Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1)

by Ben Galley

  How? He asked himself for the hundredth time that day. How had they found him? How had they gotten here? Like rats aboard a merchant ship they had brought plague and pestilence. Though in Rhin’s case, plague and pestilence came in the form of thirteen black knives between the ribs. If there was anything Rhin hated in this world, it was the prospect of dying. It just simply did not fit with his plans.

  When the sickle moon finally summoned the fortitude to cast its pitiful light across the desert, and when that milk-light slipped like a burglar into the room and trickled across the floor towards his feet, Rhin knew it was time. The moon, even a wicked one, never lied.

  Merion was still busy snoring, but peacefully this time. He was beginning to heal, thank the Roots. Rhin stepped out into the moonlight and let his wings crackle. His swords were sharp, his knives deadlier than a fistful of razors, and his magick was running strong. If only his heart would calm itself, and stop trying to burst out of his neck, that would have been great, Rhin thought.

  ‘Fuck this,’ he hissed at the darkness and the sleeping boy. He knew he had to go. He had to know what the Wit wanted.

  Rhin steeled himself and crept out the door and along the hallway. Lilain was asleep with her head on the kitchen table, a big old book resting open under a numb hand. There was a candle, but it was almost done with life. Rhin’s skin melded with the darkness and bent it to its will. He crept unseen past the woman and out the back door.

  The night was dark and deathly still yet full of whooping and hollering. Even on the outskirts, it was loud. Everybody was in town, trying to squeeze their way into the revelry. Any excuse to have a party is a good excuse, when you live at the ragged, bloody edge of the world. Rhin was glad of parties and excuses. The roads were empty. He found himself striding bravely down the middle of the Runnels, wearing such confidence as a shield against what awaited him, whatever it was to be.

  The barn was a few miles east of the town’s outskirts. There was a good and open stretch of desert between Fell Falls and the barn. It lurked alone in the distant darkness, like the big ugly child at a party, the one too grumpy to join in with the games.

  Big and ugly: that did the barn justice. Rhin’s keen eyes roved over its rough angles as he jogged through the scrub and sand. It was a simple square block rising up out of the dust, its only company a curving spur of railroad that reached out from the main line. Its flat panels were bleached white by the sun. Its roof was also clad in wooden shingles, and sported a pair of flagpoles. Their flags hung limp in the night air, but Rhin spied a glimpse of a silver spinning-top in their green folds.

  Rhin began to look for a door, or a crack in the wooden panels. Whatever was inside was important; the thick padlocks and chains across the big doors said as much. On the southwest side of the barn he found his way in: a cracked panel that made an archway into the darkness. Rhin stepped into it, and held his breath. No shouts. No arrows. No blades. All was still in the giant barn.

  Grotesque shapes squatted in the darkness, pierced here and there by shafts of moonlight, sneaking through the cracks. The machines were monsters of iron and cog and wire. Some were covered in huge dust-cloths, others had been left to taste the air. Rhin spied their greasy chains and riveted skin in the light. Their smith-twisted spars of iron looked like fingers and claws, and their pistons like ribs, or the carapace of some great, mechanical beetle. The smell of all that metal and oil stung his nose. There was something else too, an earthy smell, like that of old blood.

  Rhin moved on, wincing as he peered behind every pole, leg and scaffold. His eyes were keener than most, and yet the barn appeared to be empty. No shivers in the darkness. No ripples in the air. Even faerie skin can struggle to fool faerie eyes.

  But the Wit had no desire to hide. He stood right out in the open, in a circle of machinery at the far end of the barn. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his trademark black hood was up, but did not obscure his face. His long white hair flowed around his neck and down his chest. He was deliberately standing in a shaft of milky moonlight, so Rhin could see him all the more.

  He means business then, thought Rhin, peering from between two cogs. He means to talk. Talking was good. Talking meant time.

  Once Rhin had swallowed whatever emotion was trying to choke him, he stepped out into the darkness and strode boldly towards his summoner. He had almost forgotten how tall the faerie was, in the months since he had seen him last. Rumour suggested he had a bit of dwarf in him, thanks to some debauched ancestor, long ago. That being said, he still stood half a head taller than Rhin. In the world of the Fae, that was a sizeable difference.

  ‘Rhin Rehn’ar, we meet again,’ Finrig spoke loud and clear, a smile on his lips.

  Rhin took a stand at the edge of the circle, several feet from The Wit. ‘Finrig Everwit. As unpleasant a surprise as last time.’

  Finrig’s face cracked into a broader smile, one chillingly devoid of humour. ‘Did you miss us?’

  Rhin cut straight to the point. ‘Why have you followed me here, to the edge of the world?’ he demanded. ‘I told you before, I don’t have whatever it is the queen wants. I just want to be left alone.’

  Finrig scratched his nose. ‘Ah, but now I know what you stole. Something very precious indeed. And that makes it serious,’ he replied. ‘Serious money for us, that is.’

  There came a sniggering from the shadows. One by one, a dozen faeries in black hoods stepped out into the light, each with either a grin or a grimace on their lips. Swords, axes, spears, knives—these faeries bristled with sharp implements. The White Wit and his Black Fingers, every last one of them.

  Rhin crossed his arms. ‘Like I already said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Finrig looked at his crew ‘You hear that, boys? That’s the sound of a guilty Fae spewing horse shit from his mouth.’ The Fingers chuckled again.

  Rhin wondered at his chances. He was a killer, sure, but a killer in the presence of other killers, and each of the Fae around him looked very used to the sight of blood on their blades. He wondered how many throats they’d slit, how many heads they’d caved in, how many babies they’d stolen and thrown into the darkness. He weighed that up against his own murderous wrongdoings, and found himself wanting.

  Rhin put a hand on his sword. ‘Make your point or draw your sword, or I walk away. I haven’t got all night,’ he said.

  ‘Somewhere to be?’ hissed one of the Fingers. Kawn, Rhin recognised him from decades before, from guard-duty on the walls of Hafenfol, in the Mole Haunts. Rhin flashed what he hoped was a deadly smile. To his dismay, Kawn just sneered. He had a few more scars since last Rhin saw him.

  ‘Where’s the Hoard, Rehn’ar?’ asked the Wit.

  Rhin shook his head firmly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ he snapped.

  Finrig stepped forward. ‘Tell you what, Rehn’ar, you tell us where you stashed it, or we’ll cut that boy of yours into little ribbons, so the dogs don’t choke on him,’ he growled.

  Rhin’s sword barely made it halfway out of its scabbard before a dozen knives and axe-blades were at his neck. These faeries were fast. Kawn waggled a needle-point dagger uncomfortably close to Rhin’s right eyeball. ‘Tell us where it is,’ he growled, in a voice almost as thick as the sludge between his ears.

  Rhin smirked back at him, trying very hard not to move his throat too much. ‘Let’s say I do have the Hoard. If you kill me, you’ll never find it. How do you think the Queen is going to pay for your troubles if you come back to her with only my body to offer, and no Hoard?’

  Finrig laughed, as if he were conversing with a halfwit. ‘She’s the queen. The Hoard is not her only stash of gold.’

  Rhin narrowed his eyes. ‘Really? Do you think so? Why then is she so keen to get it back, I wonder?’ he retorted.

  Finrig nudged his Fingers aside with his elbows. ‘Where is it, Rehn’ar, you thief?’ he spat in his face.

  Rhin spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been w
rongly accused.’

  ‘Kawn,’ Finrig spoke, as calm as a pebble, ‘Take three of the Fingers, three big lads, and fetch that Hark boy. Kill his aunt if she has any objections.’

  ‘Aye, Wit,’ Kawn grinned. He stuck his needle dagger back in its sheath and pointed at three faeries, all of them thickset and muscled. Rhin bit the inside of his lip.

  ‘Don’t hurt him. I want to do that part myself,’ added Finrig, casually.

  ‘Stop!’ Rhin shouted, and the Fingers froze. Rhin was going pale. His knuckles were white around the pommel of his sword. Finrig came closer, staring deep into Rhin’s fierce eyes.

  ‘Got something to say, have we? Rhin Rehn’ar?’ he asked.

  ‘Harm the boy, and I’ll never help you,’ Rhin snarled.

  ‘Help us then, and we won’t have to carve our names in his belly. We’ll do it in the old tongue, so it takes longer,’ chuckled Finrig. ‘Where is the Hoard?’

  It took a long while for Rhin to spit it out. It was that sour a sentence, that damning a collection of syllables and sounds. The only small mercy was that Merion was not within earshot. The oldest lies are always the sharpest on the tongue. ‘I gave it away.’

  Finrig grabbed him by the throat, his arms moving like lighting. ‘You what? To which kingdom? Which duke? Who hired you?’

  ‘I gave it to no Fae,’ Rhin gargled.

  As it dawned on Finrig, his grip began to tighten. Rhin struggled and gasped and tugged at his sword, but two Fingers held him tight. His heart felt as though it was about to burst out of his chest and explode. Perhaps he could take Finrig out with him.

  ‘You gave it to a human? You gave it to the fucking boy, didn’t you?’ the Wit hissed.

  ‘No!’ Rhin managed to croak. His eyes were slowly rolling up into his skull, their glow fading.

  ‘Don’t you lie to me, Rehn’ar …’

  ‘I swear! He knows nothing!’

  Finrig snorted and pushed the faerie away from him. While he had never been the sort for crown and countrymen, while he may have had dwarf-blood in his veins, he was still a faerie, and all Fae loathe the big people. Giving something so precious as the Hoard to one was unthinkable.

  ‘I have half a mind to lop off both your legs and make you crawl back to your beloved boy-child so you can tell him what a thief and a traitor you are, you pathetic bastard. What did we ever do to deserve such treachery?’ he said, lip curled repugnantly. Rhin though he would stab him right there and then, on principle alone.

  Say what you will of the Wit, the faerie had his rules.

  ‘It’s “we” now, is it?’ Rhin pushed himself away from the Fingers and brushed himself down. ‘I’m nothing like you. Our ancestors would spit if they saw us now. Undering has become rotten, greedy, and it’s bred faeries like you and yours, queens like Sift. I fought for my kind in the war and was rewarded with dishonour. All I did was return the favour. The Hoard deserved better than the pocket of a sadistic queen.’

  Finrig turned and looked him up and down. ‘How many times have you practised that little speech in the flat of your sword-blade?’ he replied. ‘How many times have you sung yourself to sleep with it, cuddled up to that boy like a mewling whelp?’

  Rhin hawked and spat, narrowly missing Kawn’s boots. He received a gauntlet to the face in reply.

  Finrig was staring up at the cracks in the walls through which the moonlight snuck. ‘You have a week to bring us the Hoard.’

  Rhin eyes flashed. ‘I just told you. I don’t have it,’ he growled. Finrig just shrugged.

  ‘There must be more than one Hoard in the world, surely?’ he said, smirking. ‘Are there no banks in town? And I hear there are lords and ladies about. Empire sort. They may have one of their own hidden up their skirts.’

  ‘Humans know nothing of such magick.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Finrig winked before delivering Rhin’s sentence. ‘You have one week to repay your debt.’

  Rhin’s wings buzzed with frustration. Time. He needed time. ‘Two.’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Two. Be reasonable.’

  ‘Two then, though you don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Then you’ll leave me be? And the boy too?’

  Finrig nodded. ‘Then we’ll leave you be. And the boy too,’ he said, even going as far to spit in his hand and hold it out. After a moment of seething and glowering, Rhin spat in his own hand and clasped Finrig’s tightly. ‘Then it is agreed,’ said the Wit, wearing that cold smile of his once more. ‘Lads, escort this traitor back to town. Don’t cut him. Don’t bruise him. But don’t be too shy.’

  As Rhin was dragged from the barn and off into the night, Kawn shuffled closer to the Wit, and muttered in his ear. ‘I thought you said Sift wanted him, dead or alive?’

  ‘I know,’ grunted Finrig. ‘But I gave him hope, and hope is a poisonous thing.’

  Chapter XX

  “THAT’S HOW BUSINESS WORKS”

  ‘Karrigan continues to terrorise the boy with tutors and lessons in business. Merion will inherit an immense fortune. And I don’t just mean wealth.

  Karrigan’s got something, some skill. I just know it. He is too—I don’t know—impressive to be normal. He is set to take the seat of Prime Lord after next week’s election. He has not been home in some time.’

  26th May, 1867

  Three days went by, and Rhin and Merion spent them in almost exactly the same way: one beneath the bed, face covered, staring at the door, motionless and pensive; the other in bed, still and pale, also staring at the door, each for completely different reasons entirely. Merion just wanted out. He longed to test out his legs and feel the sun on his back, not through glass and curtain. But he had orders. Lilain’s orders. Stay in bed. Don’t move. Don’t disturb me. Merion, to his credit, followed them to the letter. Until the morning of the fourth day, that was.

  It was early, and being a Sunday, Lilain was treating herself to a few extra hours beneath the sheets for once, eyes screwed shut against the dawn and dreaming of something other than tables and corpses. The dead could wait on the day of the Maker’s rest. Lilain was dog-tired after a week of hard toil. She slept like a stone. Merion, however, was wide awake, and busy standing in Lilain’s doorway, staring at his sleeping aunt. A few more steps across the grey floorboards and he was at her bedside, looking down. She looked peaceful enough, but she was as still as a corpse. Merion sniffed.

  ‘Aunt Lilain,’ he said quietly. She didn’t move.

  ‘Aunt Lilain …’ he said again, louder this time. Nothing.

  Merion moved things to the next level. He raised a finger and pressed it to her cheek. She was cold to the touch, and for half a second Merion began to wonder if she were actually dead. That was until Lilain’s eyes snapped open and she snorted with surprise.

  ‘Maker’s balls, Merion!’ she coughed, smacking his finger away. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Merion smiled. ‘Today you start teaching me how to bloodrush.’

  Lilain rubbed her eyes and then pursed her lips. ‘Oh, is it that right?’

  Merion’s smile grew. ‘I’ve made breakfast.’

  His aunt just groaned. ‘Now this I have to see.’

  *

  If there is one area of expertise the Harks are not well-versed in, it is cooking. The Harks are a very old bloodline, reaching as far back as the Bastard King and the First Empire. However, being such a strong and ancient bloodline, Harks have always had the luck of very large homes, or in some cases, castles. And what comes with large homes? Servants, slaves even, in the past. Not a single Hark in all the bloodline has ever learnt to cook, save for Lilain. And even then, her skills were questionable.

  It was a sorry scene that greeted Lilain, as she paced down the hallway barefoot, already wincing at the smell of smoke and char. There were beans in the sink, egg on the ceiling, and bacon on the floor. In fact, it seemed that breakfast was everywhere but on the plates Merion had set out. Lilain watched in horror as he began
to serve up his concoctions. She said a quick prayer to the Maker and sat at the table.

  To say the bacon was crispy would have been a lie. It was more like a thin slice of charcoal, resting on a bed of something that vaguely resembled a fried egg, though the grey bits in it were slightly worrying. The beans were nearly black. Lilain’s fork danced about, hovering cautiously over the food. ‘I don’t really have to eat this, do I?’

  Merion sagged into the opposite chair. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ he sighed.

  Even though her stomach was growling, Lilain gently put the fork to rest on the table and pushed the plate away. ‘Harks can’t cook for shit,’ she smiled. Merion sniggered.

  It was now Lilain’s turn to sigh. She tapped her fingers on the table. ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked. The talk between them had been scant in the half-week that had passed. Scant and stiff.

  Merion tried not to act taken aback. ‘Of course you can trust me. Once again, I’m sorry for drinking the bat blood. It won’t happen again. I just want to learn is all.’

  Lilain took a moment to think, combing her tangled blonde hair with her fingers. ‘If we start today, we start my way. No jumping ahead. We have to be careful. We don’t want another bad rush so soon after your last.’

  ‘Alright,’ Merion nodded. ‘We do it your way.’

  Lilain drummed her fingers some more, letting her eye wander over to the end of the table, where a lonely slice of bacon lingered in brown paper.

  ‘You know, they say it’s never wise to rush on an empty stomach. Why don’t you eat that bacon there before we begin?’

  Merion followed her eyes to the bacon. ‘I don’t think I can be trusted with cooking it.’

  ‘No,’ Lilain replied, her voice as flat as the tabletop. ‘Eat it raw.’

  Merion grimaced. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  Lilain raised an eyebrow. ‘You afraid?’