The Vanguard
The Atlantic Sea
SEVERAL MEN HAD died under the strain of the ruthless pace set by the Lord Inquisitor. With each death, one of the knights had taken the empty place and continued the relentless pull of the oars until even the Lord Inquisitor went to an oar and rowed alongside them.
‘My lord, this can’t go on. We can not keep this up. Not unless you want to have a mutiny on your hands. The men are exhausted.’ Hudson had finally found his courage and made his stand before the Lord Inquisitor. Weaver’s heavily muscled arms hauled at the oars. Though stripped to the waist, he still bore his mask, and the captain tried not to let his eyes linger on the scars that laced the other man’s body.
‘We will not stop, Captain.’ Weaver rumbled. There was no obvious strain in his voice. ‘But work the men in shifts. Feed them, rest them, water them, then put them back to work. We must reach Anfa as quickly as we can.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The captain scurried off to be the bearer of somewhat good news for the first time during this arduous trip, leaving Weaver pulling on the oar.
Anfa
Morocco
DAWN WAS NO less hectic than dusk had been as the party emerged from what the Pirate King had referred to as a ‘tavern.’ Giraldo was right. Eyja was not impressed, although she had been the model of decorum whilst they had stayed in the raucous lodgings that Mathias rather innocently noted aloud seemed to house mostly young women. His comrades’ laughter had embarrassed him straight to bed, where he had slept better than he had done in the weeks since leaving home. No dreams plagued him, and when he woke, he was refreshed and eager to make progress.
Of the Shapeshifter there was still no sign. It did not appear to bother either Eyja or Giraldo, although given the slightly self-satisfied expression on Giraldo’s face as he emerged from one of the larger chambers, it was possible that very little would bother him this day. Mathias caught the briefest glimpse of more than one soft body lounging on the bed behind the door as the Pirate King blew an extravagant kiss through it and closed it firmly. Tagan, it seemed, was enjoying the luxury of a proper bed and was still sleeping.
‘You have never changed, have you, Giraldo?’ Eyja gave him a disapproving look, but there was indulgence in her sparkling grey eyes.
‘Would you want me to?’ He took up a piece of fruit and bit into the flesh hungrily. His expression was filled with a boyish charm that Mathias wished he could muster. He had never known anybody as flamboyant as Giraldo de Luna, and despite his initial distrust and even dislike of the man, he had grown fond of him over the weeks.
‘Warin hasn’t arrived,’ Mathias put in cautiously. ‘I’ve been looking out for him, but... nothing.’
‘Red will turn up when he wants. He doesn’t like crowded places.’ Giraldo dropped into a chair and put his booted feet up on the table. Eyja pushed them off again.
‘Show a little respect,’ she said and this time there was no amusement in her voice. Giraldo shrugged and sat properly. He drained all the juice from the orange and then ate the pulp. He licked his lips clean and hungrily ate a handful of dates. Mathias shifted uncomfortably.
‘Weren’t we... leaving at dawn?’
‘A man should not travel on an empty belly. The miserable old bastard won’t mind waiting a little longer.’ Eyja quirked a perfect eyebrow.
‘That is certainly not respectful,’ she scolded. ‘And you really believe he’s waiting?’
‘Of course he’s waiting. It’s what he does best these days. Besides. Isn’t he about ten thousand years old now?’
Mathias had no idea who they were talking about, but the last statement made his jaw drop. Eyja laughed lightly.
‘Oh, Giraldo. Look at poor Mathias’s face!’ She stood up, cupped Mathias’s chin in her hand, and kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t listen to his ridiculous lies. The old man can’t be more than five thousand years old.’
Somehow, that was not any better.
‘Who are we talking about?’ Mathias asked. He had naturally assumed that the Wanderer bore his title because he wandered.
‘Akhgar,’ Giraldo said. ‘I forget the rest of his name, but it has something to do with his ancestors. He is very old and very wise. It is said that he has taught magic to more people than any other mage in the world.’
‘Ibn Atash,’ said Eyja softly. ‘Akhgar ibn Atash. It translates, more or less, as “Sign of the fire, son of the flame.” I have not seen him for many years.’
‘Did he teach you magic?’ Mathias paused in his restless fidgeting. ‘Did he teach Warin?’
‘Yes,’ said Eyja. ‘At least in part. It was Havard who had the talent for teaching.’
‘Havard?’ Mathias did not recognise the name.
‘Yes,’ Eyja replied softly. ‘That was the name by which I called him. Warin knew him as Adelmo. Giraldo...’
‘Ramon. To me he was Ramon. And to you, Mathias, he was Wyn.’
‘Wyn taught all of you magic? I never believed the stories about his travels.’
Around them, the brothel was starting to come to life. The moody, hazy lighting of the previous night was replaced by bright sunlight as curtains were pushed aside and the morning sun of Anfa streamed in. Dust particles twirled and glistened in the light and a long silence settled over the breakfast table, broken only by the voices of the residents as they began their daily chores.
Finally, Mathias asked the question that had been plaguing him since he had stood in a stone circle in Wales.
‘Why me? Why us? Tagan and I, I mean.’
Eyja stroked Mathias’s hair back from his face. ‘He cared for you and he was running out of time,’ she said quietly. ‘So he saved you. And he saved Tagan because you care for her. Not all of us have been so fortunate.’
A shadow passed over her face and Mathias could not tell whether it was fear, pain or regret, but it did not feel right to pry. He shifted impatiently again. ‘So when are we going to leave to meet this Akhgar?’
‘Soon, dear one. Trust me.’
And he trusted her. There was no way he could not. By the time Tagan emerged from her room, looking more relaxed and happy than he had seen her in a long time, he had forgotten his worries and simply looked forward to the trip ahead.
ANFA IN THE early hours was every bit as lively and colourful as it had been the previous night, and the small party moved through the market place slowly, squeezing past the press of bodies. Giraldo bartered for several skins of clear, fresh water from the town’s well. They purchased food and heavy wraps that Eyja assured them would protect their noses and mouths from the desert sands.
Still there was no sign of the Shapeshifter. Even the ever-patient Eyja seemed to be growing concerned by his lingering absence. They arrived at the port in time to see Hermione’s sails unfurl as she put out to sea.
‘You don’t think he’s abandoned us, do you?’ The question came from Tagan, who was wearing the scarlet silk gift from yesterday around her head. The look was faintly exotic against her fair skin, and it became her.
‘No,’ said Eyja after a moment. ‘Warin is here in the city. He is just... sulking.’
‘Why is he sulking?’
‘Too long at sea and too many people,’ she replied, glancing briefly over at Giraldo, who shrugged. ‘Warin loves the wild and has little time for people and their cities. Once we get out into the desert, he will soon change.’
‘So will I,’ muttered Giraldo. He patted the waterskin. ‘Fortunately, I can conjure more as long as we have at least a little. So don’t drain these skins too quickly.’
Mathias reassured him that there would be no danger of that. He had already tried a sip of water from the skin and it tasted faintly of goat. ‘How are we going to cross this “desert”?’ He had asked what the unfamiliar term meant the previous evening; Giraldo had said that it was like an ocean of sand. Mathias had never imagined such a thing, but had seen so many extraordinary things over the course of his journey he was losing his ability t
o doubt.
‘Take a look over there.’ Giraldo nodded his head towards a small, dusty compound. Mathias saw horses there, beautiful horses with the most perfect lines he had ever seen. Heads held high and arrogantly, they looked at the world around them with a kind of sneering indifference. Mathias considered them with a practised eye. They pranced and shook their shining manes, and he could tell just from looking at them that riding the creatures would be a nightmare.
‘We aren’t taking those,’ he said, with such conviction that Giraldo grinned.
‘Damn right, we aren’t,’ he said. ‘We’re taking those.’
Mathias followed the line of Giraldo’s pointing finger and stared at a creature he had never seen before.
‘What are those?’
‘Camels,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Come on, take a look.’
The Sahara Desert
Morocco
IN A SWELTERING tent at the edge of the desert, Akhgar ibn Atash looked up and smiled. They would be here soon. They would arrive and he could rest. He had wandered for so long, he fancied that he could not even remember what it was like to be still. To be at peace. Soon he would be free of the burden. He set down his pipe and tapped the ash from the bowl.
‘Send out some riders,’ he said to the young man who sat with him. ‘They will be here soon.’ To a man as long-lived as Akhgar ibn Akash, soon was a relative term.
‘Yes, effendi.’ The young man bowed deeply and backed out of the tent into the blazing heat of the oasis.
THE CAMELS WERE evil-looking creatures. The animal nearest Mathias lifted its head in a bored manner and chewed idly as it fixed him with a look of faint indifference. There were six of them, some sitting and some standing, but all with that same look of veiled malevolence directed towards the people standing nearby.
Mathias stared into its eyes. The smallest of smiles crossed his face as recognition dawned.
‘Warin?’
The camel let out a grunt and shook its shaggy head slightly.
Then, ever so slowly, it closed one long-lashed eye and winked at him. Mathias’s small smile broke out into a huge grin and he started to chuckle softly.
Eyja sighed and shook her head. ‘I can’t say that I’m surprised. Still, at least we have found him.’ The camel turned its head to Eyja and knelt on its front legs, a startlingly respectful gesture. She patted it on the nose with a wry smile.
‘These are strange animals,’ Mathias called over his shoulder to Tagan, who was standing back fearfully, ‘but they won’t hurt us. Come over here.’ He beckoned her closer and she came to stand beside him. She slid her hand into his and looked at the camel.
‘They call them the “ships of the desert,”’ said Giraldo as he also joined them. ‘Nothing near as wonderful as the Hermione, of course...’ He stared deep into the eyes of the camel that was Warin the Red and smirked. ‘But they’ll do. Not as comfortable as my lady either. Still... needs must.’ He turned to the trader, and a swift exchange took place in smooth, easy Spanish. The clink of coins sealed the deal, and within minutes, they were on their way.
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.’
Fourteen
The Vanguard,
The Mediterranean Sea
‘WHEN 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 captai
n’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
KING RICHARD 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.
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 23