Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (68 page)

Lurker got to his feet and went to shake the boy’s hand. Merion’s hand was as wet and limp as a fish. Lurker wrinkled up his face in an awkward gesture, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Spare your words, John Hobble,’ Merion rasped, throat chafed from sobbing. ‘I know the truth now. That chief was right,’ the boy sniffed, his sharp eyes darting to Rhin, who was now watching from his rock. ‘Maybe some answers hurt too much.’

‘Speaking of Shohari,’ Lilain whispered.

‘I can see the smoke,’ Merion nodded, and the others turned to stare at the black towers. ‘I want to go see.’

Lurker shook his head firmly. ‘Merion, the fighting could still be ragin’. And your aunt can’t walk. She needs rest.’

‘We have to walk in any case, Lurker, we can’t stay here,’ Lilain said.

‘I want to see it burn,’ Merion stated, folding his arms.

Lurker sighed. ‘Help me get her up then.’

*

The monster, speared by rail and road, had died a violent death. Fell Falls was a blackened husk, with fires still burning between the ribs of broken buildings. Everything was a different shade of char. Only the outskirts had survived, save for the camp. That was a bloody smear in the sand, a wasteland of bones and bodies. From their viewpoint on a rolling hill, they could see the victors stalking the fields of the dead, though this time, they were long of limb and brightly painted. The tide had been turned on Fell Falls. Lord Serped’s railway had failed.

To the north, one house, right on the edge of the Runnels, had also fallen victim, a blackened stranger in an otherwise untouched patch of town. It sat alone, half cleaved in by the fire that had died sometime in the night, as the battle raged.

‘It’s all gone,’ Lilain breathed, as she hung from the shoulders of Merion and Lurker. ‘The camp, the workers, everything.’

‘Wiped off the map,’ Merion whispered, his voice as touch as grit.

‘You sound almost happy,’ Lurker rumbled.

‘I don’t know what I am,’ replied Merion, squinting at the bloody mess below, ‘but I know that I’m glad to be leaving. I know what I have to do.’

Lilain’s head slumped against his shoulder, and Merion propped her up against Lurker. He stepped away to look behind them, at the lonely, pale figure standing amidst the pebbles, crooked and fearful.

‘And what is that?’ Rhin wheezed. His ears were drooping. His skin was a deathly white, and all in all, he looked dreadful, a hollow shell of a faerie.

‘Trust in my family,’ Merion announced, his voice hard, as if this were hard for him. ‘Like the tree told me to. I understand now.’

Lilain and Lurker swapped confused glances.

Merion took a breath, and poured out the words he had been chewing all night. ‘When I first set foot on this godforsaken continent I was an orphan with a sidekick. Now I have a family, and that means that even though my world has been crushed and ripped to pieces, I’m not standing alone in the ashes. And this may be the most fucked-up family civilisation has ever known, but it is still a family. My family, and that’s important.’ Merion took a moment to narrow his eyes at Rhin. ‘I guess every family has its black sheep, Rhin Rehn’ar, and you are ours.’

‘Merion …’

But the boy held up a hand. He did it in a measured, not an angry, way. ‘Know that I may never forgive you, for what you have done to me, my father, and to my aunt …’ Merion told him, like a judge issuing a sentence. Rhin had already bowed his head. ‘… but know that in some small way, if you had not murdered my father, I would not be here. And for the first time that is not a regret.’

A silence followed the young Hark’s words. From where the wind blew the sounds of the dying town to their ears came a wounded moan, a crash of falling timbers, and the yell of a Shohari who has found a live one. It was Lilain who broke it.

‘Your father would be proud of those words, nephew. Trust me,’ she said, clasping her hands together. Merion could have sworn he saw something glistening at the corner of her bruised eyes.

Lurker did not try to mask the gleam of pride in his eyes. ‘So what’s your plan, boy?’

Merion stared off into the wilderness. ‘Head east, I suppose. Earn a wage and travel until we hit the coast.

Lurker grinned wryly and snorted. ‘You make it sound easy,’ he said, before a nudge in the ribs changed his mind. ‘But it ain’t like we have a choice, now is it?’

‘We’ll make it,’ Merion said. ‘Hell, I’ll rush in circuses if I have to, whatever it takes. Lilain can help the sick. Lurker, you can pick up a little gold, on the way. If you haven’t got a hoard already.’

‘Not any longer,’ Lurker threw the smouldering town a dark look. ‘Not any longer.’

Merion sensed that was a story for another day, and sighed.

‘Am I coming?’ said a small voice, closer this time. Rhin stood just behind Merion’s heel, like a wounded pet. Rhin had a spark of something hopeful in his eye, despite standing as though a weight were slowly crushing him. He was stubborn to the last, as always. ‘Because I think I know where I can find us some gold. The train robbery. The Wit would have left it in the Serped barn.’

There was another silence as Merion just looked straight ahead. ‘Family, like I said.’

Rhin took a deep breath and stood as tall as he could. ‘I will earn your forgiveness, Merion, somehow and someday. I swear it, and a Fae’s oath is his bond.’

Only then did the boy meet his wide-eyed and purple eyes, and saw such sadness and determination there that he could not help but soften, if only for a brief moment. ‘Take us to the barn,’ replied Merion.

‘So that’s it then. This barn and east it is,’ Lilain waved an arm at the desert and the rising sun, and began to totter in its direction.

Lurker scooped her up in both arms to save her the trouble. He barely grunted with the effort. ‘With no water, no supplies, no fresh clothes and no blood,’ he said, grumbling already.

Merion shrugged. ‘But if Rhin is right, what we will have is a hoard of Serped gold. I do believe that is what they call the start of an adventure.’

While Lilain sniggered, the big old prospector sniffed. ‘Now, this ain’t no fairy tale, boy,’ he grunted.

‘You could have fooled me,’ Merion wrinkled his face into a wry smile, despite it all. He flicked a glance at the weary faerie trudging by his side. He shook his head, sighed, and stared out into the desert that beckoned to them with barren, rocky arms. His future.

Merion held his heavy head up. He could almost feel the gust of wind from the proverbial page turning over. He was free at last. He was heading home.

‘Could have fooled me.’

A BLOOD MOON IS RISING…

13th June, 1867

L
ondon was being roasted alive. The summer sun had come early, and ferociously. The hottest summer since records began, the newspapers brayed.

Lord Bremar Dizali sat stiff in his wide leather chair, presiding over a fine mahogany desk full of papers and folders and all sorts of other important things.

Sweat dribbled down the man’s bony chiselled features. Dizali hated the heat. He hated the stench of London’s sewers and the swarms of people aching to soak up the precious sunlight, something the Empire’s beating heart rarely got to see. Rain was normally the flavour of the day.

There came a rap on his huge doors, ornately carved with a design of the Dizal eagle, dragging a tiger into the cloudy sky.

Bremar sighed irritably. ‘What now?’

The handle turned, and in marched Gavisham. Despite his obvious urgency, the man knew better than to leave the door open behind him. He shut it with a bang, and then practically jogged to Lord Dizali’s desk.

‘What the devil is it, man?!’ Bremar hissed. He was not in the mood for theatricals.

Gavisham held a folded piece of paper aloft before letting it fall to the desk. ‘A wiregram, Milord. I think you’ll want to have a look,’ he said, loudly. Bremar couldn’t tell whether the man was fuming or burning with excitement. His curiosity was piqued, that was for sure. He snatched the letter from the man and walked to the window. Gavisham followed him like a hound.

‘Almighty’s sake man, calm down,’ Bremar snapped as he flicked the wiregram open and began to read. His green eyes scanned over the message, and with each word they grew wider and wider.

Dizali had barely finished the last sentence when he ripped the letter in two, threw it to the carpet, and put his fists against the hot glass of the window. ‘One boy …’ he growled. ‘One fucking thirteen year-old boy did this?!’

‘Slaughtered the whole lot of them, and burned the riverboat to ashes.’

‘No survivors?’

‘None, save for the two lordsguards that sent the letter. More’s the pity.’

Lord Dizali thumped the glass. ‘Damn it! Damn that boy to hell!’ he roared. Gavisham simply stood still, hands folded behind his back, glaring. ‘Fetch me a carriage!’ Bremar snapped at him.

Gavisham clapped his hands. ‘With pleasure, Milord. Where to?’

‘To the Palace of Ravens,’ barked his lordship, beginning to pace around in furious circles.

‘And you’re sure that’s wise, Milord?’ Gavisham. ‘To tell her so soon?’

Lord Dizali whirled around to face him. He did not speak, he did not deign to reply. He simply narrowed his eyes and glared, daring his manservant to challenge him again, staring deep into those strange mismatched eyes of Gavisham’s. Just like his brother’s.

One green. One blue.

Bloodrushing, or haemomancy, is the consumption and exploitation of blood. There lies a power in the blood of most animals, accessible by those with the ability to rush, or ‘stomach’ it.

Bloodrushing is not a new art, nor has it always been called ‘rushing’. It has been called many names over the centuries. The Scythians, as they were called by the Greeks, first practised the art a thousand years before the First Empire. It was originally a warrior’s sport, consuming the blood of the first enemy killed in battle. The Mongols would consume the blood of their horses. The indigenous peoples of Brasilia, the new-worlders, spilt and drank the blood of their enemies to appease their gods. Bloodletters of the First Empire collected and examined the blood of the sick.

When the Age of Enlightenment dawned, the practise of rushing shifted from that of pagans and warriors to that of scientists, pioneers, and the influential. With influence came coin, and with coin, expansion. As the corners of the world were uncovered, one by one, the opportunity for exotic bloods only increased its popularity. Rushers began to travel the spice runs and trade routes to Indus and Africanus. Bloodetters flourished in every port and city across Europe and Asia. Books were written and rules wrought. In short, bloodrushing saw its first and only golden age.

But all ages must tarnish, and with new passion came thirst for power, for apparent immortality. The rushing of human blood began to increase, splitting rushers into warring factions. Unavoidably, the Church became involved, citing sorcery, demonism, and black magic. Rushers were dubbed as heretics, and many were burned at the stake. Bloodrushing was chased into the shadows, leaving only myth and folklore behind. Vampires and pagans, they were dubbed. It became a secretive art, its practitioners a dying breed, and the knowledge was passed down only through families and dusty books.

Rushers usually drink the blood, ingesting it through the stomach wall. In the past, however, some were known to inject blood directly into veins or arteries. This can only be described as foolhardy as the blood is somewhat filtered, or concentrated, by the stomach acids and digestive juices.

Practitioners of the ancient art of bloodletting. Originally healers and surgeons, a modern letter focuses solely on collecting, extracting, and purifying blood of all different types. Also known as butchers, or draugrs in some parts of Europe.

Those who can drink blood and tolerate its effects. Not all humans can withstand the strain of bloodrushing, but those who can are usually able to tolerate between one and three shades. Also known as haemomancers.

A rare form of rusher who can tolerate multiple shades from different veins. Only a few have ever been recorded, as many are forced into secrecy for their own safety. Being a leech is highly coveted indeed.

The term for those who focus solely on rushing human blood, a practice that was shunned by early rushers from the first Empire, yet adopted later by the powerful as a way of cheating death. Also known as parasite, or vampire.

The six veins of rushing, as ordered on the Scarlet Star: