There was no arguing with that. Mathias closed his mouth tightly against a harsh retort, and shrugged. It was the best he could manage. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It’s not as though I would deny you the chance to say farewell. What right do I have?’ The bitterness ran deep. Tears tracked down Tagan’s face, but he hardened his heart against the sight and turned to Warin.
‘What is it that you wanted to speak with me about?’ It hurt more than anything to turn his back on his crying betrothed... no. He must learn to let go.
‘About what happens next,’ said Warin. Gone was the gruffness, and in its place was a quiet, carefully spoken man. ‘Your role in this is not yet finished.’
‘Oh, it’s finished,’ asserted Mathias and he folded his arms across his chest. ‘I have nothing left to give.’
‘That’s not quite right,’ said Giraldo, unfolding from the chair and standing. ‘You still have something to give.’
‘What is there?’ retorted Mathias. ‘Between the three of you, I have given all I had. Or that I could ever wish to give. I want to go home to Wales, and I want to...’
‘Forget about us? Dear one, you can’t do that.’ Eyja’s voice was sad. ‘Don’t you think all of us would choose that life if we could? Warin has his forest, Giraldo has his oceans and I have my island. In our own way, we have hidden from the world. We can go back to those lives, but we can never give up what we are. The decision to bear the spirits within us is not made lightly.’
‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘Everything,’ said Warin. ‘There is one who needs your help. The one who set you on your path in the first place.’
‘Wyn?’ Mathias’s brow creased. ‘I don’t understand. He’s dead.’
‘He was only Wyn to you. I told you that I knew him as Havard. Remember the names, Mathias. To Warin he was Adelmo. He is the Protector. The Warden. The Shield-Bearer. The Light in the Dark. He was also a father to you,’ said Eyja, diplomatic to the last. ‘But we need to get him back. He needs to return to this world. He needs his vessel.’
‘You mean me, don’t you.’ It was statement, not a question. ‘I worked it out after Stonehenge. I realised that was what my role in all this was supposed to be. For a while, after Tagan’—he looked at the young woman—‘after Tagan changed, I thought maybe the whole thing had been entirely for her benefit. That I was just an extra body. The speed with which she accepted the role she has taken...’ He looked at her again and his heart thawed just a little. ‘The old man in the desert knew she was coming. How he selected her to be his vessel with so much distance between them defies me—and no, it’s all right.’ He held up a hand. ‘I don’t need an explanation.’
He ran his fingers through his hair, which fell straight back into his eyes. It had grown so long now and the look suited him. He had also chosen not to shave in the past few days, and was beginning to sport a beard. ‘I suppose I’ve realised that none of this has happened by accident.’
‘Not true. All right, maybe it’s a little bit true,’ admitted Giraldo. ‘Except that things did not quite begin as they were supposed to. If they had, then this would be a lot simpler. It was nobody’s fault.’
‘There is no blame to be apportioned, but if Wyn had not grown so fond of Mathias—and I can understand why he did—perhaps matters would have become clearer far sooner.’ Eyja offered the young man one of her soft smiles. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Mathias?’
‘Completely,’ he replied and there was a weary resignation underlying his tone. ‘I was supposed to be the vessel for the Warden. When Wyn died, his demon... passenger... was returned to whatever place it is that you come from...’
‘The Aetherworld,’ said Warin, his tone grim.
‘...and this Warden’s spirit is back where it came from.’
‘Indeed it is.’ Giraldo took up the explanation. ‘Without a vessel, he can’t return. In the Aetherworld, he is being hunted as many of us are. We can’t leave him to the fate that awaits him if the enemy tracks him down and gets her claws into him.’
‘I thought she was dead.’ Mathias looked from one to the other. ‘If she is still out there somewhere, then what in the name of... what has all this been for?’
‘Melusine has been banished back to the Aetherworld,’ said Eyja. ‘But it is difficult, if not impossible, to destroy one of our kind in this world and she was but the sixth among them. Sixth, among the eight. We have asked for this meeting with you, because we need your help. The Warden needs your help.’ She smiled and there was nothing of humour in the expression. ‘You are his intended vessel, Mathias. That’s the truth of the matter. You can’t avoid it forever. And you can’t run from it. Please. We are asking you. We are begging you. Help him. It is something only you can do.’
He looked at them, from one face to another, his mind a whirl. His eyes met Tagan’s and remained there. He knew what his answer must be, but he could not put it into words.
Stonehenge
England
IT COULD NOT be denied that sunrise across Salisbury Plain, as it fell across the ancient stone circle, was a breathtaking sight. It was a place of peace and reflection, a place of ancient power and magic that enchanted and ensnared in equal measure.
Charles Weaver stood amidst the battle-scarred stones of the ancient monument, the broken mask in his hand as he looked around at the devastation littering the area. The Lionheart, the extraordinary machine that had held so much promise, lay at the circle’s edge, nothing more than a shattered, ruined hulk. The explosion that had seen its demise had lit up the December sky for miles around, and it was a wonder, people said when dawn had broken and the true extent of the devastation became apparent, that more damage had not been done.
A huge crater marked the site of the vehicle’s end and its debris littered the circle inside the stones and the surrounding plains. Of the Royal Guardsmen who had accompanied King Richard to this place, this ‘testing ground’ as it was called, nearly all had died. The monument itself, of course, remained intact.
Strangely, of all those who had survived, not a single Royal Guardsman retained memory of the events. Only King Richard, Charles Weaver and five other people would ever know the truth of what had transpired.
The Inquisition was no more. One of the first things King Richard had done—after ensuring his son was well cared for— was to send orders to seize the Tower. All the current inhabitants were expelled. This new England had no place for the hunters of magi. The Inquisitors had scattered, hiding from the retribution that would follow once the loss of their power became known.
Weaver turned the mask over in his hands. He had not put it back on since the battle of the henge. It had been a part of his body for so long, and to have been free of its constraints for five days... it was longer than he could remember. His anonymity had been assured. Nobody knew the face behind the mask. But the loss of its magic—a magic he had not even known he carried— had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but the husk of a man in its wake. He had not slept in the last few days and his heart pounded constantly whenever he thought of the mask lying in the circle.
Without it he did not know who he was. He turned the mask over in his hands and looked at its inner surface, where tiny, living script once squirmed and whispered its secrets. The rays of the dawn light shimmered on its surface and for a moment, just for a fleeting second, he thought he saw the script move once more. But it was a dead thing. He was free of its influence. Free of whatever had whispered instructions to him.
Without it, he supposed, he could be anybody he wanted to be. He lifted the mask until the rising sun shone through the eye holes and he smiled in sudden understanding. The mask was who he was. Even without the Inquisition, it made him powerful. A faint ripple of green ran across the inside surface and he thought he heard a whisper, just on the very cusp of hearing.
Closing his eyes, Charles Weaver put the mask on and turned his back on the rising sun. As he set the east to his back, he opened his eyes a
gain.
Something inhuman looked out from within.
END
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Dave and his understanding, patience and the Veneer of the Week. A shout-out to everyone in LoA, CTO and the Lost Praxeum, for hours of endless distraction. And special thanks and all my love to Ben, who puts up with my tantrums and moments of self-doubt with the kind of patience and stoicism I probably don’t deserve.
About the Author
An NHS worker by day and a writer under the cover of night, Sarah’s first novel The Gildar Rift was published by the Black Library in 2011. Since then, she has written several other novels and short stories set in the grim-dark worlds of Warhammer. Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising is her first full-length original work. Other works include tie-in fiction for World of Warcraft and several original tales for an assortment of publishers. Sarah lists her hobbies as reading, writing, reading about writing, writing about reading, online gaming and writing about online gaming. She needs to get out more.
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 31
