Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (20 page)

A
T FIRST, IT
was hard to make out the shape of the woman amidst the steel grey of the storm clouds. She was wearing a woollen dress of the same shade, and a darker grey cloak that billowed out around her as she soared. Then her hood fluttered down around her shoulders and the pale skin of her face and the white-blonde of her long hair streaming behind her made her obvious. Those who laid eyes on her could not tear their gaze away.

Her voice was raised in a strange kind of song, although the words were in a language that few had ever heard before. Her voice was clear, ringing out through the skies that bore her aloft, and as her fluting soprano rose to an impossibly high pitch, the wind tore into the
Vanguard
. Sailors on deck were thrown from their feet and several were hurled overboard and into the rolling waves. The survivors struggled to recover and crawled on hands and knees back to their positions.

Bursting from beneath the waves, Giraldo let out a cry of delight. His own voice, a rich baritone, rose to join with Eyja’s, a perfect harmony that rose and fell with the swell of the storm. The gale rose and clawed at the
Vanguard
’s sails, tearing them to shreds and plucking sailors from the spars. The foremast splintered and crashed down onto the deck and there was a loud, ominous cracking from the hull as the sea tossed it about.

Flotsam was scooped from the waves and dashed against the vessel. Lengths of flailing rope, spears of broken wood and shards of debris riddled the ship’s prow and flanks, wounding men and savaging the stricken craft. None of it touched the figure standing at the prow with his hands locked on the rail. He stood unmoving, as if rooted to the deck, and stared up at the storm, the flash of lightning reflected from his mask.

The hurricane did not touch the
Hermione
.

Mathias was caught up in the spectacle of it all. He had witnessed

feats of power from Warin and Giraldo and even watched, awed, as they had combined their talents. But this was something else. He glanced at Tagan, who had emerged from below, and her eyes were wider than he had ever seen before. She was gazing up at the woman suspended in the air with wonder and more than a little apprehension.

Giraldo’s crew seemed to have forgotten their earlier worry once they realised that the bad omen was actually on their side. They were pointing up at Eyja, or down at Giraldo as he stood amidst the thunderous waves, and calling out things in their own language.

Warin, on the other hand, was staring up at the woman in the skies with a wistful, eternally sad expression on his face. He did not lend his voice to the ensemble that was gradually forcing the English into retreat.

He just watched.

Despite his wonder, Mathias felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the gruff Shapeshifter. He had never seen anybody look so forlorn or so lonely. There was little time to dwell upon it, however. With a shout and a raucous laugh of delight, Giraldo grabbed hold of the ladder at the side of the
Hermione
and swung himself back up onto deck.

‘Be ready to add some sail and... well, hold onto something,’ he said and the laughter in his voice was infectious. His enthusiasm and delight caught hold among the crew, and they obeyed their captain’s order instantly. ‘We’re heading south! Pay attention! Easy as she goes, now.’ He moved to take a place by Tohias’s side at the helm, and gave the first mate a huge grin. ‘Prepare to come about!’ He patted Tohias’s shoulder and let out a bellowed command.

‘Hard to port!’

The
Hermione
wallowed for a moment, and the deck groaned alarmingly as Tohias spun the wheel in a blur. The ship heeled over to one side and Mathias held fast to Tagan as the spray foamed over the rail. Then the turn was complete and the sails snapped tight.

‘More!’ Giraldo urged. ‘More!’ He laughed as the
Hermione
leapt away from her pursuers and left them foundering in her wake.

Travelling with them in the dark skies overhead, Eyja floated with ease and grace, always staying between them and the wounded
Vanguard
. A silent protector. Silent and beautiful... and exceptionally deadly.

Their speed was such that they soon left the English ship behind, a dwindling dot, lost amidst the storm. Slowly, the gale abated and the rain eased until it was nothing more than another autumn squall. Giraldo looked up into the skies, where patches of pale blue were starting to appear amidst the clouds, and grinned. The greyclad figure was slowly descending toward them.

‘We have another guest on the way, my friends,’ he said, clapping Tohias on the back. ‘Set a southerly course, the winds will see us true.’

‘Where are we headed, Captain?’

‘We should know soon enough,’ came the reply. ‘But for now,
away
will be good enough.’

Giraldo’s eyes and those of everyone aboard
Hermione
were fixed on the slender woman, who was carried to the deck on a gentle breeze. She landed perfectly, her blonde mane falling around a face of ethereal loveliness that drew a sigh of admiration from every man present. Even Tagan stared.

Beside Mathias, Warin made a sound so soft that it was barely audible. It had become apparent what the reasons for the Shapeshifter’s reluctance to work with She Who Sees actually were.

H
ER SPEAKING VOICE
was lilting and musical, as though she were still singing, and Mathias was captivated from the moment she began to talk. The three powerful magi were sitting so close that they were almost touching. Almost—but not quite. Mathias had expected at least Giraldo to embrace Eyja in the same manner he had greeted Warin, but there was some unspoken respect between them. He had contented himself with simply dropping a deep bow before her, as though she were royalty. Giraldo’s eyes had danced with delight and affection as he looked at her, whilst Warin’s were filled with that deep sadness.

Tagan sat with Mathias, leaning into him. Her hand slid into his and she sat possessively close to him. The constant stares of admiration that Eyja drew from the crew had clearly made her anxious.

Warin, Giraldo and Eyja spoke together for a while, including no others. Their voices were kept low and their heads were bent together, as they discussed some matter to which no other was party. Every once in a while, Eyja’s head would rise and she would glance at either Tagan or Mathias. Nothing in her stormy eyes gave away what she was thinking.

Eventually, their council was complete. Giraldo and Warin rose, the latter stomping over to the young couple. ‘She wants to meet you,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Go and talk to her.’ Giraldo also moved away, leaving Eyja seated serenely on deck. A stiff wind continued to fill the sails of the
Hermione
, carrying her steadily south. The skies above them were still scattered with cloud, and the air was chill and sharp as they retreated from the Channel.

Mathias and Tagan, still hand in hand, approached the woman who had appeared so fortuitously and she smiled up at them. It reassured and soothed, and yet there was a sadness in her eyes.

‘Mathias Eynon,’ she said in her lilting voice. ‘And Tagan Stradling. The honour is mine.’ To both of their surprises, Eyja stood gracefully and dropped a curtsey before them. Mathias flared bright pink, but Tagan simply nodded her head politely. Not for the first time since this unlikely journey had started, Mathias could not help but admire his betrothed’s ability to absorb the extraordinary.

‘You are She Who Sees,’ said Tagan, and despite her calm demeanour, her voice was filled with apprehension and awe. The blonde woman nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is one of the names by which I am known. I prefer to go by “Eyja,” if it pleases you to use that instead; it is less unwieldy. Please, sit with me a while. I would hear your tale as you tell it. Warin and Giraldo have given me their parts in what has taken place and it grieves me deeply to hear of the loss of your adoptive father. My condolences, young man.’ She took Mathias’s free hand in her own and bowed her forehead to it. He knew, without understanding, that somehow her grief at Wyn’s death was every bit as real as his own.

‘Thank you,’ he said, unsure of what else he should say. ‘He was a good man.’ He felt a peculiar calm steal over him, and he settled down on the deck. It was not until several minutes later that he realised she still held his hand whilst Tagan held the other. If Tagan cared, she didn’t let it show. She was gazing up into Eyja’s face. The two women’s eyes were locked in a silence that was too deep to intrude upon.

‘You are quite lovely,’ Eyja said, breaking the silence first. Her own free hand came out to caress Tagan’s freckled cheek gently. ‘So full of life. So full of love.’ There was something ominous in the tone she used. ‘A beautiful couple who must be suffering at the hands of a future neither of you understand. But please, have no fear. When we find Akhgar, the one you call “the Wanderer,” then we will be strong enough to bring this all to an end. Have courage. Have faith.’ The hand stroking Tagan’s cheek came down and took the blacksmith’s daughter’s fingers into her own.

‘There now,’ she says. ‘We are joined, the three of us. Always trust in the power of a circle, children. In a circle, all are equal. There is great strength in that. You have learned this, I think?’

‘The stone circles,’ said Mathias. He couldn’t unlock his eyes from her face. ‘Warin called them the bones of the earth. He said that they have a great power.’

‘More than you know,’ said Eyja, moving her gaze back to Tagan. ‘They are the source of all magic. It is through them that we are... gifted as we are.’

Mathias felt a twinge of apprehension at the way she paused, as if a great gulf of meaning lay behind the words, just beyond his reach. He wanted to ask this beautiful, mysterious woman what was happening, what they were going to do, where they were going to go.

‘Hush,’ Eyja pre-empted him. ‘We sail south to Morocco, where we will find the Wanderer. Now leave us, Mathias,’ she said, her eyes still on Tagan. ‘I must speak with Tagan alone. There is a truth that only she may know, at least for now.’

‘But...’

‘Leave us, please.’ Eyja’s voice was commanding, and he reluctantly

got to his feet, letting go of both their hands. Tagan didn’t even look up at him. She reached out to Eyja with the hand that he had freed and held onto the Seer’s hands as though her life depended upon it.

Portsmouth

England

T
HE HEAT IN
the forge was incredible, and the ring of hammers deafening. Isaac Bonnington walked the length of the royal armoury, his gaze roving over the machines, armour and weapons in production and inspecting them with a critical eye. The war was underway, and demand to keep the army supplied was soaring.

The sudden and unwelcome order to launch the
Indomitable
had deeply concerned the engineer; she had left Portsmouth with several decks still unfinished. Regardless, the reports that she had crushed the French fleet had allayed most of his concerns. Now that the
Indomitable
was queen of the seas, he had time enough to work on the
Lionheart.

Isaac turned away from a work gang labouring at one of the furnaces and made his way toward the builder’s hall. Lines of filthy workers smudged with soot and streaked with sweat shuffled past, their ankles bound with iron manacles. The overseer at their back barked at them to stand aside, but Isaac waved a hand absently.

He tried not to dwell on the human cost of his industry. It had once distressed him greatly, many years ago when Richard had first introduced industrial servitude, but he had learned that there was nothing he could do to make a difference. The King had made it quite clear, on the one occasion that he had voiced his concerns, that if Isaac did not want to be the Royal Engineer, there were others who would happily claim the honour.

Isaac had chosen to be pragmatic. He might not have been able to release the workers from their bondage, but he did ensure that they were provided with clean water to drink, and occasionally he would acknowledge younger workers who showed promise. He would hand-pick them and arrange engineering apprenticeships that saw them released from the work gangs and given the possibility of a future. It was an extraordinarily generous thing that he chose to do, and the best he could manage under the circumstances; and it effectively negated some—but not all—of the guilt the work gangs gave him.

He approached the huge double doors to the builder’s hall and nodded to the guards on duty, who unlocked the smaller hatch at the base of the doors and waved him inside. The noise of hammers increased, along with the rhythmic cries of the pulley teams as they worked the ropes. Isaac straightened and dusted himself down, then cast his eyes over the machine taking shape. Even unfinished it was still magnificent. The alchemical engine was the latest innovation to come from the unfathomable mind of the King, a poorly-rendered sketch improved upon and brought into the world by Isaac Bonnington. He watched a huge cannon being lowered slowly into place with a mixture of awe and terror.

When the
Lionheart
was complete, when the fruit of his labours was brought to bear, all nations would crumble before the unstoppable might of England.

The
Hermione

The Atlantic Sea

T
HE WINDS REMAINED
steady and mild for the remainder of the journey. It became quickly obvious that Eyja was able to command the skies without any apparent effort and the
Hermione
did not have to endure any more rain, even with the steady approach of winter. Command and control, it seemed, were parts of her talent. Mathias had been impressed by Giraldo’s easy charm and his ability to manipulate with the right word or phrase; Eyja, he learned very quickly, was able to achieve the same result with little more than a smile.

He also noticed that the smiles rarely reached her eyes. It bothered him. He felt a deep sympathy for this strange, quiet, beautiful woman. Tagan had become her constant companion and he noticed the change that had come over her. She was less impulsive than she had been, more thoughtful and considered in what she said. She’d rather self-consciously tried to make herself look a little more presentable, and had spent time repairing the numerous tears and snags in the only dress she had. The rest of the time, she made do with sailor shirts and breeches that were far too big for her, but at least protected her modesty.

Until Eyja’s arrival, Tagan had remained quietly apart from the crew during the day, understanding—but not necessarily appreciating—the superstitions surrounding women on board. Now, however, wherever Eyja walked, Tagan was always a step or two behind her. It had a clear effect on her confidence, and it made Mathias glad to see her smiling again.

By the fourth day of the journey south, Mathias was beginning to enjoy the routine once more. The daily training sessions with Warin had paid off and he was able now to slip into animal forms with little thought and far less effort than when he had first tried. Giraldo, in turn, was teaching him the basics of handling a sword, with which he was proving to be far less proficient.

‘You don’t think ahead,’ laughed the Pirate King after Mathias had ended up on his backside for the fifth time in a row. ‘You need to anticipate. Learn to read what your opponent
might
do, whilst you deal with what they
are
doing. Did you never play chess?’

‘No,’ replied Mathias, a little sullenly. The humiliation of constant defeat was starting to play on him and it was affecting his performance, not to mention his mood. It wasn’t entirely true; Wyn had tried to teach him to play chess once or twice, but despite his intelligence and his patience, Mathias had never had much of a talent for strategy.

‘Perhaps you should start.’

‘
More
training? Isn’t this enough?’ Mathias brandished the wooden sword fiercely enough to elicit laughter from the Shapeshifter, lounging amidst ropes and nets watching the sparring. Mathias turned on his mentor, a spark of irritation in his eyes. ‘You aren’t helping, Warin.’

‘Swords. I never had any interest in the weapons of men. You’ve seen what I can do. Who needs man-made weapons when you can have claws or teeth? The boy isn’t a natural warrior, de Luna. What are you hoping to accomplish with this farce?’

Giraldo shrugged his slender shoulders. ‘It is a distraction. The boy has taken to brooding.’

Brooding.
For no very rational reason, Mathias was annoyed by Giraldo’s words. What did this
peacock
know of his worries? What did Giraldo de Luna know of uncertainty and homelessness? Time on board the ship was giving him time to think, allowing events to catch up with him. To dwell upon what had happened. And yes, he reluctantly admitted, to brood. Acknowledging the truth did not improve his temper.

Other men might have turned to insult or given vent to their anger. Mathias simply set down the training sword and walked away. But the ship was not that large. There were not many places he could walk to.

But he walked anyway.

The
Vanguard

The Channel

I
T HAD TAKEN
some time to organise the crew in the wake of the damage caused by the magically conjured storm. Following the departure of the
Hermione
, the storm had slowly abated and work had begun to make the vessel seaworthy once more. The
Vanguard
was heavily damaged; one mast was broken, and the hull breached in several places. Debris was dragged from the water and used to patch the holes, and boards were sealed with pitch to keep the waves at bay. Replacement canvas was brought up from the hold and used to make what sails they could. Battered and bruised, the ship limped into Portsmouth harbour three days later.

The Lord Inquisitor was unimpressed by the delay.

With the entire fleet anchored off the coast of France, the only vessels available were cogs and fat-bellied cargo barges. None were suitable for the pursuit of the fleeing
Hermione
, and he could feel her slipping away with each passing day
.
Weaver demanded the men work faster. Work gangs were drafted in to speed the repairs, and worked day and night removing the guns from the damaged decks.

When the
Vanguard
slipped back out into the channel a few days later, she was a shadow of her former self. If Isaac Bonnington had seen what had become of his beautiful ship, he would undoubtedly have wept.

‘My lord, surely it would be wiser to return to the fleet?’ The
Vanguard
’s captain, an increasingly stressed man by the name of Henry Hudson, was trying desperately to convince the Lord Inquisitor to change his mind. ‘She’s in poor shape. Any further damage will see her at the bottom of the sea. And even with fair winds and every strong man at the oars, we cannot hope to catch a ship propelled by magic. We...’

Weaver turned slowly on the spot to glare at Hudson through the slits in his mask and the captain’s words died in his throat. The six knights accompanying the Lord Inquisitor stood at his back, their own expressions fixed in steely determination.

‘Never presume to tell me my business, Captain Hudson,’ he rumbled menacingly. ‘Here are my orders and you will see fit to obey them. You will set your men to the oars and they will row harder than they have ever done before. We are going to make up as much lost time as we can. When we reach our destination,
then
you can do what you want with this ship. Not before. Is that quite clear?’

The unfortunate captain found his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. He swallowed thickly. ‘Yes, my lord. Might I ask about our course?’

‘Set her to the south, Captain Hudson,’ Weaver said. ‘We are heading to Morocco.’

December, 1589

The
Hermione

Morocco

F
OR THE PAST
forty years, the Portuguese had insisted on referring to the port as Casa Branca. The military fort standing strong and proud on its overlook above the port kept a close eye on the many vessels passing through on their way to exotic eastern lands. Quick action put a stop to the worst of the pirate raids.

‘Anfa,’ Giraldo said wistfully as the
Hermione
made her way up the narrow channels leading to the busy port. ‘She will ever be Anfa to me. I had some fine times here in days gone past.’

Seeing Warin roll his eyes and sensing that the Pirate King was about to embark on one of his lengthy tales, Mathias made a quick move to forestall it before it began. Warin’s patience, always thin to begin with, had started to fray in the time it had taken to sail to the coast of Morocco. He had little wish to bear witness to another blazing argument between the pair.

Even with the onset of winter, the weather had grown hot as they travelled further south. For both Warin and Eyja, used to more temperate climes, the heat was oppressive. Eyja adjusted to it more quickly, but Warin seemed to visibly wilt as the heat sapped his stocky body of strength. Mathias thought on this as he asked Giraldo about the sights and spectacles of the approaching town.

‘Give it a few days,’ he said mildly. ‘Warin is a solitary creature, rough and full of bluster, but he will adapt. It is what he does best.’ Mathias shrugged and focused on the remarkable sights before him.

The young man pointed to a high tower, with a domed top and intricately worked detail in rich turquoise. ‘What is that place?’ He was captivated by its beauty, by its clean lines, as it stood at the waterline, waves lapping lightly at its base.

‘That’s a mosque,’ said Giraldo, happy to be the guide in this instance. ‘It is where the people of Anfa go to pray to their god.’ His usually cheery expression grew serious. ‘We have timed our arrival well. When you first hear the call to prayer, it can be something you never forget.’ His expression grew wistful. ‘I know I have never forgotten it.’

The mosque loomed larger and larger as the
Hermione
passed by, and all eyes were drawn to its magnificence. The white buildings that made up the port city were so brilliant, so different from anything that Mathias and Tagan had ever seen.

‘Whatever else happens,’ said Mathias in a low voice filled with wonder, ‘I will always be glad for seeing this.’

The
Hermione
became a bustling hive of activity as the crew made ready to drop anchor. Voices rose and people ran around the deck, winding in rope and trimming the sails. Eyja, her heavy cloak neatly folded and slung over one arm, seemed perfectly comfortable in the warmth of the late afternoon sun as she joined Mathias, Tagan and Giraldo at the rail.

‘Anfa,’ she said, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘So...
dusty
. Why he ever chose to stop wandering in this part of the world...’

‘Who knows why he does anything, Eyja?’ said Giraldo. The mysterious exchange meant little to Mathias. ‘Where’s Warin?’

‘In your cabin, making the most of the shade, or so he tells me.’ Eyja smiled fondly. ‘Once we land, he will join us. What is our plan, dear one?’

‘There is a tavern in Anfa where we can spend the night,’ he replied. ‘Tomorrow, the
Hermione
will leave. If the Inquisitor really wants to find us, and he seems remarkably good at doing that, then I would prefer it if he didn’t find my lady of the sea. He’s unlikely to catch up to her. And besides, my Tohias can run circles around that English ship. If someone could see fit to give them a good wind out of port tomorrow morning, they should get enough of a head start to get clear.’ He gazed up at the ship’s figurehead and sighed. ‘I’ll miss her, but... well. Needs must, as the saying goes.’ He grinned. ‘Tohias is no doubt sick of me bringing him into port only to send him away again, but he is my first mate for a reason.’

Eyja smiled her dazzling smile and inclined her head. ‘It will be as you ask,’ she said, before returning her attention to the port city. Her arms stole across the shoulders of Tagan and Mathias. ‘Tonight,’ she said, ‘you will see what free people do with the gift of magic. You will see the wonder that King Richard the Lionheart hoped to bring to his people so many years past.’ She raised her head and inhaled the dust and riotous scents of the port town.

T
HE
H
ERMIONE
DOCKED
without further ceremony, and despite a few suspicious glances from the locals, there was no trouble. A portly man with a deep voice and skin tanned darker than Mathias or Tagan had ever seen before approached them, speaking in a language that sounded similar to that he had heard used amongst Giraldo’s pirates.

‘Portuguese,’ murmured Eyja. ‘That is Anfa’s port master. Giraldo will soon deal with him. Just watch.’

The clink of coins was slow and deliberate as Giraldo pressed them into the man’s palm. He smiled with all the considerable charm at his disposal and the port master smiled back, displaying a mouthful of dazzling white teeth. Or mostly white—the gold caps in his mouth stood out startlingly.

The port master turned from Giraldo and dropped a ridiculously over-exaggerated bow. ‘Welcome to Anfa, travellers!’

Eyja nodded politely and smiled at him. Tagan followed her mentor’s example and smiled as prettily and nicely as she could muster. The port master made an expansive sweeping gesture towards the town.

‘Where is Warin?’ Mathias looked around. Giraldo shrugged.

‘He said he’ll follow on later. Let him be; he has one of his bad moods upon him. He will get over it. Come. Come see the town. You will never have known anything like it.’

His excitement was undeniably infectious, and they followed him eagerly as he led them into the white-walled Moroccan town. It felt oddly enclosed once they stepped through the archway that Giraldo led them through, and the day, already fading to dusk, seemed to become a little darker. But it was not in any way threatening.

The smells hit them first: roasting meats and sweet, burned sugar that lingered in the nostrils and lured them towards the traders plying their wares. Both Mathias and Tagan were used to markets and had even experienced a travelling fair, but this was something else entirely. The closest market stall was trading meat of some kind, sold in big, succulent-looking slices.

But the trader did not have any kind of campfire or grill set up to cook his wares. Instead, he was roasting the steaks with short bursts of fierce fire that he seemed to conjure from his own fingertips. Mathias felt the tingle of magic and Tagan clapped her hands together in delight.

‘He is like me,’ she said excitedly. ‘He conjures fire! Oh, look!’

Already the mage was forgotten as Tagan’s attention was caught by another trader, a woman selling fine silk cloth. The beautiful fabrics were a vast array of colours and designs, and before their eyes, she was passing her hand over the weave and altering the shades to her customer’s tastes.

‘It used to be better. It used to
thrive
,’ complained Giraldo, apparently heedless of the packed
souk
. He half-closed his eyes and allowed memories of past glories to surface. Nobody noticed.

Everywhere they looked, they saw magic used in different ways. Some obvious and remarkable, such as the woman selling the silks; others more mundane but no less extraordinary. A young boy carried a pail of water on a cushion of air before him. Eyja gave him the sweetest smile as he passed her. An obviously wealthy merchant, given his fine attire and arrogant bearing, had employed a young woman to conjure gentle winds to keep him cool in the evening heat. A train of robed monks followed a softly glowing cross as it led them on their long pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They maintained a soft chant, musical and tuneful, and with each rise in pitch, the cross glowed just a little brighter, fed by their magic and their faith in equal measure.