Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (15 page)

His vision blurred and he had the sensation of flying across the plains at great speed, the ochre grass and mighty trees racing beneath him. The land became bleak and broken, then alive with a sick light that spilled from deep fissures. Then he was among the spires, razor sharp pillars of knotted black glass flickering past on either side.

A great maw opened ahead of him, and he found himself within an impossible palace, its dimensions defying his understanding and its angles beyond human comprehension. He screamed as the insane geometry spiralled about him, and he began to rise, until he was surrounded by towering pillars of different heights.

He was still screaming, the clawing madness of the place searing his mind until he was sure his skull would burst. He circled the pillars and knew that atop each was something that would surely break his mind if he looked upon it. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears, but even the memory of the palace made him sick.

Clashing, jarring sensations washed over him, every experience the human mind could understand, from its blackest pits to its greatest heights. Every one was tainted. Every one of them was subtly different.

The eighth pillar was the tallest.

He felt his sense of self pushed to the back of his mind, to the very remotest corner of what he knew as Charles Weaver. The thing atop the eighth pillar turned its gaze on him. With only a sliver of power it made him open his eyes.

It was like looking into the sun. Weaver screamed, as his very existence crumbled to ash.

‘Hold him!’ a voice commanded. Strong hands held his arms and legs and a great weight lay upon his chest.

The Lord Inquisitor thrashed and screamed, and despite his captors’ best efforts he cast them aside. He rolled to his feet and clawed at the mask on his face, gripping its metal edges. It wouldn’t come off.

He opened his eyes to find his knights standing around him. Some of them had their hands on their swords and were looking at him as if they expected him to attack at any moment. Weaver dropped his hands to his sides and gulped air into his lungs. He was in the farmhouse he had taken. Warm sunlight streamed through the window and a gentle breeze plucked at his hair. He stood there for a moment, disoriented, and then his armour of composure dropped back into place. ‘We have rested too long,’ he said brusquely.

‘My lord, are you... is everything well?’ Sir Anthony asked hesitantly. ‘We tried to wake you, but...’

‘A dream,’ Weaver interrupted. ‘Nothing more.’

The knights looked at each other, but relaxed a little. They all looked much better for a night of rest.

‘Get fresh horses, we leave immediately.’ Weaver barked out the command, all weakness banished. Sir Anthony nodded and led the warriors out. The Lord Inquisitor watched them go, his eyes haunted.

Mahón

Spain

T
HERE HAD BEEN
many brawls in the tavern over the years. Some were small, between two men maybe, over a game of cards. Other fights involved entire crews, and spilled out of the tavern onto the street. This one was remarkably one-sided. Afterwards, those who were able to leave the tavern were never quite able to recall all the details. Much later, the ‘Legend of the Hundred Man Brawl’ would be retold in taverns throughout the Mediterranean; just another story of the notorious Pirate King.

Captain Bachir threw the first punch. That was one thing that was a definite fact. He surged to his feet, overturning the table, and lunged for de Luna. The Pirate King stepped aside, avoiding the clumsy attack. Not a soul actually noticed him get to his feet. Bachir tripped on the vacated stool.

‘You don’t need to do this,’ Geraldo said in a mild tone. Bachir laughed nastily and got to his feet.

‘Afraid you’re going to lose, old man?’

The Pirate King bristled and drew his sword.

‘
Old?
Why, I’m barely a day over twenty-five!’

‘Kill him!’ Bachir roared, and his crew rushed to obey.

There was a
snap
as a barbed crossbow bolt flashed across the room. Despite the range and the bowman’s careful eye, he somehow missed, the shot instead finding its way into the chest of one of his companions. The man grunted and flipped over a table, dead before he hit the floor.

Giraldo de Luna did not appear to move quickly, but he moved with such incredible grace it was as if the thugs were asleep, their movements jerky and lethargic. The Pirate King flowed between them, leaving a blur of colour in his wake. His sword was a living tongue of silver that flashed three times as he crossed the room. Then he stood before the bowman who had only just begun to reload.

‘That was unfortunate,’ Giraldo said to the wide-eyed thug. Behind him, three men howled in anguish as knives and cutlasses fell from severed fingers. The blade flashed again, cutting the bowstring and slicing a neat furrow through a pirate’s face, including his right eye. He toppled back, shrieking and clutching at his wound. Not a single drop of blood had touched de Luna’s finery, and he turned to regard Bachir who was still scrambling to his feet amidst the detritus of the table.

‘Gentlemen.’ The Pirate King addressed the scowling mob closing ranks behind him. ‘Your captain is not a wise man. He is not even a good captain. Will you follow him, or will you follow a king?’ The air was charged with aggression, many of the other patrons taking the opportunity and cover of the brawl to settle some scores of their own. Giraldo made one last bid to puncture the tension and dispel the violence before it boiled over. ‘Or do I need to make my point clearer?’ He drew a dagger that perfectly matched his blade and quirked an eyebrow.

‘These men are
mine
, maggot!
Kill him and his gold will be ours!
’ Bachir bellowed at his crew. ‘We’ll
all
be kings before the sun sets tonight!’

Geraldo sighed.
Perhaps I
am
getting too old for this,
he thought to himself.

Then the tavern exploded into chaos.

Giraldo banished the maudlin thought and leapt up onto the bar. He briefly crossed the sword and dagger across his chest in mocksalute and looked down at Bachir, who had drawn a massive cutlass and was pushing his men ahead of him through the brawl. Giraldo wrinkled his nose in distaste at this display of cowardice. ‘And you call yourself a captain?’

Bachir shot him a black look and pushed closer. The Pirate King stepped and spun along the length of the bar while tankards and bottles sailed past. He kicked the first man who dared to approach directly in the face, sending him sprawling back into his fellows, then flipped from his perch and landed among them. Boots, clubs and knives descended on him from all sides, a directionless maelstrom of violence that had already spilled out of the tavern and into the market.

None of the weapons, none of the men could touch him. He slipped through the press of bodies like a ghost, his blades wounding, crippling, but never killing. He was a flying ribbon of colour moving through a sea of the ugly and the drab. A bell started ringing outside, summoning the governor’s guard, and Giraldo smiled as he ducked a flying stool. It seemed he had outstayed his welcome in Mahón.

Bachir’s men had grown less interested in him as their numbers dwindled and they became bogged down in the brawl, but Bachir himself seemed determined to have the Pirate King’s head. He cut down a man who stumbled into his path and cuffed another aside as he pushed through the throng. His eyes were wild with hatred; he was beyond reason, possibly even beyond sanity. He was certainly beyond good taste and style.

‘Captain Bachir!’ a voice yelled above the clamour. ‘The
Hermione
is leaving! She’s weighed anchor and is putting out to sea!’

‘Your crew have abandoned you, worm!’ Bachir roared. ‘They must despise you as much as the rest of us! I might even let them have your head once I’ve finished with you!’ He shoved through the crowd, his cutlass raised to strike Giraldo down.

The Pirate King sighed and sheathed his weapons. The fight continued, but a strange pocket of tranquillity formed around him. The combatants seemed to avoid the space in which he stood, naturally, falling to his sides without notice. Bachir pushed into the space and stood before Giraldo, splattered with blood, chest heaving. Before he could strike, de Luna’s hand snapped out and tapped the burly captain on his barrel chest.

‘Enough,’ he declared quietly.

Bachir stopped and his eyes bulged. He let go of his sword, and it vanished beneath the feet of the surging mob. ‘Enough,’ Giraldo said again. Bachir opened and closed his mouth, but only a strangled gurgle escaped his lips. His eyes rolled in panic and he clawed at his throat and chest with shaking hands.

‘Help... me...’ he managed to choke out to one of his men, who had finally made it to his side. He pawed at the pirate’s shirt, his jaw working uselessly a few more times, then vomited a great torrent of water.

Bachir’s man pushed him away, staring in horror at his captain. The unfortunate captain sank to his knees, still clutching uselessly at his neck. Cords of muscle stood out like hawsers and veins bulged beneath his skin. All around him the fury of the brawl abated as more people turned to watch what was transpiring.

‘Enough,’ Giraldo declared for a third—and final—time. Bachir threw back his head and opened his mouth, and water fountained out. He stayed that way for a few heartbeats, like a piece of living statuary, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled to the floor where he lay in a spreading puddle of brine. Water continued to bubble from his dead lips.

‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ Giraldo de Luna said, dropping a bow before the stunned crowd like a street magician at the end of his trick, ‘I do believe my ship is leaving.’

The effect of his calm statement was somewhat spoiled by the sounds of renewed fighting outside as the guard finally arrived to break up the disturbance. Pandemonium resumed, and the Pirate King seized the opportunity to make his exit. He slipped through the mob and back out into the sunshine, where he took a moment to brush a fleck of dust from his shoulder. He walked confidently, unchallenged. Then he saw the gang of armed guards pushing toward him and, tipping his hat to them, set off at a run.

He barrelled across the market and out onto the quay, heading for the pier where the
Hermione
had been anchored. He could see her, sails billowing, as she pulled toward the open water. He gauged the distance. It was a long time since he had attempted anything
quite
this ambitious.
Maybe,
he thought,
I’m too old for this. Maybe this will be the time that my magic fails me.

There was only one way to know.

Behind him, several of the guard were in hot pursuit. It seemed that the governor’s understanding did not stretch to civil disorder and brawling. Giraldo made a mental note not to return to Mahón for at least a year. A few bribes, a word in the right ear and everything would be all right again in time. An arrow whistled past his ear and buried itself in one of the pier posts.

Maybe two years.

Three, at the outside.

With an athletic leap, Giraldo de Luna dived from the end of the landing stage just as the first of the guards reached for him. They skidded to a stop, not quite keen enough to follow him into the water, but brought up more bows to pick him off when he surfaced.

There was no splash. There was no sound of de Luna’s body hitting the water. Instead, a few seconds later, the guards saw the lean figure of the Pirate King as he sprinted across the surface of the sea towards his departing ship.

Ripples spread out beneath his boots and marked his passage across the waves. The guards fired from the pier, but de Luna laughed and spun as he ran and their arrows plunged harmlessly into the water. Giraldo ran as hard and as fast as he could until he was jogging alongside the
Hermione
.

‘Permission to come aboard, Tohias?’ Giraldo hollered up to his grinning first mate, who was already leaning over the side, the rope ladder in his hands.

‘One of these days, Captain, I’m not going to let you back on board,’ he called down before dropping the ladder. Giraldo swung himself easily onto the lower rungs and clambered up with the ease of years of practice.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not
just
yet.’ He raised his head to the sea air and inhaled the fresh, clean scent of freedom. There was another scent there, too; the second pressing matter of the day moved to the top of his mental list.

‘Set course for Genoa,’ he said, quietly. ‘We need to be ready to receive our guest.’

The Alps

Switzerland

T
HE MOUNTAINS OF
Switzerland were nothing like the hills of Tagan’s homeland. She clung to the neck of Warin’s horse form as the beast made its way through the narrow passes. They had climbed to an altitude where a mist of cloud gathered below them, and she could not shake the sensation that she was flying high above. It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

She was not as cold as she might have expected, despite the sudden drop in temperature. After a little practice, her growing ability to conjure fire from nowhere was certainly proving itself to be useful on this journey. Whenever they stopped for the night—be it in the edges of the vast spread of the Black Forest or the rocky outcroppings that protected them from the worst of the weather—she was able to provide them with warmth and a means to cook their simple camp food. In that way, at least, she felt she was contributing.

Mathias had found the ability to change into a horse increasingly simple and could now take on the form with the ease that Warin demonstrated. He trailed behind them now, his hooves picking carefully along the path. They had passed huge lakes of clear water reflecting the blue of the sky like a mirror, seen mountains perpetually crowned with snow and followed rivers along deep defiles that the sun never reached. It was an experience that left her feeling dizzy and light-headed, and more than a little gleeful. She could not remember ever feeling so free of responsibility in her entire life. Something about the wonder and thrill of travelling numbed the dread of what had become of her home.

Warin picked up speed as the path began to curve away and down. Tagan felt the brief sting of disappointment as they passed through the cloud bank and back out into the clean Swiss air. The threat of snow was heavy in the clouds, which now loomed above them, dark and threatening. Just clouds now, and no longer something wispy or ethereal.

They were heading southwest, following the sweep of the mountains and keeping well above the floor of a broad valley. Sometimes when they stopped for the night they would see the lights of civilisation below, but Warin insisted they keep to his route. When pressed on the subject, he claimed repeatedly that it was more direct. Tagan was beginning to harbour suspicions that he was not being entirely truthful with them.

The path beneath them began to widen out and Warin increased the pace. He was pushing himself hard today. She felt it in the play of the horse’s muscles across his neck and flank, and in the heavy panting of both horses as they ran for all they were worth. She couldn’t get rid of the faintest tickle of guilt that she was not contributing to their efforts. The days of riding had already made her legs and back ache, but she knew that it would pass. Their food was meagre, and although Warin hunted and provided meat for the fire, amidst the mountains, pickings had not been good. All three of them had lost weight and were tired, even Tagan.

She reached her arms more tightly around Warin’s neck and hugged him fiercely. ‘We need to stop for a while,’ she said quietly. ‘Mathias is getting left behind.’ It was true; the pony was entirely failing to keep pace. Warin snorted, tossing his magnificent mane, and dropped into a gentle trot before stopping altogether. The pony caught up a few minutes later.

Tagan slid off the horse’s back and crossed to Mathias. She patted his neck gently. ‘We have to stop,’ she said. ‘We can’t keep up this pace. It’s killing you both.’

Warin shifted form first, Mathias following his lead. The fierce man folded his arms across his barrel chest and studied Tagan. ‘It’s not killing us,’ he said, defensively. ‘It is just hard work. Isn’t that right, boy?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been a horse before. Am I supposed to have this burning in my chest?’ Sweat rolled off his forehead and there was a pallor to his skin that did not look at all healthy. Tagan put a hand to his cheek and frowned.

‘You’re running a fever,’ she said. ‘I think maybe you have caught some illness in the mountains.’ On cue, Mathias sneezed, startling all three of them. He grinned sheepishly, then sneezed again. Tagan tightened her lips and set her jaw.

Mathias knew that look.

She turned to the Shapeshifter. ‘Warin, he’s ill and needs warmth and rest. We aren’t like you. We haven’t lived our lives like this. We’ve barely been beyond the borders of our village before. He needs to stop. There is no way we can keep this kind of pace up. Is there no other way to find this Pirate King?’

Warin studied Mathias for a few minutes, and the gruff exterior melted away under a look of genuine concern. ‘If he is unwell, then he should not shift. Human illnesses can sometimes... I don’t know the word... change, when you are in animal form. Become something worse.’ He studied the pair. ‘I cannot hope to carry you both. Let’s find somewhere to rest for now and I will think on what to do.’ They had never heard him speak so kindly. For a moment, suspicion flickered into Tagan’s eyes, but she saw that Warin’s kindness was not forced.

‘Thank you,’ she said, crossing to him and taking his gnarled and dirty hands in her own. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, where she could find a patch of skin beneath the wild beard.

‘Get on with you, girl.’ He pushed her gently away, but he seemed pleased. Fire, after all, was not her only magic. ‘Get the boy as warm as you can and stay safe. I will be back before night falls.’ Without waiting to explain further, he shifted into horse-form and set off at top speed. Tagan watched him go and felt a sliver of fear in her heart. She fought it down and turned her attentions to Mathias, who was sniffling pitifully. She needed to concentrate her efforts into caring for her betrothed.

‘I can see a cave a little way up the cliff side,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘Let’s go inside.’

He wrapped his fingers into hers and let himself be led up the hill a little way. She watched him carefully. There were high spots of colour on each cheek and his eyes were far too bright. Whatever he was suffering was probably nothing serious, but enough to lay him low for a while. And
he
was the one with the knowledge of plants and herbs and healing poultices. But she did not let her concern show. She watched him carefully as they walked, still hand in hand, to the cave.

The cave, once they stepped inside, clearly barely deserved the name. It was large enough for the two of them to take shelter, as long as they kept huddled close together, and at least it was better than sitting on the freezing ground outside. She made sure he was as comfortable as he was likely to get and conjured a small fire to keep them both warm and to light the tiny space. There was no wood for her to burn, but it didn’t matter when she could manipulate fire however she pleased. She selected a flat spot on the floor, and within a few short moments a small, cheerful fire was crackling on the stone.

Just the sound was comforting. She had conjured a number of cooking fires during the days of travel, but this was different. This was a fire purely for warmth and protection. She felt her affinity with the element swell as she listened to the gentle pop of the flames. There may have been no wood to burn, but Tagan knew how a comforting home fire should sound.

Shadows flickered and danced on the walls, and she watched them for a while until her eyes grew heavy with a weariness she had been denying for a few days. She curled around the already-sleeping Mathias to wait for Warin’s return.

There was nothing more she could do.

Bavaria

Germany

W
EAVER AND HIS
knights came to a stop at the brow of a grassy hill. Below them, a dark, rolling forest stretched northwards as far as the eye could see. It was periodically studded with lakes, rivers and crags, and the ten knights stared at it uncertainly. If the people they sought were hidden within those woods, it would take a hundred men a lifetime to dig them out. The Lord Inquisitor peered at the forest for a long time and then slowly turned in the saddle until he looked south.

‘They were here,’ he declared after a while. ‘They passed this way.’ The knights shared a puzzled look but did not argue. After the episode in the farmhouse, they had been increasingly wary of Weaver, not entirely convinced that they weren’t following a madman. Once they left France behind, they had slowed their pace and both man and beast had been grateful for the respite. With no certain way of replacing them, they could not longer afford to be so hard on the animals.

Weaver pointed to the forbidding mass of the mountains that lay to the south. ‘There. They have gone south. If we make haste, we should be able to catch them before they reach the peaks.’

The Lord Inquisitor spurred his mount and they once again began to ride.

The Alps

Switzerland

W
HEN
T
AGAN WOKE
, dusk had long passed and stars twinkled in the sky beyond the mouth of the cave. The magical fire had burned out not long after she had fallen asleep, and she was shivering in the cold night air. She reignited the fire and turned her attentions immediately to Mathias. The chill could be dangerous. Much to her relief, he was still sleeping, and the heat of his fever had subsided a little. She kissed his cheek softly and drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

Warin had promised to return before nightfall, and he had not made good on that promise. She didn’t believe for a second that the gruff man had abandoned them to their fate in the mountains. She
wouldn’t
believe it. There was some other explanation for his prolonged absence. Everything would be fine.

She stretched over Mathias to reach the bag that she had carried with her from Warin’s camp in the forest, and rummaged through it. There was a little cold meat left over from a kill a day or two before and some flat fire-baked bread. She ate them hungrily and took a sip of water from the waterskin. The hills had been hard to traverse, but at least had offered fresh water from the many little rivers and streams. They could survive long enough to cross the mountains. The thought of it calmed the roiling anxiety in her gut.

Mathias continued to sleep, but he responded well enough when she shook him gently to make sure that he
was
simply sleeping and hadn’t passed into unconsciousness. He grumbled and curled up tighter, muttering something about ‘five more minutes,’ and her worries melted still further. He had just caught a cold or something of that ilk. She remembered the time her father had been ill with a similar thing; he had been certain his days were numbered.

She patted his back fondly and squeezed past him to take a look out of the cave entrance, and gasped in delight. It was the first time that she had truly looked up into the night sky since they had left the confines of the forest. At every stopping point, as they travelled through the hills and valleys, they had been in some way sheltered: clumps of pines, overhangs... But from the cave on the side of the cliff, her view of the diamond-studded night sky was completely and utterly unobstructed.

Not a single cloud spoiled the view of the thousands of twinkling stars decorating the velvet sky. She stared up into the beauty of the heavens and all of her worries melted away. She instinctively felt drawn to the power of the world and all that made it such a glorious place. A fleeting understanding of her own tiny insignificance filled her soul, but rather than bringing despair in its wake, she felt intense gratitude.

I may be as nothing next to the heavens above me,
she thought,
but I am here, nonetheless.

‘Tagan!’

Warin’s voice. She turned to see the red-haired man stomping up the side of the hill towards her. She pulled herself out of the cave entrance and waved to attract his attention.

‘Over here,’ she called, watching her breath ghost in the air before her. Warin nodded and made his way across the grass and rocks to her side.

‘How is he?’

‘He will be fine,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘He just needed rest, I think.’

‘Good. Come morning, we need to be on the move again. We have not so far to go. I have made a change of plans. De Luna will come to us.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Once we are together, we can increase our speed. We will be much quicker.’

Tagan looked at him and saw a flicker of concern in his eyes. ‘What is it?’ In the depths of her soul she was afraid of the answer, but she asked the question anyway. ‘Is something wrong?’

Warin shook his head. ‘I am worried for the boy, nothing more,’ he said, but Tagan was not entirely convinced. He changed the subject before she could pry further. ‘I feel I should warn you about de Luna and his particular brand of nonsense, as well.’

‘Nonsense?’

‘You are a pretty girl. Giraldo de Luna likes pretty girls. You should beware of that.’

Tagan flushed at the unexpected compliment. ‘I am engaged to be married,’ she said, perhaps just a
little
more primly than she would normally have gone for. ‘I am sure he will understand that.’

Warin smiled flatly. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

Hampton Court

England

‘I
UNDERSTAND WHAT
you are saying, Father, but why must I go?’

At nineteen years old, the future King Richard the Sixth was a startlingly attractive man. Thanks to his mother’s blood, his hair was a deep, rich auburn and his eyes were green as ocean pools. The young women at court—and some of the older ones as well— already found themselves watching his every move. Slim, but with the promise of filling out to mirror his father’s muscular build, the young prince was popular amongst the people of his country.

For much of his youth and young manhood, the prince heeded the impassioned words of his father. He knew the importance of destroying magic across the country. He believed all that the King said and he never questioned. At least, he had never questioned
before
. Now, however, he had doubts.

‘Magic is an affliction of the isle that must be purged. I know. I do not need to
see
it.’ He did not whine. It was a simple statement of fact and one that had been taught to him since he was old enough to understand. King Richard lamented the thoroughness of his son’s education every bit as much as he lamented what he was doing. At that particular moment he lamented a great many things. He felt wretched.