He had killed Wyn. He had tried to kill Mathias and had nearly killed Tagan. He had spent the lives of his knights in order to make his way through Akhgar’s camp and it seemed that he absolutely would not stop until all of them were dead.
Mathias had had enough.
He climbed to his feet; roots sprouted from the earth in his wake and bound the struggling prince to the ground. Then he became the wolf. Not the small, sleek animal that he had been before, but a feral hunter, a predator to match a predator. He gathered his powerful legs beneath him and charged at the Inquisitor. A shot rang out and scored a bloody line down Mathias’s hide, but then the huge, shaggy animal forced the Inquisitor to the ground and Mathias’s wolf body stood atop the fallen man like a conqueror at the top of a fort. The animal growled furiously and long jaws snapped at Weaver’s throat.
The Lord Inquisitor thrust his arm into the wolf’s maw and grunted as it drew blood, savaging his flesh. It was too close to stab with his sword, but he pummelled the creature with the hilt of the weapon until it released him and sprang away. A titanic maelstrom was beginning to engulf the henge. Hurricane winds roared about the stones, lifting bodies into the air and rocking the Lionheart in which the King cowered. Rain slashed down and the bellow of thunder had become a constant background sound.
Fire fell from the heavens and lit up the night with an infernal orange glow.
The next time the wolf sprang, Weaver was ready. He turned on his heel and dragged his blade across the hind leg of the animal. The shock of the wound forced Mathias back into his own body and he stumbled, streaked with blood from his injuries. The pain was excruciating, whichever form he took. He dropped to his hands and knees and gritted his teeth against the agony.
Weaver came at him again, a ragged, masked monster trailing blood, but refusing to die or surrender to human frailties. The blade came up and Mathias, on his hands and knees, suddenly imagined his father lying upon the block. The thought struck him like a blow and his pain, fear, loss and anger crystallised in that instant. The blade came down in a beheading arc.
Mathias caught the sword in a fist suddenly as hard as diamond.
He squeezed and the blade shattered. Then, with a bellowed cry of pure rage, his other fist crashed into Weaver’s jaw. The impact lifted the big man off his feet, tore the mask from his face and flipped it into the air.
Weaver fell to the ground with an unearthly shriek that pierced the din of battle. He thrashed and rolled as if he were in the grip of a seizure, clutching at his exposed face. Mathias glimpsed cold, cold eyes between the scrabbling fingers and then, in front of him, the man began to age. His hair went white and his face became lined and weathered. In the space of a few seconds, Charles Weaver gained decades.
The mask arced through the air, an innocuous, inanimate thing that bounced a few times before rolling to a stop before Melusine.
Something more terrible even than the demoness burned within its simple design and sick, greenish light burst from it. Made weary from her struggle with the otherworldly magi, Melusine was hurled against the stone perimeter of the henge; the softly glowing stones pulsed and repelled her, the world beyond still anathema and unattainable to her unbound form. The hurricane winds drove her back into the crackling pillar of light that spilled from the mask’s inner face.
Melusine’s shrieking roar shook the earth and one of the ancient warding stones around the henge cracked from top to bottom. The sound grew in pitch and Mathias began to scream, sure that his mind would break under the onslaught. A single, sibilant voice spoke a word in his mind. Then there was a great rushing of wind, like the inhalation of something impossibly vast, and then sudden, shocking silence.
Mathias got to his feet and limped to where the mask lay, ignoring the titanic forms of the magi. He stared down at the vile thing, which now lay inert and lifeless. It seemed to be nothing more than roughly fashioned iron. A crack ran down its length, splitting the metal. Mathias dragged the tips of his fingers over it; the artefact was warm, but swiftly cooling. He did not know what had happened. ‘A power greater even than her was bound within that mask,’ the tectonic voice of Dolus rumbled, voicing the answer to the question he had not asked.
They turned their attention to Charles Weaver, who lay curled and shrivelled on the ground. He raised his withered face to look at them.
‘Mercy,’ was all the man said, a hand outstretched toward the fallen mask. ‘Mercy.’
For a long, drawn-out moment, Mathias simply stared at the old man; but, despite everything he had done, he pitied the Inquisitor.
He nodded and kicked the mask over to Weaver, who grabbed it and hugged it to his chest protectively. Then the mighty Lord Inquisitor bawled like a babe. Disgusted, Mathias turned his back. The four magi were shifting and changing, resuming their human forms, but Mathias would not let himself look at them. Instead, he turned his attention to the young Prince Richard, still sprawled in the dirt. He knelt down by the unconscious youth and put a hand beneath his head, lifting him gently. The roots unwound from the prince’s body, freeing him.
‘It’s over now, your highness,’ he murmured. From the corner of his eye he saw the amber glow of the henge fade back to the grey of inert stone. He saw the shape of King Richard rush from the ruined Lionheart towards them, and he looked up into the eyes of his King. A jolt of connection ran from the one to the other: a sense that they had been waiting for this moment their entire lives. The King stared at Mathias and Mathias returned the look. This was the man whose rule had brought about the death of a father he had never known. The man whose decision to wage war on the arcane had led to his mother’s early end. A king whose ambition to end magic had led to so much hurt and suffering, and whose armies had brought war to the shores of France.
But more than anything, he saw the eyes of a man who had been deceived, and a father whose love and concern for his son were entirely genuine. ‘He is well,’ said Mathias to the King. ‘It’s over.’ King Richard the Fifth, Scion of the House of Plantagenet, Heir of the Demon King, stared down at his son and shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. He looked back at Mathias. ‘But it will be soon.’
Epilogue
26th December, 1589
The Feast of Saint Stephen
Wardour Castle, Wiltshire
England
PRINCE RICHARD, HEIR to the throne of England, was struggling. He recalled travelling to Stonehenge with his father on the Lionheart, but beyond that, he could not remember what had happened between then and when he had woken two hours ago in the home of one of the court’s nobles.
Through cautious explanation and his own fractured memories, he was piecing together what had happened. The Lionheart had failed in the most disastrous and devastating manner possible. Even now, he was told, members of the Royal Guard were accompanying Isaac Bonnington as he worked on picking through the wreckage of the vehicle to try to find what had happened. The Royal Engineer was in terrible disgrace over the shoddy workmanship, he was told. But it was all second, third-hand information. He needed to speak to his father.
‘My boy.’ As though he had summoned the King by thought alone, he turned to see Richard standing in the doorway. ‘It is good that you are awake.’ Prince Richard sat up amongst the goose down pillows and gave his father a weary smile.
‘Father,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘There was an accident,’ came the reply. The King pulled a chair across the room to sit beside his son. He took the young man’s hand into his own. ‘You have no idea how close you came to being killed, but you were saved at the last. There are new advisers to the court and they prevented a planned attempt on your life.’
‘They tell me the Lionheart proved to be faulty.’
The King nodded and looked sombre.
‘I’m sorry, Father. I may not remember much, but I know what the machine represented for you. What it could have meant for the war with France...’
‘The war is over.’ The King closed his e
yes briefly. ‘For now, at least. I have sent word to Paris. We are withdrawing our army and we will fortify the isle. I hope that we will be able to talk terms with the Vaticae. I don’t want to see more men die.’
‘But the cause, Father.... to rid Europe of the magic taint...’
‘No,’ said King Richard, cutting him short. ‘No. Magic is not what I believed it to be. There was much I did not understand about the magi. Much that has haunted us from our past that has now been put to rest. We will need their counsel in the coming months, particularly if Rome comes to our shores. This is a new England, my son. A new world to which you have woken.’
‘Will you tell me what happened?’
King Richard studied his oldest son for a while. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But when the time is right. In the meantime, rest and get well. You will need all your strength.’ He held onto his son’s hand for a little while longer. For the first time in his life, he did not feel Melusine’s presence in the back of his mind, and in the strangest of ways, he mourned her. Just as his people faced a new and uncertain future, so did he.
Willow Tree Farm
Amesbury, Wiltshire
England
THE FARM HAD once thrived, a place of bustling activity. Hard work and determination had brought the place to prosperity from little more than a shack in a field, inherited from a long-dead grandparent. Now, though, it was abandoned, and the fine stone farmhouse had fallen into a state of disrepair. The farmer had been a practitioner of petty magic, using his talents to grow crops that were lush and bountiful. His discovery had brought his execution and his execution had brought the ruin of his family. They had abandoned the farm, fleeing to the borders of Wales for fear of further persecution.
The shell of the farmhouse was intact, although the state of repair was poor. Cracks in the walls that would once have been patched by the farmer went unattended and it was likely that within a few short months, the roof, already sagging visibly, would collapse. But for now, it was a peaceful, anonymous location where five people met.
Five days had passed since the defeat of Melusine. In that time, Mathias Eynon had forsaken the company of the magi. King Richard had all but begged the four to attend him. To discuss the future of the nation. ‘To atone for the errors of my past,’ as he had put it. They had all agreed, and Mathias had been asked to come as well.
He declined. He wanted to be alone. It had taken five days for him to finally agree to this meeting.
King Richard had provided accommodation for the young man, who, as far as he was concerned, had saved his son from a fate worse than death. The room of the manor house in which he had been staying was far more opulent than anything he had ever known, but he had been unable to get comfortable. The bed was too soft, the temperature too stifling, the food—delicious and plentiful though it was—too rich. The Yuletide festival had left him feeling sickly and drained. After months of struggling just to survive, and a lifetime of toil and simple living, Mathias was poorly suited to the sudden life of nobility.
He arrived at the farmhouse first. The one concession to his new status had been an exceptionally welcome change of clothes. Gone was the simple tunic that had kept him warm for so long, replaced with an extravagant weave of dark green thread that suited his colouring well. He set a fire in the ash-filled grate and watched for a while as the kindling caught and the flames began to lick up against the back of the fireplace. Mathias stood with his hands close to the welcoming warmth and let his mind wander. It was a strange kind of luxury that still felt odd.
There was so much to say and so much that he did not want to say. More than anything, he felt utterly alone. He, who had travelled in the most extraordinary company, was the only one who did not belong. He watched the flames for a while, adding a log from the dusty pile beside the grate, and turned away from the fire.
‘Hello, Mathias.’
He had not heard Eyja enter the building, and yet her sudden appearance did not startle him in the least. Everything about her appearance was as he had remembered from the first moment they had met. The white-blonde hair, the gentle expression, the exquisite, doll-like beauty of her porcelain features. She smiled warmly at him.
‘Nimbus,’ he said, and she looked pained.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Not you. Never you. We are friends, you and I. I am Eyja to you and that is who I will always be. Nimbus is the... other part of my life. She is powerful and she is wise, but she is not who I am here.’ She placed a hand over her heart. ‘Nimbus is part of who I am.’
‘I don’t need an explanation,’ said Mathias in a curt tone. ‘I agreed to meet you.’ He looked over her shoulder. ‘Are the others coming?’
‘They’re already here,’ she replied. ‘They are outside. Waiting for you.’
‘Then tell them to come in,’ he said. ‘It’s far more pleasant by the fire than it is standing in the frost.’ Without another word, he turned back to the hearth. He couldn’t understand quite why it was that he was so angry at Eyja. She had never shown him anything but kindness. He took a deep breath and faced the door.
Faced them all.
The others, when they came in, were less silent than she had been. Warin stomped, as he did everywhere, and the old floorboards protested loudly as he entered. Giraldo was whistling softly and tunelessly. And Tagan...
Tagan walked in last, wearing a simple gown dyed a deep, berry red. Her black hair, which had grown so long over the months of travelling, was caught behind one ear by a white winter flower. He had never seen her looking so feminine, and his breath caught in his throat. She had her eyes lowered demurely, but she glanced up at him when she felt him staring at her.
‘Hello,’ she said in the voice that he knew and loved. Or at least that he had thought he loved. To hear her speak that one simple word broke his heart. He didn’t reply to her, but simply stared. The look they exchanged was charged with an unspoken question, a single, desperate word.
Why?
But no answer was forthcoming. Warin moved in between them and the look, the moment of connection was broken.
‘Well now, pup,’ said the Shapeshifter, clapping Mathias on the arm roughly. ‘You left in such a hurry the other day. Don’t you think that was a little bit rude?’ Warin scowled, his voice gruff, and Mathias smiled faintly.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I had a lot on my mind.’ Warin snorted in response and hauled Mathias in for a rough hug. As a concession to time spent in the royal court, Warin had made an effort to tidy up his beard, but it was likely to go back to its usual haywire self at any given moment. He clung to the man for a few moments in silence, his worries temporarily forgotten.
‘So sentimental,’ said Giraldo. He dusted the thick layer of grime from a chair lying on its side and righted it before dropping down in it, his legs hanging over the arms nonchalantly. He flipped Mathias a salute and an easy grin. ‘How are you, lad?’
‘I’ve been better,’ Mathias replied. He knew he sounded petulant; frankly, he didn’t care. His shoulders sagged as guilt immediately filled him. ‘At least I’m clean,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I was starting to get a little fragrant.’ The luxury of being able to immerse himself in clean, warm water had been perhaps the most welcome thing that had come with the return to normality. Not that he could ever return to normality. Not knowing what he now knew. Eyja brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.
‘You could do with tidying yourself up a little,’ she observed. ‘Now that you are living amongst nobility.’
‘Only until the turn of the year,’ said Mathias. He reached up and caught Eyja’s hand, pushing it gently but firmly away from him. The single gesture conveyed so much about his new attitude and new approach. ‘Then I’m returning home. This has all been remarkable. The journey and saving the kingdom. But...’ He looked briefly at Tagan, who did not raise her eyes. ‘Whilst others may have changed, some of us have lives to go back to. The village was not completely destroyed in the attack. Some of the people esca
ped and are trying to rebuild their lives.’
‘My father? Have you found out if...’ Tagan finally spoke. When she raised her head, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. It was a question to which she had yet to get an answer. Learning of their home’s destruction had hit both of them hard. Tagan, despite the changes that had come over her, had been distraught. They had tried—thus far in vain—to discover the fate of her father. With the destruction of the circle, there was no swift way to reach the Welsh village.
Mathias studied her for a moment. He had to fight down the urge to cross the room and take her in his arms. ‘A messenger brought news yesterday,’ he said. He kept his voice as neutral as he could manage. ‘Your father was wounded during the attack. Apparently he led the fight against Weaver’s men. Tagan, he’s dying.’
‘I should go to him.’ Tagan set her jaw determinedly. ‘I should... explain...’ The other three exchanged glances, and just for a few moments, Mathias found that he could forget they were there. His focus was completely on his former betrothed, the way she looked, the way she carried herself. Everything about her that was so familiar. Anger reared in him.
‘And what will you tell him, Tagan? What will you say to him? How will you explain what you are?’ Mathias waved a hand at her. ‘Will you tell him that you can’t stay because you answer a higher calling? Will you tell him what you’ve become? Do you truly care?’ He bit his lip. That last had been unnecessary, and he regretted it the second the words left his lips. She shook her head, upset but calm. The calm that he had come to depend upon over the past months.
Tagan took a step towards him, but he shook his head. Her hand, which had reached to touch his arm, fell to her side. She let out a gentle sigh. ‘He doesn’t need to know the whole truth,’ she said. ‘If he is... dying, then I would not bring that hurt upon him. At least if he sees me before he passes, then it may bring him some comfort.’
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 30
