The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Merion wasn’t finished. Growling like a beast, he began to drag away the folded fabric, spike held high, ready to be driven through Gavisham’s heart. ‘Give your brother my regards, when you see him, won’t you!’ Merion barked at the night, over the gunfire. ‘At least he’ll have some co—’

  A crack of thunder sounded beneath him, and Merion performed an involuntary somersault onto his backside. Dazed, coughing dust and wrapped in pain, he watched as the remains of the tent were ripped asunder. Gavisham emerged into the crimson moonlight. He looked almost jovial, a smile etched between his swollen, blood-and-ink-stained cheeks, his muscles still bulging out of the remnants of his shirt.

  ‘Drink it in, Merion,’ he boomed, glancing up at the ruby-red moon, huge and high in the black firmament.

  ‘Don’t you find it disgusting, working for a lamprey like Dizali?’ Merion hissed, trying desperately to focus. ‘Have you no morals?’ Reasoning with the man was never going to work, he knew that; he just wanted a few moments to let the world stop dancing.

  ‘Morality is like air, boy. The higher you climb, the thinner it gets. You’d have learnt that, if you’d played along with Castor Serped,’ Gavisham spat.

  Merion thrust himself up. He had to give it to the Bloodmoon. Every part of his body itched for more. His body may have been crumbling, but at his core the bubbling, angry magick was surging. ‘I was taught better than to sink to your level,’ he growled.

  ‘Bah!’ Gavisham roared, bursting forward. Merion dove for his knees as soon as he got close, tripping the huge man. The ground shook as Merion seized Gavisham’s head with his hands and drove it down into the ground, once, twice, until a fist broke his grip. Gavisham’s palms came together, inches from Merion’s face, and thunder spoke again. The young Hark’s head was wrenched backwards. He tumbled across the grass and into the wheel of a nearby wagon. The innocent bystander splintered under the blow, sending the vehicle lurching to one side. A lantern slipped from its hook and crashed to the ground. Fire crept from its shards, licking hungrily at the grass. Merion hid behind the blossoming flames, trying to manhandle his jaw back into place. A hungry darkness clamoured at the edges of his eyes.

  Another clap of hands beyond the glare, and the earth trembled under his feet. Merion groped for a shard of the lantern, wincing as the fire bit his fingers. He felt a shudder in his muscles; the bear shade was deserting him. As its last remnants died away, he glugged his last vial down, pinning all his hopes on its sting as it slid down to his stomach. He was losing, and sorely.

  Gavisham bounded over the fire, hands poised to slam Merion’s skull into a bloody mush. The boy forced his aching body into a roll. The blast nipped at his heels, almost breaking his ankle with its force.

  Merion scrabbled upright and let his magick flow. He knew this shade at least: sprite, and a smile crept across his face. He beckoned for the fire and it rushed to greet him, swirling past Gavisham’s legs and into Merion’s arms.

  Gavisham howled at that. He crumpled to his knees and seethed, teeth bared and bloody. Slowly but surely his monstrousness was fading. With every flicker of the whirling flames, he receded to his former size.

  Merion took his chance, pushing all he had into one last effort. Rage, bitterness, betrayal, and the crimson light of the cursed moon, it surged forth in a stream of blistering fire. But before he could be engulfed and charred to ash, Gavisham slammed his hands together, and the fire met an invisible wall. Flames billowed in every direction, bursting into the sky, hurtling across the grass, and flying back into Merion’s hands. The boy tumbled to the dust as the fire rushed at him, too powerful to control. A cry tore from his throat as the flames kissed his fingers.

  Gavisham was atop him in a blink, strong hands pinning him down, seeking his neck. Merion scrabbled and fought, bit and spat, but nothing could stop him. The man seethed with anger. Spittle flew from his lips as he rasped and grunted. Merion felt the man’s fingers around his neck, his thumbnails biting into his windpipe. The boy clawed desperately at his eyes but Gavisham slammed his skull against the ground. Kicking did nothing. There was no fire he could draw upon. All he could do was squirm and panic.

  Merion knew he was done for. Gavisham’s fingers were hot iron rods, crushing his throat to dust. Air was a forgotten luxury. His eyes bulged in their sockets, ready to pop from his skull. Merion could only flap his numb lips like a dying fish and pray it would end soon. The anger had been throttled out of him. He’d had enough of pain for one day. Hell, he’d had enough for a lifetime. Yet still Gavisham continued to squeeze, until the bones crunched in Merion’s neck, until all he could taste was his own blood and Gavisham’s breath on his face. The man’s eyes were as wild as a forest fire. Merion’s eyes glazed over. The moonlight faded, and he waited for the inevitable pop of his spine. The killing blow. I’m sorry, he told himself, as if Lurker, his aunt, and Rhin stood over him, watching, listening.

  Only it wasn’t Lurker, nor Lilain, nor the faerie. It was a ghost of a girl, scarred beyond recognition, with a shock of blonde hair curled about her shoulder, her blue eyes fierce as a winter storm, holding a stool high above her head. What a time for Calidae’s ghost to pay him a visit.

  The ghost brought the stool crashing down, right onto the back of Gavisham’s skull. There was a crack, a gasp, and the vice around Merion’s neck loosened slightly, enough to gulp a blessed scrap of air.

  The stool came hammering down again and this time blood splattered, along with splinters. Gavisham managed a strangled shout before he rolled onto the ground. The ghost picked up a broken leg of the stool and swung it, over and over. When it finally snapped against the man’s bloodied forehead, she drove the sharp end deep into his face. First his blue eye, then his green. His screams were short-lived. The splintered shard of wood smashed into his mouth and stoppered his throat. There was a choking gurgle as the ghost pressed down, ramming it further in. There was a crunch, sickeningly final, before she collapsed into a heap at Gavisham’s side. The ghost stared at her handiwork without emotion, then turned to Merion. For a worrying moment it looked as if she would fetch another leg and visit the same justice on him, but she stayed put, slumped, panting, and still.

  As far as Merion knew, ghosts do not speak. They might wail and moan, rattle their chains and torment floorboards, but they do not speak. This one did, in a small, but undeniably human voice. One he had not heard since Fell Falls.

  ‘Tonmerion Hark,’ she breathed.

  Merion was still gasping, his voice nothing but a frog’s croak. ‘You’re not a ghost. You’re alive.’

  Venomous didn’t even begin to describe her tone. ‘No thanks to you.’

  ‘How?’ It was such a small question for such an undoubtedly long answer.

  ‘We can discuss that at sea,’ Calidae hissed.

  Merion’s world was upside down and inside out. ‘Sea?’

  ‘Yes, the sea. Where ships go, fool. You’re taking one back to London, I assume?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But don’t I want to kill you?’ Calidae sneered, her tortured skin warping her lips.

  Merion let his trembling do the nodding. The shades still clamoured inside him, hot with the Bloodmoon’s energy.

  ‘Oh, I do. I would love nothing more,’ she answered him, and Merion did not hear any trace of a lie. ‘But you and I, much as I loathe to spit it out, are the same. Orphans. Heirs. And Dizali wants us both. I will kill you, Merion Hark, one day, when all of this is over. But until then, I suggest we share a fate, and go visit this Prime Lord together.’ And with that, she extended a crimson hand. Merion took a while to grasp it. Mistrust and confusion held him back, but the glint in her eye was genuine, and so he grabbed it, and grabbed hard, almost making her wince. With much straining and cursing, they got to their feet and stood there swaying, trading looks, wordless.

  ‘Where is this ship of yours, then?’ she muttered, clearly displeased at how his bloodshot eyes roved over her scars.

  Merion rubbe
d his throat, winced, and then shrugged. ‘Don’t have one yet,’ he replied, ‘but I have a good idea where to find one.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Let’s go see a king about a ship,’ Merion said, with more grit in his voice than he expected.

  *

  The fighting had been quelled. Those who had not met their end at the sharp tips of swords and bayonets, or been riddled with bullets, were now slumped in dejected heaps, bloodied and bruised. Even with the magick surging through their veins, sheer numbers had outweighed them.

  Cabele had a broken leg. The bone had burst through her skin in ugly splinters. Itch Magrey had been shackled with iron. He had not a cut on him, but his eyes were glazed as though he had been beaten senseless. The huge lump of Big Jud rose and fell slowly with ragged gasps. He held a hand tightly to his neck, where the blood was finally ceasing to flow. Hashna was missing several fingers, and stared about with wide eyes, his tongue continually pestering his lips in nervousness. Kasfel the clown was out cold, a bayonet still embedded in her side, tattooed face pale as parchment. And Hoarse Hannifer, serene as always despite a gash across his chest, stared defiantly at the Bloodmoon, now perched high in the sky and still blazing red. It was almost as though he expected it to swoop down and save them. But it was just a moon, shackled to the sky, and it stared back at them all, uncaring.

  Soldiers and guards strolled around them, wrinkling their noses at the bloodied mouths and hands of the prisoners. They had found more than a few kneeling at dead and dying bodies, drinking their fill before the manacles were clamped around their wrists. The soldiers might have seen plenty of war, but nothing such as that.

  Lurker and Lilain stood like twin islands amidst the destruction, mostly ignored. They watched Lincoln striding to and fro in his loping gait, sparing a word here and there to his injured men, or brusquely questioning those that dared to scowl at him. But Lincoln was no tyrant. The traitors and kidnappers of Cirque Kadabra would see a fair trial before the gallows.

  There was still no sign of Merion. Their eyes roved back and forth, teeth biting lips, praying they did not find a corpse that was far too familiar.

  At last, Lincoln spied them standing tall and alone, and approached slowly. His face was a blank canvas, neither angry nor smiling, just calm and collected as usual.

  When he got close, he removed his hat and extended a hand, first to Lilain, then to Lurker. Lilain curtsied whilst Lurker buried his nose in the dust, like a pauper before a king.

  ‘Please, Sir,’ Lincoln rumbled, bending to lift the prospector up. ‘That will not be necessary.’

  Lurker removed his hat and mopped his sweaty brow. ‘It’s a great honour, Sir, a great honour indeed. I fought with you in Missipine.’

  ‘And it seems you fight still,’ replied Lincoln, eyeing the scars between the fresh cuts. His face broke into an easy smile, and Lurker bowed again, lost for words. Lilain knew how long he had waited for this moment.

  ‘We know exactly who was behind this, Sir,’ Lilain spoke up.

  ‘As do I, Madam,’ Lincoln looked over his shoulder to where Yara lay, folded over a bloodied stomach. She was barely moving. Merion, against all the odds, had done his job. He had turned her trick against her. ‘Yara Mizar, a Rosiyan assassin. The good Lord Dizali is smarter than I gave him credit for,’ Lincoln commented, sighing.

  Lilain cocked her head. ‘You seem to know more than we do?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘I was told not half an hour ago, though I’ve been expecting a ploy such as this for some time now. Well, perhaps not quite like this.’ Lincoln looked around at the carnage. ‘This is unholy.’

  Lilain took a step forward. Lincoln’s gaze switched between her wide eyes. ‘Who told you?’ In truth, Lilain already knew. Her heart had begun its descent into the pit of her stomach.

  ‘A young Empire boy by the name of Tonmerion Hark,’ Lincoln explained. ‘Most confusing, to find him here, all bloodied and beaten. He looked awful, and so far from home. I knew his father well.’

  Lilain couldn’t help it; she seized Lincoln’s sleeve and pulled him close. The guards sprang forward, but Lincoln held up a hand. ‘Where is he?’ Lilain was stuck between a sigh of relief and a strangle of worry.

  ‘Why, I sent him to the docks and had them board my ship. He begged me for help, along with his friend, a girl, also from the Empire. She seemed familiar to me, but Maker knows why. Poor thing was covered in scars. They had quite the tale to tell,’ Lincoln remarked.

  Lilain and Lurker shared a dark look. For a moment it seemed as though the prospector would sprint off in the direction of the docks, but he stayed put, visibly wrestling with his emotions.

  ‘It appears that’s not the news you were hoping for,’ guessed Lincoln.

  Lilain buried her head in her bloody hands. ‘I’m his aunt.’

  Lincoln pulled a dour face. ‘He seemed quite adamant that he was alone in his travels, I’m afraid. Orphans, they said, with business in the Empire. Business with a certain Prime Lord. Something I fully support, I must say.’ There was a hint of a growl in Lincoln’s voice as he looked around again at the failed attempt on his life, at the smouldering tents and broken bodies. They could see the fire in his dark eyes.

  Lilain wanted to curse the boy for all his worth. But the truth was crystal-sharp: he had done it to protect them; to keep from asking them to cross the Iron Ocean; to keep them out of it. ‘He may be an orphan, Sir, but he still has family. It may be a strange one, but it’s ours.’

  ‘Family takes many forms, Madam.’ Here Lincoln paused to sigh, as if the decision to help the boy weighed heavily on him. ‘History might have told a different story had it not been for your nephew. He saved my life. It was the least I could do to send him home.’

  ‘He has a habit of doing that,’ Lilain confessed, joining Lincoln in his sighing. ‘Which way, Sir?’

  Lincoln beckoned two of his men closer. ‘My guards will take you to the docks. Though I can’t promise the Black Rosa will still be at anchor. They were quite eager to leave. And who can blame them? I had half a mind to join them, and see to the Prime Lord myself.’ Another growl.

  ‘That might not be such a bad idea,’ Lurker mumbled.

  Lincoln laughed at that. ‘They call me Red King Lincoln, and you’d have me start another war?’

  ‘If it’s a just one,’ Lurker bowed again.

  ‘There are other ways to win a battle than to build a war around it,’ Lincoln smiled warmly, and reached for their hands. ‘I wish you good luck and safe travels. Something tells me your family is stronger than an ocean.’

  Lilain and Lurker said their goodbyes and let the soldiers lead them away, more than a little numb. Lurker too, by the looks of him, seemed to understand, but that didn’t mean it sat well with either of them.

  ‘I take it we’re followin’ him.’

  She nodded firmly. ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘Even if he don’t want us to?’

  Lilain looked up at the Bloodmoon, maybe for a little patience, maybe to blame it for all the mess, or maybe just for somewhere to look while she reached for Lurker’s rough hand. She held it lightly, as though if she squeezed too hard he might crumble. ‘You boys don’t know what you want, or what you need. That’s why you need someone like me around,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you like the sea, John Hobble, because we’re catching a ship.’

  Lurker patted his chest for his flask, but when he came up empty, he just shrugged. He squeezed her hand. ‘Looks like it’s a day of firsts.’

  *

  Rhin stood alone on the dock, half-visible, watching the stern of the Black Rosa disappear into the crimson-washed waves of the Potomac Estuary. She was just a dark hunk of steel, with cinder-speckled steam billowing from her jagged stack and two thick masts sporting grey sails. One solitary light hung from the railing at her stern. Even Rhin’s eyes couldn’t be sure, but something told him that the light had a shadow for company. A boy, staring back at the glittering city and
the faerie he had left behind. Rhin could almost feel his angst washing up under the dock with the red-tipped waves.

  The decision had been made weeks ago, when the black cross on his hand was still raw, when Merion had looked down at him and sworn murder to protect him. It had been painful in its simplicity: the bean sidhe would kill anything that stood in the way of their prey. They had done it before, and they would do so again. Rhin would not subject the boy to their cold bones, to their teeth. He would save him, though it tore his heart to do so.

  Rhin knelt one knee to the wood and let his hands rove over his armour, old habits of checking the straps and plates; and finally his blades, two of black steel, and one of pine. Rhin ran his hands through his hair and calmly blinked his violet eyes, waiting for the cold wind he knew was coming.

  His wait was brief. It came from behind, blowing out to sea. It was graveyard-cold, and sought out all the gaps in his armour that blades could never find.

  Then came the wailing, just as before. Rhin couldn’t ignore the hammering of his heart. He got to his feet, took the deepest breath of his life, and drew his blades, both pine and steel.

  The banshees came cautiously this time, one wailing just a little louder, its screech tainted with pain. Rhin wondered if it bled. He turned to see.

  The three gathered behind him, standing between him and escape. Rhin swallowed his heart as he stared at their fell faces: worm-eaten skulls, black and brown with age, a greenish light lingering behind the hollow sockets they called eyes. The rest of them was covered in rags and grave-dirt, betraying pockmarked bones here and there, giving way only to skeletal claws like winter tree branches. Mist gave them flesh where it could, wrapping around their ancient bones. Their tongues were made of it, their expressions forged by it. All in all, they were terrifying to stare at, but Rhin refused to give them the satisfaction of cowering. He stood and waited.