Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (11 page)

He could not watch what followed.

The Tower

England

C
HARLES
W
EAVER 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

A
FTER 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 stepping 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.

‘We certainly won’t be doing that,’ he said. ‘We have
some
propriety, you know.’

Warin laughed uproariously, slapping his hands against his crossed legs. ‘Is better with the animals. They don’t care so much for prop-riety.’ He broke the word down into exaggerated syllables, mimicking Mathias’s accent. ‘The people of your land,’ he said, waving a finger, ‘are—what is the word—prune-ish?’

‘Possibly
prudish
,’ murmured Mathias. ‘Thank you for your offer, Warin. You don’t have to leave.’

‘Englanders.’

‘I’m Welsh,’ said Mathias again, feeling pleased that he heard Tagan mutter the same. Warin blinked his slow, animal blink.

‘So you keep telling me,’ he said.

A companionable silence descended, settling over the little tableau like a comfortable cloak. The stars twinkled overhead, like diamonds set against the black velvet of the night. The shadows of the tree canopy moved in a whispering breeze that blew the sweet breath of night into their faces. Warin flensed the meat from the cooked rabbits and passed it to Mathias and Tagan, piled high on a plate of bark. They ate with enthusiasm, tearing chunks off the hard, unleavened bread that Warin had also cooked on one of the firestones.

When they had finished the meal, Tagan begged Warin to shapeshift again. She had been entranced, she said. Never had she yearned for a power so wonderful. Perhaps impishly flattered by her attentions, Warin obliged. He took the form of the wolfhound first, which clearly delighted the other dog, who danced around him, barking in delight. The wolfhound melted away and a rabbit took its place. The rabbit hopped behind a bush and a mouse scampered out and ran up Tagan’s arm to sit on her shoulder.

He entertained them this way for some time until once more, the flame-haired man was sat opposite them.

‘What happens,’ Tagan said, her eyes shining with delight, ‘to your
clothes?
’

He gave her a cool stare and a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder. ‘The first principle of magic,’ he said. ‘It is not what you
actually
do, but what you make others believe you do.’ He gave Tagan a grin. It was evident that he was flattered, and was happy to answer her. ‘Now you show me what
you
can do.’ He levelled a stubby finger in Tagan’s direction and she looked embarrassed.

‘I can’t do anything as wonderful as change my shape,’ she said, modestly. ‘I can work metal well, though. I can forge you a sword or a piece of filigree with equal skill...’

‘You can do more,’ said Warin. ‘To shape the body of the earth using the tongues of flame, air and water is the greatest power there is.’ He said this so matter-of-factly that Tagan laughed, thinking he merely sought to return her flattery.

Warin did not laugh.

‘You’re serious,’ observed Mathias. He had enjoyed Warin’s little display, but not without the faintest pangs of jealousy. What it must be to be able to effortlessly change your form into something else. What freedom it must bring. As an animal, Warin would have no expectations placed upon his shoulders, no impossible task to accomplish...

And Mathias saw it all with a cold clarity. Why it was that Warin the Red, the Shapeshifter, chose to live in isolation within a dark, forbidding forest. Why he eschewed the company of his fellow men and women and preferred the company of animals. He looked up at Warin and found the man’s animalistic, amber eyes resting on him. The next words the red-haired man spoke were in a soft voice, barely hiding an odd yearning.