‘They are Welsh,’ said Warin, bringing a bubble of laughter to Mathias’s lips. For the first time in several days, he finally allowed himself to relax.
The Royal Armoury
England
PRINCE RICHARD HAD never been keen on London. He had always enjoyed brief visits to the city that was his future kingdom’s capital, brief being the operative word. He had been raised on a country estate and his heart belonged there. The city was loud and busy and filled with people, noise and sulphurous stench. When his father had announced their destination, however, his interest had been renewed. He peered out the windows of the carriage as it made its way towards the docks.
‘You have not met Isaac Bonnington before, have you, son?’ King
Richard sat opposite his son, studying him with a rare intensity. ‘The Royal Engineer? No, Father, I have not. But you have told me
of his great works, and of course I have used some of his weapons.’ The prince, like his father before him, was a keen hunter and had utilised a Bonnington mechanical bow on his last expedition. The intricate clockwork weapon allowed him to loose his arrows faster and with more deadly impact than ever before. ‘He will be there? It
will be interesting to meet him, I think.’
‘Yes,’ replied the King, staring at his son for a little longer before he also turned to look out of the window. ‘It will. You will like what he has created for our armies. If he manages to get it working in time, then it may give us the strength to stand against Rome.’ There was no point in relaying his doubts and fears to the boy. To do so would raise his suspicions. His time with his eldest son might be short. There was no point in filling it with portents and fear. Beside the carriage rode six of the Royal Guard, resplendent in the blue and yellow livery of the King’s armies, the black rose emblazoned on their tabards. The horses beneath them were decked out in the same colours. They created an impressive tableau as they passed through the East London street. People stopped what they were doing, and for once in their dull, grey lives lifted their head to appreciate the riot of colour that moved past them.
‘Is the Lionheart really as impressive as he has claimed?’ the prince asked as the carriage turned down a narrow lane towards a huge foundry. The King’s reply came with a small smile and a shake of the head.
‘It is beyond imagining,’ he promised, gratified by his son’s interest in Bonnington’s work. So few people had believed in the nervous, eccentric engineer when he laid his plans before the royal court.
But King Richard had commissioned the project. He, at least, had believed in Bonnington’s genius.
IN THE WHOLE of English history, there had never been anything like it. Prince Richard could see, as he walked around the massive hull, where Isaac Bonnington had drawn some of his inspiration, but there were mechanisms that he had no hope of ever understanding. Steam vents wheezed, expelling white-hot air from numerous places around the central carriage.
Carriage. That was the only word that Prince Richard could think of to describe what it was that he was looking at. In its most basic form, it resembled the very vehicle in which he and his father had arrived into the workshop. But it was at least four times as large and covered with metal plating. Pulleys and chains looped around its eight wheels and disappeared into apertures beneath its bulk. A pair of bulky chimneys huffed soot into the air of the workshop, and it sweated a reek of sulphur, pitch and hot iron.
The windows of the carriage were barely more than slits all around the sides, situated just above the carriage’s most prominent feature.
‘There are six guns on either side,’ said the excited little engineer as he walked the King around it. ‘And two more at the front and back. The armour is strong enough to repel heavy cannon fire and is coated with an alchemical lacquer of my own devising that should repel the base elements.’
King Richard stared at the vehicle. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and yet he was not afraid of its appearance. He had seen the work of the Royal Engineer in the mighty ships that set sail from docks around his kingdom, and each ironclad he had been commissioned to produce had been successively larger and more deadly. But this was something new. This was something that the French and Roman armies could not expect. With all their magic and all their arcane might, this vehicle had the capability to destroy them before they approached.
Across the vehicle’s hull was inscribed the name that King Richard had chosen.
Lionheart.
‘I call it a cannonade,’ said the engineer, delighted by the impressed looks of father and son. ‘It’s not strictly accurate of course, but it is as close an approximation as I can manage.’
‘How does it move?’ Prince Richard was examining the peculiar machinery at the Lionheart’s rear. ‘Have you refined the alchemical engine in some way?’
‘Indeed, your highness, though I could not have done it without your father’s original insight.’ Isaac moved away from the King to stand before young Richard. The prince towered over him and had to fight down an overwhelming urge to crouch slightly so the engineer didn’t have to squint up at him. ‘This vehicle, like many of our ships, is self-propelled. All she needs is water in the reservoirs, some tanks of dragon’s breath and a crew to drive her. I have yet to master the art of making the engine work in reverse.’
‘Forwards is all we need,’ said King Richard, stepping across to join them. ‘We will drive the Lionheart across any army that dares to invade our shores. We will literally crush the enemy as they stand before us.’ He rested a hand on the cannonade’s cold metal hull. ‘Your last message stated that she is ready to go into service. Is this correct?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’ Isaac bowed deeply. ‘She has performed beautifully in all her tests. A skeleton crew have been put together.’ He indicated the Lionheart in a sweeping gesture. ‘She can carry sixteen gunners, two drivers and a further twelve passengers.’
‘Good,’ said King Richard. ‘Then assemble the crew and make her ready to leave. We are going to put her to the test. How fast can she move? How long, Master Bonnington, would it take her to travel thirty leagues?’
‘Under the best conditions and with a constant supply of fuel...’ Isaac’s eyes rolled up as he calculated. ‘Perhaps four hours at the most.’
‘Four hours?’ Prince Richard was incredulous. ‘Nothing moves that fast!’
‘The Lionheart does,’ replied Isaac with unquestionable pride. ‘And she will.’ He turned back to the King. ‘Where do you plan to take her?’
Richard looked over at his son, who had gone back to studying the Lionheart. Even as the words left his mouth, he felt the chill of fear.
‘Salisbury,’ he said. He looked down at the little engineer. ‘To the circle of stones. And we need to be there soon. In our continued efforts to rid the country of the taint of magic, the Inquisition has uncovered a plan by the magi to conduct some kind of rite at the site. The Lionheart gives us the perfect weapon to put an end to it.’
‘She will be ready to roll’—Isaac chuckled at his own joke—‘within the hour, your majesty.’
‘Be sure that she is,’ replied King Richard, oblivious to the attempt at humour. Isaac deflated visibly. ‘The safety of our kingdom depends on this creation, Bonnington.’ The King took a small satisfaction from the look of alarm on the engineer’s face. It took his worries, for a moment, off his more pressing concerns. But only for a moment.
The Sahara Desert
Morocco
AKHGAR IBN ATASH sent for the party after night had fallen. Eyja gently woke Mathias and Tagan from the heat-induced slumber in which they had been indulging. The first thing that Mathias noted was the intense chill in the air. The days in the desert might have been dangerously hot, but the nights, it seemed, could be just as cold. The extremes confused him, but he drew his tunic more tightly around his body as they stepped out into the night.
A huge fire was burning, around which many of the tribe were variously sitting talking, or eatin
g from a communal cook pot. Delicious scents wafted up at him—a soup or stew of some sort in the black cauldron, and spiced flatbreads cooking on the stones. After the hostility of the day and the nightmare of the chase, it was friendly and welcoming, and as the group crossed the oasis, Mathias wondered if, when this was all over, maybe they could stay among these people. It was a glorious dream, if one which he sadly realised was most likely impossible.
Tagan walked beside him, once again holding his hand. She seemed much improved. Careful attention from the ever-present Eyja, who had thus far treated both young people like they were her children, had speeded her recovery.
‘It has been a long time,’ Giraldo said. For once, his jovial nature was subdued. He had assumed a serious air that was reflected in the faces of the others. Eyja and Warin walked behind him, keeping pace together, but all three had their eyes locked on the tent as they approached it.
The warrior who had greeted them out in the desert stood by the entrance, and bowed his head respectfully as they approached. ‘The Wanderer bids you welcome,’ he said. ‘He will see you now.’ He lifted the flap of the tent and they all ducked in beneath the canopy.
The interior was every bit as extravagant and luxurious as their own had been. The air was heady with the scent of sweet jasmine, which made Mathias feel light-headed and dizzy, and the heat from the pot-bellied fire in the tent’s centre was stifling. A hole in the roof kept the air inside clear, but a single thread of smoke trailed out towards the frail figure lying amidst the cushions.
All eyes followed the thread, and all eyes looked upon the face of the man known as the Wanderer. His sun-darkened skin was shrunken with age or illness, but his raisin-black eyes were bright and intelligent. He turned his head from one guest to the other and then he smiled, revealing a mouthful of white, strong teeth.
‘You have come at last, then. Welcome, my friends. Welcome.’ He fell silent, as though the small speech had worn him out.
There was a long pause, and then Eyja took the initiative, moving forward and kneeling beside the ancient, wizened man amidst the cushions. ‘Dearest one,’ she said warmly and carefully embraced him. ‘It has been so long. Too long.’ Akhgar’s wrinkled old hands closed around her and slowly she helped him to a better sitting position.
‘Still so quick to manhandle me,’ he grumbled and for a moment, a smile flickered onto Mathias’s lips. He sounded so very much like old Wyn. ‘You look well, girl. But then, you always did.’
‘I do hope you’re not expecting me to respond in kind,’ she said with a gentle reprimand in her tone. ‘Because I am a poor liar. You should have sent for us sooner, foolish old man.’
‘Why would I ruin my twilight years by surrounding myself with women I can never have, endless complainers and colourful fops? Speaking of which...’ His twinkling, old-man’s eyes took in Warin and Giraldo, who stood a little way back. ‘Ah, there they are. In an ever-changing world, it is good to see some things remain as they must be. Come over here. Let me take a closer look at you.’
It was clear to both Mathias and Tagan that Akhgar was the undisputed senior of the four magi, despite his frail appearance. Even Warin, usually so sour-faced and dour, had a smile on his lips as he knelt before Akhgar, taking the old man’s hand into his own. Giraldo knelt the other side and also laid a hand on Akhgar’s shoulder.
When the four of them touched, a shock of arcane power radiated from them like a wave, all but knocking Mathias from his feet with its sheer might. He gripped onto Tagan’s hand with his own, unable to take his eyes off the scene before him. An amber nimbus played about Warin, followed by glows of red, blue and white from Akhgar, Giraldo and Eyja. The glows expanded, twisting and joining, until the four were bathed in a light so bright that the two young people could no longer look at them.
There was such terrifying beauty in the sight that Mathias could feel tears prickling at the back of his eyes. A low hum began, soft, musical and deeply moving. It slowly built to a melodic crescendo that dragged the darkness out of Mathias’s spirit and gently caressed his soul with the promise that all would be well if he would just let it.
Warin was first to break the bond, stepping back and clearing his throat loudly and perhaps just a little over-dramatically. Giraldo grinned and also stood back, leaving only Eyja embracing the old man amidst the cushions. Eventually, she too rose and for the first time since she had breezed into their lives, tears streaked her cheeks.
‘So soon?’ It was all she said. Akhgar stroked the back of her hand and smiled up at her.
‘You knew it must come to pass in time, little bird,’ he said to her. ‘But do not weep. Do not grieve for me. My time in this life is done, but my time in the next is just beginning. Now dry those tears and help me sit up. I would see these children from the land of the Lion.’
Mathias and Tagan took a hesitant step or two forward, their hands still clasped. Akhghar’s rheumy old eyes peered at them with startling intensity.
‘This is what time brings me?’ He shook his head. ‘They are so young. Too young, yes, for what lies ahead.’
‘They are both proven,’ said Warin. ‘They are both brave, strong of heart and spirit. Youth is a blessing, old man. Or is it so far away now that you forget its wonders?’
‘Mind your tone, Warin,’ said Giraldo, quietly. ‘Remember to whom you speak.’
‘Don’t fret yourself, boy,’ said Akhgar, waving a hand in Giraldo’s direction. ‘I have ever preferred directness. To answer your question, no. I have not forgotten my youth. The world around me has changed. I have travelled so far, but I can travel no further. The spirit is willing. The spirit is ever willing.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But the flesh, alas, can take no more. My time on this plane is done.’
Tagan chewed her lip and looked at Mathias. ‘Excuse me, sir? But... but just how old are you?’ Truly, she had never seen anybody so very old and wizened as the tiny, frail figure before her. He turned those berry eyes on her and gave her a crinkled smile.
‘I stopped counting centuries ago,’ he said. ‘I was an old man when that arrogant boy, Richard the Lionheart, marched at the head of his righteous army on the town of Jerusalem. I gave him my aid and I gave him the gift.’
‘Richard the Lionheart?’ Mathias spluttered. The ludicrousness of the suggestion was quelled somewhat by the grave expressions of the magi. It was obvious that they believed the old man’s claim.
‘Yes. A good soul at his core, but filled with pride. He burned from within, driven by outrage at the sacking of the Holy Land. The war between the Christians and the Saracens... ah, it was a sight to behold. Protected by their shields of faith? So the tales would come to say. It has never been my place to question the faith of man. Religion, for good or ill, is its own form of magic and something I do not touch.’ Akhgar fell silent, trying to catch his breath. Tagan let go of Mathias’s hand and moved to the old man, kneeling beside him and lifting up the goblet of water by his side. This close to him, she could smell the sourness of dried sweat on his skin and feel the unnatural heat that radiated from within. She gave him a shy smile. If he was as old as he claimed—and the suggestion was that he was even older still—he deserved her respect. Thus had she been raised.
Mathias’s heart swelled with pride and love. This was the woman he loved. This was the woman he would marry when all this was done. They would go back to Wales, live simply and happily. Maybe raise a family, if things went to plan.
Wales. The rains and the green fields seemed a world removed from this exotic place.
Akhgar took a sip of the water and gave Tagan a piercing look. She did not even flinch, but remained at his side. He took a breath and continued. ‘Protected by shields of faith, yes. But there were other shields in place on that army. Magical shields. Richard saw the value of the gift and he begged me to teach him the secret. The lands of Europe would flourish, he told me.’
‘And so they did,’ said Giraldo, picking up the story. ‘The cities of Europe grew and pro
spered as the gift spread to them all. Paris. Rome. Madrid. All the great cities embraced the wonders magic had to offer them, and most saw the benefit. Even England flourished for a time. The jewel in the crown of the west; the source of the great gift. But as often happens with such things, the gift fell into the wrong hands.’
Warin interjected next. ‘The gift was meant for all, not just the few who were already rich. Those in power sought to take back that which could not be taken. When they understood, they turned instead to oppression. It was the beginning of what you have come to know today. And it is too easy for power to corrupt. Where corruption finds root, worse things follow.’
‘Demons,’ Mathias breathed quietly.
‘As you understand them,’ murmured Eyja. ‘Henry Tudor bartered for power on the field of Bosworth, but it was not power for himself that he desired. A noble soul, but misguided. Melusine betrayed him when she forged her pact with Richard. Henry’s magi were defeated and the battle lost. To this day, nobody knows what became of Tudor, not even us.’ She smiled. ‘He was extraordinary, in truth. To have the will to deny Melusine’s lure is remarkable. You are very like him, Mathias.’
For some reason, this made Mathias deeply proud. His spine straightened.
Eyja continued. ‘Henry was strong. He was noble and pure of spirit. Without the meddling of the demon, his victory would have been certain. Your home land would have gone on under the rule of a different bloodline. That is important.’
‘The power Melusine wields is tied to the House of Plantagenet,’ said Akhgar, picking up the story now that he had been granted time to catch his breath. ‘The deal she struck with Richard that night has led to this, the birth of her pure vessel, though the word could not be more misleading.’ The old man began to cough and Tagan once more lifted the water to his lips. He took another sip and then waved her away.
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 25