Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  He was cut off by a harsh cackle. She sounded madder than ever. He heard a faint clink of something metallic.

  ‘A curse be upon on any man who stands against the royalty of Europe!’

  Dizali could hear murmuring behind him. Their superstitions angered him, even as he felt the hairs rising on the nape of his own neck.

  ‘—A finer leader than you!’ Dizali hollered. She was being more difficult than expected. ‘The crown no longer holds sway over this Empire. You are nothing but a mad and traitorous Queen. A warmonger. A rotten tooth that needs to be plucked out and cast aside. I hereby pronounce—’

  Victorious’ screech sliced through his sentence as well as his ears, making everyone wince.

  ‘Do they know of your deception, Lord Dizali? Your own unfaithfulness to my Empire? To the crown? To your Queen?’

  ‘Tear that curtain down!’ Dizali snarled. By his side, Hanister reached for a shade.

  Forward came the swords and sharp spears. In went the blades, rending the thick curtain to ribbons. Its shreds were torn aside by eager hands and thrown to the marble floor. Dizali stepped forward, breath held in his throat. Long had he desired to stare upon a royal in the flesh, whatever colour and shape it may be.

  They found two circles of armoured queensguards, glassy-eyed and mouths agape, crouched in a ring around their Queen. There was no wobble in their grip; the points of their long lances were disturbingly still. Orders ricocheted around the room. Sergeants barked at the top of their lungs. Armour clanked as two hundred rifles were cocked.

  ‘Hold!’ cried the generals, but not a soul could not take their eyes off the Queen.

  She was enshrouded in a black veil. It tumbled from her head, enveloping her shoulders and waist before spilling to the floor. It obscured all her features and yet it still could not manage to hide her shape, her form, which stole the breath from their throats. Victorious was as misshapen as pummelled dough, over seven foot tall and, clearly, far from human. Two ravens sat on her shoulders, one each side, and their eyes roamed the soldiers’ faces. Something beneath the foot of the veil slithered and scraped on the marble floor.

  Victorious raised a hand, also cloaked in black cloth. Five fingers of mottled skin snuck out of its folds. They were long, almost claw-like. She wiggled them in the air, as if scratching at a ghost.

  ‘You dare to look upon your Queen?’ Her voice was abnormally deep, and tinged with a furious whine.

  Dizali took a step forward. He glanced at the nearest of her guards. A thin stream of drool was trickling down the stubble of the man’s chin.

  ‘I dare! Your reign is over, old witch. The world has passed you and your kind by!’

  ‘Our kind have trodden on the skulls of whelps such as you since the first dawn. And we shall be here at your sunset!’

  Her queensguards burst forth without order. Like clockwork men, they rose up without a sound and charged outwards, captured by Victorious’ spell. Bullets peppered them but they did not flinch. They fought like demons, with no care for their lives or flesh.

  A dozen arms and hands pressed Dizali back into the ranks as the fighting erupted. He shrugged them off.

  ‘See to your soldiers, generals! Give them no quarter. These men are already dead. Do not let her escape!’ They bounded back into the fray, rapiers drawn.

  Dizali was like an island in a mad sea. Arms crossed and face impassive, he stood alone, steady in the chaos. In front of him, Hanister thrummed with energy, the skin on his fists rippling as he clenched them. He was rushing hard; Dizali could sense it.

  One of the queensguards made it through the clamour of soldiers and lordsguards and charged at the Lord Protector with a broken spear-head. Hanister broke his face before he had taken three steps. Dizali began to walk, slowly, purposefully, towards the Queen. The chaos whirled around him.

  By the time he had crossed the curtain line, the last of the queensguards had been shot, stabbed or beaten into pieces by Hanister’s fists. Even now, splayed and torn on the floor, they writhed and twitched. The queen’s hand shook, as whatever magick she was spinning died. She hissed as if in pain.

  Dizali moved to stand before the Queen. She seethed in ragged gasps, veil shifting. Her spell had drained her. He pointed an accusatory finger at her face and took a breath to finish his speech. He would see this monster in chains.

  ‘I hereby pronounce you a traitor to this great Empire, unfit to wear its crown, ineligible to sit on its throne, and no longer its rightful ruler. On behalf of the people of the Empire of Britannia, I say we are tired of your madness, outraged at your treachery, and sentence you to imprisonment in the Crucible, until your dying day.’

  A hush fell on the throne room. All was silent except for the harsh caw of a raven. The queen looked to be shuddering with outrage, though Dizali longed for it to be fear. He spied a general glance at him out of the corner of his eye. They were fools if they thought he had come simply to yell at her.

  Dizali waited for the insults, the raging and screaming, but they never came. Victorious simply let her ravens flap to the rafters so very high above, and then shifted under her veil, rasping against the marble. Half of Dizali wanted to rip it aside and stare at her unholy face; the other half shivered at the mere thought of it. The Queen reached behind her, where her immense throne stood against a cascade of scarlet curtain. With great reverence, she picked up her crown. It was a thorny artefact, cast in gold, studded with purple jewels and edged with black iron. She held it high, only to drop it at Dizali’s feet with a clang. It skittered in its own echoes until Dizali pressed it to the marble with his foot.

  ‘You make your last mistake, Bremar Dizali,’ she hissed. ‘You trifle with forces even you cannot understand.’

  ‘Take her away!’ The Lord Protector smirked as she began to move, slithering across the marble floor. The ranks parted for her; nobody wished to touch her or get too close. They had seen her true form now. Her true colours. To be ruled by this thing was to be ruled by a beast. No man can stand that. The onlookers all wore twisted grimaces. Even Hanister wore a disgusted look. The taverns would be alight with conversation that evening.

  ‘Drink it in, ladies and gentlemen, for this is what it tastes like to make history. You have gained your freedom from tyranny today. Your freedom from monstrosity!’ Dizali called after the Queen, spearing her with his final lines, polished and perfect. Victorious halted only briefly, shivering with rage, before shuffling on. Spears followed her.

  Dizali dusted off his hands. Storming a palace and sentencing a queen to death in prison. All in a day’s work. Avalin would be proud.

  A little sourness crept into his celebration then, at the thought of his wife. But he grinned all the same as he watched the Queen vacate her throne room.

  *

  When all of Clovenhall was finally asleep; once dinner had been eaten and cleared away, once snores rumbled the beds and the stars cast their distant light across the grounds, Calidae rose from her bed and walked quietly to the door.

  It was unlocked, as she had hoped. No silent hands had turned her key once darkness had fallen. Her shoes padded softly on the thick carpet. The stone hallway was dark, save for a few lanterns tucked in alcoves. Silent, too, and just the way she preferred it.

  Calidae retraced her paces through the warrens of Clovenhall, her route now embedded in her mind, thanks to a surreptitious practice, post-dinner. She walked casually; not sneaking but strolling. That way, it would be easier to claim trouble with sleep, or natural curiosity. Maybe even an upset of the stomach that only a walk could cure.

  Padding down the grand stairs into Clovenhall’s atrium, she turned away from the main door and chose one better suited to her needs. The corridors were still empty. A few servants were tending to balls of bread dough in the kitchens; half-kneading, half-dozing. They bowed to her, and she nodded.

  Calidae escaped into the night through the servant’s door and soon found herself on a wet gravel path leading around the mansion. Sh
e let her memory guide her, imagining she was walking the carpets. She followed the walls, careful to stay nonchalant, almost bored, should anybody be peeking from the windows; many of which still glowed despite the silence, weaving a patchwork of yellows and oranges through the mighty stone.

  Turning a corner onto a dark section of the grounds, she stopped to play at tying a shoe before gazing up at the stars. Imperceptibly, her eyes moved back to the windows. Only two glowed in this part of the northeast wing; one high up in the spiralling tower above her, and another several floors from the topiary bushes. Even in the dark, Calidae could see the thick bars crossing the window-frame.

  She plucked two small stones from the path as she straightened up. She yawned and stretched, and as she brought her hands down she flung one of the stones up at the window. The lump of gravel tapped against the glass; a snap of twig in the darkness. Calidae stared at the night sky as if still stargazing, one eye watching the window.

  She was about to throw the other stone when she noticed a twitch in the curtains. A small face, black in the contrast of the bedroom lanterns, peered out through a crack. It looked man-shaped, at least. Calidae stared up, and hoping he could see her, nodded slowly. The face vanished from behind the curtain. With a grunt she walked back the way she came.

  Inside, Calidae was halfway up the stairs when a voice stopped her.

  ‘It’s late to be taking walks about the place.’ It was gruff, undeniably Empire. She turned to find Hanister lingering on the carpet below, plucking at his teeth with something silver and sharp.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she replied quietly. ‘It’s strange, being back in a proper bed.’

  ‘I suspect so, after all that roasting desert,’ said Hanister. ‘I went out there once, when I was younger. Iowa, hot as hell.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your face.’ Hanister was certainly not backwards in coming forwards. Perhaps he was trying to rattle her. He should be so lucky.

  Calidae raised her chin. ‘Not that it is any of your business, Mr Hanister, but no, it does not. It did, but no longer. A kind woman’s salve, fresh sea air, and time saw to that.’

  Hanister grunted, eyeing her. ‘So, this boy. What’s his name?’

  ‘Tonmerion Hark,’ Calidae hissed. She barely needed to act it; the boy was still hers, when all of this was done. She refused to forget it.

  ‘Hark, yeah. Him. Must be a big lad, to beat a Brother down with nothing but a stool.’

  ‘Not as big as you think. He was rushing.’

  ‘Interesting that he didn’t finish you off,’ Hanister hummed.

  ‘Perhaps there is a shred of decency in him after all,’ she sighed. ‘Now if that will be all…’

  ‘For now, Miss.’

  ‘My Lady.’

  Hanister grinned and bowed. ‘Milady.’

  Calidae flashed him a smile and carried on up the stairs. She walked slowly and carefully back to her room, not wanting to seem in a hurry. No doubt there were other eyes watching from the corners of Clovenhall.

  Once the door was shut and locked, she let out a slow breath. When her heart had calmed, she looked at her hands in the dim light of her room. If she looked hard, she could still see the blood, dripping onto ruby grass, dancing in the light of the Bloodmoon. Gavisham’s blood.

  Calidae slapped her hands together.

  Chapter IV

  THE CLOUDY BELLE

  29th July, 1867

  ‘I hate flyin’,’ Lurker grumbled for the third time since leaving the grand steps of the Ivory House that morning. ‘Ain’t natural.’ To Lurker, flight was just hot air and hope, all bundled into something with sharp propellors and a lot of metal.

  ‘You said that already,’ said Lilain, hands stuffed into her britches. Long Tom the Third was slung over her shoulder, chinking softly against the belt of bullets that kept the rifle company. ‘And if you say it one more time, I’ll throw you in the Potomac.’

  ‘Good. Then I can swim to the Empire instead.’

  Lilain shot him a look wrapped in ice. ‘Enough of your darn moanin’, John Hobble. I won’t hear another peep out of you. It’s bad enough you hecklin’ me to stay and watch the execution.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see them child-killers hang?’

  ‘I do, but I ain’t waiting around for another two weeks to see it done. We’re needed now, and time’s a-wasting.’

  Lurker tugged at the brim of his new hat. ‘Apparently so.’ The sting of Merion’s departure was still sore.

  ‘We’ve been through this. Merion has no doubt cooked up another one of his schemes, and going by the success of his last two, then he’ll be needing our help. Especially if he’s with that high-born harlot Calidae Serped. I ain’t that proud to not give it, abandonment or not.’

  ‘You never know.’ Lurker waved a hand. ‘Third time lucky, they say.’

  Lilain tutted. ‘Come on. We’ve got a job to do.’

  They were on the hunt for an airship, and even in a busy capital like Washingtown, that was harder than it sounded. They had already been denied by five different captains. Since the attempt on Lincoln’s life, and the breakout of war in the east, the Empire had fallen out of favour, and trade across the Iron Ocean had diminished. Sugar and chocolate from the southern Americas seemed to be far more interesting, and closer too. Besides, the Endless Land had its own war to worry about. The western frontier still burnt with the fire of the Buffalo Snake’s anger, and most of the airships that clamoured around Washingtown’s docking towers were carrying powder, guns, and supplies for the western forts.

  As they walked they craned their necks, watching the swarms of airships and airskiffs battling for space in the sky. The droning of the engines made it impossible to keep their voices low. ‘Surely one of these darn windbags’ll be able to take us!’ Lurker hollered.

  Lilain was busy staring at the markings of the lumbering great craft floating above them. ‘Well if none of the passenger or trader ships’ll take us, maybe some of the cargo or salvage runners will. Might cost us a pretty florin, though. Weight’s everything to them.’

  Lurker jingled his pockets. Prospecting might have been thin in the capital, but generosity had flowed. Lincoln had not only furnished them with new clothes and supplies, but a fistful of coin each to help them on their way. Lurker had lost count of how many times he’d bowed and thanked the man. He scrunched up his face and grunted, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Well, for once, we ain’t short of wealth. Where was Lincoln back in Fell Falls, hmm?’

  Lilain just shrugged in reply.

  An hour of walking led them to the tallest of the docking towers, where all sorts of air-vessels came to congregate, like misshapen barnacles on a submerged mast. The huge feat of construction easily dwarfed the unfinished Spike a mile or two behind them. For now at least. Lurker had to tip his hat to stare up at its peak. He stared at a fat zeppelin as it tried and failed to dock, having trouble in the breeze. Its tail swung dangerously close to a nearby airskiff, and he couldn’t help but shudder. ‘It ain’t right to fly,’ he said. ‘If it was the Maker that forged us, he didn’t give us wings for a reason.’

  Lilain whacked him on the arm. ‘Technology is a marvellous thing, Lurker. You’d best embrace it or you’ll get left behind.’

  ‘Behind suits me just fine. Least it’ll be quiet.’ Lurker’s gaze stayed fixed on the zeppelin. It had never been the habit of industry to settle for small and simple. He wondered how such a thing stayed aloft. His eyes took in her two-dozen silver engines, the blur of her mighty propellers, and her sleek green hull ribbed with red metal struts and spines. It was like an iceberg of the sky; short on grace, yet full of power. It seemed a precarious sort of arrangement.

  As he gawped at the airship, Lurker felt a shiver up his spine; that old familiar feeling of eyes on his back. Unwanted and unwelcome. He sniffed, tasting the air. ‘Is it me, or do you get the feelin�
� we’re bein’ watched?’ he asked, voice barely audible over the roar of engines above.

  Lilain bent to tie her bootlaces while she took a sly look around. The crowds were thick and tightly compressed, full of strange people from distant lands. Lurker stared about suspiciously. Maybe his old habits were getting the better of him.

  ‘A man in a hood,’ whispered Lilain. ‘Beard. To your back and left. Definitely not from around here.’ Lurker flicked her a thumb to let her know he’d heard. He didn’t dare turn to look. She got to her feet and joined him in staring up at the sky.

  Clearing his throat, Lurker dipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out his knife, fresh from the sharpener’s wheel. He handed it to Lilain. Long Tom was no use in close quarters, and close was all the crowd could afford them. He put a hand to the Mistress, sitting in his belt.

  ‘Let’s walk on and see what he does,’ Lilain suggested, nodding to a wide board at the far end of the street, covered with posters, notices, and scraps of paper. ‘You go ahead. I’ll hang back.’

  He agreed with a blink and she walked ahead to examine the board. Lurker rejoined the flow of the crowd and moved past her, turning right and then into another alleyway, making sure she saw him. He tucked himself against the wall and waited, pretending to roll a cigarette. The Mistress waited patiently by his side, pining to be of use. Lurker patted her in reassurance.

  A swift peek around the carved white stone of the wall told him he was not the target. The man was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he had barely moved, still slouching against a lamp-post, hood down and silent. It was only when Lilain moved that he stood up straighter. Every step Lilain took was echoed several yards behind her. Every turn anticipated. The man was a professional, that was for sure.

  Lurker ducked into a hollow doorway and let Lilain pass. She was already holding the knife against her chest. He sniffed as their follower passed, tasting foreign scents. Tobacco. A hint of whisky. Threads from another shore. He smelled like Merion; like Empire dirt, and rain.