Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1)

by Ben Galley

  It wasn’t long before the Palace of Ravens loomed out of the thick fog. The two drivers slowed the horses to a gentle trot and aimed their carriage at a pair of giant black gates. The Palace of Ravens was a marvel of architecture—a terrifying one to the average tourist, but a marvel nonetheless. Four giant spires marked its boundaries, and between them thick walls and towering pillars formed the palace proper. It was a humongous box, to put it plainly—a blotch on the face of London. Yet as its detail crystallised out of the fog, it was easy to see that it was grand beyond belief. Each side was a chaotic tumble of glass, turret, balcony and ironwork. The palace glittered in the murk, and through the glowing orange windows, a passerby could glimpse golden chandeliers and vast dining and dancing halls. Ravens cawed in its sharp reaches, watching any passing subjects like worms writhing in the dust.

  As the carriage came face to face with the black gates that guarded the entrance to the palace, soldiers poured from the twin guardhouses and surrounded the coach. They had short swords at the hip, shields, and of course, the golden rifles for which they were famous were slung over their backs.

  ‘Papers, if you please,’ ordered an officer, the medals pinned to his tall black hat chiming softly as he bobbed his head.

  The blackened window of the carriage cracked open an inch, and a thin slice of paper was poked through the gap. The officer stepped up to the coach to grab it. He peered at the scribbled name.

  ‘Your ring, my lord?’

  There was a tap of metal on glass as an eagle and tiger-crested ring tasted the misty air, wrapped around a pudgy finger. The officer nodded and clicked his fingers. The soldiers jogged to the gates and began to push. The window was rolled up once more.

  A man was waiting for the carriage at the main entrance, hands folded neatly behind his back and eyes low. He wore no hat, only a long coat that bulged in a way that indicated he was carrying a sword. As soon as the carriage had squeaked to a halt on the marble flagstones, the man stepped forwards and opened the door.

  High Lord Bremar Dizali practically jumped from the couch to the cold ground. He seemed flustered. Puzzled, and perhaps a touch nervous. He was right to be so. Nobody was summoned by Victorius. Save for Prime Lord Karrigan Hark, that was. But he was dead as a doornail.

  Dizali was a broad and tall man, with a sharp face, and ever sharper goatee, dark, like the combed-back hair on his head. There was something rather eagle-like about him, something deep and clever in those narrowed green eyes.

  Lord Dizali didn’t spare the man a single glance. Not yet. ‘Did she say anything, anything at all?’

  ‘Nothing other than to bring you straight here, Milord, nothing at all,’ the man smiled, watching Dizali adjust his wide-brimmed hat and grey gloves. He combed his short beard with his fingers and then tucked the stray strands of hair behind his ear. He caught the man’s eyes at last, and then his smile soon after.

  ‘You seem to be relishing this, Gavisham.’

  ‘Why ever not, Milord? It’s not every day one gets summoned to the Palace of Ravens.’

  ‘No, it is not.’

  And with that, Dizali was off, striding up the steps as if they were those of his own home. He would not have admitted it to Gavisham, but he had been waiting for this, waiting for two long weeks. He only prayed he was right.

  Floor after floor went by, until he was at the very top of the north wing. Gavisham trailed behind him silently, seeming somewhat deadlier than usual tonight. Dizali could hear his slow, deliberate footsteps several paces behind.

  As Dizali’s foot found the very topmost step, he took a breath. He turned to his man and pointed a finger at the floor. ‘You will wait here, you understand?’

  Gavisham bowed low. ‘As you wish, Milord.’

  After straightening his hat once more, Dizali let his legs lead him to the great door at the end of the hall, the one that shone with gold filigree and jewels. It was etched with scenes of the Lost, from a time before Victorious had risen as their Queen, before she had built herself an empire with wild men and their coin, their blood, and their bodies.

  But Dizali was not given time to stare at the beasts and battle-scenes. The soldiers clicked their steel heels and put their shoulders to the magnificent door. It swung inwards into a cavernous hall, one that filled the entire north-eastern spire. Dizali had heard rumours of this room, but now they crumbled to dust in his head.

  The room could have accommodated four tall ships piled atop one another, keel to mast, and the topmost pennant would still not have tickled the roof. Dizali felt his ageing bones click as he craned his neck to see the paintings high on the distant plaster, but they were all just one glorious blur at that range. He looked left, then right, and judged it would have taken him almost a minute to run from one side of the room to the other, even without that aching knee of his.

  It was the great crimson curtain that impressed him the most. The giant thing cut the room precisely in half, creating a velvet wall over a dozen feet high. Two enormous chains ran across the room and held it aloft and perfectly straight. Its velvet fingers barely brushed the marble floor.

  Dizali coughed politely and stepped up to the very centre of the curtain, as he had been instructed to by the messenger earlier that morning. He waited, enduring the silence until it physically ached. When he could take it no more, he bowed low to the marble.

  ‘Your Illustrious Majesty.’ His voice sounded minuscule in that giant gold cavern.

  Something moved behind the curtain, and Dizali could not help but flinch. There was a distinct rustling, as of papers or leaves, and then a deep thud that echoed about the hall. A voice answered him then, a voice that he had not heard in years, a voice that slithered and rumbled at the same time, a voice from another age.

  ‘What of Hark, High Lord Dizali?’ the voice asked him. He could hear the rustling again, and it chilled him.

  ‘He lies dead and buried, my Queen. Buried in Harker Sheer, according to his wishes.’ Here, Dizali bowed his head, just in case she was somehow watching. Light spilled from under the curtain as something was moved, and a shadow was thrown flat against the marble. Dizali tried to keep his eyes from following it along the floor. ‘A great shame,’ he added.

  ‘A good and powerful man.’

  ‘Yes your Majesty,’ Dizali bowed his head again. He paused for a moment, and then, ‘How may I be of service to my Queen?’

  More rustling. More thumping. He swore he could hear a clicking noise, like a clock, or an impatient drumming of nails, or tapping of toes.

  ‘His murderer. Has he been found?’

  ‘No, your Majesty.’

  ‘And his boy,’ Victorious rumbled.

  ‘I believe his name is Tonmerion, Majesty.’

  ‘I want him brought to me.’

  Dizali bit the inside of his lip, and bit hard. He forced a sad frown, just in case. ‘I am afraid, Majesty, that I cannot do that.’ There was an angry gurgling from the other side of the curtain, so Dizali just kept on talking. ‘It seems that Prime Lord Hark’s last will and testament was very specific indeed. He had a relative, it seemed, in the Kingdom of America, and his wishes were for the boy to be sent to live with her.’ Until the age of eighteen, when he may inherit, or so the lawyer had said. It was amazing what facts can be learnt in the dark corners of taverns.

  ‘Where?’

  Dizali made a show of scratching his head. ‘I am not sure of the details,’ he said, when in fact he knew them back to front, ‘but it seems that the young Hark has been sent to the frontier.’

  ‘And what of his estate in the meantime, Dizali?’ The way Victorious hissed his name, dragging its vowels out with her serpentine tongue, made him shiver. What made him shiver even more was the thread she was teasing out, the very same thread that he had been trying to wrap around his finger for the last fortnight.

  ‘Sealed by law, your Majesty. Untouchable.’

  Victorious took a moment to shuffle around.

  ‘You say that, Dizal
i,’ she said, ‘as if you had it in mind to touch it.’

  The lord held up a finger. ‘Your Majesty, if I may. There was one item of business I was hoping to discuss with you, if I may. It is regarding the Benches, my Queen.’

  There was a pause, during which Dizali wondered whether she had turned to stone, or turned into ash, or vanished, or any number of things his queen was rumoured to be capable of. So when she spoke, it almost made him jump out of his suit.

  ‘Speak.’

  Dizali took a quick breath to steady himself, and launched into the speech he had been practising in the carriage. ‘The lords are talking, my Queen, about Prime Lord Hark. They speak not just of his death, and its suspicious nature, but of his seat and of his own empire. It seems that several members of the opposition feel that now is the time to seize power. Now, as the Second Lord of the Benches, the party falls into my hands. We are united, Majesty, but the opposition talks, and far too loudly for their words to be considered mere disgruntlement. They have become unsteady in the wake of the Bulldog’s death. Bold. I believe that there must be direction, and soon, before the opposition begins to get ideas.’

  ‘What ideas are these?’

  He took another breath, quick and sharp. ‘Ideas such as splitting his estate between the lords, my Queen, or calling for an election, in the middle of Hark’s term.’

  ‘Havoc.’

  Dizali tried to hide a smile. ‘Havoc, my Queen?’

  ‘I do not take kindly to repeating myself in my own chambers, Lord Dizali,’ thundered Victorious. ‘If Lord Hark is dead, then another must replace him. An election will cause havoc so deep into his term. An Empire with so many wars to fight does not need such distraction at its heart. Yet there is no precedent.’

  Politics was a game Dizali had learnt to play very well indeed. ‘The party is as much elected as its Prime Lord. There are some who say the power should pass down the party line, to keep the peace.’

  More shuffling ensued. Something loomed close against the curtain. Dizali heard the queen breathing. ‘And what do you say, High Lord?’

  The hidden smile was allowed to flourish, ever so slightly. ‘I say, as Second Lord, that such a solution is in the best interests of the party. And as there is no precedent, the royal word is law in this instance.’

  ‘As it has been since the first dawn,’ rumbled the queen.

  ‘If I may make bolder, my Queen, such royal words might also deal with the Bulldog’s vast estate. I take it your Majesty would prefer to keep it out of the reach of prying hands. Hands that are not as loyal as others,’ Dizali said.

  Victorious paused to breathe and rattle some more. ‘The opposition needs no further fuel for ambition or argument. The Bulldog’s boy is to be brought under our wing. I shall leave it in your capable hands.’

  Dizali bowed as low as his spine would allow. ‘My eternal praise, Queen Victorious.’

  A part of the shadow moved then, and though Dizali knew not what part it was, or if it even had a name, he got its meaning. He made a hasty, yet respectful retreat, and hurried back to meet Gavisham at the summit of the stairs. His smile had slipped the moment he had stepped through the doors. Now a firm, tight line had replaced it, accompanied by a hard glint in the man’s eye.

  ‘How’d it go, Milord?’

  ‘Well,’ hissed Dizali, as he clattered down the steps, Gavisham in tow.

  ‘What’s the plan, then?’

  Dizali stabbed at the air as he reeled off each command. ‘It’s time to set the wheels in motion. Prepare the papers. I want the Hark boy, Tonmerion, watched like a hawk. I want reports too, every week. If he sneezes, I want to know of it. Send a wiregram to our good friend and ally. He will know what to do. Understand?’

  ‘Clear as a bell.’

  ‘Then get to it,’ Dizali growled. ‘I have work of my own to do.’

  Chapter V

  LILAIN

  ‘These creatures are strange. I’ve never come so close before, not to these ones, with their castles and their slaves and their money. They exude it, flaunt it. The ladies are draped in it. The lords drink it down by the glass, or roll it up and smoke it. It’s as if their status depends on how fast they can spend their money.

  If I weren’t running for my life I would stick around a while longer, and teach them a lesson in frugality.’

  6th May, 1867

  Steel and iron, that was all that could be heard. Not the chuffing of the colossal engine, not the grating crunch of black shovels on coal, not even the chuckling, or the whispering, or the heated debates of the other passengers. Just iron. Just steel. They battled one another continuously—each creak and bang and thud trying to outdo the next. The clear winner were the wheels, of course, and the sturdy tracks they rolled against continuously.

  Merion felt every rivet, every scratch, every little crunch and squeak. It was an incessant clattering that had been hammered into the very bones of his body. He prayed for water and coal stops. He prayed for towns and stray cows. Hell, he even prayed for women tied to the tracks, as he had seen in penny dreadfuls. Anything to quieten the wheels for just a moment, and let him hear the wind, or the trees, or the piercing whistle of the engine, to know there was something else beyond the cacophony.

  Days had become knitted together and formed a week. Merion had spent the sunlight hours with his face pressed up against the window, watching every mile roll past. He took in every inch of his new home. No matter how sure he was that he had seen every sight the Kingdom of America had to offer, there was always something new, something different. He felt as though he had seen several kingdoms, not just the one.

  In New York, he had seen towering spires the like of which even London could not boast, overlooking a bay of mud and old warships. In Pittsburgh, he had seen wild forests, darker than the woods of home. So dark they appeared, he couldn’t fathom how far they must have stretched. In Chicago, he had heard an ocean called a lake, and seen a city so sprawling and stubborn, he wondered whether it would ever end. On the way to Cheyenne, he had rumbled across prairies and grasslands, fenced only by the distant shadows of rolling mountains and the first fingers of desert. Yet still, he hadn’t seen it all.

  At first, Wyoming didn’t seem all that bad. Chugging through the dawn-lit hills outside Cheyenne, Merion had been pleasantly surprised by the amount of green. Sure, there were no forests or trees, nor very many rivers, for that matter, but there were shrubs on the ground, and that’s all that mattered. He had heard no more talk of danger or of keeping his skin on above the thundering of the wheels. He even went as far as to enjoy the hot morning sun coming through the dusty window, far hotter than anything he had ever experienced at home. His skin prickled under its rays.

  It was then it all started to change—the moment he reached Cheyenne.

  It was a small city, compared to Chicago and New York. In fact, it was actually more of a town. But Merion kept that to himself, in case he accidentally offended anyone. He alone stayed on the platform as the locomotive was pulled away to make room for the next. For a while, he wondered if he would have the carriage to himself, but as he stood there sweating in the hot sun, his fellow passengers began to arrive, one by one.

  The first didn’t give Merion any real cause for concern. Neither did the second. However, by the third, Merion was starting to notice a pattern, and it was a pattern that began to make him rather nervous indeed.

  No women. He noticed that first. The passengers lining up alongside him were all men. And, to Merion’s delight, they were the sort of men that looked very fond of dark doorways and sharp implements. That much was evident from the things attached or hanging from their bullet-studded belts. Guns and knives and other such tools built for bodily harm.

  Their hats were dark and low, and their clothes dusty and ragged. Some wore dungarees, others riding gear. All of them wore heavy, thudding boots. It made Merion cast a self-conscious eye over his own choice of footwear. Comfortable leather shoes with their laces tied in almost-p
erfect bows. They even had a velvet lining. Merion wiggled his feet to remind himself.

  I am either going to be the height of fashion, or the court jester, Merion told himself. Only time would tell which.

  Merion kept his eyes low and his mouth shut. Instead he bathed in the rough grumblings of the men around him. He could not hear much, but what he heard both confused and swiftly demolished that slight shred of hope he and Rhin had savoured before Cheyenne. In truth, their words terrified him.

  ‘Sullyvan’s got all the men sleeping together at night …’

  ‘Well, what in Maker’s name is that gonna do, huh?’

  ‘Just makes us a bigger target, is all.’

  ‘Makes us a buffet.’

  ‘Digger’s right. Ain’t nothing to be done, ‘cept build us somethin’ solid. Quarters. Barracks. Anything.’

  ‘Pah! Only guards get quarters. They’re the ones watching over our hides all the live-long day.’

  ‘And we’re the ones bending our backs all day, putting iron in the ground.’

  ‘Heard Yule got bit last week?’

  ‘Bit? Man got ripped in half!’

  ‘Down the middle.’

  ‘Wife only knew him ‘cause of a mole he had on his right cheek.’

  And so their hushed conversations went. Some of them must have noticed him, after a spell, but it did not make them speak any quieter.

  ‘No good pretendin’ it ain’t happened,’ as one of the workers so eloquently put it.

  Truth hurts, and the frontier was full of it. Welcome to the wild west, he thought. Last stop before Hell.

  *

  The locomotive that came to fetch them was considerably less impressive than the one he had first seen in Boston, and the other two that had come after it.