Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  ‘Let’s just say you won’t be the one doing the eating.’

  *

  The Hollow was aptly named; a deep bowl set into the rock of Shanarh’s great cavern. Whether it was a scoop of some ancient giant’s hand, or some gift of nature, it was perfect for filling with crowds and putting on a little entertainment.

  In Roma they had something very similar—or so Rhin had read in Karrigan’s library—but it wasn’t nearly as grand nor as old as the Hollow. The Fae of Shanarh and its vassals could fill it in their tens of thousands. Faeries travelled from all corners of Undering to enjoy the Hollow’s games and satisfy their thirst for blood. The Hollow did not dally with sports of the kind humans enjoy; games of balls and sticks, rackets and mallets. They were children’s games to the Fae. The Hollow provided true entertainment: raw fights and stacked odds; blood and guts and the thundering atmosphere of a roaring crowd. The Hollow was the beating heart of the city, not the Coil. It’s throbbing, incarnadined heart.

  A great sandy oval had been left clear at the centre of the great stadium. This was the Pit, as they called it, and emptier than a debtor’s purse. Around its edges mighty walls had been built. The sharp angle of the seats and balconies crowded at its edges, slanted back and rising up to the Hollow’s ragged heights. Lanterns in their countless hundreds lined the perimeter, making the sand sparkle and glow; a beacon in Undering’s constant gloom.

  Rhin had seen the Hollow many times from its seats, drowned by the press of bodies and the roar of buzzing wings. He had even seen it from Sift’s grand royal box, stood at her side, commentating on tactics or technique. He had never seen it from the perspective of the Pit before.

  ‘A fine crowd’s gathered today, you hear that?’ bellowed one of the pit-masters behind him, sandwiched between Cullog and his guards.

  Rhin swore under his breath. Of course he could hear it. The crowd was deafening in its eagerness. Word had spread of Sift’s attendance, and the citizens had come crawling in their hordes. Wherever he looked, he could see grey arms waving, yellow grins and humming wings, faces gripped in the midst of crazed anticipation. Sift hadn’t attended a game in the Hollow for decades. Rhin could see her detestable majesty languishing in her box once again, high above him and on the far end of the Pit.

  Rhin had to admit, he hadn’t quite expected Sift’s torture to be quite so public.

  ‘So what’s this all about? Has Sift declared a public holiday in my honour?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Caol.

  Rhin flashed a sly look over his shoulder. ‘So, favour for the queen is that low, then? She needs to curry support with a bit of blood and glory. Why aren’t you up there with her? Like I used to be?’

  Caol marched forward to thump him around the head. Rhin resisted the urge to turn and throttle him with the shackles. It would be quick and easy work. Cullog would be dead in a matter of moments. The others wouldn’t dare kill him without the Queen’s order. He swayed on the cusp of action for a moment before his better half resisted. He wanted to march out there and embarrass Sift on the grandest scale imaginable.

  ‘I’ll wipe that grin off your face!’ Caol shoved a fist under Rhin’s jawbone threateningly.

  ‘Sift won’t be pleased to see her catch all bloodied and bruised. The audience wants a fair fight, I’m sure.’

  Caol fumed for a moment. ‘Fair? Ha! You’ll soon see.’ With that he crossed his arms and began to laugh heartily, the others joining with him. Rhin just bared his sharp teeth and turned back to the thick bars, itching for them to open.

  ‘Her Majesty don’t want to give a speech,’ the pit-master yelled, ‘so he might as well go in now. We’re ready!’

  Caol clapped his hands. ‘Good news!’ He came forward to make sure Rhin cooperated, shoving him forward.

  ‘Not going to take these off?’ Rhin held up his shackles.

  The captain just shrugged. ‘Sift didn’t say anything about it.’

  Rhin tutted. ‘You really want to risk killing me? You might be the next one going through this gate.’

  ‘Just throw him in, she said. He won’t disappoint, she said. You’ll just have to work harder.’

  Great, Rhin thought.

  To the clanking of huge cogs, the gate before him began to rise. The roaring of the crowds surged. As soon as the gate was high enough for him to duck under, Caol moved to shove him forward. Rhin didn’t give him the satisfaction. He darted out into the bright lights, jogging from side to side in an effort to warm up his aching bones.

  A voice boomed out of the stands. ‘Rhin Rehn’ar! Deserter, traitor to the Queen, and befriender of humans!’

  A crescendo of booing rose and fell, to which he waved and grinned, twitching his wings to catch the light. He almost raised his fingers and showed them what he really thought, but he needed to keep this sweet. As the roaring died to catch a breath, he bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘And falsely accused!’

  There was a peal of laughter from the nearer seats. Confused cheering from the rest of the Hollow.

  Then, the thunder came. Slow at first, like the initial shudders of an earthquake. Rhin crossed his arms, defiantly staring at the Queen as the rumbling grew; countless feet stamping on stone. A multitude of droning wings. the Pit shook under Rhin’s feet. He was glad. It washed out the guilty thudding of his heart.

  All fell silent when Sift raised her hand. It was the breath before the plunge. Not a word was given to the crowd. Her hand dropped, and the barred gate at the far end of the Pit lurched open. The silence soared into an almighty cheer.

  A mole. A bloody mole. The cheapest sort of entertainment there was. It was a damn huge thing, twice the size of him, pink and hairless, blind from a life in the dark tunnels, and impossibly angry. No doubt starved for a week and poked into a frenzy before they’d unleashed it.

  Rhin winced. It was not that he hadn’t faced moles before. It was more the fact he’d usually had a spear or sword in his possession. Not a pair of manacles and nothing but sand for a weapon.

  As the crowd filled its ears with thunder, the mole began to snuffle for its prey. It snorted and snarled as it made its way forward, powerful claws digging at the earth with every stride, leaving great gashes in the sand. Its needlepoint teeth dripped with saliva.

  The crowd had begun to chant now.

  ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

  It drove the mole even madder. It began to charge about desperately, trying to find whatever meal had been served up for it. Rhin knew to stay still and quiet, much to the derision of the crowd. Moles have sharp ears as well as keen snouts. And with that, an idea blossomed.

  The mole was getting close now, zigzagging across the Pit, teeth gnashing at the air. Rhin dived to the side as the mole came charging at him. It caught his scent as he rolled, and skidded to a halt, scrabbling after him, claws flailing. Rhin was already up and running, charging for the nearest wall. He could feel the wind of the mole’s furious swipes on his wings. A flurry sent him flying forwards, out of its grasp.

  Just as he was about to collide into the wall, he threw himself sideways. It worked perfectly. The mole crashed into the wall at full pelt, pointy nose bending at a painful angle, momentarily stunning itself. Rhin was on it in a flash. To the crowd’s disbelief, he jumped over the reach of the thick claws and right onto its back. The air shook with their voices.

  Rhin stuffed the chain of his shackles into the mole’s mouth and wrenched upwards. When he had it snarling and retching, he drove his sharp thumbnails into its small ears. A horrific squeal erupted from beneath him, and Rhin had to use his wings to keep him steady while the mole bucked and reared. A lucky claw almost sliced open his shoulder, but he ducked just in time. The mole chewed on the chain. With every bite and deafening snarl, the faerie could feel it loosening.

  Clang! As the metal splintered in the mole’s mouth, the beast reared up, flicking its head back to close its jaws on the unfortunate faerie. But Rhin was already far out of reach; he’d anticipated the movement a
nd jumped with it, using his wings to push him high up the wall. He yelled as he stretched out, willing himself higher. He felt the cold metal touch of a lantern, hanging at the Pit’s edge. Seizing it, he swung himself up to grasp the lip of the stone wall. A cacophony of booing and hissing filled the Hollow. Assorted rubbish began to rain down, pelting him from all sides. The edges of the wall were thankfully below where the crowd could reach, otherwise their boots would have been on his fingers, or worse.

  Rhin began to jump, feet stamping on the metal pole that held the lantern aloft. It had been bolted to the stone, but any fixing is as weak as its surroundings. Where metal won’t break, stone will crumble. Again and again he jumped, and each time he felt the metal lean. The glow-worm inside was wriggling in fear, shining brighter with every rattle of its cage.

  There was a crack as the stone gave way, sending him plummeting down. He snatched the lantern from its bolts as he fell. His wings saved him once more, breaking the speed of his fall.

  He landed heavily and rolled, biting sand but uninjured. Behind him, the lantern cracked on the mole’s skull, spraying glass over its head. It screeched in pain.

  Rhin staggered to his knees and ran past the mole as it writhed in pain. He skipped out of its reach and held the twisted lantern like an axe. Now, it was a fair game. The crowd was as fickle as any. Cheers had begun to interrupt the booing.

  With the mole now drenched in blood, it was having a hard time smelling anything. Rhin used that to his advantage, delivering heavy strikes to its head, beating it down into the sand. A pawful of claws cuffed him in the chest and he toppled backwards, wincing as he felt blood begin to drip. But he knew it was not the time for letting up. He circled the mole, using its size against it, flitting left and right, taking its legs from under it, breaking muscle and bone while he had the chance. The crowd was on its feet now, roaring, loyalties divided.

  With a yell, Rhin delivered his final blow. As the mole lay prostrate on the ground, the faerie brought the broken lantern down hard on its neck. There was a resounding crunch, and the beast fell still, twitching as it died.

  Rhin backed away cautiously, until he was standing at the centre of the Pit. He bowed and waved to the apoplectic crowd. He had turned them, altered their hearts, impressed them even, and in doing so, made them forget their Queen. Every blow of the fight, every bead of sweat on his forehead, every ooze of blood and scrape of sand; they saw it all and felt they had lived it with him.

  When the guards came pouring in to drag him back into the darkness, he went calmly and with a smile, hoping Sift had seen every last moment of her failure; the first, Rhin dearly hoped, of many to come.

  *

  Dizali was in a fine mood. Crushing the dissent of the Emerald Benches had that effect on him. He let the rumble of the carriage wheels lull him into a reflective trance as he replayed the events of the day’s parliament.

  Lord Felcher had led the line of attack, citing the strikes as a result of the Cobalts’ boldness. Bordering on governmental suicide, he had called it. Half the Cardinals had cheered at that.

  Dizali’s deep pockets had come to the rescue; first from his side of the Benches, then from the red party itself. Coin is like a strong wind when it comes to the fat ship of political opinion.

  He reminded them of the Hark deeds, brought them the new promise of the Serped estate. He branded them time-wasters and naysayers, doubters to the cause. He had given them freedom, and all they wanted to do was sit and squabble while there was work to be done, and a war to win. He had shamed all those who would raise their fists.

  All but Felcher, who remained standing for a long time after the applause had died. His hand hovered, half-raised, his lips a puckered seam in his raisin-like face.

  ‘Anything to add, Lord Felcher?’ Dizali had asked.

  It had taken a long time for him to spit it out. ‘Nothing, my Lord. Nothing at all.’

  His walk from the hall was escorted by boos and jeers. The word “traitor” screamed from the trained dogs in the front benches.

  They had taken Dizali’s side rather willingly after that, it had to be said. Perhaps they could already feel themselves teetering on the rickety bridge of indecision. Behind, an icy drop. Ahead, a difficult climb. All they needed was something solid to grab onto, and that was exactly what Dizali had sold them. (Felcher wasn’t exactly promising riches.) And so forward it was.

  Dizali smiled to himself as he heard the familiar whine of his gates. If the lords and ladies of the Emerald Benches continued to be so pliable, it was time to take the next step, and put an end to his royal troubles. Someone would be proud, he told himself. He would have to tell her.

  He strode up the sweeping stairs of the atrium and onto the mansion’s first floor. Hanister was waiting for him, lounging against a pillar of stone. Gavisham would have never lounged.

  ‘What is it?’ Dizali demanded, without breaking his stride. Hanister stepped quickly after him and they spoke as they walked.

  ‘I’ve had word from my Brothers. Their ship docked late this afternoon. They should be here within the hour.’

  ‘About time! Does the stock get worse over the years, or is it because you three are barely out of training?’

  Hanister almost tripped on the carpet. ‘My apologies—’

  ‘Better late than never is all I will say on the matter, Hanister!’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  Dizali slowed as he came to a door, deep in the northeast wing. ‘I am not to be disturbed until they arrive, you understand me?’ Hanister bowed and retreated down the hallway.

  When he was out of sight, Dizali plucked a key from beneath his shirt. It dangled on a golden chain. He jiggled it in the lock, smoothed by years of practice, and entered the gloom.

  Slowly up the coiling stairs he went, eyes checking every surface, every inch, making sure the butlers and maids weren’t slacking in their duties. All seemed well enough, barring a few mistakes here and there that he would mention to Mr Pontis. He should have known better than to get sloppy, especially after the recent “mass dismissals” of his entire staff. (Strangely enough, they had coincided with the day of the Bloodmoon.) For all these new minions were aware, he was simply a ruthless employer.

  On the second floor of the small tower, he found his stool and placed it quietly by the bedside. He turned the lamp a fraction brighter but stared straight ahead, not daring to glance down and witness the vacant eyes of his wife. As usual, the ceiling held her unwavering, blinkless gaze, unchanged since that brief moment several weeks before. Since then, the catatonia had held her tightly in its strict embrace.

  Dizali reached out a hand and grasped her fingers. He could still remember them warm and slender, not these bony things he held now. He thumbed the golden ring trapped between her knuckles as he pondered his words. It must have taken him half an hour to speak.

  ‘Avalin, my dear. I have decided it is time to do something no Order in the world has ever accomplished. Not to mention attempted.’

  No reply but the rasping of her shallow breath.

  ‘It is the start, my dear. The start of a new era, one that you once dreamt of for us. I still remember so clearly what you told me. I have never forgotten.’

  More breathing.

  Dizali waited for a while before continuing, almost as if he were imagining the other half of the conversation. He nodded to himself. ‘Now is the time to take your dream and make it a reality. It’s time for the Order to claim itself an empire. Time to show Europe what we’re capable of. It is time, my dear Avalin, to kill the Queen!’

  He waited for that to sink in.

  ‘Without her, and with no heir, these Royalists will have nothing to put their trust in. No legitimate line on which to support. They will die out, one by one, as the newspapers laud our new government over the people. The people and their precious Emerald Benches will see power, and flock to it. I will… we will take—’

  There came a sharp rapping from below him. Dizali cu
rsed and apologised to his silent wife.

  ‘It seems it shall have to be a quick visit tonight, my dear.’ He leaned to bring her hand to his mouth, and placed a careful kiss on it. ‘I shall tell you more tomorrow. I promise.’

  Dizali stood, replaced the stool, and reached into his pocket. He produced an ornate vial of dark blood. After giving it a shake, he moved to the bed. This part always troubled him and yet he would have nobody else do it. He unscrewed the lid and reached out to dribble the crimson into her open mouth, making sure she swallowed instead of choked. All the while, he looked anywhere but her eyes.

  Another knock came from below, more timid this time.

  ‘Goodnight, my dear Avalin,’ he whispered, and put his boots to the stairs.

  Hanister was behind the door, bowler hat in hand, wrinkles in his face.

  ‘My apologies, Lord Protector. I hadn’t expected them to arrive so soon.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Dizali locked the door behind him and slid the key back under his collar. ‘Where have you put them?’

  ‘In your study, Milord, out of the way.’

  ‘See? You can do something right.’

  Hanister dropped a step behind him. ‘Yes, Milord.’ Dizali would train them eventually. Or he would buy a Brother Sixth. Maybe even a Fifth if there was one still alive.

  With a thrust of his arms, the study doors were thrown open. Two practically identical men were standing by his desk, chatting. They had the graces to bow as Dizali walked around to his chair. Hanister shut the doors behind him and sequestered himself in a corner, making the twins a trio.

  ‘Mr Heck. Mr Honorford. Welcome back to London,’ said Dizali.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to be back, Milord,’ Heck replied, mismatched eyes gleaming.

  ‘Were you successful?’

  Honorford was carrying a case. The Brother came forward immediately, laying the beaten-up old thing on the desk and flicking its latches. Six syringe vials sat nestled into velvet hollows, perfectly moulded for them. Only one lay empty.

  ‘All but one, Milord. One was rather… twitchy, shall we say.’