ She looked out across the water and let out the smallest of sighs. The sound was not unlike the whispering of the wind in the trees, and it brought memories of home even more sharply to Mathias’s thoughts. ‘When the funeral is done, we must make ready to return to England.’ She gazed up at the sky and her expression grew serious. ‘It must be done before the day is ended
, or we will be too late and Melusine will have exactly what she wants.’

  THEY WERE CLOSE, he could feel it. Weaver and his men had marched through the night, and with the return of the sun had come the scent of magic on the wind. Anfa had been difficult enough; its blatant use of the arcane had made his flesh crawl with contempt. Magic was a disease that needed to be burned out. Only the urgency of his mission had prevented him from putting the town to the torch for its crimes.

  He had weathered the sandstorm better than his men, who were down to their last dregs of water, but his fine clothes and armour were now made tattered and ragged by his journey. Only his mask and his will to succeed remained unblemished.

  The same could not be said of the men trailing behind him. They were hurt and exhausted, their skin burned by the sun and scalding sand. Only the invincible drive of the Inquisitor kept them moving, pulled along in his wake like a line of pilgrims swaddled in rags, bound for the tomb of a saint.

  The sun was high in the sky and had already begun its descent when a pillar of fire blossomed into the cloudless expanse. Birds, serpents and less recognisable shapes twisted and cavorted in the flames. Its source could not be more than a few leagues distant.

  ‘We are close,’ he murmured. ‘The magi reveal themselves, and will be brought to judgment for their crimes.’

  His words put a little steel back into the listless men and they picked up the pace.

  ‘I BRING THE gift of water. Water nurtures us before birth, sustains us in life and cleanses our bodies in death.’

  Giraldo’s was the first voice to speak, breaking through the stillness of the morning. He knelt before the body of Akhgar, now laid upon the ground beneath the shade of a palm. In his hands, Giraldo held cupped water from the clear pool. Not a drop leaked between the gaps in his fingers. He raised his hands high and let the water trickle on the length of the body. ‘May your spirit run with the tides.’ He lowered his head respectfully and stepped back. Warin, his red beard combed neatly for once, took his place.

  ‘I bring the gift of earth,’ he said and there was a catch in his voice. Akhgar’s death had touched Warin far more than Mathias could ever have imagined. ‘I bring the gift of earth,’ he repeated, in a stronger voice. ‘From earth we are born and to the earth we return.’ He knelt by Akhgar’s body and scooped up a handful of sand, and laid his palm out flat. ‘May your return to earth bring you the peace you have earned, my brother.’ He let the sand trickle, just as Giraldo’s water had done. Then he rose to his feet, choked back a sob and allowed Eyja to step forward.

  ‘I bring the gift of air,’ she said in her melodious voice. ‘Air is all around us. Our first breath is the world’s gift to us when we are born and the world takes our final breath in payment at the end of our days. In sharing every living breath with the world, we become a part of it. In this way, what we are lives on beyond death.’

  As she spoke, the faintest of breezes rustled the leaves above them and she too knelt before Akhgar, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on his cold dead cheek. ‘You were the best of us,’ she said. ‘And you were the wisest, my dear Akhgar. You will not be forgotten.’

  She rose to her feet and turned to Tagan, who was wearing the beautiful red silk from the market in Anfa around her head and face. All that was visible of her were her eyes, bright with unshed tears as she stepped forward to do what had been asked of her by the man lying on the ground.

  ‘I bring the gift of fire,’ she said, her voice trembling on every syllable. ‘In fire our spirits are forged and in fire our mortal bodies are consumed.’ She reached up a shaking hand and brushed away tears. Eyja laid a hand gently on her shoulder, and Tagan took a deep breath before she knelt down beside Akhgar. The next words she spoke came in a much stronger voice.

  ‘My gift is your gift.’ She reached for the dead man’s hand and closed her fingers around it. ‘In fire we are bonded, and in fire your memory will burn on.’ Mathias watched her, not truly understanding the ritual, but caught up in the solemnity of it all. Even as he watched his betrothed, she drew forth a single flame from nowhere and held it in the palm of her hand—much as Warin had held the sand and Giraldo the water. She tipped up her hand and the single flame slid onto the body. It caught light on the cloth in which Akhgar had been wrapped and Tagan stepped away, closing her eyes and willing it to burn stronger and brighter.

  Within moments, the body of the Wanderer was engulfed in a magical flame that burned with more intensity than anything Mathias had ever seen before. It consumed the body, the blinding flames shrouding the sight. There was no pungent stench of roasting flesh, only a faint hint of slightly acrid smoke that tickled at Mathias’s nostrils. The heat was incredible, and yet it did not burn or even singe him, despite his proximity.

  Tagan remained where she was, focusing her efforts onto the cremation fire and winding the flames into ever-more exotic shapes and patterns that Mathias could never hope to name. Time passed; he had no idea how long. The shadows cast by the sun had moved, but it was impossible to gauge with any accuracy. Tagan finally drew a long, shuddering breath and opened her eyes.

  ‘It is done,’ she said and her knees buckled slightly. Mathias was there in a heartbeat to steady her, his arm around her, and she smiled gratefully and more than a little sadly at him. ‘I’m afraid that was just the beginning, my Mathias,’ she said in a voice he did not recognise. There was something so venerable in her tone, in the sad way that she looked at him. He drew her in protectively and kissed the top of her hair. She smelled, as she ever had, of flowers and freshness. But the scent of smoke was stronger than it had once been. Her display of magic had, truth be told, frightened him a little. Her power was now something beyond him, and deep down he felt a genuine fear that he was going to lose her.

  ‘You did well, Tagan,’ said Eyja. She, Giraldo and Warin moved to stand with her. ‘The time has come.’ She smiled at Mathias and the expression mirrored Tagan’s perfectly: that same slightly sad look. ‘It is time for you to go home. It is time for us to come with you.’ Her expression was hard steel, a far cry from the usual benign smile. ‘The time has come to put an end to the evil that blights the line of kings.’

  CHARLES WEAVER AND his beleaguered knights struggled up the bank of the final dune and stared down the other side. The wind tugged streamers of grit from the surrounding dune crests to collect in the broad, dry depression, which was empty and entirely devoid of life. Sir Anthony sagged, certain that the elusive magi had once again managed to slip from their grasp and strand them in the desert.

  Weaver, however, saw none of this. He looked down on an oasis. A sprawl of tents sat around a bright, clean pool fringed with leafy trees and people thronged the canvas avenues, carefully collapsing their bright pavilions in preparation for travel. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from somewhere near the heart of the camp, the last residue of the fire they’d seen. The whole scene rippled with a peculiar haze, as if it were being witnessed through poorly made glass. The Lord Inquisitor felt the familiar prickle of magic and turned to the despondent knights.

  ‘We are upon them,’ he stated simply. ‘Do not let your eyes be deceived by arcane treachery. We have run them to ground and will deliver the King’s justice.’

  Despite their doubts—and their private opinions of the Inquisitor’s sanity—the knights drew their weapons and advanced down the dune.

  HOME.

  Back to England, then perhaps to Wales. The thought filled Mathias with a joy that he could not put into words. He had travelled so far in the past months. He had come such a long way from the hills and hollows of his childhood. Here he was, amidst the burning sands of a foreign desert, surrounded by some of the most powerful people he was ever likely to meet. He was fortunate—or cursed, depending upon your point of view—to have experienced so much in so short a time. He had grown.

  Home .

  The word sent such a thrill of happiness through him that for a moment he was able to forget the gravity of their situ
ation—one he still did not fully understand. All he knew for certain was that soon the journey would be over.

  Home.

  ‘How will we get there?’ His question was a simple one: childish in many ways, he knew, and he suspected he knew the answer. It was confirmed with Warin’s reply.

  ‘A sending, much as Wyn did to bring you to me. There are enough of us now that it will be a simple matter. With the three of us...’

  ‘Four,’ murmured Tagan. ‘I can do so much more than I once could.’

  ‘I am corrected. With the four of us and the power of this circle, we will be able to transport to the great circle in England in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘The great circle?’

  ‘Stonehenge.’

  Mathias nodded. He knew. Somehow, he had always known. ‘But how far will we have to travel to reach the nearest circle? You said yourself that we are running out of time...’ He looked at Eyja and stopped speaking. ‘What? Why are you laughing at me?’

  ‘I am not laughing at you, dear one. The answer to your question is simple. We will need to travel...’—she took three paces until she stood at the edge of the oasis pool—‘about this far.’

  ‘The water?’

  ‘The whole oasis. The pool is merely the arcane centre and the strongest focus. We will perform the sending from here, just as soon as we are prepared’—the Seer exchanged glances with the others— ‘and as soon as some things are made clear.’ She lowered her eyes, unable to look at him, but he reached over and touched her arm.

  ‘Eyja,’ Mathias said softly. ‘I understand enough. A demon means to sit upon the throne of England and use that power to drive all magic from the world. The same demon has twisted the line of kings and seen the rise of the Inquisition. It needs to be stopped.’