Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising

by Sarah Cawkwell

  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!’

  FROM 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.

  ‘Fire again,’ Weaver demanded, ‘while their broadside is presented. I trust you can manage to hit them this time?’

  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.

  ‘I said fire!’ the Lord Inquisitor bellowed. ‘Was that unclear?’

  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.

  ‘Lunus!’

  THE 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.

  ‘Fuego de San Elmo!’

  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.

  AT FIRST, IT was hard to make out the shape of the woman amidst the steel grey of the storm clouds. She was wearing a woollen dress of the same shade, and a darker grey cloak that billowed out around her as she soared. Then her hood fluttered down around her shoulders and the pale skin of her face and the white-blonde of her long hair streaming behind her made her obvious. Those who laid eyes on her could not tear their gaze away.

  Her voice was raised in a strange kind of song, although the words were in a language that few had ever heard before. Her voice was clear, ringing out through the skies that bore her aloft, and as her fluting soprano rose to an impossibly high pitch, the wind tore into the Vanguard. Sailors on deck were thrown from their feet and several were hurled overboard and into the rolling waves. The survivors struggled to recover and crawled on hands and knees back to their positions.

  ‘Eyja!’

  Bursting from beneath the waves, Giraldo let out a cry of delight. His own voice, a rich baritone, rose to join with Eyja’s, a perfect harmony that rose and fell with the swell of the storm. The gale rose and clawed at the Vanguard’s sails, tearing them to shreds and plucking sailors from the spars. The foremast splintered and crashed down onto the deck and there was a loud, ominous cracking from the hull as the sea tossed it about.

  Flotsam was scooped from the waves and dashed against the vessel. Lengths of flailing rope, spears of broken wood and shards of debris riddled the ship’s prow and flanks, wounding men and savaging the stricken craft. None of it touched the figure standing at the prow with his hands locked on the rail. He stood unmoving, as if rooted to the deck, and stared up at the storm, the flash of lightning reflected from his mask.

  The hurricane did not touch the Hermione.

  Mathias was caught up in the spectacle of it all. He had witnessed

  feats of power from Warin and Giraldo and even watched, awed, as they had combined their talents. But this was something else. He glanced at Tagan, who had emerged from below, and her eyes were wider than he had ever seen befo
re. She was gazing up at the woman suspended in the air with wonder and more than a little apprehension.

  Giraldo’s crew seemed to have forgotten their earlier worry once they realised that the bad omen was actually on their side. They were pointing up at Eyja, or down at Giraldo as he stood amidst the thunderous waves, and calling out things in their own language.

  Warin, on the other hand, was staring up at the woman in the skies with a wistful, eternally sad expression on his face. He did not lend his voice to the ensemble that was gradually forcing the English into retreat.

  He just watched.

  Despite his wonder, Mathias felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the gruff Shapeshifter. He had never seen anybody look so forlorn or so lonely. There was little time to dwell upon it, however. With a shout and a raucous laugh of delight, Giraldo grabbed hold of the ladder at the side of the Hermione and swung himself back up onto deck.

  ‘Be ready to add some sail and... well, hold onto something,’ he said and the laughter in his voice was infectious. His enthusiasm and delight caught hold among the crew, and they obeyed their captain’s order instantly. ‘We’re heading south! Pay attention! Easy as she goes, now.’ He moved to take a place by Tohias’s side at the helm, and gave the first mate a huge grin. ‘Prepare to come about!’ He patted Tohias’s shoulder and let out a bellowed command.

  ‘Hard to port!’

  The Hermione wallowed for a moment, and the deck groaned alarmingly as Tohias spun the wheel in a blur. The ship heeled over to one side and Mathias held fast to Tagan as the spray foamed over the rail. Then the turn was complete and the sails snapped tight.

  ‘More!’ Giraldo urged. ‘More!’ He laughed as the Hermione leapt away from her pursuers and left them foundering in her wake.

  Travelling with them in the dark skies overhead, Eyja floated with ease and grace, always staying between them and the wounded Vanguard. A silent protector. Silent and beautiful... and exceptionally deadly.

  Their speed was such that they soon left the English ship behind, a dwindling dot, lost amidst the storm. Slowly, the gale abated and the rain eased until it was nothing more than another autumn squall. Giraldo looked up into the skies, where patches of pale blue were starting to appear amidst the clouds, and grinned. The greyclad figure was slowly descending toward them.

  ‘We have another guest on the way, my friends,’ he said, clapping Tohias on the back. ‘Set a southerly course, the winds will see us true.’

  ‘Where are we headed, Captain?’

  ‘We should know soon enough,’ came the reply. ‘But for now, away will be good enough.’

  Giraldo’s eyes and those of everyone aboard Hermione were fixed on the slender woman, who was carried to the deck on a gentle breeze. She landed perfectly, her blonde mane falling around a face of ethereal loveliness that drew a sigh of admiration from every man present. Even Tagan stared.

  Beside Mathias, Warin made a sound so soft that it was barely audible. It had become apparent what the reasons for the Shapeshifter’s reluctance to work with She Who Sees actually were.

  HER SPEAKING VOICE was lilting and musical, as though she were still singing, and Mathias was captivated from the moment she began to talk. The three powerful magi were sitting so close that they were almost touching. Almost—but not quite. Mathias had expected at least Giraldo to embrace Eyja in the same manner he had greeted Warin, but there was some unspoken respect between them. He had contented himself with simply dropping a deep bow before her, as though she were royalty. Giraldo’s eyes had danced with delight and affection as he looked at her, whilst Warin’s were filled with that deep sadness.

  Tagan sat with Mathias, leaning into him. Her hand slid into his and she sat possessively close to him. The constant stares of admiration that Eyja drew from the crew had clearly made her anxious.

  Warin, Giraldo and Eyja spoke together for a while, including no others. Their voices were kept low and their heads were bent together, as they discussed some matter to which no other was party. Every once in a while, Eyja’s head would rise and she would glance at either Tagan or Mathias. Nothing in her stormy eyes gave away what she was thinking.

  Eventually, their council was complete. Giraldo and Warin rose, the latter stomping over to the young couple. ‘She wants to meet you,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Go and talk to her.’ Giraldo also moved away, leaving Eyja seated serenely on deck. A stiff wind continued to fill the sails of the Hermione, carrying her steadily south. The skies above them were still scattered with cloud, and the air was chill and sharp as they retreated from the Channel.

  Mathias and Tagan, still hand in hand, approached the woman who had appeared so fortuitously and she smiled up at them. It reassured and soothed, and yet there was a sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Mathias Eynon,’ she said in her lilting voice. ‘And Tagan Stradling. The honour is mine.’ To both of their surprises, Eyja stood gracefully and dropped a curtsey before them. Mathias flared bright pink, but Tagan simply nodded her head politely. Not for the first time since this unlikely journey had started, Mathias could not help but admire his betrothed’s ability to absorb the extraordinary.

  ‘You are She Who Sees,’ said Tagan, and despite her calm demeanour, her voice was filled with apprehension and awe. The blonde woman nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is one of the names by which I am known. I prefer to go by “Eyja,” if it pleases you to use that instead; it is less unwieldy. Please, sit with me a while. I would hear your tale as you tell it. Warin and Giraldo have given me their parts in what has taken place and it grieves me deeply to hear of the loss of your adoptive father. My condolences, young man.’ She took Mathias’s free hand in her own and bowed her forehead to it. He knew, without understanding, that somehow her grief at Wyn’s death was every bit as real as his own.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, unsure of what else he should say. ‘He was a good man.’ He felt a peculiar calm steal over him, and he settled down on the deck. It was not until several minutes later that he realised she still held his hand whilst Tagan held the other. If Tagan cared, she didn’t let it show. She was gazing up into Eyja’s face. The two women’s eyes were locked in a silence that was too deep to intrude upon.

  ‘You are quite lovely,’ Eyja said, breaking the silence first. Her own free hand came out to caress Tagan’s freckled cheek gently. ‘So full of life. So full of love.’ There was something ominous in the tone she used. ‘A beautiful couple who must be suffering at the hands of a future neither of you understand. But please, have no fear. When we find Akhgar, the one you call “the Wanderer,” then we will be strong enough to bring this all to an end. Have courage. Have faith.’ The hand stroking Tagan’s cheek came down and took the blacksmith’s daughter’s fingers into her own.

  ‘There now,’ she says. ‘We are joined, the three of us. Always trust in the power of a circle, children. In a circle, all are equal. There is great strength in that. You have learned this, I think?’

  ‘The stone circles,’ said Mathias. He couldn’t unlock his eyes from her face. ‘Warin called them the bones of the earth. He said that they have a great power.’

  ‘More than you know,’ said Eyja, moving her gaze back to Tagan. ‘They are the source of all magic. It is through them that we are... gifted as we are.’

  Mathias felt a twinge of apprehension at the way she paused, as if a great gulf of meaning lay behind the words, just beyond his reach. He wanted to ask this beautiful, mysterious woman what was happening, what they were going to do, where they were going to go.

  ‘Hush,’ Eyja pre-empted him. ‘We sail south to Morocco, where we will find the Wanderer. Now leave us, Mathias,’ she said, her eyes still on Tagan. ‘I must speak with Tagan alone. There is a truth that only she may know, at least for now.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Leave us, please.’ Eyja’s voice was commanding, and he reluctantly

  got to his feet, letting go of both their hands. Tagan didn’t even look up at him. She reached ou
t to Eyja with the hand that he had freed and held onto the Seer’s hands as though her life depended upon it.

  Portsmouth

  England

  THE HEAT IN the forge was incredible, and the ring of hammers deafening. Isaac Bonnington walked the length of the royal armoury, his gaze roving over the machines, armour and weapons in production and inspecting them with a critical eye. The war was underway, and demand to keep the army supplied was soaring.

  The sudden and unwelcome order to launch the Indomitable had deeply concerned the engineer; she had left Portsmouth with several decks still unfinished. Regardless, the reports that she had crushed the French fleet had allayed most of his concerns. Now that the Indomitable was queen of the seas, he had time enough to work on the Lionheart.

  Isaac turned away from a work gang labouring at one of the furnaces and made his way toward the builder’s hall. Lines of filthy workers smudged with soot and streaked with sweat shuffled past, their ankles bound with iron manacles. The overseer at their back barked at them to stand aside, but Isaac waved a hand absently.

  He tried not to dwell on the human cost of his industry. It had once distressed him greatly, many years ago when Richard had first introduced industrial servitude, but he had learned that there was nothing he could do to make a difference. The King had made it quite clear, on the one occasion that he had voiced his concerns, that if Isaac did not want to be the Royal Engineer, there were others who would happily claim the honour.

  Isaac had chosen to be pragmatic. He might not have been able to release the workers from their bondage, but he did ensure that they were provided with clean water to drink, and occasionally he would acknowledge younger workers who showed promise. He would hand-pick them and arrange engineering apprenticeships that saw them released from the work gangs and given the possibility of a future. It was an extraordinarily generous thing that he chose to do, and the best he could manage under the circumstances; and it effectively negated some—but not all—of the guilt the work gangs gave him.