She looked up at him and cupped his chin in her hand. ‘You are a fine man, Mathias Eynon,’ she said. ‘Whatever comes next, I want you to know that.’
Her words made Mathias a little uncomfortable, so he shrugged and gave her a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘You said something needed to be made clear,’ he said and there was a forceful manner to his tone that startled even him. ‘So what else do I need to know?’
Whilst around them the tribe continued striking camp, Mathias and the magi sat together beneath the shade of a palm. Mathias looked at them, so contrasting, so familiar and yet all still so strange to his eyes.
‘As I understand it,’ he began, ‘we’re going to interfere in Melusine’s plan to take Prince Richard as her own.’ He paused, then gave a weak smile. ‘Actually, that’s about as much as I know.’ He looked to Eyja. With the death of Akhgar, she seemed to have become the leader of the group, a position that had moved seamlessly and without question from the others. She straightened the skirt of her gown primly before she began her explanation.
‘If left unaided, Richard will be unable to resist the lure of Melusine. She will take his body and walk the land of men with her power unbound.’
‘How powerful is she, exactly?’ Mathias asked, remembering the alluring and terrifyingly awful presence that Wyn had shown him in his illusion.
Eyja closed her eyes as though speaking the reply somehow pained her. Somewhere at the back of the camp, a voice was raised briefly in a shout. Giraldo glanced over and his brow furrowed. ‘Speak fast,’ he said. ‘I think our time is running out.’
‘She is mightier than any one of us,’ she said. ‘An insidious force that can turn, break or corrupt this world and recast it in an image of Hell worse than any described in the texts of the Church.’
Laid so bold and bare it was horrific. Somehow, Mathias had always known that the truth that Wyn had spoken of would be hard to bear. Something so terrible that it could not be named. He felt the weight of responsibility press down on him and he felt the eyes of the three magi on him, trying to gauge his reaction to the news. He looked around the small group, his eyes resting last of all on Tagan. She looked back at him, implacable, expressionless. Hopeless, even. As though she had given up.
I am losing you and I don’t know why, he thought. He tried to put all his love and desire into a single look and thought he achieved the faintest of smiles. He nodded at Eyja.
‘Then how can we defeat her?’ he asked, though he was not at all sure that he wanted to hear any more answers.
‘She is greater than any one of us,’ Eyja repeated, ‘and she cannot be slain in this world, not in a way you can understand. But we do not need to slay her. Together we only need to keep her from taking the prince. Even if...’ She paused, and a note of regret entered her voice. ‘Even if it means we have to kill him.’
Mathias nodded, but his expression was fierce. ‘We should try to save him,’ he said emphatically. ‘None of this is his fault. It is not even King Richard’s fault, from what you have told me.’
‘You have a noble heart, young Mathias,’ Eyja said. ‘It shall be as you say. There is, however, one other thing you must know.’
It felt like any further revelation might be one too many, but Mathias continued to listen.
‘When we arrive, the veil between the worlds will be at its thinnest,’ continued Eyja. ‘It is possible that other things may be drawn to the circle by the lure of the prince. Be wary of anything you see. Guard your mind.’
The shouts on the edges of the oasis grew louder, accompanied by screams. Giraldo was first to his feet, his sword drawn. ‘They’re playing my song,’ he said, with a wicked grin on his face. ‘I believe the King’s hounds have found us.’
‘Your song?’ Warin also got to his feet. ‘I still have a matter to settle with that man.’ With a whisper of magic, the form of the wolf was once more there before them, hackles raised and teeth bared. Warin turned his muzzle towards Mathias and bowed his great head. The instruction was quite clear, and with an elation that he wasn’t entirely sure was appropriate, Mathias also shifted into wolf form.
‘Tagan, come with me.’ Eyja moved to stand beside the girl. ‘You and I must begin the spell of sending. We will have very little time to complete the rite. Follow my lead. You have been through a sending before, but this will be more powerful. There will be no gentle passage of time. This will be instant.’
‘Like the way Giraldo transported us to his ship?’
‘Much like that,’ Eyja replied. ‘Only with greater control.’ Giraldo grinned at her. ‘Simply do as I do and follow the words of the chant. The earth will answer, it knows the way.’
Eyja looked over to the far end of the camp, where the screams had become shouts of defiant fury. The orange light of fire blossomed as the first tent was put to the torch. Eyja’s beautiful face grew grim. She waited no further, and with her hand in Tagan’s, led the young woman into the water of the pool. It was not deep, coming barely to their waists.
‘We must hurry.’
Salisbury Plain
England
THE LIONHEART HAD not been designed with the comfort of its passengers in mind. It was a weapon of war, not a carriage for nobility. As a consequence, the King and his son were feeling uncomfortable and cramped by the time the vehicle had reached the expanse of Wiltshire.
For Prince Richard, what had begun as something of an adventure had rapidly become a nightmare as he had discovered motion sickness. He elected to abandon the claustrophobic belly of the Lionheart and ride outside with the guards, leaving King Richard alone on the velvet-cushioned seat. Left alone with his thoughts, Richard fell to brooding. The entourage was making excellent progress and the navigator was certain that they would reach the henge within the hour, shortly before sunset.
For the first time in his life, he felt utterly helpless. Events had spiralled beyond his control, and he could see no way in which he could save both his son and his country. A knot of bilious hatred for Richard the Third formed in the King’s belly, but it quickly faded. If Tudor had won at Bosworth, what would the world have become? A nation of weaklings, reliant on magic and subservient to a church that beguiled them with mysticism.
How would history remember him, he wondered? Would he go into the books as a king whose rule saw the extermination of magic in his own country and across Europe? Would they remember him as the man who finally conquered the combined might of France and Rome? Would he simply be forgotten in the tidal rush of adoration that must surely go to his son, when all that Melusine promised for him came to pass?
Would his son even be the boy he knew? The demon was bound as surely as he by the pact that had been made, but what exactly had been the terms?
So many questions. Questions that the King could never hope to answer, even with the best of intentions. Instead, he closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath as the Lionheart rattled on toward the shadowy horizon.
The Sahara Desert
Morocco
WEAVER’S MEN WERE hopelessly outnumbered by the press of warriors surging to protect the collapsing camp. The Lord Inquisitor had commended the knights for their courage in service to the Crown. Then he had given them all but a few of his remaining phials of alchemical fire and departed.
The knights put the phials to good use, hurling them into the forest of canvas as soon as they breached the illusion that surrounded it. Sir Anthony led the charge, his once noble visage reduced to that of a hollow-eyed wild man. He side-stepped the first spear thrust that came his way, cut the tribesman down and pushed deeper into the burning camp. Surprise, confusion and the impetus of the charge carried him further than he expected.
He cut down another warrior rushing past on his way to confront another of the knights, and then circled a burning pavilion as he descended toward the pool. He could see two figures standing in the clear water with their arms raised, a gentle glow spreading beneath them.
He heard a scream to his left,
and turned to see Sir Martin fall with a spear in his chest. The knight fought on weakly, thrashing on the ground until two more blades pierced his body and he lay still. Something finally withered and died inside Sir Anthony at the sight, and a killing rage rose up in him, sweeping away his pain and the fatigue of the long journey.
He charged between the burning tents, cutting down any who stood in his way, his sword running red with the blood of the slaughter. He thought he saw one of his fellows between the press of bodies, the man surrounded and fighting for his life, but then he was lost from view.
The shrill cry of a child grabbed his attention and he saw a young boy standing beside the fallen body of his father. The distraction was enough that he did not see the great, red wolf until it landed on top of him and crushed him to the ground. The beast growled and glared down at him with feral rage, but there was an unsettling intelligence in its eyes. Sir Anthony rolled and hurled the animal away before it could strike, its jaws snapping mere inches from his neck.
He did not know if red wolves were natives of the desert, but there was something unnatural about the creature. He raised his sword in front of him as the animal circled him.
The second wolf came from behind him, not nearly as large or as strong, but powerful and quick enough to knock him off balance. He stumbled, and sharp jaws fastened around his arm. Sir Anthony cried out in agony as the beast tore at his flesh, but before he could stab the animal it released him and circled away again.
Blood dripped from his wounded arm and the knight turned slowly, keeping the wavering point of his sword before him. He could still hear the sounds of battle and could faintly make out a lilting, jovial voice among the shouts of the desert folk.
The wolves circled him. One huge and red, the other sleek and dark. Both carried themselves with more certainty than animals had any right to.
‘Abominations,’ he hissed.
The red wolf blinked, and in a moment became a massive bear. It could only be the shapeshifter who had killed his fellow knights on the shores of the lake. The great, red-furred beast reared back on its hind legs and roared, the sound drowning out the din of battle and the screams of the dying.
Sir Anthony’s last thought was of home. Then the bear fell upon him like a living mountain.
Warin and Mathias shifted back into their natural bodies and looked down at the fallen knight. He was thin and ragged, his eyes sunken and his skin burned and raw. Whatever noble bearing he had possessed when he began his journey had been lost upon the way. Now he was just a man. Warin leaned down and closed the dead eyes.
‘He did not deserve to die,’ the Shapeshifter said sadly. ‘Not really. He was only a pawn. But all will be like him if the demon has her way.’
‘There is no time to lose,’ called Eyja from the centre of the oasis pool. The water was rippling out in concentric circles from where she and Tagan stood, and she held a hand over the surface. ‘Giraldo, Warin, come quickly. Mathias, you too!’
Warin and Mathias ran to the water’s edge, closely followed by Giraldo who emerged from between the tents. They plunged into the oasis and Giraldo and Warin immediately mimicked Eyja’s stance, their hands out before them, palms down. The ripples came larger and faster until the whole pool was a churning, frothing mass that climbed up around the people standing inside its embrace.
‘Mathias, Tagan, hold onto each other.’
They already were. The moment he had moved into the waters, they had clasped hands, in equal parts exhilarated and terrified by what lay ahead. As they stood together, the water rose higher and higher. To their hips. Their waists. Their chests.
The sounds of the burning camp, the wails of the dying were fading: as though they were falling away. Mathias could feel Tagan’s hand still clasped in his and he knew, somehow, that everything would be all right. They were still together and they could weather any storm.
Just before the moment of darkness came, the very moment when they stopped being in one place and reappeared somewhere else, he felt something that filled him with absolute dread: fingers closing around his tunic.
Seventeen
21st December, 1589
Stonehenge
England
BY THREE IN the afternoon, the sun was already beginning its slow descent in the west. It had been a mild day for the time of year, but now that night was coming, there was ice in the air. It told in the spill of blood across the skies of southwestern England: in the crimson hues that tinted the edges of the few clouds scudding gently above in the clear sky. With nightfall would come a sharp, biting frost and a starry night.
The ancient site of Stonehenge was enough to take the breath away. Even those not gifted with magic found it awe-inspiring. Prince Richard, riding on the outside of the Lionheart with the men of the Royal Guard, drank in the sight before him. He waited eagerly for his father to disembark from the vehicle.
The final few miles of the ride had been particularly unpleasant for King Richard. The Lionheart had juddered uncomfortably across tracts of farmland, uneven and nauseating. He had voided the contents of his stomach three times and the inside compartment of the war vehicle stank of vomit. He was glad beyond words to escape its confines as he stepped down to greet his son climbing down from the guards’ bench.
Again came that terrible despair. How hard would it be to just tell his son the truth? Melusine had told King Richard on countless occasions that he was the man upon whose shoulders the future of the English throne rested. In his arrogance, he had always taken this to mean the war with France. But now he feared exactly what it was that the demon wanted with his son, and what it might mean for the future of the throne.
‘Father?’ Prince Richard had been jabbering away to his father as they walked the perimeter of the circle.
‘I’m sorry, my boy. I was... thinking.’
Something about the place made both of them reluctant to walk between the stones, to enter the circle within. Perhaps it was the strong sense of the arcane that emanated from the stones themselves. King Richard could not help but be moved by the sheer beauty of the monument, captured by the dying rays of the winter sun. The very stones appeared alive with an inner, fey light that no stone should possess.
Cautiously, he reached out a hand to touch one of the nearest menhirs, fully expecting a warmth to reflect the amber glow coming from it. But his hand touched nothing but cool, unyielding stone. Implacable and solid. Just like his reign over England had been. The analogy entertained him for a few moments until he remembered watching the men working the quarries. Stone could be broken. It could be hacked and shaped and made into something new, something entirely different.
King Richard snatched his hand back, a wild, discordant ringing of fears sounding in his mind, and the reality of his situation became more and more stark with each passing minute.
‘It’s quite remarkable,’ observed Prince Richard. Not for him his father’s doubt and hesitation. ‘They say that this site is as old as England itself. Why is it, Father, that when you have sought to oust the use of magic in this country, you allow this place to stand?’
Why indeed? It had never seemed necessary, when the magi themselves were hunted by the Inquisition. For a while the circles acted as a lure, bringing practitioners of the arcane from the lands around, and the Inquisition had waited in ambush at the solstices to round them up. The site beyond the borders of Wales had been the first to be destroyed, but when Richard had realised that they could be destroyed he had briefly entertained the thought of pulling down the henge as a way of defying the demon.
Melusine had, quite forcefully, advised otherwise.
‘There was never the need. They were useful hunting grounds for the Inquisition,’ he said, eventually. It was close enough to the truth to be acceptable. ‘This site is heavily steeped in magic, but it is kept under watch at all times. No practitioner has been allowed to set foot inside the circle proper since the time of King Richard the Third. No practitioner, but... well. This is
a part of your introduction to what it means to be king, my boy.’
‘What do you mean? I thought we were here because of some magi?’ Prince Richard turned his head slightly, studying his father. He had not missed the melancholic tone.
‘When I was a boy, my own father brought me here.’ The lie came smoothly. ‘Together, we walked its perimeter. Alone, I stood inside. I felt the true evil of magic. It... it helped me to understand why it is that the so-called “gift” is an insidious, terrible thing that must be cast out. You are here today to experience that for yourself.’
As the sun gradually began its final descent, sinking into the western horizon until only a sliver of daylight remained, King Richard the Fifth, the Unyielding, the man known to his subjects in whispered tones as the Demon King, raised a hand. Around the perimeter of the circle, the guardsmen began to light candles. His breath was visible in front of his face as he spoke to his son.
‘You are of age, Richard,’ he said. ‘Tonight, you will become a man.’
Tonight, came a slithering female voice at the very back of his awareness, he becomes mine.
HE IS FALLING.
No, not falling. Moving forwards. Backwards. Sideways. Every conceivable direction and several he has no name for. He is everywhere at once, and he is nowhere. He has ceased to exist in a way he understands. Mathias is a simple man; he could not have envisaged a world beyond his own. He glimpses wide open spaces so vast as to defy comprehension, colossal trees and oceans of stars. He slips between the world of men and the hazy shades of the Aetherworld.
He feels as though the very world around him has been pinched tightly together. Turned inside out. He is suddenly acutely aware of the utter insignificance of his being. How could he not be aware of such a thing in the face of the overwhelming power of the three magi... and Tagan... who have brought him to this place of alien beauty?
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 28
