by Ben Galley
Their voices were distant, as if their vocal chords had been buried with their souls, just a shrill wailing with words for bones. They rasped and they rattled as they delivered Rhin his sentence:
‘The one called Rehn’ar,’ the first creaked.
‘You have been summoned,’ added the second.
‘By Fae Queen Sift,’ the third screeched, the one he had cut. There was a fiercer glint to its sickly glow. Rhin noticed its eyes sneaking to look at his pine-knife.
‘She’s never been one for the dirty work,’ Rhin mused, carving an arc of splinters in the decking of the dock with his sword.
Several wails answered him, echoes of the dead dragged back to the world. Rhin shuddered. The banshees floated forwards, arms reaching out for him. The cross in his hand burnt as they moved closer. Rhin brandished the pine-knife, and one of them slunk back. The others had yet to be bitten.
‘It’s inevitable,’ one moaned, clearly the leader. It crept closer. Rhin balanced his sword under its chin. The banshee barely flinched. It did not fear Fae steel. ‘None have escaped the bean sidhe.’
‘Then let’s see if we can break that tradition, shall we?’ Rhin snarled, finding bravery in his anger. He didn’t wait for them to strike first. He didn’t wait for them to grasp him with their dead fingers. Instead he raised his sword in a warrior’s salute and, with his heart encamped in his throat, his voice raised to a bloodcurdling roar, he swung for all his might.
Epilogue
A BLOODFEUD BEGINS …
17th July, 1867
The festivities had drilled deep into the early hours, daring dawn to rise before they were over. The Bloodmoon still hovered on the horizon, reticent to give up its throne, even though the lightening sky was already tarnishing its vermeil glow.
Dizali eyed it over the rim of his glass, busying himself with the counting of its scars, trying to ignore the noise around him, filling the room—the hollering, hooting, swigging, laughing, and underneath it, the rustle of gasps and mumbling. Behind him a colourful crowd went about their celebrations, the cream of London’s elite. They were an echelon even most of the Emerald House were unaware existed, an echelon currently in the grip of debauchery—as the Bloodmoon demanded.
They were a crowd of two halves. One half were draped in silks and finery, or in varying degrees of nakedness, running about and giggling, fuelled by wine and crimson. Jewellery dripped from necks and wrists. Hands were forever full of glasses, or titbits from silver trays.
The other half were a less fortunate lot, from a class far below the rung of their betters. They wore no finery. They wore nothing at all save for bonds and fine ropes. They lay here and here like broken dolls, some left on couches, others crumpled on the marble floor in scarlet pools. The ones that were still alive looked about in dull horror as they watched their captors frolic and laugh. Every one bore the marks of knives or teeth. There was no difference between them and the trout or duck that lingered on plates. The lampreys had drunk their fill that night.
Dizali sat alone in an opulent armchair, swallowed by velvet and gold-trim. A loud cackle rang out and he cast an eye to where several figures writhed, entwined in a corner of the grand room, bathed in candlelight. Dizali wrinkled his lip.
It was a celebration steeped in ages, revered as the very practice itself, and yet Dizali found no mirth or enjoyment in it. The blood may have swirled through his veins, but it did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth, or the unease in his chest, something that tasted very much like a failure that had yet to reach his doorstep.
Dizali leant forwards and throttled his wine glass until the stem snapped. He let it smash on the floor. The crowd around him barely noticed, drowning in revelry. His lip curled, and from between gapless teeth he bit off a name, one that he had nurtured and cursed for hours.
‘Tonmerion Hark.’
Waiting can be torture.
*
‘What’s bothering you? You’ve been silent since we left Washingtown,’ Calidae grumbled from her place at the railing, several feet away. Together they stared at the black sea rushing beneath them, sliced apart by the Black Rosa’s blade-like hull. It was a far cry from the Tamarassie.
Merion toyed with an answer, turning it over on his swollen tongue before shrugging and shaking his head. He had waited for this moment ever since setting foot in Boston, and being drowned in noise. For months he had pined to feel the swell of the Iron Ocean under his feet again, and yet here he was, staring at the black coastline and the blood-red moon, chewing on something bitter in his mind. He thought of Lilain, of Lurker, and most of all, of Rhin. There had been no sign of him. No shimmer. No whisper, even though he had shouted his name to the streets as they had run for the docks. In his heart, he knew the faerie had done it to save him, but it still brought a tremble to his lips.
‘You know they will follow you, don’t you, your aunt and that prospector?’ Calidae offered. There was a softer feel to her voice, if only a fraction. It lacked its usual wrappings of smugness, dripped with less contempt. She almost sounded like she cared.
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ Merion sighed, thinking back to the yarn he had spun Lincoln, as he’d stood in the scorched grass, staring up at the man as if he were regarding the top of a tall tree.
‘Alone?’
‘Yes alone, Sir. Just her and I.’
‘No family?’
‘We’re orphans. You knew my father, Karrigan Hark. He was murdered on the steps of my halls.’
‘I knew him well. Better than you even know, Master Hark. And you?’ Lincoln had turned to the girl.
‘The same,’ she had said.
‘What brought you here?’
‘Lies and betrayal.’
‘And now there’s nothing left for us here. But there’s plenty in the east.’
‘Dizali did this.’
‘And he will pay for what he’s done.’
‘With blood and more.’
Merion could still feel those oaken eyes on him, searching his own for truth. Merion had spilled all he knew—about Yara, about Gavisham, about the letters. He kept only the magick back, though he had the impression that Lincoln already knew full well. In the end the Red King had rubbed his beard, shaken their hands, and pointed them to the docks.
And here they were, two unlikely allies, standing on the deck of a borrowed ship, finally heading home. Merion didn’t know whether to sigh or cheer at their bittersweet victory. He should have known: victories always have a cost.
‘Tell me you aren’t going to be like this the entire journey,’ Calidae hissed.
Merion shook his pounding head. ‘It’s about time I grew out of sulking,’ he replied.
‘Good.’ Calidae narrowed her eyes at him before heading below. ‘You should get some sleep, Merion. I doubt we’ll get any once we reach London.’
‘Not with your threat hanging over me.’ Merion matched her look, and watched her leave. She said nothing in reply. It was a strange thing, sharing a ship with your potential murderer. Merion wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. He guessed he would deal with it when the time came.
Merion turned back to the sea and to the moon, letting Dizali fill his mind, conjuring up all sorts of tortures for the man. It was odd, but he could barely remember his face, and yet his mind was consumed by him.
That, and one other thought, one that had niggled and poked at him, making him doubt whether it had even happened at all. It was so small a moment it kept falling through the cracks in his memory. And yet Merion kept dragging it back up.
The tap of Lincoln’s finger as he had shaken the Red King’s hand.
Bloodfeud
BY BEN GALLEY
Book 3 of The Scarlet Star Trilogy
Suggested Listening
Below are some of the songs that inspired me along my writing journey. I hope they inspire you too, in any way that they can. Enjoy.
Youth
Daughter
Free the A
nimal
Sia
F.C.P.R.E.M.I.X
The Fall of Troy
I See Fire
Ed Sheeran
10,000 Emerald Pools
BØRNS
Honey Whiskey
Nothing But Thieves
Solidarity
Enter Shikari
Divenire
Ludovico Einaudi and Robert Ziegler
For Your Love
Josh Record
New Rush
Gin Wigmore
Vitamin
Incubus
Nerve
Don Broco
Glimmer
Mallory Knox
How You Like Me Now?
The Heavy
Renegades
X Ambassadors
Feels Like Forever
Of Mice & Men
American Beauty
Thomas Newman
Comin’ Home
City and Colour
Follow Ben’s Bloodfeud playlist
on Spotify.
For Nancy and Roger.
Chapter I
LONDON
29th July, 1867
Arriving in any city via its dockyards is like being led to the most glorious of sweet shops, opening the door, and finding all the jars smeared with excrement. London is guilty of such a swindle, being the most glorious establishment in all the world.
Her mighty docks were a canyon of disjointed buildings, following every twist and turn of the Thames’ serpentine wanderlust. They formed the gateway to the finest city on earth, and they were nothing more than a dirty, busy barrier between the silt-ridden river waters and the glowing curvature of London proper.
The docklands spared no space for trees or other such idle trinkets. Where there was water, there were ships; and where there were ships, you could find men and coin. Empires are built on such simple exchanges.
It meant every inch of the yards bustled with activity. This was a place where work was long and hard, where the dingy taverns and whorehouses never closed. Night and day held no sway here. You would work until you were told to stop, and drink and rut until you passed out or it was time to work again. A rinse of seawater, and repeat. A roiling, ever-rotating concoction of work and play.
And just a gunshot from the bilge, ale and sweat was London in all her glory. The city was already shining in the marmalade light of the early sun. The highest spires and turrets caught it with ease; their metal and marble-work glinting as if afire. Arches soared. Flagpoles bristled atop countless towers, bejewelled by stained glass windows. It was a glorious sight; the sort that pulls at your collar. But the docks were also thick with filth of all kinds, and every traveller must pay his dues on the muddy roads, as well as the swept and cobbled.
The Black Rosa pressed on; engines chugging quietly, sails still flapping even though they’d been drawn in tight to the mast. There was no wind today. Just a lingering fog around the knees; the sort that was so thick you could almost carve shapes in it. It reeked of river-stink and industry, coal dust and log fires. It brought a bitter sting to the eyes after the fresh sea air.
Around the curve of the river, a quieter section of dockyard was spied, and the Rosa slowed, aiming for a spare jetty.
At first there was an argument between the captain and the apparent owner of the dock; but a couple of gold coins made him pipe down long enough for a gangplank to be lowered, for farewells to be said, and for boots to hit the deck.
Tonmerion Hark stared down at the dark wood beneath his feet. He wanted to kick it, to make sure it was real. He settled for shaking his head.
‘Bloody hell. I’m really home.’
‘Yes,’ snapped a voice by his side, in its usual ice-shard tone. ‘And you don’t see me whimpering about it. Now, come on!’ Calidae nudged Merion from his reverie and pointed him forwards. He tutted and took a moment to work the jelly out of his sea legs, then raised his chin and took a deep breath of salty air. It was almost as if he’d been holding his breath since leaving for Boston, all those months ago. He could even ignore the familiar rotten-egg stench of sulphur, and the stink of bilge.
‘Let’s get to it, then!’
*
As the Black Rosa churned her way back towards the sea, Merion and Calidae explored the winding streets between the dock buildings. They were barely more than corridors; narrow channels carved out of wood and bare brick. It was no wonder the sailors drifted between bunk and bar, never leaving the docks; the bowels of the dockside were just like the innards of a ship. Merion suspected that the wide open spaces of London’s parks would terrify the sailors solid, if they ever dared to venture out of their bilge-soaked kingdom.
Soon enough, muddy boardwalk turned into muddy cobble. Tenement buildings rose to tower over the streets; a patchwork of lives crammed into their boxes.
They passed factory drones of all ages, busy tramping to work. Their skinny legs were like sleek machine-parts, numbed by practise. Every head was bowed in solemn determination.
Just another day.
Merion could almost hear them chanting it.
They walked by a factory, heard the clang and whistle of metal being pounded and sliced. Then a district of warehouses, with their long, dreary walls. And yet all roads pointed to London’s core, thanks to her clever architects, who toiled so long ago. It took a shade less than an hour to break into the city proper, where the buildings sat a little straighter, and where top hats and coat-tails replaced flat caps and overalls.
Merion began to smile. He was supposed to be keeping a straight face beneath his hood, but this was a landscape he knew well; one he had traipsed for years. The flagstones were his again, and would be from now on. That alone was cause for celebration. No more baking sand, bothersome prairie, or scraping rock. No railwraiths or tornadoes. Just sheer London walls and acres of city street.
They headed further north and then west onto the grand Kingsroad. It was a route lined by trees and flagpoles, drenched in marble, filled with crowds of important-looking people. Pealing carriage-bells and urgent cries filled the air. Merion wallowed in the waterfall of noise. It was good to feel the urban pulse again. He heard a commotion of pigeons and tilted his head to watch a flock skim the treetops, hunting crumbs. A new spire was being hammered together to the north; another huge feat of engineering. Its scaffolding was already pawing at the powder blue of the morning sky.
A sharp whack on the arm brought his eyes back to the streets. He grunted. ‘We should get a newspaper,’ he suggested, nudging Calidae back. She took a moment to think; something she did when she had no argument to offer, as if the suggestion was her own idea. Then, she drifted through the crowds and found a paperboy, hollering his lungs out at the next corner. Calidae flicked him a few coppers, snatched a paper from his hand, and returned to Merion, reading aloud as they walked on.
‘War,’ she said. ‘“Now in our second week of war, support has remained strong for the new Lord Protector Dizali. With the royal conspiracy insistent on hanging over this country, and while Her Majesty continues her silence, he continues to drive the war effort, claiming early victories in…” somewhere or other.’
‘Looks like he’s been busy,’ said Merion. ‘We’ll have to catch up. See if anything’s changed.’
‘A lot can happen on the other side of the world in a week, Hark.’ Two weeks on a boat and her mood had barely softened. She had cracked slightly here and there, but not enough to melt the glacier in her heart. At least he had managed to stop staring at her scars. The twinge in his stomach was now barely noticeable, though whether it was guilt or empathetic pain, he still hadn’t decided.
‘Explain the queen part to me,’ instructed Merion.
Calidae ruffled the pages as her keen eyes traced the stories. ‘Seems the old bag has been conspiring with the Tzar, in true royal style. Treason. There seems to have been a spate of it recently.’ A pause. ‘A Lord Umbright, too. He was hanged a week ago. You and your father are mentioned more than once.�
��
‘Yes,’ Merion kicked an errant cobble. ‘I expected as much.’
‘“And still the queen refuses to show her face. No word has come from the Palace of Ravens since the failure of the Rosiyan assassination attempt on Lincoln’s life, and the discovery of her treacherous ways.”’
‘What paper is that?’
‘The Empire Watchful.’
‘Thought so.’
‘May I continue?’
‘Please do.’
Calidae read some more to herself. ‘Looks to me like Dizali set her up.’
‘No loose threads.’
‘Ends, Merion, and I’m afraid you are not going to like the next section.’ She almost sounded pleased.
‘Go on.’
More rustling of paper as they trod the cobbles, striding in unison. ‘Well, before Dizali uncovered the royal treachery, he had the Queen’s Presence thrown out of the Emerald House and called for a complete abdication, on the grounds that she was warmongering. He had a lawyer sign the Hark estate over to him, there and then. Something about a “Clean Slate Statute”.’
Merion was overcome with an urge to punch something. He settled for his open palm, thwacking himself hard several times.
‘You think that will help?’
‘No, but it’s better than doing nothing. Which lawyer?’
‘An “executor of the Hark estate”.’
‘That means one of three things.’ Merion eyed a passing troop of lordsguards, a bulbous man swaggering at their centre, mopping his brow even though the sun had not yet risen to paint the streets. A coat of arms was stitched into his black breast. Merion didn’t recognise it through the crowd of guards but he glared all the same.
‘And they are?’
