Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (10 page)

After a while, the tantalisingly familiar scent of wood smoke joined the mingled scents of earth and pine. Warin walked a little further, pushing aside branches with effortless ease. He didn’t once stop to ensure that his companions were following, and several times Mathias had to duck as tree limbs sprang back in his wake. The great dog loped along at Warin’s side, occasionally dropping back behind the two stragglers, herding them along. Once, Mathias attempted to engage the stout man in conversation. It was not particularly productive.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To talk.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You are in my land now. The lands of the Teuton.’

That, it seemed, was that. Mathias pressed on, his thoughts churning with the impossibilities of the past few hours. Days. Months... It had occurred to him that he had no idea just how long it had taken for him and Tagan to get wherever they were now. One thing seemed right, though. Warin was the one they had come here to find. That was without doubt.
The Shapeshifter,
Wyn had said, and they had witnessed Warin’s magic. Exactly what his intentions were remained to be seen.

Beside him Tagan kept going, gamely struggling through the increasingly thick undergrowth. She was strong and robust, but he could see that she was tiring. The lingering effects of Wyn’s spell were beginning to take their toll on him as well. He felt tired, the same bone-weariness that he remembered assailing him as the earth had swallowed him.

Instinctively, he sensed that tiredness would irritate Warin and he felt a spark of defiance ignite deep in his soul. He simply tightened his hold on Tagan’s hand and hoped that she could draw on some of his own fading strength. She looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes.

‘There’s food and drink up ahead,’ said Warin. His spoken English was easy enough to understand, once you worked past the thick accent, but every sentence was as abrupt as the last. This was a man who did not choose to speak often. ‘And rest.’ He looked over his shoulder and his dark eyes took in the slowing figure of Tagan. ‘Not far.’

Mathias sensed he was trying to show some sort of empathy for the blacksmith’s daughter with those last two words, but even they were barked rather than spoken. Tagan, too, bewildered and—although she was doing a fine job of not showing it—frightened, nodded gratefully.

‘Thank you, Master Warin,’ she said respectfully.

‘“Warin” is fine.’

She visibly deflated and Mathias hid a smile by looking down at the forest floor. When he looked up, they were approaching a ramshackle building that might have fallen together by accident.

It was open to the forest at one end, the three solid walls rising up to support a thatched canopy that sagged threateningly in the middle. One large open room seemed to contain everything that a magus of Warin’s considerable talent apparently required.

‘Sit,’ the Shapeshifter said, indicating the uneven forest floor. Tagan immediately sank down, stretching her legs out in front of her. They ached more than she could ever remember, and she had stood for hours before the forge. She reached down to rub ruefully at her stiff calves and closed her eyes for a moment. Mathias, on the other hand, remained standing. Warin stared at him, the dark pools of his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

‘I said sit,’ he repeated, his tone commanding. Mathias blinked, feeling a strange compulsion to do exactly as he was told. He recognised the power, having experienced it at Wyn’s hands. In that moment, he suspected that there was more that connected his adopted father with this bizarre woodsman.

Either way, he sat down next to Tagan. The red-haired man levelled an accusatory finger in his direction.

‘You will want food. Drink, too.’ It was not a question. Warin patted the dog at his side—the animal once again sat on her haunches, panting up at him—before entering the strange forest house. ‘I can provide both of these things. Then you tell me why you come to speak with Warin the Red, eh?’ His expression softened, at least as much as the face of a man mostly hidden behind a shrubbery of beard could. ‘No harm will come to you here,
waagehenkel
.’

‘Wa...’ Mathias blinked, not having a clue what the strange word meant. Warin considered him for a moment, then moved to a table in one far corner of the room. He picked up a platter with cold meats and a half-eaten loaf of some kind of dark bread.

‘
Der waagehenkel
,’ he repeated as he offered the plate to Tagan first. She fell on the food with pleasure, her stomach overriding the fleeting concern that this strange man might be trying to poison her. ‘In your language...’ Warin managed to convey extreme distaste at having to translate. ‘In your language, you would say—uh—the hook on which the balance hangs. Fulcrum? Yes. That.
Der waagehenkel.
’ He stared at Mathias, daring him to question it.

Mathias did not.

Warin relaxed his stance slightly and crouched before a stillsmouldering cook fire. He blew on the ebbing flame in an effort to rekindle the fire, but it stubbornly refused to catch. He began to mutter to himself in what was presumably his native language. Neither Mathias nor Tagan understood a word, but the suggestion was clear. Tagan passed the plate of food up to Mathias, who took it and ate absently.

‘Here,’ she said, softly. ‘Let me.’ She crouched down beside him and gave him her most winning smile. Warin considered her suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. ‘
Ja
,’ he said. ‘You do it. I smell the flame on you.’ He sniffed pointedly in her direction.

Not questioning his odd choice of words, Tagan focused on the tiny glowing ember at the bottom of the cook fire and tipped her head to the side before she held out her hand palm-down in front of her. She turned it upwards and lifted it slowly, as though coaxing the fire to rise with her. The flames crept up through the wood as if drawn on an invisible thread. Tagan straightened her head and smiled.

‘Burn,’ she said in barely more than a whisper.

The damp logs that had refused to catch light began to crackle merrily at her command and she dropped back to rest on her heels, admiring her handiwork. So did Warin. He let out a huge roar of approval.

‘Red has not seen such skill with flame for—oh—many years now. You are more than you seem, are you not?’

‘We are all more than we seem,’ came Tagan’s soft reply. It was a remarkably philosophical thing for her to say, given her propensity for plain talking. Her eyes were still caught in the heart of the fire. Mathias wondered if she were taking some comfort from the whitehot core of the little blaze; some faint reminder of her distant forge. She pulled her attention from the fire to see Warin move across the room to fetch a kettle filled with water, which he set down on top of the flames.

‘You are the most powerful magician I have ever seen,’ she said to the stocky man. ‘How is it that you aren’t able to do something as simple as light a fire using that talent?’ Mathias winced inwardly, half expecting an angry response. Warin shrugged. As he spoke, the two young people grew more and more used to his accent until his broken sentences became easier to understand.

‘My power is of... the earth,’ he replied. ‘Of the trees and the ground, of the crops, of the animals... and of the sun. When the sun is at its highest, then my power is at its greatest. When the sun is not in the skies... then I am wary. That is the time of those who act in the cover of darkness. It is how I knew where to find you. I felt something in the bones of the earth, something coming.’ He looked up at Mathias. ‘You and I,’ he said, ‘are the same. Your power is of the Mother, too.’ He nodded as he poked the kettle on the fire. ‘I could sense it when you arrived in my forest. Were you bigger, I would fight you for my territory.’ He let out a short, barking laugh. ‘Like badgers. It is what the children of the Mother do.’

‘The Mother?’ Mathias looked at Tagan and she shrugged.

Warin stared from one to the other. ‘Have the people of your land become so ignorant of what you are? From where your magic comes?’

‘Magic is... not well tolerated in our country any longer, Warin,’ said Mathias. Warin’s hard expression softened to something akin to regret. ‘Those of us who can use magic well are forced to hide in the fringes of the kingdom. We hide what we are for fear of our lives.’

‘So it has ever been since the days of King Richard. Who sits on the throne now?’

‘King... King Richard.’ Mathias felt the need to add, ‘Not the same one. Obviously.’

Warin stared that animalistic, unblinking stare. ‘Do I look,’ he said, ‘like a man who would think otherwise?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Sir?’ Warin seemed pleased. He poked at the fire, studying the two young people before him. ‘Now you tell Warin why it is that you come to his home, hmm?’

Mathias looked at Tagan and he sighed. ‘I don’t know, Warin,’ he said eventually and there was resignation in his voice. ‘My... father led some kind of ritual to send us here. He said that we were to find the Shapeshifter and some others, too. But he seemed confident that we would find you here.’

‘Who are you sent to find? The words exactly, boy.’

‘It is hard to recall. I feel as though I am walking in a dream.’

‘Then wake up and answer me. Who are you looking for?’

Mathias wrinkled his nose with the effort of recall. ‘The... the Shapeshifter,’ he said. ‘Which we appear to have done. What were the others? The Pirate King. The Wanderer. There was a fourth. Another name.’

‘She Who Sees.’ Warin said the last name with something like venom colouring his tone. Mathias didn’t notice; he nodded eagerly.

‘Yes,’ said Mathias. ‘She Who Sees.’

‘Then you will fail. I will go nowhere if...
she
is going to be there.’ He folded his muscled arms across his chest and rather comically thrust out his lower lip, as though he were a child refusing to carry out a chore. Tagan put a hand to her mouth to hide her sudden smile.

Mathias studied Warin for a while. He looked across to Tagan who gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. Without speaking, she implied that this task was Mathias’s to deal with.

The young man blew a lock of hair out of his eyes and looked at the Shapeshifter in growing despair, wondering where in the name of all that was good and holy he was ever going to find enough charm to move the unmovable.

Whitehall Palace

England

K
ING
R
ICHARD WAS
not a happy man. Neither was the messenger knelt before him. It was difficult to tell, at that moment, who was the more worried.

‘Repeat your message.’ Richard didn’t quite know why he made the demand. Self-flagellation, perhaps. He trusted the Inquisition to deal with the magi and arcane threats across the isle but it seemed, on this occasion, that they had failed him.

The messenger cleared his throat. ‘The village was destroyed along with the standing stones and the people put to the sword. The magi were also slain, but the Lord Inquisitor spared one for further questioning. There was a ritual...’ The messenger’s eyes filled with anxiety as Richard’s stare bored into him. The King had a way of looking through you that made you shrivel to your soul.

‘What about the ritual?’ he asked calmly, his manner controlled. The messenger felt a spark of hope that perhaps his life might not be forfeit.

‘The Inquisitor arrived too late to stop some kind of rite. Lord Weaver reports that he saw two bodies in the ground as he approached, but when he reached the stone circle, they were gone.’ He shuddered at the thought. ‘They dug down several feet in the wake of the circle’s destruction, but they found nothing.’

‘I see.’ Richard leaned back in the throne, his hand reaching up to rest against his bearded chin thoughtfully. ‘And the survivor?’

‘In the Tower, my lord. Under the guard of the Inquisition.’

‘Very well, I trust Lord Weaver will extract some answers. You are dismissed.’

Apparently granted his life, genuinely surprised, the messenger kissed the floor with his forehead before backing out of the chamber.

Richard watched him go. He knew the man had expected some kind of retribution. The fear had been written across his face. The King knew a moment’s discomfiture at the thought. Did his people truly see him as so very tyrannical? He knew that he was not a benevolent man, not by a long stretch of the imagination. But still... the dread on the young man’s face filled the King with uncertainty.

The doubt fired Richard’s anger. After all, he was used to being completely in control. He had no real understanding of the heathen practices of the magi, and by his own order had branded such knowledge heretical. Those who still practised magic within the borders of England did so on pain of death. The use of a stone circle was something he had not encountered before, though. He worried at the thought, turning it over in his mind in an attempt to fathom out what conspiracy was at work. He felt a twinge of regret that he could no longer consult Josef on such matters, but crushed it savagely. No magi could be tolerated, for any reason.

His fingers closed around the pendant he wore at his neck. No magi could be tolerated, but Richard had higher powers he could call upon, though his skin crawled at the thought.

Rising from the throne, the King straightened his tunic. It was time to go hunting.

U
SUALLY THE ROYAL
hunts were occasions of pomp and spectacle; petty nobles and minor lords vied for his attention, their obsequiousness eclipsed only by their greed. This was not one of those occasions. Today, Richard rode alone.

The announcement that he was going hunting was received with the expected resistance. The guard felt it a dereliction of their duty. The court thought it unseemly. The Inquisition considered it dangerous. All of these arguments and more were brought before him as he prepared to ride and made his way to the stables.

Eventually, following a message informing the King that hunts were important affairs that required weeks to prepare for the catering alone, that they were special events that the King of England should arrange for the most political of reasons, Richard turned his smouldering gaze on the unfortunate footman who had delivered the news.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am the King of England. And that is precisely the point.’ He glared at the man, who wore the livery of Norfolk, and he seemed to visibly shrink. ‘I am the King of England. This is
my
kingdom. My domain. If I choose to visit it alone, then that is precisely what I shall do. There will be time after this war is won for frivolity. Return to your master and tell him that in future, if I want his advice, I will ask for it.’

R
ICHARD RODE THROUGH
the thick woodlands bordering the royal estate, his expression morose and his thoughts dark. Most of the expansive grounds surrounding the palace were carefully cultivated and sculpted into flowering gardens, clipped mazes and ornamental ponds. An army of serfs was employed to tend to the land, keeping the industrial refuse of London outside its borders, but some of the woods had been allowed to grow wild for the King’s sport.

For his entire life, Richard Plantagenet had known, like his father, that a day might come when he had to answer for the actions of his ancestors. The price of Richard the Third’s success on the battlefield that day so many years past was something that could never be spoken of outside the line of kings. If it became known that the royal family consorted with demons, then not only would it spell doom for the house of Plantagenet—it would see the fall of England alongside.

Like our souls are not already damned.

He rode deeper into the heart of the forest, where he could detach himself from the reality of what he knew must surely come. He was King of England, but he was also a husband and a father, and entirely capable of separating his roles. He devoted himself to his children whenever he had the chance. They had been born, every one of them, strong and healthy, robust and beautiful, and they represented the future of his bloodline. He feared for them now, for what their future might hold. Things were moving too quickly for his liking.

His hand came again to the pendant around his neck. Crafted from silver and untarnished despite its age, it had once belonged to the victor of Bosworth Field. Small and delicate as it might have been, Richard felt its leaden weight hanging around his neck like a millstone. He reined his horse in as he rode into a clearing and reached up to tug the pendant over his head. He turned it over in his hand and studied it.

The symbol stamped onto it was a representation of the rose of his family’s heraldry, stained black as the rose in the banner was. Richard ran a finger over the embossed design.

The King dismounted from his horse and tethered the animal. He slipped a set of blinkers onto its head and it began contentedly cropping at the brush. He did not want the beast to be spooked by the sight of the unnatural. Above him, the sky was clear, a few wisps of dirty cloud the only things that intruded on the pristine blue of a summer’s day. He could still smell the soot of the forges, but a light breeze pulled the smoke of the fires south, away from the palace.

‘Seasons come and go,’ Richard thought aloud. The horse raised its head in curiosity at the sound, then returned to the important task of slow deforestation. ‘Seasons come and go, but the house of Plantagenet is constant. The bloodline will
not
end with me.’

He took a deep breath and strode to the centre of the clearing. He knelt down in the dew-damp grass and inhaled the heady scent of loam. Since his ascension to the throne, he had performed this ritual only four times. It should have been more, many more, but by the time his fifth child was born, he could no longer bear it.

He took a dagger and a strip of cloth from his belt. He set the cloth across his thigh and took the dagger into his right hand. He drew a deep breath and cut swiftly into the meat of his palm. Red blood welled instantly and he closed his fist around the pendant. He winced at the sting of the injury, but held his hand aloft. This was the critical part of the ritual. He felt a horrible twinge of guilt at what he was doing. How many had died for performing arcane rites like this? How many magi had gone to the Tower for lesser crimes?

A great many. And I am a hypocrite.

He shook himself from his reverie and focused on what he was doing. Three drops of blood. Three drops alone. Too few and the ritual would not work; too many and the consequences could be dire.

A single scarlet bead oozed from between his clenched fingers and dripped to the ground. As it hit the grass, staining the green with crimson, he murmured the name.

‘Melusine.’

One more drop. And a third. With each drop, the King said the name. When the ritual was complete, he wrapped his injured hand immediately in the cloth to stop any more blood flow. Then he waited. There was nothing else for him to do.

Time ticked by, slow and ponderous. It might have been hours before a quiet sigh stirred the air. Strands of black and crimson curled from the site of his sacrifice and wove themselves into a female form. It was thin and insubstantial, but the presence still made Richard’s heart contract with fear. The dreams had been bad, but they paled into insignificance beside the shade.

‘An early summons, my King? It is not yet time, and yet it has been so very long.’

By tradition, each king since Richard the Third’s victory at Bosworth summoned Melusine on the anniversary of the pact. The practice had become largely ceremonial, and often the demon chose not to appear at all, but the current King had grown to dread the rituals. Melusine had appeared to him every time.

He tried to speak, but he could not find his voice. The demon walked up to him and knelt in the grass at his feet. She took his hands in hers and looked at him with her head tipped to one side. She was so beautiful. He felt the passion for her stirring in his blood. Passion and revulsion. All his resolve, all his determination that he would be able to wring answers from the creature, melted like tallow before a flame.

For some time, all he could do was stare at her, the ache in his loins growing worse with each passing moment. Her grip on his hands tightened even more and he groaned softly, fighting back the conflicting urges to pull her into his embrace or push her away. She tipped her head a little further over and then straightened. With a soft, humourless laugh, she released Richard’s hands and leaned back, resting on her heels.

‘Is that the spark of rebellion I sense in you, Richard Plantagenet? Do you plan to forsake the promises of your forefathers?’

His voice was returned to him, as was mastery of his treacherous body. He took a few deep breaths, cooling the unnatural ardour. She gave him time to compose himself and waited for him to speak.

‘Something has happened,’ he said, speaking slowly. He knew that it was important to pick the right words. ‘I have summoned you early to seek... to seek your advice. To ask your forgiveness and for your help.’ From the moment news of the ritual in Wales had reached his ears, Richard had been worried. There had been no great works of magic since before he took the throne. The last great magi in England had been put to death during the time of his father, and the Inquisition believed only lesser practitioners remained. He did not know what Melusine’s reaction would be to the news.

‘You have been lax in honouring the pact, sweet Richard, but I forgive you.’ The crimson lips turned up in a coy smile. ‘For I know I am ever in your thoughts. And your dreams.’

‘The dreams you sent me,’ he said. ‘Josef claimed that... he claimed that you want my son...’

She shushed him into silence and waved a long-fingered hand dismissively. ‘There is time for such talk later. First, you must tell me what it is that has happened to worry you so.’

The shade’s red eyes glittered with amusement and Richard suddenly felt very foolish, as if this creature knew everything he was about to say and more besides. ‘Five days ago, Lord Weaver destroyed a village of magi beyond the Welsh border...’

‘This is pleasing and excellent news.’ The demon interrupted again. ‘Lord Weaver is to be commended for his dedication to duty.’

‘Indeed, he is a credit to the Crown.’ Richard forged on, a little desperately. ‘However, he bore witness to a ritual, and was unable to prevent its completion. Such magic has not been heard of...’

Melusine’s ruby smile had crystallised into something sinister and the aura of lust and malice throbbed around the clearing. Richard’s horse stood trembling, its animal senses filled with primal fear even without sight of the demon.

‘For a very long time.’ She finished Richard’s sentence. ‘I know.’

‘You know?’

‘Yes, and Lord Weaver really
is
to be commended. The ritual he came upon was a sending, a bridge between two places. It is old magic that no magi now within your kingdom could hope to wield.’

‘But if the peasants of a tiny Welsh village have mastered such power,’ Richard replied hesitantly, ‘then might there not be others who...’

‘No. There are no others in this land. With a single shot, Lord Weaver unbound Aethelweard. Now that he is free of his flesh, we are free to hunt him.’ Her voluptuous form flickered as she spoke of hunting, just for a moment, and revealed something awful. The blood drained from the King’s face and a lock of his hair was bleached white. Then she was a woman again, her gaze fixed on Richard with predatory hunger.

‘You must find the ones he sent.’

Richard swallowed hard, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. The conflicting sensations rolling from the demonic shade were consuming and bordering on overpowering. Honeysuckle. Jasmine. The snap of bone. A warm tongue. Teeth breaking. ‘How... how can we find them? We have no way of knowing where they have gone.’

‘Dear Richard,’ Melusine purred. She stood and walked in a languid circle around the King, trailing the tip of a finger across his shoulders. ‘Aethelweard hid them from my sight for so long. But no longer. He has sent them across the sea, to the lands beyond France. He will be looking for other magi of great power. You must stop them.’

‘Beyond France.’ Richard repeated the demon’s words, realisation slowly dawning.

‘You wanted your war, Richard. It seems that you will have it sooner than you believed.’ The diaphanous spirit spun on its heel and made a clawing motion with its hand. The King’s horse burst like a ripe fruit, painting the clearing with gore and offal. The King could not help but cry out; he covered his eyes just a fraction too late. As Melusine’s womanly form became something infinitely more terrifying, she leaned into him. ‘War, Richard Plantagenet. I demand it!’