Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (27 page)

This may have been why Merion was so gobsmacked when the first thing Lurker decided to do was punch the man square in the jaw.

‘Agh!’ Lurker grunted as he cradled his wrist, flexing his fingers and shaking out the sting.

Merion nearly fell to his knees. All this way, all this tension, all that relief, and now Lurker had to go and seal their fates with one stupid punch. ‘Why?!’ he gasped, eyes wide, lip shaking.

But the chief, despite nursing his jaw, was chuckling. He had reeled back under the blow, but now he had straightened up and was wiping a dab of dark, almost black, blood from his lip. ‘Getting old,’ he smirked, and then with a grunt of his own, he returned the favour.

The chief moved like lightning. Lurker took the strike like a champion. Eyes shut and jaw clenched, the chief’s fist caught him just in front of the ear. Lurker dropped to one knee as stars and fireworks exploded before his eyes. No flexing of fingers for the chief. No cradling of wrists. He simply waited for Lurker to rise with a wide smile.

But Lurker didn’t rise. He stayed right where he was, with one knee buried in the hot sand, one hand held up in surrender. He too began to chuckle, and it was then that the crowd began to cheer and whoop and holler for their chief.

‘
A’seh
. Maybe I am, Mayut. Maybe I am.’

The chief, Mayut, then turned to Merion and fixed him with a twinkling stare. ‘And him?’ he asked, curtly. His knowledge of the common must have been limited. ‘A warrior?’

Before Lurker could answer, Merion bowed low, as low as his spine would allow. ‘No sir, I am no warrior. I am Tonmerion Hark, sir, son of Prime Lord Karrigan Hark. It is an honour,’ he said, in his most formal tone.

When Merion rose up, the chief was looking to Lurker, that same glint still stuck in his dark eyes. Lurker snorted. ‘A warrior in training.’

‘Ah.’ The chief nodded, scratching his bloody lip as if mulling it all over. He bent a hand towards Merion, and the boy stepped forward.

‘Look at your friend,’ the chief ordered in a slow and ponderous voice.

Merion looked, and the chief swung. Hard.

The last thing Merion heard before his nose met the dust and sand was laughter, erupting all around like a volcano of hilarity.
Figures
, he thought, before sliding from the pain into darkness.

*

‘Yes, but you didn’t
have
to say I was a warrior, now did you? You knew what a warriors’ greeting was. You’d just bloody taken one, for Almighty’s sake,’ Merion grumbled around a mouthful of greasy meat. ‘That chief is fast, for his size.’

‘That’s why they call him the Buffalo Snake. Big, but quick as a rattler.’

Merion just grumbled at that.

By the gracious Almighty himself, this food was good. Dried meat, roasted meat, fried meat, and meat chopped and diced into stews; there was more meat than Merion could have ever dreamed of. He did not dare enquire as to what he was munching. He didn’t want to know. It could have been his fellow man for all he cared. His eager stomach welcomed all. Had Merion the testicular fortitude to enquire about the history of his supper, he would have learnt that the Shohari had caught and cooked a cornucopia of desert fare: rat, fox, lizard, vulture, goat, buffalo, snake—it was all there, sizzling away in various places around the great pyre.

And the fruit: Merion had never tasted such things. He couldn’t help but wonder where on earth the Shohari had managed to find fruit in the desert, but once again, he was happy being blissfully ignorant. There were sweet pears with soft spikes on their skins. There were little berries that partially resembled wrinkled strawberries, except for the fact they were blue; Apricots that soured the tongue; plums that burst in the mouth—Merion tried them all.

It would have been culinary paradise, had his face not ached. Every time he chewed his jaw cried out in agony. He had bitten his numb tongue too, and it complained every time he reached for another apricot.

‘You want them to give you answers? You act like one of them,’ Lurker shrugged, half-hiding a smile. ‘Wise move anyway.’

‘What was?’

Lurker’s smile grew a little wider. ‘Going down like a sack of boulders like you did. Passing out. Always wise to let the chief win.’

Merion flicked him a look. ‘Shut up.’

The chief in question was sitting six feet away, holding court with several of his advisors, or so Merion guessed. Several of them had a few feathers tied in their hair, but none as many as Chief Mayut, the Buffalo Snake himself. They gestured wildly as they chattered, their clipped and jittering words coming out in streams. At the edge of their group sat the rider from earlier. He hadn’t touched a crumb, nor a drop of drink. He just stared at Lurker and Merion with a pair of narrowed eyes. He was Mayut’s nephew, his
Ton’a
, as it had turned out, and a staunch loather of humans.

There was one other figure sitting across from them. This one also stared, and yet did not. In the bright light of the fire, Merion could see that the woman’s eyes were milky and dead. She was blind as a mole, and yet somehow Merion could not help but feel she was looking
directly
at him. No matter how hard he tried to distract himself with food and an ever-growing belly, he could not shake off the feeling of those eyes. A suspicion began to grow.

Finally, Merion asked Lurker. ‘Who’s that, sitting by the chief, on the far side from our friend?’ he enquired, and then leant closer. ‘Oh, is that the witch?’

Lurker sniffed. ‘You’ll see, soon enough.’

‘It feels like she’s staring at me. I mean, she looks blind, but I can’t help but think … You know?’ Merion shrugged, his words sounding more and more foolish as each fell off his tongue.

‘No,’ Lurker shook his head.

And still the woman stared. Merion snuck quick glances over his hands as he wiped his greasy face.

The witch was made of leather, for all Merion could tell. Her dark greenish skin wore the lines of a hundred different creases, like the scribblings on an old map. Toothless, she mumbled to herself, mashing her wrinkled lips together in sequences that Merion had no hope of discerning. Whatever it was that she said, he could not hear it over the hubbub. Her hair hung in long, thick braids over most of her face. They coiled around her neck and spilt onto her lap. Some even lay in the sand, like black snakes basking in the warmth of the fire. In her hands she held a skinny staff of pine, bleached by the sun and all wrapped up in cloth and hair. Its tip held a rattling nest of bones, stolen from dead mice, rats, and chickens—a little ankle bone here, a pierced skull there, all wrapped up in wire. That alone sent a chill down Merion’s back, never mind the rings of bones hanging from around her neck.

‘See the blood,’ Lurker broke the boy’s reverie. He pointed, making Merion flinch. There, hanging from hoops in the hem of the woman’s ragged skirt, were little crystal vials of various colours: some yellow, some dark red, others black.

Merion squinted at the strange little vials. Somehow, he recognised them. ‘Just like the ones Aunt—’

‘Mayut!’ Lurker called out, cutting him off. ‘
Wa ham eshe. See to’m as ana
,’ the pointing finger curled back to Merion.

‘What did you just say?’ Merion hissed as the chief got up from his bench and walked over to sit cross-legged in front of his guests. Lurker motioned for Merion to follow suit, and together they shifted from their pillows and slid onto the warm sand, sitting almost knee to knee with the chief. Mayut pointed at the dark bruises already blossoming across Merion’s cheek and laughed.

Lurker held up his hands and made a wide gesture. ‘Merion has come to ask a favour of you, a favour of the Shohari.’

Mayut nodded sombrely, and then turned to face the boy. Merion could sense there was ceremony behind this. ‘Why?’ Mayut asked.
Not ‘what’. Strange
.

Merion spoke loudly and clearly. ‘Because I am told you are the only ones who can give me the answers I need.’

Mayut spoke almost as much with his hands as he did with his mouth. With every word of broken common came a gesture; a circling motion, a jab of his fingers, a wave to the spark-flecked sky. ‘We know answers to many questions, little warrior. Some cost nothing. Some cost more.’

‘Cost?’ Merion’s heart fell a little. He made a show of patting his pocket. ‘I have nothing to offer.’

Mayut shook his head vehemently. ‘The cost lies in truth you seek.’ The chief saw Merion’s confused expression and gestured to Lurker.

The prospector sniffed. ‘He means that sometimes you don’t want to know the answers, once you have ‘em. Wished you hadn’t asked at all. That’s the cost.’

Merion shook his head. ‘Whatever it takes, I need to know the truth,’ he urged.

Mayut leant close. There was meat between Mayut’s teeth, Merion could see that, but he could also see the earnest fire in the chief’s big eyes. Merion felt like melting under that gaze. ‘Sure?’ Mayut asked.

Merion ignored the almost imperceptible kick from the inside of his rucksack and nodded. ‘I am,’ he replied, firm and final.

Mayut clapped his hands together and pressed them against Merion’s chest. It was much better than a punch, that much was for sure. ‘Not for me to decide,’ replied the chief.

‘Who then?’ Merion asked.

Mayut signalled behind him, and Merion craned his neck to see. ‘Khora,’ said the chief.

‘Who?’ Merion asked, although he already knew. He could already hear the rattling bones. Mayut rose and moved aside.

The blind witch shuffled forward, raising not a hand to steady or guide herself. Her staff was apparently for holding, not to aid her walking.

Khora
. Merion was not sure if that was her name or her title. But he kept his mouth shut and his questions at bay. It was all he could do just to smile politely as she approached him. He was painfully aware of the stares from those around him, even Lurker.

Khora didn’t speak. She held her staff aloft and rattled the bones above Merion’s head. Then, with deliberate slowness and agonising precision, she reached up and plucked four sharp bones from her matted hair.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four. They landed in the sand. Two crossed each other like two swords on a coat of arms. The other two ignored each other.

Khora began to thump her chest then, a slow beat that sounded quite ominous to Merion. The others around them sat as still as skeletons, watching the little ritual. Khora muttered away to herself. Mayut seemed to be following her words closely, mimicking her words with his own silent lips. Merion ached to know what she was saying.

When finally Mayut turned back to him, there was a grave look on his face, one that worried Merion deeply. Khora was beating her chest faster and faster now. She began to pace back and forth, throwing the young Hark narrowed, squinting looks, made all the more haunting by her milky, dead eyes. Just before Merion could open his mouth to enquire what it was exactly that was causing all the fuss, the chief spoke.

‘You hide something from us,’ he said, low and dangerous. ‘We not help those who lie, human. Even one who is friends of Lurker.’

Merion’s cheeks flushed red. He prayed that it was not noticeable in the hot glow of the fire. ‘Hiding something?’ he echoed, weakly. Lurker nudged him sharply with an elbow. His dark look said everything. ‘Yes,’ Merion added. ‘Of course.’

While Khora fidgeted and pranced about, getting closer and closer all the time, Merion reached for his rucksack. He could already feel Rhin stirring within.

As he tackled the buckle and strap, Khora danced forwards to paw at the fabric of the bag, picking at it with skeletal hands and long nails. Merion had to fight not to recoil. He did not want to anger the Shohari any more than he apparently already had.

‘He’s in here,’ he muttered. Merion tipped the bag up and Rhin came striding out, chin high and chest puffed, every bone and muscle in his little grey body stretching so he could stand that precious half an inch taller. His iridescent wings were spread and proud, and his right hand rested calmly on the hilt of his black sword.

‘May I present Rhin Rehn’ar, of the Fae. My friend and … faerie.’

‘And a fellow warrior,’ Lurker added. Both Rhin and Merion threw him an acidic look. Neither wanted to witness Rhin having to trade blows with Chief Mayut.

Mayut approached them, his pace slow and yet again ponderous. ‘
Jejeh’na
,’ he announced, and whispers scampered around the ever-growing circle of Shohari around them.

‘Pardon me?’ Merion asked.

‘
Jejeh’na!
’ shouted the chief, making Merion jump. ‘He who knows the name of the forest. Winged devils. Black needles. Our fathers told their stories of them, when Shohari lived north, where greenwood grows tall and dark. Story and legend. They both stand before my eyes,’ Mayut said, reaching up to touch his brows and his vulture’s skull.

Rhin decided that now was a very good moment to bow. Hoping all the while that he was not about to receive a heavy blow to the face, he delivered his finest, most regal bow, reserved only for kings, queens, and great Fae lords—and the occasional princess, of course. ‘Chief Mayut. It is an honour to sit at your fire, as I imagine our ancestors once did, when the moon was a little brighter than it is now,’ said Rhin. This was the first he had ever heard of the Fae in the Endless Land, but this was not the time for history lessons.