Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (22 page)

Within a few minutes more, both Tagan and Mathias had fallen off their camels, unused to the swaying gait of the hump-backed animals, so very different from the horses they had grown up with.

Time ticked on and as they rode, each step just as uncomfortable and jolting as the last, the city of Anfa shrank away behind them. The greenery that thrived here, kept alive by the breeze from the ocean, began to thin out, and by the time they had learned how to hold on to the camels comfortably, Tagan and Mathias were introduced to the most arid environment that they had ever known.

There were six camels in the party: Warin and five more, one for each of the riders. They moved at a steady, easy pace. Giraldo’s incessant chatter of the morning slowly began to fade as the heat of the day began to take hold. He sat, slumped on the back of his camel, staring out at the vast, rocky plain that stretched ahead of them. Eyja leaned over and squeezed his shoulder gently.

‘It is not for long, dear one,’ she said to him in a soft voice. The Pirate King raised a brief smile, then hung his head again. He seemed to be wilting in the heat, and Mathias couldn’t say that he was particularly surprised. He could feel the stifling, still air sucking all the breath from his lungs. Beside him, wobbling dangerously on the back of her mount, Tagan looked as pale and wan as Giraldo did. Only Eyja seemed in any way comfortable, although even she had to periodically reach up to wipe sweat from her pale skin. On her instruction, they were all wearing the wraps that they had picked up in the market. Mathias had gone to remove his outer laying of clothing, but Eyja slapped his hand back.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Stay covered. Otherwise you will burn. There is a small oasis beyond this ridge where we can rest. I believe we will find Akhgar beyond that, at the edge of the desert. If we hurry, we should be able to get there before nightfall.’

Even as she spoke, the thick, stifling air freshened a little, stirred into a cooling breeze by her magic. Even Giraldo perked up, sitting forward on the back of his camel and brightening enough to start whistling a cheery tune.

They made a strange caravan, travelling through the desert heat, but with the magic of the winds and Giraldo’s water, they made it to the oasis. The shade of the trees was a blessed relief and they slid off the camels, welcoming the cooling shadows gratefully.

Tagan and Giraldo both melted slightly, and sat underneath the trees, their eyes closing as the parched air sapped their strength. Warin refused to change back from his camel form and simply sat on his haunches with the other beasts, chewing his cud contentedly and giving them all the evil eye.

‘Eyja? Why does Akhgar... the Wanderer... why does he not come to us?’ Using the unfamiliar name felt awkward on Mathias’s tongue. ‘I mean, Wyn sent us to Warin, but he felt us coming; and you found us, and so did Giraldo, in a manner of speaking.’ He paused, running the complexities of their connection around in his head. ‘Why is Ak... why is the Wanderer so different?’

‘You will understand more when you see him, Mathias.’ Eyja reached over and stroked the young man’s soft hair, made damp with sweat, from his face. The soft, boyish looks he’d borne in Wales had gone. His cheekbones were sharper, more clearly defined, and the weeks of travel and hardship on board a ship had hardened his body into something leaner than it had been.

‘Why do you all have so many names?’

‘Names have power. At least, true names. For those with magic, knowing a person’s true name can give you power over them. You must guard yours well, or another could use it against you one day.’

‘So Eyja is not your real name either?’

‘No, but it is closer than “She Who Sees,” though I suppose there is a certain amount of accuracy in that title.’

‘So what should I call myself if I’m not allowed to be Mathias?’

Eyja looked as though she were about to speak, but instead she frowned in concern. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the cloudless sky. Mathias could feel the tang of magic on the edge of his tongue, felt the hairs on his neck start to prickle. Her eyes flared open again.

When Eyja spoke next, it was not in the gentle, maternal tone she usually used, but hard and urgent.

‘Wake them,’ she said, gathering her skirts together and standing. ‘Our stubborn shadow has made up for lost time and is on our heels. We must move swiftly.’

The
Vanguard,

The Mediterranean Sea

‘W
HEN WILL WE
make landfall?’

Charles Weaver’s patience was all but exhausted. The makeshift oar deck of the
Vanguard
was littered with the hunched bodies of men, rowing mechanically, their eyes hollow with weariness. They rowed as if their lives depended on it—and in a very real sense they did. Those who could take it no more were cast overboard without ceremony. In their wake followed every scrap of cargo and furniture that Weaver deemed unnecessary: leftover ammunition, the fittings from the captain’s cabin, even rails and spare rope were pitched over the side in an effort to coax more speed from the ailing vessel.

It proved to be a shrewd move. The captain looked up from the navigation charts into the masked visage of the Lord Inquisitor and was able to give him an answer that he sincerely hoped would please him more than the last.

‘At this speed and bearing, my lord, we will make Anfa within the next three hours.’ Weaver’s knuckles turned white around his oar and the captain noted the dried blood that flaked from beneath his hands.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘We will catch them yet.’

Hampton Court

England

K
ING
R
ICHARD STARED
at the scroll held between his hands. He felt numb and lifeless, and his heart was as heavy as a stone. For all intents and purposes, he could be dead. He
would
be dead, and all would fall to ashes, unless the demon had some greater plan of which he was unaware.

‘Father?’ Prince Richard leaned over to touch his father’s arm gently, alarmed by the pallor of the King’s face. ‘Father, what dire news ails you so?’

Richard handed the scroll wordlessly to his son, and slumped back in his chair and stared into space as the prince read aloud.

‘
Sire,
’ read the boy. ‘
Word has reached us that the Vatican has dispatched its army to aid the French. We seek to verify this news, but have little reason to believe to it be anything less than the truth.
’ The prince looked up, his face contorted with horror, and stared at his father. ‘The magi of the Vatican Army are legion,’ he said.

‘Do you think me some kind of fool?’ Richard snapped. He controlled his temper, immediately contrite. He could not afford to upset the boy. Not now. Not with the solstice only days away. He continued more calmly. ‘Yes. With the magic of the Vaticae, the army will reach Paris by the end of the year.’

The Templar Magi of Holy Rome fielded a force unlike any other. Powerful magi and extraordinary warriors alike, the militant order of the Church were charged with the protection of the faith. This drove them to feats of great strength and heroism the like of which the rest of the world could barely comprehend. Richard been led to believe that they would not rise to the invasion of France, and would seek only to defend their own borders. Richard had not planned to confront them until his power was consolidated in Europe, and even then only once his armies were fully rested and resupplied.

Now it seemed he had miscalculated.

‘Their combined might against our armies...’ The young prince allowed the words to drip from his tongue slowly. ‘Even with the
Lionheart
, we would not stand a chance. Without more men and more weapons, defeating them would be impossible.’ He cringed, anticipating retribution from his father. He was surprised, therefore, when Richard simply sighed and shook his head.

‘It would be difficult, my boy,’ he said. ‘Difficult, but nothing is impossible. The price of that victory, though...’ He fell into a deep brooding silence as he stared at the boy whom he loved more than anything in the world. The words of the demon came back to haunt him again.

When the sun sets on the day of the solstice, young Richard must stand within the circle at Salisbury. I will hold your pact fulfilled, and your line will endure forever, as was promised. England will have a king unlike any in history, and all will fall before him. What more could any father ask?

There were two paths open to him now; he could taste them, like blood in his mouth.

Victory. Defeat.

Two paths. And the cost was great for both. If the army were defeated, then there was every chance that the Vatican would turn its attention to England and look to bring the wayward child back to the ways of the parent Church. The House of Plantagenet would be broken. England would once again fall under the influence of the arcane, and all that they had worked for—a century of rule—would have been for nothing. Plantagenet would be a forgotten name, consigned to the annals of history. He would be the shame of his forebears, and his descendants, should they be permitted to live, would do so in ignominy and exile.

But victory came with a different price. He lifted his eyes again to look at the young prince.

‘
A king unlike any in history,
’ he murmured, beneath his breath. That was what Melusine had called him. Somehow the idea chilled him to the bone. But what father would not want greatness for his child? The King put his head in his hands, misery settling about him.

What price victory?

What price?

The Sahara Desert

Morocco

T
HEY MADE SWIFT
passage. The knowledge that Weaver and his men were close on their heels had a remarkable effect on even Giraldo’s lethargy. The camels proved to be remarkably swift when spurred on and with Warin at their head, the sands of the Sahara Desert passed in a dusty haze behind them.

But after an hour’s hard riding in the oppressive heat, the camels faltered and slowed. This came as some relief to Mathias and Tagan. The long ride in the mountains had been difficult and arduous, but at least the climate had been bearable and the animals they rode were familiar. The camels had a longer, bumpier gait that jarred them with every stride.

‘We cannot tarry,’ said Giraldo, urgency in his tone. ‘I have never known a hunter like this Inquisitor. He must have run men and beasts to death to get here. And he always knows how to find us! How can a man know such things without the gift?’ His voice had lost all of its airy lightness, becoming threatening and dark. ‘How?’

‘Oh, Giraldo, please,’ said Eyja. ‘You are frightening the children. Everything will be just fine. Have a little faith in your friends, will you?’

‘A little faith,’ he retorted. ‘One is presently a camel, one is too old to leave, and the other... the other is...’

A long, awkward pause.

‘Do continue,’ Eyja said in a pleasant, tinkling voice that rang in the air. ‘
What
am I?’

It was past midday and the desert air was hazy with the heat. Giraldo seemed to be steaming ever so slightly in his saddle.

The pirate’s silence dragged on a little further, passing beyond the merely awkward and into something else. The two clashed silently and Mathias’s eyes moved from the one to the other, waiting on the outcome.

He never got it. Tagan’s voice rose in panic and she pointed back the way they had ridden. ‘Look!’

They looked, all of them. Even Warin-as-camel turned his head to the cloud of dust on the far horizon.

‘They are coming,’ said Giraldo in a grim tone. ‘We have sat bickering for too long.’

‘Oh, shut up, Giraldo.’ The camel vanished as Warin took human form once more and stomped over to stand beside Eyja. He offered a hand up to Eyja, helping her climb down from her own beast. She thanked him demurely and brushed her hands lightly across the front of her gown.

‘If beasts and blades and storms do nothing to turn this man from his course, perhaps we should test his resolve with all three at once. Warin, will you join with me? Set your will against this foe once again?’

Warin nodded, his expression dark. ‘This Inquisitor has done enough. I will kill him if I have to.’

The two of them clasped hands for the briefest of moments and then turned their attention to the oncoming plume of dust.

‘F
ASTER
!’ W
EAVER DUG
his heels into the horse’s flank. ‘We are upon them!’

Sir Anthony and his remaining knights followed in the Lord Inquisitor’s wake. Within minutes of leaving the
Vanguard
, they had thrown gold at the horse merchant and taken his best and swiftest creatures, the beautiful Arab horses that Tagan had so admired earlier. Seven riders had left Anfa. One had been thrown barely two miles from the city gates, unused to riding such skittish animals. He had landed badly, breaking his ankle, but had waved the rest of them on and turned awkwardly to return to the town.

‘My lord, look.’ One of the riders pointed ahead where the tracks that marked the group’s passage were no longer half-buried by the shifting sands. ‘We are gaining on them.’

‘Then be wary. I will not let this quarry escape. Not again.’ They pushed on, the sand scouring their skin and the sun baking their backs as they rode. After the gruelling ride across France, the return journey and the storm at sea, the knights were as eager as Weaver to end the chase.

Almost
as eager.

Unlike the knights, the Lord Inquisitor showed no signs of flagging; even his time behind the oar did not seem to have fatigued him. It was as though he’d passed beyond the limits of mortal flesh. Charles Weaver seemed beyond pain and weakness, driven to the point of obsession.

And he seemed, by turns, to be utterly ruthless and startlingly kind. Sir Anthony could not decide what was the real Charles Weaver.

‘My lord!’ This time, the cry was not one of triumph, but of horror. Weaver raised his masked face and looked to where the man pointed. A wall of sand was moving towards them at an impossible pace.

‘Sandstorm!’

I
T HAD BEGUN
as nothing more than a handful of sand. Warin squatted down and gathered up a scoop of the hot Sahara dust in his rough, calloused hands. It did not trickle between his fingers, but held its shape in his cupped palms, like a tiny, ochre pyramid. He held the gathered sand before him and lifted his arms slowly to the sky. Eyja touched his arm gently and her voice lifted in the sweet soprano Mathias had heard her use on her arrival in the English Channel. Her call to the winds was answered by a skirling sirocco that plucked streamers from the dunes and twisted its way around Warin. The grains shifted gently, changing from mere sand to something living.

‘Beautiful,’ breathed Giraldo, his earlier irritation seemingly forgotten. ‘It has been so long since I watched the two of them work together. So very beautiful.’

‘I prefer “practical,”’ grunted Warin, who crouched again and set the tiny dust devil down on the ground before him. It spun gracefully, twisting from side to side and growing in size and strength.

At first it was a dervish of sand, hovering a fraction of an inch above the ground, but as it grew, it began to take on shape and form. The arcane wind was something more than just a storm, although as it began to rush toward the pursuing figures it became very apparent that a wall of sand was building in its wake. Creatures became distinguishable within the body of the storm. Limbs. Ears. Tails.

The sand-wolves threw back their heads and howled, a sound like the cry of the wind across dry rocks and bone. It filled the air like a mournful dirge and raced ahead of the growing dust-storm like a harbinger of doom. It built up speed as it moved across the dunes, a wall of razor-sharp sand billowing behind it.

Giraldo and Mathias turned to Tagan, who was staring after the disappearing sand-wolves. ‘It depends how quickly they find shelter,’ replied Giraldo carefully. He sighed softly. ‘Probably,’ he admitted. She nodded.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘After what men like him did to Wyn... to every mage dragged before a trial... to Mathias’s father... they can feel our retribution. At our hands, the Inquisition will suffer for their folly.’ The words were archaic and decidedly un-Tagan. Mathias felt something curdle deep in his soul as he stared at her.

Giraldo, however, studied the young woman’s face carefully. ‘We are close to our destination,’ he said. ‘It tells.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tagan had turned away and was looking out to the east, her eyes cool and calm, her expression neutral. She did not seem to be completely her usual self.

‘Akhgar,’ said Giraldo. Tagan turned her head in his direction slightly and inclined it in the briefest of acknowledging nods.

With a sudden release of energy that set all of Mathias’s senses buzzing, Eyja and Warin relinquished control of the storm. Both of them looked immensely wearied by the magic and leaned heavily against one another for support. Giraldo looked them over with a practised eye. ‘They will be fine. Two minutes to rest and then we need to move. Time is precious. My friends, Akhgar is near.’

A
SHE REGARDED
the approaching storm, Weaver reluctantly conceded that they must take cover. They rode hard, desperate to reach the comparative shelter of the nearby dunes. The horses, sensitive to the urgency of their riders, became even harder to control and the men struggled to steer them.

The storm struck minutes before they all reached the edge of the dune and for a fleeting moment, Charles Weaver swore he saw the body of a vast, glistening wolf in the heart of the wall of sand that lashed against his armoured body and bounced off his masked face. The protection, minimal though it was, meant he fared better than two of his knights and most of the horses. The screams of man and beast rose in the howling winds as the sand blinded them and scored bloody tracks in their flesh. One horse, maddened by the horror, threw and trampled its rider before disappearing from view, galloping off as fast as its legs would carry it. The noise and the chaos were terrifying and Weaver’s men huddled in the lee of the dune, helpless to defend themselves against the eldritch wind and biting sand. They pulled their cloaks about them and waited as the desert threatened to swallow them whole.

Charles Weaver roared his defiance right back, something greater than resolve glittering in his eyes.