Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (17 page)

‘You knew we were being followed.’ Her tone was accusing; the Shapeshifter did nothing to deny it.

‘I felt in the earth that there were men at our backs, but we were ahead of them. I had hoped to be gone from here before they arrived. It seems we are not so fortunate.’

As the men drew closer they saw that the horses were in terrible condition, their flanks lathered in sweat and painfully thin. Their riders were little better, their eyes ringed by dark circles and their cheeks hollow. They charged with a grim determination, though, and when the final rider came in sight, Mathias immediately understood why.

‘That’s an Inquisitor!’ His eyes widened in fear and shock. It was impossible to be sure behind the mask, but Mathias suspected that it was the same one he had seen at the stone circle in Wales. The man who had probably killed Wyn.

Giraldo sniffed and drew his weapons. ‘They don’t look like much, do they, Red? What do you say? You take the five on the left and I’ll take the five on the right?’

The horsemen spread out as they approached, forming a line that the magi could not hope to escape on foot. The Inquisitor hung back and slowed his steed to a more sedate pace, cantering along behind his warriors.

‘Warin,’ Mathias hissed to the Shapeshifter. ‘I think that’s the same Inquisitor that was after us at home!’

Warin’s head snapped around and he fixed Mathias with a look of such primal ferocity that the young man shrank back in shock. ‘The one that killed Adelmo?’ He shook his head and snarled. ‘And destroyed the circle?’

Mathias nodded.

There was an inrush of air and Warin was gone, and in his place stood an enormous red-furred bear. The beast reared up on its hind legs to tower close to ten feet in height. It opened its mighty jaws and bellowed a challenge at the oncoming warriors. The sound was deafening, and a couple of the horses reared in terror, throwing their riders to the ground.

Giraldo looked askance at the massive animal as it crashed back onto all fours. ‘I’ll take that as a “yes,” then.’ He turned to Mathias and Tagan and flashed them a dazzling smile. ‘Don’t worry. Just stay out of the way and we will have all this sorted out in a moment. We have them outnumbered, after all.’

Warin took off at a lumbering run, his massive bulk quickly gaining speed as he charged. Giraldo, by contrast, looked as though he were out for a casual stroll as he walked toward the horsemen. It was a ludicrous sight, the great beast and the peacock preparing to make war on trained warriors, and Mathias could not help but fear for them. He felt small and powerless, and he hated it. Tagan slipped her hand into his, and together they watched their friends prove their fears baseless.

There was a tangible moment of terrible calm before the impact, a frozen tableau of peace before the explosion of violence that followed. Warin surged into the first of the horses, knocking it to the ground. A second horseman tried to strike at him as he did so, the sword missing his hide by a whisker. The first knight rolled to his feet and turned just as the bear lunged over his thrashing horse. He had a heartbeat to look shocked before one of the bear’s massive paws struck him in the chest, hurling his body into the air, trailing blood.

Giraldo leapt between the two closest horsemen, his sword and dagger flickering faster than they could raise their weapons in defence. The Pirate King balanced nimbly, one foot on each steed, as their owners flopped limply from the saddle. They were not dead, but they would also require substantial care to get back on their feet. Giraldo hopped onto the back of one of the vacant horses and from there sprang at the next.

‘They could really do it!’ Tagan’s voice was breathless. Her awe at the prowess of the two magi eclipsed her horror at the violence taking place yards from where she stood. Warin swatted another warrior from his horse, clamped his jaws around the screaming man and shook him like a rag doll until the struggling stopped. He and Giraldo seemed invincible.

Then the Inquisitor galloped from behind the mêlée with a pistol drawn and trained directly on Mathias. Tagan saw him. There was no time to cry out; without even thinking, she stepped in front of the man she loved and spread her hands in denial.

The pistol roared.

Warin and Geraldo turned at the sound of gunfire and were just in time to see Tagan blasted backwards into Mathias and the pair of them driven into the lake by the impact. A cry of very human denial escaped Warin’s lips as he once again assumed human form. He barged one of the unhorsed knights aside and dived into the water. De Luna was there a moment later and vanished beneath the surface.

The Lord Inquisitor cantered to a stop and drew his second pistol. Then he waited.

He waited a long time.

The Island of the Seer

Denmark

T
HE ISLAND WAS
remote enough from the mainland that it offered privacy, but still allowed those who dared to petition for her services to make their way there. The difficulties travelling to the island presented were manifold and thus, visiting the seer was the last, desperate act of those poor souls who sorely craved the benefit of her wisdom and her remarkable skills.

The weather at this time of the year did not make the crossing from the village on the mainland a pleasant experience. The coracles that had to be rowed across the choppy, treacherous waters and navigated into the rocky cove were small and unreliable. Local legend said that only those with honest and entirely unselfish need could make it to the seer’s island alive.

The sky that morning was a leaden grey, threatening another deluge of cold rain that would soon become sleet and snow. A sliver of silvery-gold outlined the dark clouds, but it was the only hint of daylight in an omen-heavy sky. The wind raced across the caps of the waves, whipping them into foam, and howled mournfully around the jagged coast. Strange, twilight shadows haunted the cliffs and sighed in despair at the little vessel bobbing in the sea.

The boat’s single occupant tugged at the oars, riding the crest of another violent wave that seemed determined to send him back to the mainland, but his resolve was strong. He was trying to reach the Seer’s island for good reason, and he would get there whatever it took. He was Brynjolf Gellirson. Over many a tankard of good ale, he had boasted that he feared nothing. Why, then, was he so scared now?

The rising gale dragged the swell into something more than he could handle and he felt the balance of the tiny boat starting to slip from his control. Still Brynjolf rowed, purpose setting his jaw in a grim line. He had too much at stake to give up now. Other, lesser men would have been beaten by the elements and allowed the tides to carry them away, battered and defeated. It happened often. Even the most determined and the most desperate, the strongest and the most able would struggle against the storm for hours, even days, but fatigue or despair would eventually overtake them. Crushed and exhausted, they surrendered themselves back to the tides. The winds would slowly drop and the gentlest of sea breezes would carry them back to the coast.

Not Brynjolf. He would not be turned back. It had taken every ounce of courage he possessed to make the attempt on the Seer’s island. He had never shied away from a challenge in his entire life, and he was not about to start.

‘Seer!’ He screamed to be heard over the wind. It blew his long flaxen hair about his face and whipped it into his eyes like sharp twine. ‘I will not be defeated! I must speak with you!’ The boat shuddered beneath him, banking so sharply that he was flung to its wooden bottom. He got splinters in his cheek and the sting was exacerbated by the salt water. His eyes blurred, and he struggled to get back to his feet.

‘Eyja!’ He poured his heart and soul into his cry, and prayed to the gods—to whom he at least swore quiet allegiance—that she would hear the desperation that had driven him out here.

As he screamed the Seer’s name, there was a momentary break in the cruel weather. The wind hesitated, and buoyed by the change, Brynjolf tried again. ‘Eyja, please! I
must
see you!’ He cringed, anticipating the storm’s return. But to his surprise, the gale died abruptly. There was no gradual decline from hurricane to breeze; just the merest whisper of an autumn zephyr that brought a hint of winter to Brynjolf’s senses. The sea calmed as though the maelstrom had never been. The waves remained foam-tipped, but the surface became calm enough for him to row to the sanctuary of Eyja’s cove.

You are a brave man, Brynjolf Gellirson, to use my name so freely. Brave, or foolish. Which are you?

Her voice came on the gusts lapping the waters around the coracle, as he secured it against the pull of the tide. It whispered in his ears, in his thoughts, and above all else, in his soul. Her voice was gentle, the caress of a quiet lover, and he felt his anxieties and troubles float away.

Legend would have had him believe that Eyja, the woman who over time had simply become known as the Seer, lived in a dark cave, hiding from a world that had wronged her. It came as some surprise to him to discover a neatly kept little cottage with careful thatch, nestling within the shelter of the cliffs rising on the island’s west side. The dwelling showed no signs of the weather, and could have been built that very morning. It was made of rough, uncut stone and smooth, pale wood, and was startlingly devoid of bird droppings. This seemed even more peculiar when one took into account the vast number of seabirds congregating on the shore. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, their voices raised in angry, squawking dispute. A never-ending battle for supremacy.

Brynjolf began walking up the pebble beach that led to the Seer’s cottage, his steps hesitant and uncertain.

Don’t be afraid, Brynjolf. You have come this far. Do you think I would harm you now? Do you fear that I will cast you down to the rocks and leave you broken? Or perhaps you believe the tale that I dine on the flesh of those who drowned in their attempts to reach me?

He didn’t respond. He had heard the tales, and did not relish the idea of finding out if any of them were true. He faltered now, afraid to enter the woman’s sanctuary and lay his problem before her. It was the final test. Elements could be defied, wind and sea overcome by strength or skill, but there was no greater enemy to a man than his own heart.

Brynjolf set his jaw and buried his doubts. His despair was too great to turn back now. He felt the hesitance in his steps melt away and strode with purpose to the door of the cottage. He did not allow himself the time to dwell upon what he was about to do as he pushed it open. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the incense-laden air.

Immediately, a sense of peace stole over him, a feeling he had long forgotten, and he breathed more easily than he had done in many days. He could feel the weight of his worries rise from his shoulders, lifted into the curling smoke and carried away from him.

The windows of the little cottage were small and dim, and the grey light filtering from outside barely illuminated the pale haze. Brynjolf glanced around the interior. Everything was swathed in shadow and heady scent, making him feel as though he was caught up in some kind of dream. A
good
dream, though. He couldn’t remember being so relaxed.

‘What brings you to my threshold, Brynjolf Gellirson?’

He could hear her, but he could not see her. Whilst this was more than a little perplexing, he found he did not mind. To hear the Seer’s voice was like listening to a choir of heavenly voices working in harmony, many-layered and tantalising. It was musical and lilting, low in pitch, reminding Brynjolf of being a younger man, when first he’d looked for love. Thinking of such things reminded him sharply of his reasons for battling the gale to reach her.

‘Seer, I need to beg a favour of your gift of foresight. The future of my line is in doubt, and my standing in the village weakens.’

The shadows in the corner shifted and a figure emerged. The Seer was tall, and although she seemed slender, the heavy robe she wore hid her figure. The hood was drawn up and over her face. All Brynjolf could see of her features beneath were a few wisps of pale blonde hair and a glimmer of eyes the colour of rock pools after a storm.

‘The future of your line? Your woman has lost another babe?’

Brynjolf wondered how she could possibly have known that, but then reminded himself of whose house he stood in.

He did not know how easily she read people, their expressions, their choices, and the way they stood. He also didn’t know how frequently she moved amongst the people of the coast—unknown and unseen—and listened to the tales and the gossip.

She sought always to avoid the use of her power if she could. It was not as folk believed it to be. She did not scry, or read the fates in a bowl of water, or bloody entrails or sodden herbs. It was a blade that cut two ways.

In the many years she had lived here, she had bestowed her gift on fewer than a score of people.

‘Four she has lost now,’ confirmed Brynjolf. ‘And she is carrying a fifth. The healers say that all is well, that she is carrying as she should, but the fifth moon approaches. Each babe has been lost at this time. I must know, Seer. Will this child live? Will it live and continue my line? Will she give me a son? I cannot bear to lose another.’

It was the unspoken that moved the Seer. Brynjolf’s words seemed selfish, that he cared only for his continued status amongst his people. But she heard the tremor in his voice, saw the light of fierce love and loyalty in his eyes. He was here for his wife just as much as he was here for himself.

‘Calm yourself, Brynjolf,’ she said, and her tone became kinder, softer. He took a deep breath and looked up at her, tears in his eyes.

‘I would give all that I have to see this child live.’

The Seer closed the distance between them and put a long, slender finger to his lips. He fell silent, startled by the gesture.

‘Be careful what you wish for, Brynjolf. It may yet come to pass. Now sit. I will make tea. We will talk, and together, you and I, we will look at the future.’ She took her finger from his lips and steered him gently by the shoulder down into a chair by a small table. Then she reached up and pushed back her hood.

Her beauty was breathtaking. To believe the women of the village, the Seer had to have seen at least sixty winters, yet she did not look to have seen more than thirty at most. Her skin was alabaster pale with the faintest hint of rose touching her cheeks. There was not a line, not a wrinkle to be seen. The skin looked soft and plump and flawlessly smooth. Her grey eyes were mesmerising and he could hardly bring himself to drag his attention from that stormy gaze. Her long, white-blonde hair, freed from the hood, fell about her elfin face; the small, pointed chin and the exquisite rosebud lips. She seemed more a child’s doll than a flesh and blood woman.

Brynjolf gazed up at her, his eyes wide and adoring, and she gave him a very slight smile before reaching over and gently pushing his jaw closed. ‘Close your mouth, Brynjolf, I have no need of a fly catcher.’

Embarrassed, he looked away and focused on the hazy smoke rising through the shafts of light slanting in through the window whilst the Seer moved around her cottage. Her movements were light and graceful, and there was an elegance to her as she filled two cups from the kettle hanging over the cook fire. She crumbled pungent herbs into the water and carried them to the table.

‘Chamomile and vanilla,’ she said, by way of an explanation. She pushed a pot of clear honey towards him. ‘Add as much or as little as you need to blunt the bitterness. It will calm you. Then we will talk.’ Again, that little smile that brought more light to him than any of the windows. He nodded and put a spoonful of honey into his tea, copying her lead. A tentative sip surprised him with its taste.

Halfway down the cup, he could already feel himself begin to calm. Even the simple act of sipping the tea served to relax him, and the Seer knew her remedies well. She set down her mug and reached over to catch Brynjolf’s free hand in both of her own. Her hands were as soft and smooth as the skin on her face, contrasting with Brynjolf’s calloused and worn hands: hands that worked ropes and trawled nets. Hands that built and shaped and gave so much to the village in which he lived. He was a hard worker, a kind-hearted man in a strong, healthy body. He worked too hard sometimes, often more hours than were good for him, but everything he did, he did for others. There was nobility in his bearing and strength in everything he did.

In another lifetime, she might have said he had a Viking spirit. But that age had passed. The memories and the legends lived on, but the world was not what it had been.

He looked up into her eyes, puzzled by the sudden contact. She was examining his hand thoughtfully, tracing a finger across the lines of his palm and concentrating hard. Her expression was neutral and unreadable.

‘Your wife carries a boy-child,’ she said, quietly. ‘The son that you both yearn for. The infant who will bear your name and continue your line. How far back can you trace your ancestry, Brynjolf?’

‘Many generations,’ he replied, captivated by her words and filled to the brim with joy at the news his wife carried a son. The joy was quickly pierced with fear as he remembered his reasons for his journey here. ‘My son...’ he began.

‘Hush,’ she replied, mildly. ‘Be still. I need you to close your eyes for me, Brynjolf. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Relax. Let your body rest for a while. You are safe here. Safe and protected from the world beyond this door.’ She continued in this manner for a little while and he did everything as instructed, closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet-smelling smoke deeply. He could feel himself slipping deeper into the dream that had crept upon him as he had entered.

He felt the softest of breezes caress his face, and in his imagination, he fancied that he was riding the prow of his fishing boat, looking out to sea and fighting back ancestral memories that urged him to become something more than just a fisherman. A small smile touched his lips.

A fey white light played about Eyja, and everything that Brynjolf had been and could ever be stretched out before her. A million— and more—moments of joy, pain, laughter and sadness. The Seer, the Weaver, She Who Sees—all these were names by which she had been known during her life, and all of them spoke truth. She could read the lives of those few who came before her and, if the need was great, redirect the winds of fate to alter what would be. But the cost was equally great.

The cost was
too
great.

For every life saved, another would be lost in its place. For every misfortune prevented, another must be suffered. Men and women had come to her, begging on their knees for her intervention. She had given it, and they had thanked her and left with joy in their hearts. Then she would force herself to watch and endure the consequences. The Seer hated the thing which others called a ‘gift.’ It was a curse, nothing more.