Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  But ships had ever been his first love, and it was the shipyards of the south coast that were now his home. He was a quiet, intelligent man in his late forties, with a balding pate and a rat-like face that was incapable of concealing emotion. Women and children had entirely failed to feature in his life, and so he devoted every waking moment to his craft and, of late, to the Indomitable. When she was launched, when the French fleet felt the bite of her cannon and broke before her prow, the world would know of Isaac Bonnington’s work. This ship would immortalise his name.

  Who knows, he thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, he might even get paid. He was certain that if he approached the King and asked for an advance, he might find himself replaced with someone King Richard considered more patriotic and less materialistic. Others had ended their days in the Tower for less.

  Since he had taken the throne of England, Richard the Unyielding had proven himself to be a man gifted with drive and determination. Blessed with a fierce intellect that grasped the principles of construction and engineering, the King possessed knowledge of the sciences quite beyond the most gifted scholars. Heavy industry had flourished in the cities of England. The cannon of the Indomitable had been cast far from Portsmouth and transported down from Liverpool by ship, while the plates that armoured her hull were beaten in a forge in Manchester.

  There was no shortage of bodies to work the furnaces, swing the hammers and dig the mines, as criminals and the homeless were pressed into service. Shackled work gangs toiled in shifts to pull iron, copper, tin and coal from the earth and feed the fires of industry. Labourers and artisans worked the forges and foundries to produce the wonders of Richard’s kingdom. It was dangerous work, but not without its benefits. Those free men and women in service to the Crown were well paid for their efforts, though it was argued by some that the risks outweighed the rewards. Richard did not tax his vassals heavily, but he taxed them all. Farmers, once exempt from the need to present their annual accounts, now had to employ the literate and numerate to control their spending. Failure to provide to the Crown guaranteed a stint in a work gang.

  Freedom was a thing long forgotten in England. But Isaac didn’t mind. He was happy in his little office with its tiny window that let in the reek of the port. The odour of the shipyards clung to him; the constant smell of tar, metal and brine. He had grown so accustomed to it that he no longer noticed it, although it was the first thing his visitors noticed.

  From the comparative comfort of that snug office, Isaac sighed heavily, dragging his eyes back from the window overlooking the expansive docks, and turned his attention to the pile of missives that had mounted up in the past few days. Money, while certainly important, had never been a preoccupation of Isaac’s. He craved immortality—he wanted to be known and remembered, like a great playwright or poet—and his work would be his route to that dream. It was a constant frustration that others did not share his enthusiasm. Casualties among the chain-gangs working on the hull had made them surly and intractable. The labourers fitting the guns had not been paid on time. An engineer responsible for the labyrinthine engines had lost both hands in an accident. They were still on schedule, but the cost had been heavy. Isaac’s eventual fee was going to be a fraction of what it had been at the beginning.

  He sighed again and pushed the invoices to one side. Money was a terrible necessity. Instead, he let his attention drift out of the small window and fix on the iron spars of the Indomitable. He had wanted to name her the Lady Jane, in tribute to his long-dead mother, the woman who had once stood with him on these very docks marvelling at the beautiful ships that came and went. He had even once seen a barge full of prisoners, being taken off to serve in the King’s Navy as oarsmen and loaders.

  But the King had vetoed his suggestion, insisting on something that conveyed the spirit of the vessel. In his heart, Isaac still called her the Lady Jane.

  The Indomitable was still in dry dock, but the modified design of her carrack body was beyond a doubt the single most beautiful thing that Isaac had ever seen. She had been delivered into his hands as plunder from a naval action in Portuguese waters, whole and complete, and had saved both time and money by providing a stable base from which he could develop something unique.

  When she had come into Isaac’s possession, she had been blessed with seven decks and thirty-two guns. Now she had only six decks, but thanks to Isaac’s designs, she had more than doubled in size and arsenal. The ship was massive. Some even considered it to be impossible that so much iron could take to the waves. But smaller ironclads had already proven themselves, and would spearhead the fleet with their armoured hulls.

  Isaac watched as one of the vessel’s massive cannons was lowered slowly onto the upper deck. They had yet to be tested at sea, but he had attended a demonstration on the royal estate and the results had been terrifying and astonishing in equal measure. When Richard grew bored of his treaty with the French, their naval forces would be crushed. With the Indomitable at their head, the English would be invincible; heathen magic would yield to the purity of science. Word at court suggested that the war that was inevitable was barely months away. The pressure to ensure that the Indomitable was seaworthy was immense.

  Thinking of court provoked a pang of guilt. Isaac had not attended the King for several weeks now, claiming that he was needed at the docks. Before long, he would receive the kind of summons that came in person, and was not to be ignored.

  He refused to dwell on it. Instead, Isaac gazed at the armoured flanks and bladed prow of the vessel. The Indomitable would put to sea in the spring and would claim the Channel as her own. Nothing would stand against her, and seafaring folk the world over would speak Isaac Bonnington’s name in hushed whispers. But his thoughts didn’t rest on one thing for long, and soon, he was poring over the blueprints for another, different project. A project unlike anything else.

  When he completed the Lionheart, the King’s power would be absolute.

  Hampton Court

  England

  ‘GIVE ME THE monthly tally.’ King Richard crooked the little finger of his right hand at the black-clad man standing before the throne. Charles Weaver bowed deeply and took a piece of parchment from the hands of one of the minions crouched behind him. He cleared his throat and began to speak. His voice, distorted as always by the faceless mask that was the mark of his office, read out the figures in a calm tone.

  ‘In the month of June, in the county of Sussex, following twentyseven accusations of open practice of witchcraft, fifteen resulted in execution. The remainder were given the choice of re-examination in the Tower or industrial servitude. All chose the latter.’

  He continued reading from the parchment, each county broken down accordingly. Forty in this county, six in that. The city of London had seen only two executions. The practitioners of magic had long since fled to the country, in the mistaken belief that Richard’s Inquisition would not find them.

  As head of the Inquisition, Weaver imposed an iron rule that execution was never the only possible outcome of an accusation. It was too easy for the greedy, the cowardly and the vindictive to point the finger of treason, so Inquisitors were very thorough in their investigations. A man innocent of witchcraft might find light cast on other deeds worthy of punishment, and some charlatans claimed to possess the gift of magic to enhance their status or business. Most offenders chose industrial servitude for their transgressions, a punishment shared by those who made false accusations. Left free, false accusers were ridiculed and often murdered by their own former friends, disgusted by their lies.

  In total, well over two hundred executions had taken place across the breadth of Richard’s kingdom in June. Ten more than in May. Nearly fifty more than in the same month of the previous year. The King nodded as Weaver finished his report. The Inquisitor rolled the parchment back up, sliding it into the ornate scroll case that he usually wore on his belt.

  ‘The problem remains and continues to grow,’ he concluded. ‘And what of the highla
nds and valleys?’

  ‘They remain troublesome, my lord. Those that flee your good

  justice are embraced by the north and west. The Inquisition alone cannot scour every hill and cave, and the people remain hostile to our presence. Work on the Wall has been delayed due to the recent rains, but it will pick up pace as soon as the weather turns.’ Weaver’s voice took on a faintly irritated tone. ‘If we were to use the army, we could sweep the heathens from our borders forever. Could the move on France not be delayed...’

  ‘No.’ Richard interrupted Weaver’s question. The High Inquisitor had asked every month, and every month the King gave him the same answer. ‘The invasion will go ahead as planned. A few dirty hedge magi on the borders are a mere nuisance beside the threat posed by the French and their neighbours.’ He paused for a moment, irritated that he was unable to completely purge his own isle. His instructions for the timing of the invasion had been quite explicit, and while supreme power rested with the King, it was not the only power at work in England.

  ‘Thank you for your report, Inquisitor Weaver. Your concern is noted, I will grant the Inquisition more men for the prosecution of their duties, that they might better bring our justice to the barbarians. Now please be seated.’ All eyes watched the big masked man as he took his seat. Silence reigned for a moment longer and then Richard turned his attentions to more pleasant matters.

  ‘I have received word from Isaac Bonnington,’ he began. Bonnington’s sporadic attendance at court had birthed a quiet joke that the engineer was nothing more than a figment of the King’s imagination. ‘Progress on the flagship has continued apace and we should be in a position to strike at France before summer ends.’ A slow smile crept onto his face. ‘The ironclads will sweep the French fleet aside and deliver our armies onto their beaches. The country will be ours. And we will strike them at their very heart.’

  Weaver raised his masked head, hungry for the words to drop from his King’s lips. This was the very thing toward which he had been working for so long.

  ‘We will stamp out magic across the continent. And then, when they have all been brought to heel, we will turn our attention to Rome. We will bring the light of purity and reason to that nest of magi.’

  The King’s words brought a pleasing murmur of assent from the assembled nobles. For many years, England had been hovering on the edges of hostility with the rest of Europe. She had grown increasingly isolated, rejecting magic and shunning the Church in favour of Richard’s vision of a secular nation.

  More pleasant matters. Everything was relative when you were the King of England.

  Gloucestershire,

  England

  THE TOWER OF London was Charles Weaver’s base of operations, but he rarely remained within its walls for long. The home of the Inquisition had become the most terrifying edifice in England. King Richard had granted the Order the fortress to use as barracks, prison and workshop. To most it was simply referred to as ‘the Tower’ and was a byword for fear and suffering. Iron brackets lined its walls, adorned with decaying heads, a horrifyingly graphic demonstration of the consequences of treason. No prisoner taken within its walls had ever been released, and it was rumoured that its deep dungeons rang perpetually with the screams of the tormented.

  They were fanciful tales that the Inquisition did nothing to discourage, but for all its fearful reputation and dark history, the Tower was as much a place of invention and learning as it was a gaol. The Inquisition employed the best smiths, artisans and alchemists outside of the royal court, all turned toward the singular purpose of documenting and hunting magi. The Inquisitors’ masks had been forged within its walls under the instruction of the King, offering intimidation, protection and anonymity.

  The influx of fresh mercenaries presented an opportunity not to be missed, so only a day later the High Inquisitor was glad to be on the road again with thirty men at his heels, heading for the Welsh border. A community near the site of Richard’s wall had been brazen in their use of the arcane, but had been allowed to go unpunished for want of men. The time had now come, however, for them to face the King’s justice. Treason could not—and would not—be tolerated.

  The settlement was home to a handful of families. Crudely built roundhouses, large enough to house a dozen people each, were secreted on the edge of woodland scrub. A clear brook bubbled at the edge of the village and snaked away down the fertile valley to feed a small, scrubby stretch of patchy fields.

  Weaver shook his head at the stupidity of the people. That they sincerely believed that they would not be caught was an affront to his profession. That they did nothing to conceal their crime was an insult to his office. If they attempted to excuse their actions, it would offend him personally.

  Many of the people in this place possessed magic. Weaver knew it the moment he approached. The air prickled with it. Over the years, he had come to recognise its taint. Just as black powder weapons gave off a distinct odour, so did the use of magic. He didn’t even need to employ his tools to identify the people as magi, though the blue sparks that crawled over his copper talisman said as much.

  ‘Please, my lord. Do not do this. Have mercy on us, I beg you.’

  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, a
nd 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.