Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (19 page)

Those who had been savaged by the bear had been less fortunate. Three knights and two horses lay sprawled in death, their torn bodies cooling in the afternoon sunshine. Weaver looked down at them through the slits in his mask and silently commended them for their service. They had not been mercenaries who spilled blood for coin, but bold, brave knights who had given their lives in service to their King.

‘My lord,’ Sir Anthony said evenly. ‘Sir William is gravely wounded, and he can ride no further. What would you have us do?’

The Lord Inquisitor turned from the dead men to look at Sir William. It was painfully clear that his days behind the lance were over, and should he return to England, he would live out the rest of his life a broken man, reliant on others to tend to his needs. Weaver did not know if Sir William was married, and neither did he particularly care. At his age he could well have a son in training as a squire; if so, he would certainly never see the lad’s face again.

‘Sir William,’ Weaver rumbled. ‘You have done a great service to the Crown, but now it is ended. Your wounds are grave, we are far from home and our prey yet eludes us.’

‘My lord,’ Sir Anthony protested. ‘You surely cannot mean to continue? We have no idea where the magi have gone.’

‘On the contrary, I know exactly where they have gone; and more, I know exactly where they are going. We may yet run them to ground. But we must leave immediately and ride hard for the west.’

‘Lord Inquisitor...’ Sir Anthony began to protest again, but the wounded Sir William pushed him gently aside, standing unaided.

‘Lord Inquisitor Weaver, it has been my honour to ride at your side.’ He spoke with great formality. ‘But I will not hinder you in your duty, nor will I burden these good knights with my care. I would ask that you inform the Lady Margaret that I died well in my service to King Richard, and...’ His voice faltered for a moment, but he set his jaw and continued. ‘And tell my son that his father will always proud of him.’

Weaver dismounted and walked to where the man stood. ‘It shall be as you say. Your courage does you credit, William Lyttle. The King himself will hear of it, I promise you.’ Without further hesitation, he drew his dagger and plunged it into the knight’s heart in one swift, fluid movement. Sir William grunted quietly and slid from the blade.

‘Bury the dead,’ Weaver ordered, looking down at Sir William. He bent to wipe the blade of his dagger on the grass and slid it back into its sheath. ‘We must move quickly, but no Englishman’s grave should go unmarked.’ He turned to look at his surviving knights. ‘Then we ride.’

Ten miles outside Paris

France

Y
OUR MAJESTY
.

Sir Thomas Thirwell was seated behind a table at the rear of his pavilion, quill in hand. Outside, the afternoon sky was black with smoke and heavy with the acrid stink of alchemical fire. The roar of cannons and the cries of the artillery crews as they worked filled the air, along with the clatter of armour and muffled sounds of impact.

Progress has been swift and the army of King Henri is driven before us.

There had been no further resistance, and the army had marched unopposed across the French countryside, laying waste to anything arcane—and plenty that was not. Most of the people in the towns and villages surrounding Paris had retreated within its walls before the gates had closed. Those that hadn’t were now dead or gone, and only scorched ruins surrounded the city.

The King’s court magi have sealed Paris with their powers, and have warded the city against attack, but it weakens with each passing day.

The first shots fired had been repulsed with flares of pallid light, but as the siege ran into days and then weeks, the magic faltered. The cannons began to strike stone instead of spells, and gradually the defences had begun to crumble. Sir Thomas believed King Henri’s magi must surely be worn down to nothing...

The end was near.

Upon my honour, the city will be yours before year’s end. Sir Thomas Thirwell.

November, 1589

The
Hermione

Off the coast of France

T
HE WEATHER REMAINED
fine for the majority of their journey, apart from a single, unexpected squall that blew up as they plied the Portuguese coast. They had all been soaked through as they worked up on deck, apart from the Pirate King, who—perhaps unsurprisingly, given what they had seen of him—was apparently immune to the depredations of the weather.

It was a useful time for them all. For Mathias and Tagan, it was an opportunity to practise the new talents they had discovered. Warin and Giraldo both seemed to relish an opportunity to guide the pair of them. After the first few days around the Pirate King, Mathias slowly began to let go of his suspicions and relax. Tagan allowed Giraldo to flirt with her, but it soon became apparent that was all there was to it.

The days were filled with a combination of arcane lessons and an endless parade of tasks that seemed to need doing on board a ship. Giraldo’s attitude from the start was that there were no passengers on the
Hermione
, and he found work for all his new guests that kept them busy during the day and ensured they slept well at night. Even Warin had a job, and it was one that surprised both Mathias and Tagan.

‘You’re working in the
galley
?’ Mathias laughed, without truly knowing why. Warin tightened the straps of the decidedly off-white apron.

‘Did you taste that muck we ate last night? The man doesn’t know salt from sugar. I have cooked for you before. Is it really that surprising?’

Mathias had to concede that he had a point. It was still entertaining, however, to witness Warin barking orders at the ship’s boy, a fifteen-year-old Spaniard who didn’t speak a word of English or German. Somehow, the two managed to communicate, and the quality of the ship meals improved radically.

Tagan proved to be remarkable with knots and rope work, and she could more often than not be found beneath the shade of a sail rigged on deck for the purpose, netting in her lap, or stitching torn sails and clothing. She had adapted to life on board the
Hermione
as if she had been born to it and proved, very early on, that she could drink with the best of them. That endeared her to the ship’s crew, whose early hesitation about a woman on board soon gave way to a kind of rough affection. Mathias didn’t fear for her safety. He suspected that after a couple of weeks in her company, every one of Giraldo’s crew would leap to her defence in a heartbeat.

He spent a lot of his own time climbing the ship’s rigging, or scrubbing the decks, or generally fetching and carrying as others dictated. He didn’t mind at all. Indeed, he welcomed the chance to keep busy. It took a lot of the worry from him and gave him other things to think about. Hard work and good food filled his body out to more of a man’s shape, and light brown stubble, so pale as to be barely visible, speckled his face most of the time.

It was however, the lessons in magic that Mathias and Tagan came to love the most. Tagan’s tuition was, by its very nature, limited. Giraldo had suggested that the conjuration of fire on board a vessel sealed with tar and carrying kegs of gun powder might not, in all senses, be wise. It was hard to argue with the logic and as such, they had not attempted to replicate her feat of melting bullets in flight.

Lessons took place early in the morning, usually after the crew had risen and after the night-watch had gone to their bunks. They had been travelling now for five weeks and Mathias was well used to the routine.

‘Good morning, lad.’ Warin lounged amidst the ropes on the ship’s deck, a pipe in the corner of his mouth. Sweet-smelling smoke curled from the barrel as he sucked at the rich tobacco that Giraldo had finally deigned to share with him. ‘Ready for practice?’

Mathias nodded, and Warin’s eyes shifted to Tagan. ‘What do you think, girl? You proud of him yet?’ In the weeks of travel, Mathias’s ability to shapeshift had grown gradually faster and smoother, and entirely less convoluted. Tagan smiled.

‘I was proud of him to begin with, Warin,’ she said. The gruff man wrinkled his nose and waved dismissively. She laughed.

‘Both of you, this morning,’ said Warin, getting up from his ropethrone. ‘We must start to teach you how to pool your magic with mine and de Luna’s... if he ever arrives.’ He said this last in a louder voice. ‘Wherever he might be.’

‘He’s up here, Red,’ came Giraldo’s voice and there was something tense in his tone. All three of them looked up to watch him swing down from the rigging with the sort of casual grace that Mathias could only ever hope to attain. Unless he changed into the thing Warin had called a ‘monkey’ again, of course.

That had been fun.

‘No lessons today,’ said the Pirate King, landing on the deck with a soft-booted thump. ‘We’re entering the Channel.’

The Channel

Between England and France

T
HE EARLY MISTS
had not cleared in the cool morning, and pale, ethereal fingers curled around the prow of the ship, wreathing the figurehead in an intangible disguise. The
Hermione
had dropped her sails and the crew took to the oars, sculling slowly as they approached.

‘Port side, Captain!’ the lookout in the crow’s nest far above them called out, his voice clear and strong. Giraldo moved to stand by the deck rail. He looked out across the water and drew a breath.

The broken hulk of a ship, bearing the tattered remnants of a torn French flag, only two of the fleurs de lis still visible. loomed up out of the mists. Giraldo’s face was grim as he studied the damage to its hull. The fog lifted briefly and Tagan put a hand over her mouth as the first bloated corpses became visible. They were floating amidst a maze of broken ships and wreckage that had once been the French fleet.

Worse than this grisly sight, somehow, was the silence. The only sounds were the slap of the water and the creak of wood as the wrecks settled. Tide and weather had worked on the remains, dragging them from the site of the battle, but it was clear that King Richard’s ships had exacted a terrible toll.

‘It’s horrible,’ Tagan whispered, her eyes bright with fear and compassion.

‘It is war,’ said Giraldo, pragmatically. ‘Slow us down, Tohias. We need to negotiate this graveyard.’ His own face was strained. They all knew from the tales told around the dinner table each night that Giraldo de Luna did not take lives lightly. To witness such slaughter, such horror was anathema to them all. Even Warin, a hunter by nature, looked on the carnage and shuddered.

Progress was excruciatingly slow. More than once, the
Hermione
snagged her hull on a piece of wreckage, or her oars became fouled by sails or the remains of the dead. More bodies bobbed to the surface, and Tagan could no longer look at the wreckage. The very tangible evidence of war was appalling and alien to her.

Mathias glanced at her as she moved away from the rail, his eyes filled with concern and sympathy. He was finding it no easier. He had been raised a man of the country, to whom life was precious. A man whose only plans had been to marry the girl he loved and bring beautiful, happy children into the world. War was not something he had ever thought to see.

‘All French, Captain,’ said Tohias, who was carefully studying the ships. ‘Not an English ship amongst them.’ His thickly accented Spanish voice cut through the grim scene cleanly.

‘Richard’s fleet must be exceptional,’ observed Giraldo. ‘It looks like the French made a fight of it, and they would have had magic on their side. To see this much destruction does not bode...’

‘Ship to starboard!’ The cry came from above. ‘Approaching.’

‘A survivor?’ The Pirate King squinted through the mists.

‘No, Captain. It’s flying English colours.’

Giraldo cursed furiously. ‘Tagan, get below decks,’ he ordered. ‘You can help with the guns, but carefully, yes?’ He unsheathed his blade and hurried to the prow. Mathias went to Tagan’s side, and she gave him a quick, fierce hug. There was no time for words; she hurried below, where the gun crews were rushing to their stations.

Warin watched the captain, incredulity written on his features. ‘Going to put a pinhole in the side of the ship are you, de Luna? Fat lot of use you will be with that pig sticker. We need to get out of here. If they did all this’—he gestured to the grim surroundings— ‘then I don’t think your little boat is going to worry them much.’ Mathias couldn’t be entirely certain, but he suspected that Warin was actually having whatever passed for fun in his strange world.

The muffled roar of a discharging cannon sounded from the approaching vessel and the whistle of a projectile hurtling towards the
Hermione
became the only thing that mattered. Every sailor on deck threw himself flat, braced for an impact that did not come. The cannonball plunged into the water bare feet from the hull, sending up a plume of steam and water.

‘They’re firing on us,’ said Giraldo, so outraged that Mathias felt a sudden, crazed urge to laugh. ‘How
dare
they? We have not even run up the colours!’

‘Still finding their range,’ retorted Warin. ‘I don’t think we will be so lucky next time. Now, can we go?’

‘I believe you may actually be right for once, my hairy friend.’ Giraldo nodded and sheathed his rapier once again. ‘I need your eyes. Guide my ship through this wreckage. I am going to go and have a talk with the captain of that ship about his conduct.’ His eyes flared bright aqua and without another word, he dived into the sea. Mathias stared at the surface, shocked by Giraldo’s sudden departure. Then he saw a fast moving shape beneath the waves, knifing its way toward the attacking vessel.

The wreckage had been difficult to traverse before, but at least the Channel had been calm. Within minutes of the Pirate King leaving the
Hermione
, it became entirely less benign. The dark waters began to ripple, then churn, and waves began to rock the ship. Bodies and wreckage stirred, unpleasantly animated by the sudden surge.

‘Steady as she goes!’

‘Mind out, mind out... there, now! To port! To port!’

Warin’s voice called out and was repeated to Tohias at the helm, a raucous chain of cries and confusing commands that overlapped and intermingled. The sea grew more violent and Mathias gripped onto the rail as the
Hermione
pitched to one side. He was flung hard against Warin as the deck tilted back in the other direction; the man was like a rock. The Shapeshifter grabbed him around the waist and hauled him upright, before thrusting a rope into his hands.

‘Tie up, boy!’ Warin shouted over the growing swell. He never took his eyes off the sea ahead, but clapped Mathias on the shoulder when he’d finishing winding the rope around his waist.

‘At least it’s not raining,’ Mathias said. ‘That would
really
be bad.’ Warin glanced sideways at him, but before he could say a word, the first raindrops began to fall. Mathias spread his hands helplessly. ‘What? It wasn’t
me!
’

F
ROM THE DECK
of the British fighting ship
Vanguard
, Charles Weaver watched the passage of the
Hermione
through the field of debris. The return journey to the occupied ruins of Dieppe had been less cruel and far less fraught. They had only needed to replace their horses once, and the Lord Inquisitor felt that they had enough time to spare the beasts the alchemical broth.

He had chosen a ship built for grace and speed rather than one of the King’s new ironclads, as the monsters lacked the element of surprise. The
Vanguard
had then spent a week prowling the Channel, waiting for its prey, despite her captain’s protests. The man had wanted to head south to hunt the pirate vessel, but granted foreknowledge, Weaver knew that his quarry would pass this way and that the mire of wreckage would slow them.

Now, he was angry. The gun crew of the
Vanguard
had disappointed him with their poor aim. With the element of surprise lost, the magi were attempting to flee, their ship weaving a slow retreat through the shattered hulls.

There was a roar as the pirate ship returned fire, her guns speaking in almost perfect unison. Plumes of water exploded around the
Vanguard
, wood splintered and voices howled in agony as the hull was punctured in several places.

The
Vanguard
had at least twice as many guns as the
Hermione
, if not more, and even with the Channel growing choppy it should have been impossible for her to miss. But the ship lurched hard to port just as her cannons thundered into life, spoiling the
Vanguard
’s aim and ensuring she hit nothing but sea. Weaver was flung hard against the railing and found himself staring down at the black waves. To his surprise a face stared back, the face of the graceful man with the ridiculous hat.

A name sprang unbidden into his mind, and he knew, with a sudden surge of hatred, who this man was. He roared the name into the growing gale.

T
HE RAIN CAME
down harder, and storm clouds piled together into thunderheads that grumbled and growled in rage. A sudden flash lit up the English ship’s mast, but there was no accompanying crack of thunder. Nonetheless, voices on board the ship could be heard raised in alarm.

Another flash. Still no thunder. Mathias stared in confusion. Several of the Spanish sailors were making warding gestures as they worked, making the sign of the cross or pressing their lips to silver pendants.

Mathias did not know Spanish, but he knew that sailors believed very firmly in signs and omens at sea. They seemed anxious and continually glanced up at the darkening sky as if expecting it to fall upon them at any moment. As far as omens went, Mathias was not encouraged.

Ephemeral fire licked the mast of the English ship, pale and obviously without heat. Mathias stared at the phenomenon and sensed the change in the air like hot metal in the forge, or the sharp tang after a storm. But the storm seemed to be growing rather than receding. A familiar tingle tickled his senses, the feel of powerful magic. A thrill ran through him and he lifted his head to the darkening skies.