The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  The three of them froze as the railwraith turned its hollow gaze to the higher hillside. Sunlight flirted with its sharp features, danced on its dusty claws.

  Rhin was the only one who dared to move. He reached out and touched both Merion and Lurker with his hands. Then he began to shake. His eyes became tightly-scrunched whorls of grey skin, and his sharp nails dug at their clothing. Merion had to bite his tongue to keep himself from yelling. Gradually, they began to fade. Not completely, for that would have made Rhin’s eyes bleed, but enough for them to look like rock and pebble rather than two quivering humans. It worked a charm. The railwraith’s gaze passed them by, and the creature looked to the east instead. With a screech of metal, the monster lumbered off, its footsteps thundering across the desert.

  An hour, they waited for those footsteps to die away. Railwraiths can be fast, when there are fresh rail workers to be ripped apart, but this one had been in no rush. It took yet another hour for Merion’s heart to calm itself to a normal patter. His neck already ached from the amount of times he had looked over his shoulder, praying not to see a railwraith lurching after them. Only when he felt safe did he dare to break his silence. Lurker was ahead, as usual, though today his pace was a little faster than normal. Merion did not blame him. He was happy to keep up.

  ‘That was a … I mean, it had to be … a railwraith, right?’

  ‘Strange,’ Lurker murmured, ‘for one to come so far north, where there ain’t no action to be had.’

  ‘Maybe it got lost?’

  Lurker mused. ‘Maybe. Strong to come this far in that shape.’

  ‘What do you mean, in that shape?’ asked Rhin.

  In his haste and worry, Lurker had almost forgotten Rhin was there. The prospector threw a dark look over his shoulder to confirm that yes, indeed, that was a faerie walking beside the child, as real as a slap in the face.

  ‘Thanks. For earlier,’ said Lurker gruffly, tipping his hat.

  Rhin sketched a quick bow mid-stride. ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Railwraiths are only railwraiths when they come across some rail, see? Before we came to the desert, they just kept to the woods and the hills, building themselves up out o’ trees and rocks whenever a traveller wandered along. What do you think tumbleweeds and dust devils are? Lesser wraiths, just bored, is all. But then along came the Serped Rail Company, and gave ’em summin’ stronger. Iron. Steel. Steam-machined wood. Railspikes. A buffet of hardcore materials for them to rip up and bend into bone and claw.’ Lurker sniffed. ‘Seems ironic to me, like we’re being punished for our damn brazen ambition.’

  Merion hadn’t expected such a loquacious answer, but he was not about to argue. ‘So you think the Almighty, or Maker, is punishing us for trying to build a railroad across a desert?’

  ‘God’s got nothing to do with it, and he ain’t my Maker. If he is, then he did a shit-darn job of it, and I won’t be worshipping his craftsmanship. I don’t want to believe in a god that gives us the keys to the world, says “enjoy”, but then forgets to take the evil with him afore he leaves. We’re too much for our own selves, boy. Though we try to forget we’re animals, on the inside, it can’t help break out when it gets an excuse.’

  Merion furrowed his brow. This was all getting rather a bit too theological for his liking, touching on the blasphemous. Merion tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  ‘Are you talking about the war?’

  Lurker grunted. ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  Lurker stopped dead but did not turn. ‘You don’t know?’ he grunted.

  Merion shook his head. ‘No. We had our own wars, in Indus and Ashanti.’

  ‘Hundreds of thousands dead, and you never heard.’

  ‘My father told me of the war, but only because it was damaging trade.’

  ‘Damaging trade. All heart, that Karrigan.’

  Merion raised a finger. ‘Now see here—’ he began, but Lurker dismissed him with a snort.

  ‘The south wanted to be its own kingdom, separate from a united America. The north wanted the south to release its slaves as freemen. Now, at the time, as a slave myself, I found myself agreein’ with the north. But as a Karolin slave I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Deep south, boy, where swamps go on for miles and miles—that was my home, and it’s about as north as a crab’s ass.’

  Merion suddenly felt very awkward indeed. He had guessed that Lurker might have had such a history. The scars and his skin certainly indicated so. Merion winced as he thought of how he had spoken about Gunderton, the under-butler, the night before.

  ‘You were a slave?’ Merion asked, timidly.

  ‘Six years. Taken as a free man, I was. Put to work in the clockwork factories near Severed Creek. Kept my head low and my manners nice. That’s when I found my knack for … finding things. Precious stones mainly, gold, silver, that sort of thing. Could sniff ’em out.’ Lurker sniffed then, as if to prove the point. ‘Masters took a liking to my talent and kept me close. But then when the war started, and Lincoln blockaded the ports, it got tough. Several of us escaped one night, when the guards were fighting, and made off into the swamps. Miracle we made it to the border, never mind Virginia. Seven of us left the camp that night, and only two made it through to Lincoln’s blues. Me, and one man.’ There was a rasping as Lurker rubbed his chin. ‘Don’t remember his name. Didn’t say much.’

  ‘So you fought for Red King Lincoln?’

  Lurker grunted again. ‘Never liked that name for him. It’s lost all meanin’ to folks. He was called “Red” because of all the bloodshed he put a stop to, and “King” was somethin’ we slaves called him, to be ironic. The south wanted a king, you get it? Just kind of stuck. Makes him sound like a butcher.’

  ‘But what about that famous bloody axe of his?’

  ‘He knew how t’ swing a blade, that was for sure. I saw him once, in a puddle of blood and guts outside Peter’s Burg, swinging an axe like nobody’s business. Cannon firing right past his ear. Hat on tight. Always insisted he fight alongside his men.’

  ‘What was it like? In the war?’ Merion could not help but ask. He was only a boy, after all.

  ‘You don’t want to know, boy. Believe me when I say that. Like I said, all men are animals on the inside, and war is the perfect excuse to show your true colours. I’ve seen slaughter on a scale that would make you want to tear your eyes out.’ More chin-rubbing. More rasping. ‘What happens ‘tween men on the battlefield should stay right there, down with the piss and the dung and the blood. And let’s not forget the mud. I was glad to be rid of it.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Three years now, thanks to Lincoln. Enough time for me to find myself a different kind of sorrow, but that’s another story for another day. Quiet now. We’re coming into Shohari country, by my reckonin’. Keep your head down and don’t talk.’

  But Merion did not want to keep his head down, and his tongue still. ‘Now just wait one minute,’ he said, coming to a halt. Hands had already met hips. ‘Do you think I’m just going to follow on, after what you said last night? How do I know you’re not leading us to our deaths? I didn’t come out here to die, I just want my answers.’

  Lurker turned to look at him. ‘Fought alongside many a Shohari in the war. And their wilder cousins. They were kind enough to teach me some of their ways, a little of their tongue, here and there. The Shohari know me. Least, a few of them do. We just have to hope we run into some friends.’

  Merion sighed. ‘How very comforting,’ he said.

  Rhin piped up. ‘And what about me, hmm? Are the Shohari particularly adverse to the Fae?’

  Lurker tipped his hat backwards. ‘Now, that I don’t know, so I think we oughta put you back in that rucksack, Rhin, and then we’ll be on our way.’

  *

  And so it was. Under the baking heat of the midday sun, they trudged northwards, curving slightly west as the sun slipped from its zenith. They stopped only once to sip water and nib
ble at salty jerky, and then they were on their way. The country was bare, deserted as a desert can be. Here and there sheer-sided towers of red rock thrust up out of the scrub, like abandoned fortresses, scoured clean by the hot wind. It felt hotter today than it had before, and the bludgeoning, endless anger of the sun made him want to curl up in a ball and pray for sunset.

  ‘Is it far now?’ he croaked, somewhere around half-past three.

  Lurker whispered over his shoulder. ‘No, but quiet. We got eyes on us. Don’t look!’

  But Merion couldn’t help it. His head jerked up involuntarily. Before he caught himself and brought his gaze back down, he spied two silhouettes atop a flat-topped hill to the west, black against the deep blue of the big, wide sky. They were on horseback, and they held spears, or long guns maybe; Merion couldn’t tell. Pennants streamed from them. Merion’s heart thudded.

  ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘Hour maybe, once they see us keep on going straight. They’re watching to see if we’ll turn. Marking their territory like a hound pisses on a stump. You stay good and quiet now.’

  Merion, did exactly as he was told. Ten minutes passed, and still the two silhouettes watched on. Lurker guided them further west, hardly heading north at all now. He was making a statement. Another ten minutes slid achingly by, and when Merion snuck another glance at the hilltop, he saw the Shohari had gone. His heart dropped like a stone.

  ‘They’re gone,’ he whispered, focusing on his boots.

  ‘Not quite, boy.’

  Lurker pulled Merion close as the first horses galloped over the rise ahead of them. Merion held his breath. The Shohari were the very definition of wild. From the tips of their black and braided scalps to the unshod hooves of their slavering, piebald steeds, they dripped with savage energy. They were tall, very tall indeed, and lithe and wiry. Their strong arms and legs looked like bunched cords wrapped in dark, sun-drenched skin. Their jawlines were as sharp as the spears strapped alongside their long, stolen rifles, and their eyes were hooded with heavy, proud brows. Their faintly greenish skin was aged with more than just pitted lines and creases, but with ageless knowledge, perhaps, and the confidence that comes with it.

  The Shohari wore close to nothing. Their only garments were leather wraps around their groins and coloured beads around their necks. A few wore waistcoats of fur, others wore bright ribbons of blue or purple fabric tied around their foreheads. They all had small axes and knives at their belts.

  The riders hissed as they encircled them, almost twenty in all, and Merion was left praying that this was just a traditional, friendly Shohari greeting. Lurker seemed to think otherwise, and wrapped another arm around the boy, tucking him closer into his side. The prospector looked for the tallest rider, and met his stern gaze.

  ‘Wa, sh’ana see,’ Lurker said, making little circular movements with a cupped hand.

  The Shohari he spoke to did not seem too impressed. ‘Ah eshe gauk! Wah me’ heera. Sam tee!’ he challenged. His talk was slow, his words deep and sonorous.

  Lurker shook his head. ‘Ot a she, mik,’ he replied, his tone rising and falling as though he were half-singing his words. The language was garbled and fractured, barely sounding like language at all. His gloved hands added whatever words he did not say out loud.

  ‘Zah e’nalta.’

  ‘Tus ah o’nalta.’

  The Shohari rider moved his jaw from side to side as he thought. ‘Wa, a’bash?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘Mayut.’

  ‘Mayut, seh?’

  ‘Seh.’

  The Shohari hissed and levelled a spear at Lurker. The other riders began to murmur and chant. Merion shivered, even in the heat. ‘Seh? Eh, pe n’ash!’

  ‘Seh!’ Lurker barked.

  ‘Te’ah!’ shouted the rider. The circle of Shohari and horses fell deathly quiet. ‘Me, a teh,’ he told them, and then pointed, just to make sure they got whatever point he was making. Merion wished dearly to know what it was.

  ‘Mayut,’ Lurker nodded. The rider clicked his tongue and pulled at the reins of his piebald horse. One by one, the Shohari riders began to peel away and form a line. A space cleared at its centre, and Lurker and Merion were told curtly to fill it. Whatever the prospector had said had worked, but it was evident these Shohari were not happy in the slightest.

  Merion tapped Lurker on the back. ‘Where are they taking us?’

  ‘To see the Buffalo Snake if we’re lucky, and they don’t change their mind. Chief Mayut. A friend, of sorts.’

  ‘And are we to walk the entire way? Hardly fair when they have horses. How far is it?’

  ‘Ten or so miles, maybe more. They move around.’

  ‘But it will be night-time by the time we get there.’

  Lurker turned around to wink. ‘Just in time for the party, then.’

  Merion’s eyes widened, enough to inform Lurker he was curious, possibly even excited. ‘The party?’ he echoed.

  ‘It’s almost a full moon. Feastin’ time. Tonight, we’ll eat like Shohari. They’ll be mighty interested in you. Told them you’d come from across the sea to meet them.’

  ‘Well I suppose that’s true…’ Merion paused to think. ‘Does this mean we don’t have to eat beans tonight then? No offence.’

  ‘Offence taken, but no beans.’

  Small mercies, Merion thought.

  Chapter XV

  DEADOAK

  ‘Tested the leg today and it seems to be working. Magick is back too, now that I’ve regained my strength. I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with following this father around. Turns out he’s set to be the highest lord of the Empire, second only to their Queen. Of all the houses I crawled into … The man literally oozes secrets. It’s fascinating.’

  15th May, 1867

  The camp appeared first as a glittering swarm of orange fireflies floating between two sharp hills. The pounding of the drums came next. Deep, thumping beats reverberated through the ground and made Merion’s heart dance. Step by step, the camp materialised out of the night. First a makeshift pen for ponies, then the sheer sides of a tall and lonesome tent, held together by long poles and braided ropes. The camp was awash with yellow and red, painted by torchlight. Long-limbed figures slid between the shadows and patches of light, ominous, in the way they loped.

  There was no road through the camp, and the small party of riders and foreigners had to weave between the guide-ropes and cooking fires to reach the epicentre, where the drums thundered away and yet-unseen mouths screeched and cawed at the star-speckled sky. Merion could smell food. His nose was certain of it. Corn bread. Meat. Sizzling fat. He could picture it dripping from spits and gurgling in pans. His stomach twisted in a knot.

  It was then he glimpsed the dancers, spinning in concentric circles around a great pyre, piled high with blazing logs and bundles of dead desert weeds. Its heat was impressive. Merion could feel his face prickling even from a hundred feet away. The dancers must have been roasting in their skins. There were hundreds of Shohari gathered there, and countless more beyond the glare of the great fire. They sat in wide circles around cooking fires or bunched together in tight groups. Some hammered at drums. Others sang. A few capered around and whistled away on odd, flat flutes.

  The riders had abandoned them, and Lurker and Merion were left at the edges of the crowds to watch the frenzied, half-naked (and in some groin-stirring cases, utterly naked) revelry, and wonder where the hell they were going to sit. It was very quickly evident that they had no real choice in the matter.

  The Shohari rider Lurker had argued with was pushing his way back through the crowds towards them. He had come from the direction of the big fire, and whatever he’d found there had apparently put him in a very bad mood indeed. His dark eyes were locked on Lurker.

  ‘Me, at’eh!’ he shouted, when he was barely a dozen feet away. His harsh voice cut through the noise and heads began to turn in their direction. It did not take long for a hush to spread over the immediate vicinity. It took
even less time for the quiet to spread to the other side of the pyre. Soon enough, the whole crowd was staring at them. It was terribly eerie, in the wake of the ear-splitting din. Merion could feel a single bead of sweat dribble down his forehead and onto his nose. He desperately wanted to wipe it away, but he was petrified that any movement would break the muttering silence and bring the whole tribe swarming towards them.

  ‘Not … a … word,’ Lurker breathed. Merion had no arguments with that.

  The silence stretched on and on, getting tenser all the time, like the string of a celloine being tightened and teased out. The snap would come at any moment, Merion knew it. With every aching second that passed, he curled tighter and tighter into himself.

  A shout rang out over the hundreds, clear as a desert day. ‘Lurker!’

  Merion could see the speaker now; a large man standing in front of the pyre, looking for all the world like a shadow ablaze. ‘Lurker! Kam as’a nahwa!’ he called, beckoning to the two strangers. Lurker gave Merion a shove.

  ‘You heard the man,’ he said, with a sniff.

  Merion began to negotiate the crowds, praying that with every step his feet would land on earth, and not a hand, or a torso, or somebody’s dinner. He did not fancy starting a very violent and very short war through a clumsy misstep.

  ‘Easy does it,’ he muttered to himself as he snaked through the throngs of Shohari. They smelled like the earth after rain, but with a tang of sweat thrown in. Every now and again he passed a female, and his head would spin as he breathed in the overpowering perfume, thick with spice and floral notes that hit him like a hammer.

  At long last, they reached the centre of the party, where the air was hot, and tinged with a strange animal scent. The crowds had thinned out to make way for the dancers. The large man stood alone, his arms outstretched and welcoming, fingers beckoning. He had a wide smile on his wrinkled face. To call him fat would have done him a disservice. He was simply big. And in every sense of the word; from his tree-trunk legs to his bear-like shoulders. This man was one big slab of greenish meat. Beads dangled in huge quantities from his forearms, neck, and even his ankles. He wore nothing but a kilt of fur and a knife at his waist. White feathers had been braided into his long and matted hair. A polished vulture’s beak balanced gently on his forehead. This was the chief. There was no doubt about it.