Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (6 page)

Weaver sat atop his destrier and gazed down at the desperate villager. He was healthy for a peasant, his skin browned by outdoor work and his rough clothing of better quality than the Inquisitor commonly saw among the lower classes. A small nod encouraged the man to speak further, and he did.

‘There are only a few families living here. Six babes in arms, my lord. Six babies, and some older children. We do nobody any harm. We are peaceful. We grow our crops with our magic, nothing more. Please, my lord. We want and expect nothing from the Crown. Please, leave us be.’

‘Do you practise magic openly?’

‘No!’ A hesitation before the unfortunate man changed his mind. He looked beyond Weaver to the retinue he had brought with him. Thirty strong men on horses, armed variously with crossbows and swords. ‘Yes,’ he amended. ‘But we only do it here, we don’t teach it to others. I thought that if we kept quiet, looked to our own, that we might be left alone, too. We use magic, yes. But we keep it to ourselves and only use it for good...’

Weaver snorted. Then he spoke in his deep, rich tones. ‘And who, pray tell, are you to judge what is good or otherwise? The law of the land is quite clear’—Weaver looked down at the scroll he had taken from the Tower—‘Master Edward Mason. Yet you not only ignore it, you openly flout it. You think to wave your notion of “good” at me as though it is some kind of defence?’

Weaver rolled up the parchment and slid it back into its case. He reached up, and for a moment, Edward Mason thought he would remove his mask. But Weaver’s fingers only touched its contours, a gentle caress down the featureless metal. He invested his next words with all the authority at his disposal, yet still with that tone of bored disdain. ‘By order of His Majesty King Richard the Fifth of England, it is my duty to confirm that, in the sight of the most Royal Inquisition, this village has sinned. Its evil will be cleansed from the land by fire and the curse of magic cast out. By order of the King...’ He leaned forward and dropped his voice to barely more than a whisper. ‘By order of the King and by order of the Lord Inquisitor.’

‘Magic is not a curse.’ The man’s passion was evident in every syllable as he allowed his fervour to overtake his fear and desperation.

Several of Weaver’s retinue sucked in their breaths loudly and shook their heads. Mason ignored them and forged on. ‘Magic is no curse. It has blessed us. Through our magic, our crops have grown strong. See!’ He gestured down the valley to the fields rippling in the wind.

‘Hoarding food is a crime. Keep going, Master Mason. With every word you forge the nails for your own coffin. Keep speaking.’

Mason pressed on, desperate now. ‘It has cured sickness and given us healthy children. We live quiet lives. We’re no threat to the King or anybody! None of us would know how to do harm with magic. It only protects us, and brings food to our tables.’

‘You say that you have no intent to cause harm to others with your curse.’ Weaver’s laugh was not a pleasant sound. ‘But it can be turned to such an end. Magic is a weapon as much as it is a tool. Do you know the minds of every man, woman and child here? Who is to say that they will not turn against the King? There are traitors everywhere, Master Mason.’

‘Yes, but there are none of them here! We are peaceful, truly. None of us has the capacity to harm the King, neither would we wish him ill.’ Mason drew a shuddering breath and began a fresh bout of pleading, albeit with noticeably less conviction than before. ‘Please, my lord. Reconsider. The children! I beg you to think of them. Would you truly see them left alone? Left abandoned in the woods to die? Or do you intend to slay innocents as well?’

These were poor words to choose and Weaver’s hand curled into a fist. ‘I do not slay innocents, Master Mason. You further damn yourself with every word you utter, but I promise you this before this ends. Your children will not die. There is ever a need for more hands in the King’s mines and foundries. With their own hands, your children will lay the foundations of King Richard’s new world.’

‘You intend to steal our children from us?’ Edward Mason was not a violent man. His life was forfeit, that much he knew, but if he could spare the others, or even just the children, the horror of what awaited them, then he would be satisfied.

A peal of thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and Weaver looked up from the conversation and stared out over the darkening horizon. Rain was falling on the hills and crags a few miles away, grey curtains sweeping the tops and shrouding the end of the valley with mist. It would be here soon.

‘You are mistaken,’ he said, his voice distant. ‘I plan to collect the orphans when this village is no more.’

The last word Edward Mason ever uttered was little more than a hoarse whisper.

‘Please.’

The Inquisitor kicked the peasant in the throat, the toe of his boot suddenly sprouting a blade as he did so. ‘I grow weary of your hollow pleas. This village is guilty.’ He turned with cold indifference from the dying man. ‘Burn it all. Take the children. And bring some of the stronger ones alive.’

Weaver always tried to take some alive. Sometimes they knew about other magi and could be persuaded to part with the information. The dungeons of the Tower were deep, and at least some of the rumours concerning them were true.

L
EGENDS OF DEMONS
and monsters have existed as long as Man has walked these isles. The Church writings claim that demons are creatures from Hell; spirits of evil, cruelty and destruction. But the myths are older than Christianity. In pagan texts, demons are just one of many terrible and fantastic creatures. Fairies. Imps. Pixies. Will-o’-the-Wisps. All have their own curious tales.

Much is simple folklore, but many cling to it even in these more enlightened days of science: the maid puts out milk for the pixies to keep them from stealing children away, for example, while the smith nails a horseshoe over the door of his forge to ward off evil. The stories are believed by many, and the superstitions are practised by the peasantry in their thousands. Educated men and the nobility scoff at such fanciful and archaic notions, but is there any truth to the claims of ghosts and ghouls, devils and demons?

There are written accounts of folk suffering visits from what they call ghosts. Most of these stories suggest an unquiet spirit of the dead, a soul denied the peace of the grave, who returns to haunt people and places familiar to them in life whilst they seek restitution. Absolution for their sins, perhaps, or as some fancifully believe, just the right to ensure their families are faring well without them.

Many of these ghosts seem benign, others less so. There are tales of a murderous coachman who returned from the dead and prowls the roads of Kent at night. There is another concerning a headless horseman, and still others of the dreadful
beann-sidhe
and ghostly wraiths who haunt churchyards, ever yearning for their eternal rest. It is also a sad (but factual) truth that many of those who have claimed to witness these phantoms were peasants who were latterly declared to be mad.

Demons and devils, though, are something apart from these little tales. The Church names them as the minions of Satan, creatures of wickedness to be feared and reviled, tormentors of fallen souls. There is great power in names. Is it not possible, for example, that
demon
is merely another name for something that others would call a ‘ghost’? Or a fairy, pixie or hobgoblin?

One thing is for certain. All of these things, should they exist, are not of this world, which begs the question—where
are
they from?

Some folklore suggests the existence of another world; one which lies between life and death. A place through which the spirits of the dead pass on their way to their eternal rest. Sometimes, they cannot find passage, and return to the only world they know—the origin, perhaps, of ghosts. What would such a place be like? Would the shades of the dead and mostly-dead walk freely as we do? Would it be as the world we know, or subtly different? Would good and evil exist in a way we understand, or would they be given form by those who name them demon or angel?

A long dead magus once suggested that this ‘other world’ is closer than we believe, and is the source of all magic. He warned that no good could come from meddling too much in what we did not understand. He chose to call it the
Aetherworld
and I find the term pleasing.

Those who claim to speak to the dead tend towards being charlatans who ply their trade to bring comfort to the recently bereaved. It is highly unlikely that they truly speak with those who dwell in the Aetherworld. It will likely forever be a mystery, and perhaps, if the magi are to be believed, that is as it should be.

August, 1589,

Cwm Heddychol

Wales

‘Y
OUR MAGIC IS
good, Mathias Eynon.’

The young man at the ‘business end’ of the cow looked up from his task and shook his head. ‘No magic here, Llewellyn. Just patience and understanding.’

The older of the two men in the cow’s barn shook his head. ‘No,’ he disagreed. ‘She wouldn’t settle for me. Just one pat from you and she calmed.’ Indeed, the cow was contentedly chewing the cud whilst Mathias focused on the extremely physical task of rearranging the tangle of limbs inside her womb. Had he not arrived when he did, the cow would be dead now. She had been struggling to birth the calf, which had been lying badly. Mathias’s efforts had not only calmed the frantic, panicking creature, but had prepared the calf for a more normal delivery. It was hard, heavy, extremely messy work, but Mathias did it anyway. The heifer carried on chewing, her labour pains apparently forgotten whilst the young man worked.

He had always had a way with animals, and it was that ability which had finally given him a skill with which he could return the debt he owed to the small Welsh village in which he resided. He had a ready eye for herbs, and could put together poultices that soothed fractious cattle or horses. He knew instinctively what was wrong with a creature just by sitting quietly with it for a short time. No animal, people laughed, could resist the charms of the friendly young man.

‘Sure, lad. Go clean up in the water trough. Will you stay close, though? Just in case...?’ The heifer looked up as the two men swapped positions, her soft brown eyes calm. She had birthed two dead calves in the past, and Mathias knew that Llewellyn feared for this third. It had certainly felt very alive to him.

He had stripped his clothing from the waist up on arrival, anticipating the task, and so it was an easy thing to plunge his arms into the trough and let the liquid pour, cool and soothing, over his aching body. He was not particularly large or even particularly strong; ‘all rabbit and little beef’ was a phrase commonly employed to describe him. Llewellyn may not have had Mathias’s way with animals, but he had breadth of shoulder. He took over the delivery with ease.

Mathias knew he had bent the truth just a little. He
had
used magic to calm the beast. His gift with animals certainly ran far deeper than mere understanding. His instincts were too sharp and well-honed to be natural. But his mother, dead nearly twenty years, had told him of the fate met by a father whose only crime had been to help others, and even here, amongst people to whom magic was a gift and a blessing, Mathias kept his own counsel.

‘She had the calf yet?’ A girl’s voice, much-loved, pulled Mathias from his reverie. He looked over the stall fence to where Tagan, the blacksmith’s eldest daughter, stood. She was still wearing her leather forge apron, and her pretty face was smudged and dirty. With a complete lack of self-consciousness, she gave him a beaming smile. Her dark hair, cut boyishly short, clung to her scalp and face with sweat. The smile woke the dimples in her cheeks and Mathias smiled back. He loved her; she loved him. In an otherwise complicated and frequently confusing world, that was the one certainty.

‘Not yet,’ he reported, ‘but it won’t be long.’ He nodded towards the cow, who had engaged in a sort of push-pull match with the farmer. The big man had his hands around the calf’s legs and was tugging with all his might. The cow seemed reluctant to release her offspring to the world.

Tagan leaned on the wooden stall, watching with bright blue eyes. Mathias allowed himself the luxury of admiring his betrothed. When she and Mathias had first met as children, they had hated one another with a passion. He was quiet and preferred to keep to himself—a product of his mother’s paranoia. Tagan, the eldest of six girls, was boisterous and playful and used to pester Mathias. They fought and argued, scrapped and squabbled and by the time both of them were young adults, it was clear that they were destined to be together.

He adored her. She was everything he was not. Fiery—which, given her magical ability, was not so surprising—and feisty, gregarious and confident, and pragmatic enough for the both of them. She was able to pull Mathias free of the brooding moods into which he frequently slipped, and for that alone he loved her.

‘Here we go!’ Llewellyn couldn’t keep the joy from his voice as the calf slid from its mother onto the straw beneath her. It lay still for a few moments and then four long limbs began to twitch. ‘Well done, old girl!’ Llewellyn patted the cow’s flank. ‘A fine little heifer!’

‘Oh!’ Tagan breathed as she witnessed the calf’s first moments. All of them had seen many animals born over the years—cattle, horses, even cats and dogs—but the miracle of new life never failed to bring joy. ‘Oh, Mathias, she’s lovely!’

‘Thank you, lad.’ Llewellyn watched as the little calf struggled to her feet and stumbled blindly for a moment or two before finding her mother and beginning to suckle noisily. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ Mathias said, watching the mother and daughter for a moment as he gathered his things together. ‘She did all the work. She should be fine, but sprinkle some of this on her feed. It’ll keep her milk rich and give the little one strength.’ He handed over a pouch, which Llewellyn took gratefully. ‘I’ll look in on her tomorrow.’ His gaze roved over to where Tagan stood, her eyes held by the beauty of the little creature, and Llewellyn smiled.

‘Sure, lad.’ The farmer paused for a moment, then lowered his voice to a gentle tone that was rare for him. ‘Your mother would have been proud.’

T
HE WORDS HAD
been simple, but it was clear to Tagan that Llewellyn’s parting sentence to Mathias had left an impression. She didn’t really recall Elizabeth Eynon that well, and Mathias rarely— if ever—spoke of her. Today, prompted by Llewellyn’s words, she felt a moment of bravery.

Her arm was linked through Mathias’s. They were walking down from Llewellyn’s farm to the village. Nestled in a dell deep within the Welsh valleys, the settlement lived in the shadow of craggy hills on three sides. Several streams splashed down from the moors, often swollen by the rains, and gathered in a pond in the centre of the village before flowing away down the valley. The current was not naturally strong enough to turn a mill, but it did so anyway, with a little arcane encouragement.

He looked at her, pulled out of his reverie. ‘I wasn’t that old when she died. I suppose I don’t really remember that much about her. She was happy when she came here, though. I remember that. I understand why.’ They were walking alongside one of the brooks, going slightly out of their way so they could steal a few precious moments together. Mathias paused to reach down, trailing one hand through the cool running waters. A few sticklebacks flitted about anxiously, disturbed by the motion, then settled back into lazily drifting along with the current. A little way up-river, Mathias knew, was a small settlement of monks who used the pure water in their brewing process. The ale from the monastery was unsurpassed in the region.

The summer had been hot and dry everywhere in the country that year, but the hanging trees alongside the brook offered some relief from the stifling heat of the day, and for Tagan, the heat of the forge.

‘Do you think she is happy for you? I mean, do you think...’ Her hesitant question brought a laugh to Mathias’s lips.

‘Sometimes you confuse me, Tagan. You’re so strong, and yet there are times when you seem as shy as a little girl. But to answer your question, yes. She would have loved you.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Tagan knew what his answer would be, but she pushed for it anyway. Mathias stopped walking and reached over, stroking a finger down the line of her jaw. For months she had pulled away from him, unable to believe that Mathias liked her that much. Time had worn down her natural defence and shyness and now she turned her head to rest it in the palm of his hand.

‘I’m sure that my mother would have loved you, Tagan, because I love you.’ She’d expected the reply, anticipated it. It was artless and without poetry or drama. But the truth of the answer still filled her with joy. That Mathias Eynon, the most intelligent man she had ever known, had chosen her above the other girls of the village... it still left her breathless. And when he acknowledged it with the words, her heart stood still.

The two of them sat down beside the small brook and she revelled in the moment. His words filled her often restless thoughts with calm, as they always had. They sat in companionable silence for a little while, and then she found her answer.

‘I love you, too,’ she replied in as soft a voice as she could manage. Her usual rough voice, constantly hoarse from shouting to be heard over the cacophony of the forge, was not easy to repress, but she tried. To her eyes, Mathias deserved a proper lady on his arm. So she tried to overcome her tomboyish tendencies and to be more ladylike. What she had never realised, in all the time they had been together, was that Mathias loved her for precisely who she was.

‘Watch this,’ she said, made embarrassed by her sudden display of emotion. ‘I’ve been practising.’

She turned to a small pile of dried grass, which she had absently gathered and laid between a couple of small rocks. She reached into the pocket of her leather apron and pulled out flint and tinder. She struck them together expertly and the dried grass ignited immediately. She blew gently on the burgeoning flame until the tinder caught properly.

Mathias watched the fire, then stole a glance at Tagan. Her expression was a picture of concentration. He allowed a brief smile to flicker onto his face. She flattened out her palm, passing it through the flame of the tiny fire. She moved her hand back and forward and then Mathias felt it. The rush of air as though the world itself drew a breath, ready to exhale something.

Tagan’s flat hand closed into a fist and she drew it closely to her chest for a moment. Her eyes closed and her lips moved silently. Then she slowly unfurled her hand. In the centre of her palm, the flame that had been born from dead grass and a single spark from her flint twisted and turned, a living thing that she controlled through fierce determination.

Carefully, she began to shape the fire into something else. Fascinated, Mathias watched Tagan as the flame in her hand stretched and twisted according to her will. When she was done, a few moments later, a fiery butterfly lay in her palm. She closed both hands together, creating a cage of sorts, and the fire-butterfly began to flit against the bars of her fingers. It did not seem to singe her flesh.

The year before, Tagan’s spirit walk had resulted in her happily confirming what everyone had long suspected. The butterfly had chosen her.
The spirit of change. The spirit of joy and colour
. Tagan brought joy and colour to the lives of all she came into contact with, just as Mathias brought peace and calm.

When Mathias had attempted a spirit walk of his own, he had failed to find a guardian creature. He had been sorely disappointed. He still tried from time to time, but the spirits could apparently never agree amongst themselves. He stared at the fire butterfly and a beaming smile lit his face.

‘Tagan, it’s beautiful. You are finding the shaping of the fire so easy, now. Your skill is growing by the day.’

‘No,’ she replied candidly. ‘No, it’s never easy. But it is... always a pleasure.’ She opened her fingers and the fire-butterfly hesitantly broke free of its fleshy prison. It was caught instantly in a rogue breeze and broke into a trail of smoke.

‘The more I can control the fire,’ she said, watching the dark trails of her creation as it dissipated into the day, ‘the more I can control the forge. And the more I control the forge, the better the goods are that I make.’

Tagan sorely undervalued her own skill. Mathias knew from having watched her work that the remarkable young woman could turn untempered steel into an axle for a cart in under an hour. Or refine it into a sword for a warrior in two. Sometimes she employed her exceptionally artistic side and would create a bracelet or brooch for a gift. Her talent for creating fine jewellery was rare, and one which brought the family prestige and wealth.

She had also, so she told Mathias, crafted their wedding rings. She would not let him see them.

‘There need to be
some
surprises between us,’ she always said.

‘I am jealous,’ said Mathias eventually. He slid his hand into Tagan’s. ‘All I can do...’

‘Shut up, Matty.’

She kissed him.

Their hands entwined, the two young people sat in contented silence for a while, the sound of the brook and the occasional whisper of the hanging leaves the only sound that intruded on their peace. They were content like this, safe in each other’s company and with no demands or expectations on them.

Sadly, the peace was not to last.

‘Tagan! Mathias!’

The voice pulled the idling pair from their comfortable reverie. It wasn’t so much the volume—which was considerable—as the urgency in the tone. It was a young voice; female, heavily accented. Tagan’s youngest sister, fourteen-year-old Angharad. She pushed her way through the overhanging willows until she emerged by the waterside. She was blonde and lissom where her sister was dark and square. Stand the two girls side by side, and one would have been hard pressed to spot the familial relationship between them. Except for the eyes. Both girls had their late mother’s eyes.

‘Wyn needs you,’ she said. She was breathless, having run from the village without stopping. Her eyes were deeply anxious and there was something close to fear in them.

Mathias didn’t wait for an explanation. Already he was back on his feet, ready to head back to the village. Tagan also rose, but held back a little. ‘You go,’ she prompted. ‘If you need me, you know where I am.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Go, Matty. He’s your da.’ It was rare that Tagan used the diminutive of her betrothed’s name, a child’s nickname that did not entirely suit the man he had become. But occasionally it slipped from her lips.