‘But where will we go? Wyn didn’t tell us where the others might be. Only you.’
‘You would give up so easily?’ Warin frowned and peered at Mathias. ‘You’re a strange boy. I see great pride and strength running through you, yet you deny all that you are. What are you?’
Mathias couldn’t answer that, but Tagan answered for him. ‘He is the man I love,’ she said, simply. ‘We just don’t know how we’re supposed to find these people. We don’t know who they are, or even what they might look like.’
‘Then it is good that I do know, yes? Or at least I know a place to start.’ Warin dragged his fingers through his tangled beard and frowned. ‘It will be easiest to head south, over the mountains. It is a long way to the sea, but there are lakes between here and there, it is possible that he might be listening...’ There was a clear edge of distaste to his words. ‘I may be able to get word to de Luna.’
‘Who?’ Mathias tipped his head at the unusual name.
Warin sneered slightly. ‘Giraldo de Luna. Or at least, that was the last name he went by. You mentioned him by another name: the “Pirate King.”’
‘But how far is it to the sea?’ Tagan looked helpless. She had seen the sea once, as a very small girl when she’d accompanied her father to a fishing village on the coast, but she had no understanding of where they were. Warin tipped his head, his lips moving as he worked out which route he would take.
‘Many, many leagues,’ he said, eventually. ‘For us on foot—very long. For two of us on four legs... not so much.’ He turned his gaze on Mathias and the solemn expression suddenly became something entirely different. Amused, possibly. ‘Well, Mathias Eynon. You wished to learn how to properly embrace your magic, now it looks like Warin will teach you.’ His lips curled up in a sudden smile, something predatory and filled with a deep amusement. ‘Yes?’
Suddenly, Mathias was no longer so keen on the idea.
The road from Paris
France
THE HORSES THUNDERED across the French countryside, their hooves flying. Every man had been in the saddle for two days, eating on the move and keeping sleep at bay with a foul-smelling and worsetasting brew supplied by the royal alchemist. The horses foamed at the mouth, pink froth streaming from their muzzles as the potion forced into them kept them running. Weaver had already put leagues between himself and the army as the insistent, inexplicable call to the east drove him on.
One of his chosen warriors, a knight named Sir Anthony, pulled his horse level with the Lord Inquisitor. There were dark circles under the knight’s eyes, and despite the alchemy’s work, his face was drawn with exhaustion.
‘My lord.’ Anthony had to shout to be heard over the sound of hooves and the rush of the wind. ‘My lord, at this pace we will kill the horses.’
Weaver looked around at the rolling fields, farms and hamlets. Word of the approaching army had not yet reached this far inland, so they occasionally passed shocked-looking peasants at work. Those who failed to get out of the way were run down. Many of the farms had stables.
‘So we kill them,’ Weaver yelled back over the noise. ‘When they are dead, then we will rest. Then we will take more, and we will continue until they die. We stop for nothing else, do I make myself clear?’
The knight did not reply, but nodded grimly. The eleven riders pushed on.
Eight
Bavaria
Germany
MATHIAS WAS NOT having a good time. Warin’s idea of ‘teaching’ him how to shapeshift seemed to consist largely of the stocky little man changing into an animal and urging Mathias to copy him. So far he had achieved nothing except a lot of ineffective pink-faced grunting.
‘Stop laughing,’ he muttered to Tagan, who sat watching, the wolfhound at her side. The dog’s tongue was lolling as she watched the two men, and Mathias had the distinct feeling that both Tagan and the dog were laughing at him.
‘I didn’t make a sound,’ came her reply, but there was a twinkle in her expression. ‘Do you want me to close my eyes? Am I putting you off?’
‘Of course you are not putting him off. Now concentrate. Think... rabbit.’ The man’s figure shot downwards and was replaced by a rabbit. It twitched its nose at him in what Mathias thought was a decidedly mocking manner. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I am a rabbit, he thought, somewhat self-consciously. I am a rabbit. I am a rabbit. I am...
He opened his eyes. He was still Mathias. Warin the rabbit hopped up and down once or twice and then became human again. ‘Stop worrying about man things, think rabbit things.’ His voice was stern. Mathias flushed even brighter. Warin had obviously gauged the problem with embarrassing ease. ‘Just calm yourself. Think rabbit. Now concentrate, Englander.’
‘I’m Welsh.’
Warin smirked. ‘Welsh men would not have half the difficulty you are having. Stop doubting and start believing, boy.’
Annoyance and frustration rose in the pit of Mathias’s stomach and he glared at Warin, who simply smirked again and became a rabbit, hopping mockingly around his feet. Mathias resisted the urge to kick the little animal and closed his eyes once again.
I’ll show him, he thought. I’m a rabbit. He could visualise the form he needed to take. He considered the size of a rabbit compared to the size of himself as a human. It was ludicrous. How on earth could he possibly fit a man’s body into a rabbit’s form? He muttered softly to himself and pushed the negative thoughts aside. The irritation gave way to a sense of desperation. Warin said he had potential. Thus far in his life, all he had been was adequate. Something fundamental changed within Mathias Eynon in that moment. Adequate was no longer good enough. He was caught up in huge, terrifying events that demanded more.
I can do this. I must do this, I don’t really have a choice any more, came the resigned thought. But if I’m going to be a rabbit, I’m going to be a better one than Warin.
A sudden gasp of surprise from Tagan made him open his eyes to look at her. He realised that he had to look up. Then he had to look up some more. He twitched his furry little nose at her and she stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers. There was admiration in those eyes. Admiration, and even a little fear.
Very good. Warin’s voice was exactly as it was when he spoke as a human, but it arrived right inside the privacy of his skull. Mathias hopped, startled by this sudden intrusion, and turned to look at the other rabbit. The ears are little over-long, but you would pass as a rabbit. Now change back.
Exhilarated, Mathias let the magic envelop him. He had never allowed himself to properly embrace the gift that had been his all through his life. Too afraid of it, perhaps. But here, in a dark forest, far from home and with only his betrothed and a wild magus to judge him, he found that he had power. Real power.
In the heartbeat it took him to once again take on his true form, Mathias Eynon truly grew up.
‘Matty!’ Tagan got up from where she sat on the grassy bank and flung her arms around him, kissing him gleefully on the lips. ‘You did it!’
‘I did? I did!’ Delighted at his own success, he hugged her back, revelling in the moment for just a while. The events of the past hours had shaken him, left him feeling lost and lonely in a world that he no longer understood. But Tagan was here for him.
‘When you two are quite finished,’ said Warin sourly, ‘we must practise more and we must get it right. Whilst you two kiss and cuddle, evil stalks the lands of your home.’ He looked carefully at Mathias. He reached a hand up to scratch at his wild red beard, then smirked.
‘Consider,’ he said to Mathias, ‘the horse...’
Troyes
France
THE HORSES FINALLY died thirty leagues south of Paris. They staggered to a halt, their emaciated limbs shaking and their breathing ragged. It became apparent that no amount of beating would get them to move. Then, one by one, they collapsed, little more than skin and bone. All but ruined with fatigue and time spent in the saddle, Weaver and his ten knights staggered the
last few miles into the town of Troyes.
It was early morning and the streets were empty of life. The men broke into the first house they came to and collapsed into an exhausted sleep. The Lord Inquisitor felt the ache in his bones, but the potion still thrummed in his veins. Besides, he had found that he needed less rest of late.
‘Rest, feed yourselves and find more horses. I will be back in a few hours,’ Weaver said to his companions. They all nodded absently before sinking gratefully to the floor and falling asleep with the casual ease of the truly exhausted. The Lord Inquisitor left them to their rest, sneering at their weakness before he walked out into the empty street.
Narrow, half-timbered buildings of white clay lined the cobbled road, but all were quiet, their doors and windows closed. Weaver had a sudden compulsion to explore the town, his curiosity piqued by the absence of life. He walked down the empty street, his boot heels clicking on the cobbles, and headed toward the centre of town, which was dominated by the towering, ornate spire of a church.
The smell of baking bread stopped him in his stride, and he approached the bakery, expecting to see it bustling with activity. Instead, he found it empty, trays of loaves loading and unloading themselves from the clay oven without any intervention required from a baker. The Lord Inquisitor snorted in contempt at such flagrant use of magic to perform tasks that should have been conducted through honest work. King Richard had always maintained that magic made men weak rather than strong, and the evidence was here for anybody to see. There was a scuffling in the alleyway behind him and he spun around, his hand flying to one of his pistols.
An urchin with a dirt-smeared face stared back at him, eyes wide with fear. Weaver relaxed and dropped his hand to his side. He had no doubt that his outlandish appearance terrified the girl-child: huge, dark, masked and thick with the dust of travel.
‘Where is everybody?’ the Lord Inquisitor boomed. He spread his arms wide to indicate the town and shrugged his shoulders as if puzzled. He knew only a little French, and was under no illusion about his ability to communicate with the girl verbally.
‘The people. Where are they?’ He repeated the gesture, asking his question just a little louder.
Whether the child understood or not was unclear, but she raised a shaking finger to indicate the church spire and Weaver nodded. Time had blurred since he had started this wild ride and he had lost track of the days. It must be Sunday. He nodded to the child and started to turn away, then, as an afterthought, tossed one of the fresh loaves to her. The girl caught it and blinked in surprise.
‘You should leave.’ Weaver’s voice was little more than a rumble. Again, he did not know if he was understood, but she gave a small smile and took to her heels, disappearing back into the alley.
The Lord Inquisitor strode into the square before the church and looked up at the magnificent building. It was in the process of being expanded, and wooden scaffolding clung to its flanks, boards sagging under the weight of stone waiting to be lifted into place. A statue of Saint Julian sat bound in ropes, awaiting elevation. The muted sound of voices raised in song could be heard from within the building. Weaver advanced on the double doors, pushed one open and slipped inside.
The pews were loaded to capacity and the Lord Inquisitor found himself at the back of the nave, in the area reserved for paupers and peasants. The wealthier residents were seated closer to the sanctuary in recognition of their status. A number of the congregation looked up at his intrusion, uncomprehending of who or what it was that had come among them. The priest at the altar was recounting his sermon in French; the words were lost on Weaver. He recognised the story that was being related all too well, however, as his eyes were drawn to the living illusion being woven for the masses.
The cleric had conjured a scene that depicted the shores of a lake. A great many people surrounded a figure, who was taking food from a basket and distributing it in seemingly endless supply.
‘The feeding of the five thousand,’ Weaver declared, his sepulchral voice carrying the length of the church. ‘I have heard it told many times, but never have I seen it. Is this how you keep the people enthralled to your corrupt will?’
The illusion faltered and vanished, and several children at the front gave little cries of disappointment. Weaver slowly paced down the aisle, his steps shockingly loud in the hollow, hallowed space. The priest regarded him curiously from the platform and asked a question in French. All eyes in the hall were now on Charles Weaver and a ripple of whispers passed through the crowd as he approached the altar.
‘Magic is a corruption of the spirit. It softens men, makes them weak.’ Weaver stopped at the head of the nave, his eyes fixed on the cleric through the slits in his mask. He turned around and looked out at the sea of faces, some confused, some intrigued, a few—mainly those closest to him—afraid.
‘You are all sinners,’ he went on. ‘You are all weak, and have allowed yourselves to be blinded by the arcane to the truth of your lives.’ He started to walk back down the aisle, his voice booming out and carrying to every corner of the church.
‘Honest people do honest work. They do not grow fat while spells and sigils work on their behalf.’ He stopped near the doors, and some of the peasants shuffled away from him as he turned once again to address the congregation. ‘In the name of King Richard the Unyielding, Lord of England and conqueror of Europe, I pronounce this town guilty of arcane blasphemy.’
He slipped his hands into one of the pouches at his waist and withdrew a pair of crystal phials. Lambent blue liquid sloshed within their confines. They were sealed with treated wax and bore the mark of the royal alchemist.
‘I condemn you to purification by fire.’ Weaver hurled the two phials into the air, and they sailed down the nave to shatter on the steps of the altar. He was already stepping outside as they broke open, spilling liquid alchemical fire throughout the congregation. Muffled screams came from within the church as Weaver walked away. He tossed another phial at the doors as he went, sealing all those inside behind a spreading pool of molten blue fire that devoured the wooden scaffolding in short order before leaping hungrily to the surrounding buildings.
As the sun set, Weaver and his ten rode into the night, Troyes burning fiercely at their backs.
Bavaria
Germany
IN THE HOUR since he had successfully shifted his form into that of a rabbit, Mathias had discovered what it felt like to be a fox, a badger, a wolf and finally a horse. Not a particularly outstanding horse; not like the chestnut stallion that Warin effortlessly became. More of a piebald pony, with one eye ever so slightly higher than the other. But the thought was certainly there. Mathias came from a farming community, and his idea of what a horse looked like was evidently very different to that of Warin.
As a horse, the Shapeshifter was a truly magnificent beast. A deep, rich chestnut coat, glinting in the failing daylight, covered the strong, powerful body. A horse like this could run for miles and there, of course, was the purpose made flesh. Mathias’s soft brown eyes flickered over to his betrothed. Tagan had watched the whole display with ever-widening eyes and a near-palpable sense of envy. Mathias recognised the expression. He had worn it enough times himself whenever she showed her remarkable talent with fire.
Our time grows short. This form is not as good as it could be, but it will do. The stallion lowered its head and shook its mane. We have to run, and this is the form best suited to that task. I will carry the girl. I am stronger, more used to it.
The wolfhound, Warin’s constant companion, was running around the legs of the stallion, barking. Clearly this was a form that the dog was hugely unfamiliar with, and as a horse, Mathias could pick up on the delicate nuances of animal fear very clearly. He put a tentative hoof forward. Very quickly, he made a discovery.
Four legs are far more complex to manage than two.
In the hour of changing forms, he had not moved from the spot, apart from the tiniest of hops as the rabbit. The other animals had not
made any attempt to move. As Mathias put his long leg forward, the other three immediately became confused and tangled up, and sent him sprawling to the ground with a snort.
The chestnut stallion stared at him, great dark eyes unblinking and holding the tiniest bit of scorn. The piebald pony scrambled to his ungainly legs and fiercely focused his attention until he was able to walk forwards without falling over.
Get used to it quickly, Englander. You have to run.
I am going as quickly as I can. I haven’t done this before, remember? The expression in the chestnut horse’s eyes softened just a little, which was as close to acknowledging Mathias’s circumstances as Warin had come. The Shapeshifter warped back into his human form and reached over to pat the little pony on the neck.
‘You have done well,’ he said, and there was an endearing awkwardness in his tone that suggested he rarely gave praise. He turned to Tagan. ‘Do you know how to ride a horse without a saddle?’
She nodded. Growing up amidst a farming community had given her any number of skills. Everyone was encouraged to learn to ride, and Tagan, ever more adventurous than most, had often gone without a saddle. Warin smiled. ‘Then you will ride and we will run. We will stop to rest when you are so tired you fall off.’ He roared with laughter at her startled look. ‘I joke. We will take a little while to gather some food and water and then we will leave. You’—he pointed to Grauenhund—‘are staying here in the woods where you belong.’ The hound flattened its ears and whined before jumping up to lick Warin’s face. She loitered a moment longer and then prowled off, slinking into the forest. Warin watched her go and sighed. Then he pointed at Mathias. ‘You... do not change back. Practise.’
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 14