Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  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!’

  He could not watch what followed.

  Six

  The Tower

  England

  CHARLES WEAVER SAT at the desk in his study, his head bowed over the ledger, his hand writing the reports from the week’s activities in his beautiful slanted script. The Welsh prisoner had yielded nothing of note, but there was time yet for him to break. At his side was a tray bearing his choice of sustenance: bread, cheeses and a few slices of home-cured meat. The simple repast would serve him well enough. A bottle of wine was uncorked and stood before him. But Charles Weaver neither ate nor drank. To do either required the removal of his mask, and until his personal servants retired for the night, he would not take it off. Even then, he had become strangely reluctant to do so.

  The reports came in on a regular basis and not all were pertinent. Here there was an account of possible evidence of magic use in a distant English backwater village. There, details of attempts by magicians to receive the support of the Church. So many of these ended without the intervention of the Inquisition, overly-dramatic scenes of self-martyrdom by the desperate and unofficial
elevation to sainthood in the eyes of their faithful followers. All these Charles Weaver read, and more. Wherever there was a hint of unusual activity, the Inquisition would follow up the leads.

  So many reports. Weaver growled quietly as he read. A plague upon the people of this country. Nothing seemed to get through to them. Threats that were made and carried out served as little more than a temporary bump in the unholy road they persisted along.

  ‘My lord?’ There was a tapping at the study door and Weaver raised his head.

  ‘Enter.’ He set down the quill and leaned back in the heavy oak chair. One of the staff he had brought from his country estate to work in the Tower as his personal servants entered the claustrophobic office.

  ‘Forgive the disturbance, my lord, but this arrived moments ago. The bearer stressed its importance.’ The servant, a faceless serf whose name Weaver had never bothered to learn, held out an ivory scroll case. Rising to his feet, Weaver moved the bulk of his huge body round to the front of the desk. He took the scroll case, recognising the seal instantly.

  ‘It’s from the King, isn’t it, my lord?’ It was presumptuous of the servant to speak without cause, and as the metal face turned on him and he saw the glint in the eyes beneath, he wished he’d remained silent.

  ‘You may leave now,’ the Lord Inquisitor replied stonily. He watched the servant scuttle out of the room, taking a quiet satisfaction in the obvious discomfort he had caused. When the door shut, he stepped across to it and turned the key in the lock. He would not be disturbed again.

  He opened the scroll case, slid out the parchment within and unfurled it. He leaned against the desk, holding the paper taut as he read the missive from King Richard. It did not take long. There were several lines that discussed the logistics of what was to come, but Weaver’s eyes were drawn to the words at the very bottom, above the flourish of Richard’s signature.

  We will go to war.

  You will lead them in my name.

  Beneath the mask, Weaver began to laugh, a sound entirely devoid of humour.

  Finally, it was going to happen. Finally, the moment he had been waiting for had arrived. He would sweep across France, then Italy. Spain and Portugal. All the countries who wore the badge of magic on their breasts would be crushed. Magic would be driven from the shores of the continent and an English Empire would be born in the twin lights of science and reason.

  ‘We will go to war,’ Weaver repeated aloud.

  Bavaria

  Germany

  AFTER HOURS IN Warin’s company, Mathias had come to the conclusion that there had been nobody so stubborn in the history of the entire world. The stocky Shapeshifter was as implacable as rock and about as dense. Mathias had tried everything in his limited power to gain the assistance of the magus but had utterly failed at every attempt.

  Eventually, he let it rest. He was tired. Tagan had already curled up in a corner of the peculiar little hut and gone to sleep, a thin blanket of rough hide pulled over her. Warin had vanished off into the forest with the female wolfhound an hour or two earlier as the last of the light began to leave the day. It was a clear night with a velvet sky studded with stars and constellations. Mathias stared up at them, finding a sense of great comfort in their familiarity.

  With evening had come a chill that saw him fetch a blanket of his own and wrap it around his shoulders as he sat in the hut, staring at the jumping shadows cast by the fire that flickered in the gloom. The air was fresh and clean, and the sounds of the forest were equal parts strange and familiar. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring the boughs in an endless, gentle song that soothed him.

  Flittering wings drew his drowsy attention as a bat made its way overhead in pursuit of some sort of insect. Mathias watched it for a while as it beat its erratic course through the darkening sky. Eventually, however, he was lulled into a light sleep by the sound of the trees.

  He didn’t know how long he slept. An hour? Maybe longer. But it was the smell of roasting meat that pulled him back to wakefulness. His nostrils flared in response to the scent and his mouth salivated as consciousness returned to him. Just beyond the lip of the hut, Warin sat cross-legged before the fire, turning three plump rabbits on a spit. The wolfhound lay at his side.

  Mathias glanced over towards Tagan and was surprised to see that she still slept. She shivered once or twice and the young man got to his feet, crossing softly to her and laying his own blanket over her shoulders before stepping out to join Warin.

  The wolfhound’s head rose sleepily, but when she realised that it was only Mathias, she made a strangely contented sort of noise and lay back down.

  ‘Hungry, Englander?’

  ‘I’m Welsh.’ The response was automatic and only half-hearted. ‘I don’t know what that means. You are Englander to me. Answer

  the question. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mathias admitted. ‘I am.’

  ‘Grauenhund and I hunted for you and the girl.’ Warin waved a

  hand at the rabbits. ‘Eat what you want, leave the rest.’ ‘What about you?’

  ‘I said we hunted,’ replied Warin. ‘I ate my fill then.’ He turned

  his head slightly and a wicked grin spread across his face. ‘One of the things about being a shapeshifter is no need to cook your food.’ ‘You ate your food raw.’ It was a statement rather than a question, and if Warin had been expecting Mathias to be shocked, it didn’t work. The stocky man deflated slightly.

  ‘It’s almost ready,’ he said, waving at the rabbit. ‘It is not much.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Mathias simply and he took a seat next to Warin. The air of the night was cool and the warmth from the fire very welcome. He reached over to stroke the long, silken ears of the female wolfhound and she cracked open one eye to study the young man. She shifted her bulk a few inches closer to him and Mathias smiled, running a hand over her coarse fur.

  ‘She is a fine hunter,’ Warin said. ‘My companions have come and gone over the years, but she has been the best. And the most loyal. She is old, of course. Not much longer for this world.’ The matterof-fact way in which he said it did not hide the underlying sadness.

  ‘What’s it like? Being able to change what you are?’ Mathias took advantage of the melancholy moment to ask the question that had been burning at the back of his mind since he had first witnessed Warin’s remarkable talent. ‘Becoming anything you wish to be?’

  ‘I wish that I could be anything I wanted to be,’ came the reply. ‘But my powers are limited by my own nature. I can take the form of any other animal, any of the children of the land. But you know this. You are of the earth. Can you not change your shape also?’

  ‘No,’ said Mathias. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Did you try?’

  The question came out of nowhere and he was startled by it. Yet somewhere in there was a clue as to a way to encourage Warin to open up. ‘No,’ he said, carefully. ‘I didn’t. Perhaps, if you travel with us, you could...’

  ‘I will not leave my forest. I will not teach you.’ Silence fell again and eventually, Mathias resumed conversation.

  ‘What about other people? Can you take their likenesses?’

  ‘Yes,’ Warin replied. ‘But I don’t. That way leads to many complications. For me. Animals are different, but their natures are predictable. Humans? Less so. I chose to spend less time with them and more time with the children of the forest.’

  ‘The beasts and the birds, hmm?’

  Warin’s amber eyes blinked up slowly at Mathias. ‘Just the beasts,’ he said and there was such longing in his voice that it was moving. ‘Not the birds. That skill belongs to another.’ The tone became faintly bitter.

  ‘She Who Sees? Is she a shapeshifter as well?’ Mathias read the reaction cautiously, but clearly he read it well. The by-now customary scowl crept back onto Warin’s face and he folded his arms over his chest.

  ‘Something smells good,’ said a sleepy female voice. Tagan had woken, the blankets wrapped around her, and was st
epping out to join them. Mathias smiled fondly at her, but inwardly cursed her timing. Warin had finally been about to open up, he was sure of it.

  ‘Warin cooked for us,’ he said, keeping his voice pleasant. He reached up a hand to his betrothed and she took it, stepping off the hut floor and down onto the dirt and grass of the forest. She sat down easily, crossing her legs and sniffing at the cooking meat.

  ‘Wild garlic,’ she observed. ‘Thyme.’

  ‘You have a good nose,’ said Warin, clearly impressed.

  ‘I cook for my family,’ was Tagan’s response. ‘This is a rarity for me. Having someone else do the cooking, I mean.’ Her mood was bright and cheerful. Mathias felt another stab of apprehension as he wondered what had become of the quiet little village they had left behind. He couldn’t bring himself to share his fears with her, to burden her with worry and uncertainty when they already faced an uncertain future.

  ‘Mathias tried to cook for me once. He made me a stew. To this day I am unsure as to what meat was in it.’

  ‘Meat,’ replied Mathias good-naturedly.

  ‘From what part of the animal?’

  ‘You know the phrase “what you don’t know can’t harm you,” right?’ He grinned and for a moment, Warin, the dog, the cook fire and the Bavarian forest slipped away. For a fleeting heartbeat, it was just the two of them. Impulsively, Mathias took the young woman’s hand and kissed the back of her knuckles.

  She gave a little smile and ducked her head. Caught up in the moment, Mathias leaned forward to give her a small kiss on the cheek.

  Warin rather destroyed the tenderness of the gesture by noisily clearing out one nostril onto the fire. The resulting sound was not unlike a damaged bugle sounding a battle call.

  ‘Do you want me to go back out hunting whilst you two mate?’ He waved a hand and Tagan flushed bright pink. Mathias blushed even harder and more hotly than she did.