Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (27 page)

The shrill cry of a child grabbed his attention and he saw a young boy standing beside the fallen body of his father. The distraction was enough that he did not see the great, red wolf until it landed on top of him and crushed him to the ground. The beast growled and glared down at him with feral rage, but there was an unsettling intelligence in its eyes. Sir Anthony rolled and hurled the animal away before it could strike, its jaws snapping mere inches from his neck.

He did not know if red wolves were natives of the desert, but there was something unnatural about the creature. He raised his sword in front of him as the animal circled him.

The second wolf came from behind him, not nearly as large or as strong, but powerful and quick enough to knock him off balance. He stumbled, and sharp jaws fastened around his arm. Sir Anthony cried out in agony as the beast tore at his flesh, but before he could stab the animal it released him and circled away again.

Blood dripped from his wounded arm and the knight turned slowly, keeping the wavering point of his sword before him. He could still hear the sounds of battle and could faintly make out a lilting, jovial voice among the shouts of the desert folk.

The wolves circled him. One huge and red, the other sleek and dark. Both carried themselves with more certainty than animals had any right to.

The red wolf blinked, and in a moment became a massive bear. It could only be the shapeshifter who had killed his fellow knights on the shores of the lake. The great, red-furred beast reared back on its hind legs and roared, the sound drowning out the din of battle and the screams of the dying.

Sir Anthony’s last thought was of home. Then the bear fell upon him like a living mountain.

Warin and Mathias shifted back into their natural bodies and looked down at the fallen knight. He was thin and ragged, his eyes sunken and his skin burned and raw. Whatever noble bearing he had possessed when he began his journey had been lost upon the way. Now he was just a man. Warin leaned down and closed the dead eyes.

‘He did not deserve to die,’ the Shapeshifter said sadly. ‘Not really. He was only a pawn. But all will be like him if the demon has her way.’

‘There is no time to lose,’ called Eyja from the centre of the oasis pool. The water was rippling out in concentric circles from where she and Tagan stood, and she held a hand over the surface. ‘Giraldo, Warin, come quickly. Mathias, you too!’

Warin and Mathias ran to the water’s edge, closely followed by Giraldo who emerged from between the tents. They plunged into the oasis and Giraldo and Warin immediately mimicked Eyja’s stance, their hands out before them, palms down. The ripples came larger and faster until the whole pool was a churning, frothing mass that climbed up around the people standing inside its embrace.

‘Mathias, Tagan, hold onto each other.’

They already were. The moment he had moved into the waters, they had clasped hands, in equal parts exhilarated and terrified by what lay ahead. As they stood together, the water rose higher and higher. To their hips. Their waists. Their chests.

The sounds of the burning camp, the wails of the dying were fading: as though they were falling away. Mathias could feel Tagan’s hand still clasped in his and he knew, somehow, that everything would be all right. They were still together and they could weather any storm.

Just before the moment of darkness came, the very moment when they stopped being in one place and reappeared somewhere else, he felt something that filled him with absolute dread: fingers closing around his tunic.

21st December, 1589

Stonehenge

England

B
Y THREE IN
the afternoon, the sun was already beginning its slow descent in the west. It had been a mild day for the time of year, but now that night was coming, there was ice in the air. It told in the spill of blood across the skies of southwestern England: in the crimson hues that tinted the edges of the few clouds scudding gently above in the clear sky. With nightfall would come a sharp, biting frost and a starry night.

The ancient site of Stonehenge was enough to take the breath away. Even those not gifted with magic found it awe-inspiring. Prince Richard, riding on the outside of the
Lionheart
with the men of the Royal Guard, drank in the sight before him. He waited eagerly for his father to disembark from the vehicle.

The final few miles of the ride had been particularly unpleasant for King Richard. The
Lionheart
had juddered uncomfortably across tracts of farmland, uneven and nauseating. He had voided the contents of his stomach three times and the inside compartment of the war vehicle stank of vomit. He was glad beyond words to escape its confines as he stepped down to greet his son climbing down from the guards’ bench.

Again came that terrible despair. How hard would it be to just tell his son the truth? Melusine had told King Richard on countless occasions that he was the man upon whose shoulders the future of the English throne rested. In his arrogance, he had always taken this to mean the war with France. But now he feared exactly what it was that the demon wanted with his son, and what it might mean for the future of the throne.

‘Father?’ Prince Richard had been jabbering away to his father as they walked the perimeter of the circle.

‘I’m sorry, my boy. I was... thinking.’

Something about the place made both of them reluctant to walk between the stones, to enter the circle within. Perhaps it was the strong sense of the arcane that emanated from the stones themselves. King Richard could not help but be moved by the sheer beauty of the monument, captured by the dying rays of the winter sun. The very stones appeared alive with an inner, fey light that no stone should possess.

Cautiously, he reached out a hand to touch one of the nearest menhirs, fully expecting a warmth to reflect the amber glow coming from it. But his hand touched nothing but cool, unyielding stone. Implacable and solid. Just like his reign over England had been. The analogy entertained him for a few moments until he remembered watching the men working the quarries. Stone could be broken. It could be hacked and shaped and made into something new, something entirely different.

King Richard snatched his hand back, a wild, discordant ringing of fears sounding in his mind, and the reality of his situation became more and more stark with each passing minute.

‘It’s quite remarkable,’ observed Prince Richard. Not for him his father’s doubt and hesitation. ‘They say that this site is as old as England itself. Why is it, Father, that when you have sought to oust the use of magic in this country, you allow this place to stand?’

Why indeed? It had never seemed necessary, when the magi themselves were hunted by the Inquisition. For a while the circles acted as a lure, bringing practitioners of the arcane from the lands around, and the Inquisition had waited in ambush at the solstices to round them up. The site beyond the borders of Wales had been the first to be destroyed, but when Richard had realised that they
could
be destroyed he had briefly entertained the thought of pulling down the henge as a way of defying the demon.

Melusine had, quite forcefully, advised otherwise.

‘There was never the need. They were useful hunting grounds for the Inquisition,’ he said, eventually. It was close enough to the truth to be acceptable. ‘This site is heavily steeped in magic, but it is kept under watch at all times. No practitioner has been allowed to set foot inside the circle proper since the time of King Richard the Third. No practitioner, but... well. This is a part of your introduction to what it means to be king, my boy.’

‘What do you mean? I thought we were here because of some magi?’ Prince Richard turned his head slightly, studying his father. He had not missed the melancholic tone.

‘When I was a boy, my own father brought me here.’ The lie came smoothly. ‘Together, we walked its perimeter. Alone, I stood inside. I felt the true evil of magic. It... it helped me to understand why it is that the so-called “gift” is an insidious, terrible thing that must be cast out. You are here today to experience that for yourself.’

As the sun gradually began its final descent, sinking into the western horizon until only a sliver of daylight remained, King Richard the Fifth, the Unyielding, the man known to his subjects in whispered tones as the Demon King, raised a hand. Around the perimeter of the circle, the guardsmen began to light candles. His breath was visible in front of his face as he spoke to his son.

‘You are of age, Richard,’ he said. ‘Tonight, you will become a man.’

Tonight,
came a slithering female voice at the very back of his awareness,
he becomes
mine
.

H
E IS FALLING
.

No, not falling. Moving forwards. Backwards. Sideways. Every conceivable direction and several he has no name for. He is everywhere at once, and he is nowhere. He has ceased to exist in a way he understands. Mathias is a simple man; he could not have envisaged a world beyond his own. He glimpses wide open spaces so vast as to defy comprehension, colossal trees and oceans of stars. He slips between the world of men and the hazy shades of the Aetherworld.

He feels as though the very world around him has been pinched tightly together. Turned inside out. He is suddenly acutely aware of the utter insignificance of his being. How could he not be aware of such a thing in the face of the overwhelming power of the three magi... and Tagan... who have brought him to this place of alien beauty?

He can still feel an unwelcome presence nearby, riding close to his own. He tries to shake free, but the grip is like a vice. Resigning himself to it, and to the problem it will very shortly pose, Mathias lets the spell embrace him and carry him onwards.

‘S
TEP INTO THE
circle.’

King Richard shook off the creeping horror of the whispers in his thoughts and smiled in what he sincerely hoped was an encouraging and winning manner at his son. ‘Don’t be afraid. You need to feel the taint of magic’s power so that you may fully understand why we must do... what we must do.’

‘Father, I...’ Prince Richard’s handsome young face was a knot of conflicting emotions. The last sliver of daylight marked the skies above the ancient ritual site. In a few short minutes, the moment would be nigh. Sunset on the shortest day. An hour and moment ordained by a man long dead.

With a fierce, sudden passion, Richard Plantagenet loathed his ancestor. Had the snivelling coward given any real thought to what he was doing when he had succumbed to Melusine’s wiles all those years before? Had he even
cared
that one hundred and more years later, a father was being forced to part with a much-loved son for the sake of the throne of a country that they might no longer control? Richard doubted it very much. Richard the Third’s only interest had been in glory. He had been victorious at Bosworth. The Plantagenets had won the throne, but they had bartered away their freedom. He could waste no further time. He took the prince by the arm and pushed him forward until his feet were inside the circle.

The last of the light fell beneath the horizon. The stones around the circle, the vast and silent monoliths that had been there since the land was young, gave off that same faint amber glow, but this time, there
was
something else. At the far end of the henge, opposite the confused Prince Richard, a figure shimmered into being.

There came a low thrumming sound, an insistent buzz, as though the night had suddenly filled with noisy insects. The King put a hand to the closest stone and this time it
was
warm to the touch. It vibrated with powerful, ancient magic that would not be denied. He felt his heart begin to pound; heard its incessant beat in his ears, a counterpoint to the pulse of magic that throbbed deep in the earth beneath his feet.

The hazy, indistinct figure began to take on a frighteningly familiar shape. Unquestionably female, it took three sure strides toward the prince. Prince Richard, his eyes locked on the shape, took three decidedly faltering steps of his own. His eyes took on a faraway look as a will much greater than his own seized hold of him.

There was a crack in the song of the stones, a discordant note like tearing fabric. The air within the circle shivered in anticipation and King Richard’s heart stopped for a moment or two. When it began again, it pounded in a staccato rhythm of fear and hope.

Not now
.

His thoughts were wild. Perhaps the demon had been wrong? Perhaps his son was not the one she had been waiting for? He stared in abject disbelief as reality bent in the most peculiar way within the circle, and six figures were disgorged to join the ethereal form of Melusine and the mesmerised prince.

T
HE FALLING STOPPED
as abruptly as it had started, and Mathias staggered forwards, dropping to his knees as his feet hit solid ground. The hand clutching the back of his neck released him as Charles Weaver, the Lord Inquisitor, also tumbled to the ground. His four friends, Mathias could see as he raised his head, scrambling to his feet, had not fallen. They landed lightly, with dark, ominous expressions.

The contrast between the heat of the desert and the winter chill of England made Mathias gasp, and he sucked in a deep breath, grateful for the cool, sharp air of his homeland. He tried to orientate himself, muddled by the effects of the spell. The towering slabs of Stonehenge were completely unmistakable and it was dusk. The sun had not long gone down and the sky was a deep, rich blue, speckled with the first suggestion of stars. But darkness would come soon; literally, from what he had come to understand.

The figure of Melusine took on a more solid form as she continued to walk towards the now utterly captivated Prince Richard, but now her way was blocked by the new arrivals. The ragged form of the Lord Inquisitor staggered to his feet and went for one of his guns, still intent on bringing justice to the magi. Without thinking, Mathias threw himself bodily at the man.

The Royal Guard looked uncertainly from the scene unfolding within the henge to the King, who was backing away toward the hulking sides of the
Lionheart
. Richard had no idea what was happening, but the serpentine hiss that issued from the circle as Melusine was denied her prize filled him with dread. The circle was a door, but she was empowered by blood; and right now, there was none to be had.

Mathias swatted Weaver’s hand away from the gun at his belt, but the Lord Inquisitor was quicker by far. His other hand smoothly plucked a knife from beneath his cloak. The blade licked out and Mathias twisted away, but not before the razor edge nicked him. It slashed through the fabric of his shirt, piercing the skin beneath, and spattered crimson drops across the dry floor of the henge.

Richard cringed and fled back to the cannonade. The blood soaked into the ground and, feeding from the gift, Melusine took solid form.

The world held its breath.

M
ATHIAS’S FOCUS WAS
very much on dealing with the wild attacks of the Inquisitor. Until recently, he had never even
seen
an Inquisitor; now, it seemed, he could not be rid of them. Even masked and with his attire tattered and worn he still recognised the man from the lake. It was the same man who had killed Wyn, and of the same Order who had put his father to death. He jumped back as the masked Inquisitor slashed for him again, the blade passing within an inch of his face. He wondered, wildly, why it was that none of his companions was helping him. From the corner of his eye he could see the four of them standing very close together, heads bowed so that they were all but touching each other and a fey light building around them. Tagan did not even seem to notice his struggle.

It was like walking through a nightmare. The distraction nearly killed him. The Inquisitor lunged and it was only Giraldo’s lessons that saved him. Mathias twisted and the dagger slid past his chest, opening another wound. He grabbed the bigger man’s arm before he could withdraw and hauled with every ounce of strength he could muster. Weaver let go of the knife, which tumbled to the ground. The Inquisitor rolled smoothly and came up with another short blade between his fingers, which he flipped at Mathias with a flick of his wrist.

Mathias threw up his hands, willing the blade away, and the expected pain of the weapon never came. The throwing knife bounced harmlessly from the craggy stone that suddenly sheathed his arms. Mathias stared in wonder at the sudden manifestation of his magic and turned to confront the Inquisitor once again. The brute was already moving, sword in hand, and Mathias once again had to defend himself, fending off a flurry of blows with his stony arms. On the third strike he was able to turn and deliver a clumsy punch directly into the man’s masked face.

The Inquisitor rocked back under the blow and staggered. Mathias was shocked by his own success and failed to follow up on his assault. The masked man cast his gaze around the circle and it fell upon the Royal Guard, who were caught between the desire to flee and their duty to their King.

‘Open fire!’ Weaver roared. ‘Kill them all!’

Obedience was immediate.

The air filled with the bark of gunfire and the gathering gloom

lit up with muzzle flashes. The shots passed around the magi and seemed not to touch the demon at all. The air around her was filled with a shimmering haze, as if it were repulsed by her presence. She could no longer reach the prince, but she beckoned to him, and he staggered toward her once again. A stray shot from one of the Royal Guard clipped the young man’s thigh, but he did not notice.