by Ben Galley
Black ink spewed from his lips, dark as a winter midnight. It caught Gavisham on the neck, splashing up into his eyes. He roared as he thrashed his arms, desperately trying to wipe the ink from his face without skewering himself at the same time. Merion poured insult into inconvenience. He danced around the loathful man, knocking over furniture and spitting ink through the whirlwind of spines. He felt the savagery in him, and the Bloodmoon’s thirst, and he did not dare quench either. Boiling his blood had saved him in Fell Falls, and it would save him …
Whump!
Gavisham leant out and cuffed him with an open hand. A couple of spines did a dance of their own, raking across Merion’s cheek as he spun to the ground. Arrogance stung him as he frantically crawled to his knees, fighting away the sparks in his eyes. He spat another black fountain over his shoulder, eliciting a cry. A boot found him and made him stagger as he fought to his feet. He skipped away, letting the anger burn away the pain.
‘Plucky one, ain’t you?’ Gavisham snarled, face a mask of ink-blotches. ‘Think you’ve got it all mastered.’
‘Suffrous taught me a lot,’ Merion panted, spitting the last of his ink at the man. Despite the Bloodmoon’s power, they were rushing hard, burning through blood. He sneered through obsidian teeth. ‘In the short time I spent with him, that is.’
Gavisham just wiped the ink from his face and shook madly, the tendons on his neck standing out like cords. The spines retreated into his skin. Merion could see the blood boiling in him too, and despite the boy’s dangerous grin, beneath it he could not help but feel that the ball was very firmly in Gavisham’s court. He knew the boy’s shades. Merion did not know his.
Gavisham’s words ground between his teeth. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy ripping out your spine,’ he promised, before throwing another vial to his lips, the ochre shade. Merion reached for another of his, praying it would be a match for whatever red Gavisham was putting in his belly.
Merion held himself strong, squeezing the power into his veins as fast as he could. The Bloodmoon was there, pushing alongside him, and in seconds he felt his limbs shiver as the magick squeezed into them, making his gasp. He felt himself swelling, as if the tent was shrinking around him. He felt the pressure build, felt his muscles harden, and his legs creak as he stretched.
And what a match it was. Gavisham grew with him, arms widening, shoulders bulging, inch for inch. Though when Merion halted, his shirt bursting around his arms and legs, the man continued on, until his head pushed against the tent’s roof. He must have been almost nine feet tall. Perhaps it’s not a match after all, Merion inwardly groused.
‘Goliath spider,’ Gavisham chuckled, a deep rumbling of a storm. ‘Beats bear every time.’
Neither wasted time gawping. Merion swung his arms like a windmill, making up for his lack of finesse with wild ferocity. Gavisham took a slower approach, his fists low, his shoulders hunched like a boxer’s. He ducked a wild swing and hammered a swollen fist into Merion’s ribs. The boy wheezed, staggering backwards. Gavisham kept coming. Punch after punch rained, and it was all Merion could do to bat them away. Some he fended off, others he took hard: one to the chest, another to the neck, one to the stomach. Lightning criss-crossed his eyes with every strike that touched him. Gavisham might as well have been a railwraith, Merion was that outmatched.
The young Hark grunted as another swipe sent him sprawling through a desk. Gavisham was toying with him, and it filled the boy with a fiercer sort of flame, one of desperation. With a cry, Merion drove the magick into his legs and pushed against the earth, throwing himself up under Gavisham’s whirling arms. Merion rammed his shoulder into his midriff, arms pummelling the man’s ribs as hard as he could possibly manage.
Gavisham threw him aside as if he were a bag of straw. Merion felt the desk shatter beneath his spine as he sailed through the wall of the tent and out into the warmth of the chaotic evening. As Merion fought for breath, he spared a moment to glare at the moon and listen to the gunshots, as Gavisham fought to be free of the collapsing tent. The puckered face of the moon glared right back, and in Merion’s blurred, shivering eyes, it almost looked like a disapproving face had been etched there. And rightfully so, he snarled at himself, anger rising through the pounding pain. His blood flared in the light of the moon. He let his muscles burn with magick.
Merion forced himself onto his side. He grasped for something, anything, to help him up. His hands found the warm metal head of a tent spike and he grasped it like a drowning man grabs a line. Dragging himself to his knees, he hauled it from the ground, veins popping up through his skin and a roar scraping from his lungs. Gavisham was almost free, ripping the tent fabric apart with his bare hands. Merion did not dawdle. He raised the tent spike high and brought it down like an axe to a stump, hoping to catch a skull or break a hand. There was a muffled thud and a roar as the tent-spike found its mark. The collapsed tent bucked like something possessed, but Merion clung on, snarling even when the blows started to rain from underneath. He felt one of his ribs crack, but he hefted the spike and slammed it down again, and again, and again. With every blow the roars died a little more; the punches lessened slightly. Until finally, Gavisham grew still.
Merion wasn’t finished. Snarling like a beast, he began to drag away the folded fabric, spike held high and ready to be driven through the man’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—’
There was a crack of thunder from beneath him, and Merion performed an involuntary somersault onto his backside. Dazed, coughing dust, and wrapped in pain, he watched as the tent was ripped asunder. Gavisham emerged into the crimson moonlight. He looked almost jovial, a smile etched there 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, sparing a glance for 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 forward. ‘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 to the dusty ground. 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, a mere foot 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 wagon 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 the hands beyond the glare, and the ground shook 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 eagerly, pinning all his hopes on its sting as it slid down to his belly. One thing was true: he was losing, and sorely.
Gavisham bounded over the fire, his 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 an
kle with its force.
Merion scrabbled upright and let his magick flow. He knew this shade at least: sprite, and a smile blazed 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, his teeth bared and bloody. Slowly but surely his monstrousness was fading, and 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. All his rage, his bitterness, the betrayal, and the crimson light of that cursed moon, it surged forth with that 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. The flames billowed in every direction, bursting into the sky, surging 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 fingers around his neck, thumbnails biting into his windpipe. He clawed at his eyes but Gavisham slammed his skull against the ground. Kicking did nothing. There was no fire he could drag upon. All he could do was squirm and grunt, and panic.
Merion knew he was done for. Gavisham’s fingers were hot iron rods, crushing his throat to dust. His 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 let his own glaze over, letting the moonlight fade, and 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, and 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, and 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 brief cry before he rolled onto the floor. The ghost took the broken leg of the stool and swung it, over and over. When it snapped against the man’s bloodied forehead, she turned to the sharp end, driving it 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 came a crunch, sickeningly final, before she collapsed into a heap at Gavisham’s side. The ghost stared at her handiwork without emotion, and then turned to Merion. For a concerning 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.
Now 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 rubbed 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. Whomever had not met their end at the sharp tips of swords and bayonets, or been riddled with bullets, were now slumped into dejected heaps, bloodied and bruised. Even with the magick surging through their veins, sheers numbers had outweighed them.
Cabele had a leg broken. 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 was out cold, a bayonet still embedded in her side. 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, aloof.
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 of Cirque Kadabra would see a fair trial before the gallows.
And 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 was 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.�
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‘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 inclined her head. ‘You know?’ she asked, confused.
‘I was told not half an hour ago.’
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 black look. For a moment it looked 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. With a certain Prime Lord. Something I fully support, I have to 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 hiding in his dark eyes.