Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (30 page)

And that was that. The Sleeping Tree fulfilled its calling and fell into a deep slumber, letting its branches bend and droop like a willow’s, its faces freezing solid. Bottom was the last to speak, barely a whisper wrapped around his tongue. ‘Watch out for rats.’

Rhin pricked up his ears at that.

Cold, flat, and grey was the boy’s face, like the shy pebbles lurking around his feet. Merion staggered backwards, his shoes trampling the Sleeping Tree’s dead leaves. His fingers felt numb. He flexed them over and over as they hung dead at his sides, but still nothing. His blood, it seemed, had retreated to his heart, and there it pounded, over and over, until he felt sick from it.

‘Merion,’ rumbled Lurker, but Merion shook his head. Not a word fell from the boy’s mouth. He climbed down the warped rocks and back into the canoe. He sat there in silence, with arms folded and shaking with rage, fear, confusion, or perhaps all three, Lurker couldn’t tell. He lingered beside the tree. The faces were still snoring away at each other. He scowled.

‘You knew,’ Mayut said. He had been watching the prospector closely.

Lurker sniffed. ‘When a truth ain’t yours to tell, I say don’t tell it,’ he replied.

Mayut shrugged. ‘Truth is truth, no matter who tells it. Akway have no right to truth, but I let him tell boy anyway. You could have told him. Days past.’

Lurker shook his head firmly. ‘I promised his aunt.’

Mayut drew a spiral in the air with his calloused finger, and spoke slowly. ‘You trust them too much, friend. Noose tightens. Blade falls. I said before. If iron rails go further into our lands, we fight. Take the boy, aunt, and leave. Not want see you there, on that day, John.’

Lurker looked back at the boy sitting in the canoe, still shaking. ‘You won’t, don’t worry.’

Mayut clasped the prospector by the shoulders. ‘Then we leave Akway to sleep.’

*

‘Merion, please speak to me,’ Rhin pleaded, and not for the first time either.

It was an hour past sunrise, and Merion had not parted his lips for anything but water the entire night. Not a word, not to the faerie nor to Lurker. The war party had just arrived back at the camp, and in the dawn light, the boy looked haggard, exhausted from the ride and from the thoughts bouncing around his head. Rhin knew that feeling. Merion shook his head. He quickly dismounted and began to pick his way through the sleeping and snoring bodies, head swivelling back and forth as though looking for something.

There had been another feast. The merrymakers had fallen asleep in the circles in which they had sat. A few here and there were still awake. Some were very awake indeed, and Merion could not help but stare as he tiptoed past the writhing, gasping bodies.

Rhin tried a different tactic. ‘What are you looking for? Can I help?’

Merion shook his head. It was a start. Rhin pushed his luck.

‘I’ve got the better eyes, Merion. Tell me what it is and I’ll find it,’ the faerie whispered.

The young Hark’s throat was so dry that his word came out as a crackle, like sand being rubbed over stones. ‘That drink, the chief’s drink.’

‘And you think that will help you somehow?’

Merion snorted. ‘It will help me sleep. Ah!’ he hissed, spying a clay jug lying in between two skinny Shohari women. Merion reached out a curled finger, aiming for its curved handle. He gritted his teeth as he stretched out to hook it. Every one of his muscles ached from the ride.

‘You’re acting like an old drunk who’s just found a bottle of wine amidst the rubbish heap,’ Rhin told him, as he climbed from the rucksack and into the dust. Merion waved his free hand, ordering him to be quiet.

When the jug was firmly in his grasp, Merion headed away from the tangle of bodies and into the darkness of the camp. He found a spot between two of the tall Shohari tents and sat cross-legged on the earth. With his teeth, he uncorked the jug, spat it to the sand, and then took a long, deep gulp. It tasted even better than he remembered.

‘Look at you,’ Rhin said again. He stood barely a foot from Merion, arms crossed and purple eyes narrow.

‘I’m sorry, were you or were you not present today while my life was being slowly but surely turned on its head? Did you nod off? Get bored and go sharpen your sword?’

‘I was there all right,’ Rhin replied. ‘But what I saw was a young boy get told he has more than just his father’s name, or his eyes, or hair. More than just blood. You’re magick, Merion. Why are you angry, and not excited?’

Merion chuckled drily. ‘See I distinctly remember a young boy being told that his father was murdered over money, and also that he had lied to him his entire life. You must have missed that part.’

‘Yes, well …’ Rhin said, stepping closer. ‘You wanted the truth, now you’ve got it. Mayut did warn you. The truth does hurt.’

‘Hmph,’ Merion growled, taking another swig of the sho’aka. Rhin shook his head. Merion’s pupils were starting to shrink. His face had begun to droop.

Rhin grabbed the jug from Merion’s slackening fingers and took a big gulp of his own. ‘Look,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Getting bad news is like shitting yourself. What’s done is done. All you need to decide is whether you want to go and clean yourself up, or sit in your own filth and stew. Don’t stew, Merion. You’re going to burn yourself up from the inside out. Sun’s already doing a mighty fine job on the outside as it is. Do you understand me?’ Rhin stared into the boy’s glazed eyes.

‘Understand?’ the faerie repeated, giving Merion’s face a little slap. The boy nodded and blinked blearily.

‘Don’t shit myself.’

‘You’ve got the gist. Now,’ Rhin said with a sigh, ‘go to sleep.’

Merion merely blinked at him, his face emptier than a beggar’s belly.

‘Fine.’ Rhin put a hand against his chest and whispered something under his breath. Merion teetered backwards and his head hit the sand with a thump. ‘There,’ said the faerie, ‘you’ve had enough.’ He lifted the jug to his lips and took another sip. ‘Mm,’ he hummed. ‘This
is
good.’

Rhin saw the strange liquor to the bottom of the jug before joining Merion on the sand. The faerie stared up at the blue sky and let his eyes swim in it. The sho’aka was strong, that was for sure, stronger than he cared to admit. Rhin let his eyes droop. Shadows moved in the corners of his eyes, shadows and shapes Rhin had thought he had left far enough behind. They were shapes with glowing eyes, pale smiles, and hissing wings.
Like rats
. They whispered to him, and amidst the snoring and grunting of the Shohari around him, Rhin heard their fell words, and felt their breath on his mottled cheeks.

The Hoard! The Hoard!
Rhin struggled and thrashed, but his sluggish body translated his fear into nothing but weak twitches. His head spun as the sky grew black, a dripping, oozing black that sought to swallow him. It was a fitful sleep that took the faerie.

A DYING ART

‘Merion’s growing fast. It was his birthday, whatever that is, today. My my, what a productive afternoon of sneaking. Harker Sheer was packed with guests, and such informative guests. Lord Karrigan wants to move against Lord Longweather and his referendum. Lord Dizali is not so convinced. Lady Knutshire wants to ensure her place at the new table. Karrigan has other promises to keep, it seems. Secrets are a wonderful business.’

19th May, 1867

‘W
ell, Mister Khurt, here we are,’ Lilain muttered to herself as she propped the cart’s handles upon the steps. The body upon its planks did not utter any sort of complaint. It just lay there, gawping at the sky with a mouth that was in serious lack of a jawbone. This was the third railwraith attack in a week.

Rubbing her sweaty palms on her smock, Lilain went to unlock the door. Her heavy ring of keys chimed. The air inside the house was cool, so she shut the door to keep it in. It was not as though the late Mr Khurt was going to wander off, nor was it likely anybody would be stealing him. The dead never fetch a good price. She felt her way down the curving stars to the darkened basement. The air down here was even cooler, cold even. Lilain sighed at the touch of it on her grimy neck and hot, wood-chafed hands.

Moving through the darkness, she reached for a lever and opened a door with it, exposing a little alcove. Then, with a few tugs of a rope, a trap door slid open and blinding daylight poured in. A table sat at the bottom of the alcove, repurposed as a lift for the dead and the fallen. There were ropes and pulleys hanging above each corner, and Lilain set to them with a dogged determination. The table inched upwards with every grunt. It was hot work now that the sun was on her once more. The cool of her crypt was no match for the midday desert sun.
Maker if it wasn’t hot today.

Once the table was at ground-level, she tied off the ropes, rubbed her hands, and wandered back up the stairs to her new client. He was right where she had left him.

‘Let’s get you in the cool, before you smell even worse, shall we?’ she chatted idly to the corpse as she wheeled it around the side of her house. ‘If that’s possible.’

Mister Khurt had followed in the footsteps of many of Lilain’s visitors to her table; he had soiled himself in his last moments. Lilain didn’t blame him. She highly doubted she’d perform any differently, if she were to spend her last few breaths in the arms of a railwraith. Lilain sighed, as she always did. Such is the life of an undertaker.

As Lilain rested the handles of the cart on the ground, something caught her eye. She straightened up and turned to see two figures treading the dusty path, their forms dancing in the heat haze. Lilain mentally checked where her rifle was.

In the kitchen.

Underneath the table.

Where it had been since Lord Serped’s arrival.

Lilain bided her time to let the two figures come closer. One was on horseback, she could tell that much through the heat. The other walked. The hills were dark behind them, the ground a rough patchwork, making it harder to see their faces. Lilain reached for her tools, balanced on the tip of the cart. A knife found its way into her hand. If things turned ugly she could jump down into the basement. All she had to do was cut the ropes of the table …

The strangers came on slowly. They seemed weary and their heads were bowed. Definitely not the look and feel of bandits or rogues. The one on horseback wasn’t riding a horse at all, but a pony. A piebald one at that. It was then that she noticed there was something perched on the shoulder of the walking stranger. Something like a bag, or a bird, or …

‘Lurker!’ she yelled, the blood rushing to her cheeks. Seven days, they had been gone. Seven days she had worried and fretted, punched cabinets, kicked stones. Her boot had even found a mangy dog one morning, she was ashamed to say. But now here they were, waltzing back into town as in nothing had happened.
Maker, did they have a nerve!

‘Merion!’ she yelled again, beginning to march. She could see them clearly now, barely half a mile away. The boy’s head was up. Lurker’s was still down. Neither of them shouted back.
Cowards
.

It did not take her long for her to close the distance, jogging across the hot trail and shaking with anger, the knife still glinting in her fist. If either the man or the boy had wanted to speak first, to offer an explanation perhaps, they would have been sore out of luck. Lilain started ranting at twenty paces’ distance, even before they could bumble to a halt.

‘Lurker, I ought to knock you to the dirt and thrash ten shades of shit out of you! What the
hell
were you thinking? Dragging Tonmerion out into the wilds? Into the desert? How dare you expose him to such danger! No note, no word, nothing! I was worried sick!’

‘Lil—’ Lurker tried, but Lilain hushed him with a menacing wave of her blade.

‘And
you
!’ she cried, pointing at Merion. ‘You’re more of a fool for going with him and disobeying me! Now you listen here and you listen good. I’m your aunt and guardian, and what I say goes, you understand? No ifs, no buts! I’m your father’s sister, not some servant or kitchen slave for you to ignore. Oh, you’ll be workin’ long and hard to right this wrong, Tonmerion Hark!’

Merion reached up to scratch his nose, nonchalant as can be. Merion looked right back at her, with a gaze as flat as the very desert. He did not seem browbeaten, or guilty, as Lilain had hoped. He was angry, she could tell that much, but he boiled underneath his skin, holding it back for the moment. Lilain glared at him.

‘You hear me, nephew?’ she snapped.

‘I hear you alright,’ Merion hissed in reply. ‘but I don’t care.’

‘I beg your p—’

Merion cut her off. ‘I know what you were hiding from me now. The Shohari told me,’ he said, his voice rising, the way it did when he knew he had the upper hand.

Lilain did not wilt. She was a veritable bonfire of rage. She turned on Lurker and pointed the knife at him. ‘The
Shohari?
Well, you’re a fucking idiot, John Hobble. A fucking idiot and a liar, and I don’t want you in my sight! Get away, until such time as I can stomach to look at you!’ Lilain screeched, wrinkling her lip in a way that made Lurker’s heart fall just a little, though he wouldn’t have admitted it. His only reply was a grunt and a tug of his hat, before trudging off down the path and into Fell Falls, his head drooped even lower than before.