Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (9 page)

Ancient Fae law demanded the second-born of every family be trained as a fighter, to make war for Queen Sift. Rhin had been such an offering, left on the steps to be raised as—or more accurately, beaten into—a soldier, like the Spartans of the olden days.

Another memory, one buried in an even deeper grave, came back to him then: one of trolls and cracking stone, of screams in the dust-choked darkness of the tunnels, screams that sliced through the constant roaring and gnashing of jaws and little bones. Rhin shuddered involuntarily, and pushed those memories away for another day.

There were no two ways about it: a brutal upbringing it may have been, but it made Rhin the Fae he was today, and it helped to take some of the blame for his life’s crimes. His upbringing lightened the load. It was as Merion’s father had once said to him:
a man is the product of his boyhood. How a boy is shaped echoes in the man he becomes
. Rhin shook his head and rubbed the memories out of his eyes.

Under the trees the evening air was cool, the sand dappled in the last shadows of the day. Rhin went straight to the small pool, his buzzing wings powering him forward, saving his feet the trouble. He kneeled at the water’s edge, cupped a hand, and sipped. The water was cool and fresh, with the tiniest hint of desert salt.

‘It’s pure enough,’ he told the others, who were shuffling into the copse. They too bent to their knees and lapped at the water, slaking their powerful thirsts. Merion wasted no time in whipping off his hat and plunging his head into the cool water, blowing bubbles with a long sigh. When he came up for air and got to his feet, he let the water drip down his neck and chest, washing away at least some of the day’s dust and sweat.

It was not long before Lurker had a campfire crackling. They had bought some sun-cured, though rather unidentifiable, meat to go around. The rest of the supplies in Cheyenne had all been snapped up. Was it hound, cat, or tortoise? Who cared? Their hunger ignored the fact of it.

Lurker tended the pan, as always. Lilain was already half asleep. Merion was getting there. Only Rhin sat bolt upright, listening to the noises of the desert. Above them, the trees rustled gently in the evening breeze. Their pale leaves gleamed in the firelight.

Rhin could not get comfortable. It could have been the memories tugging at him, or something else entirely. He felt uneasy, and it irked him.

‘It’s ready,’ Lurker grunted, jolting him.

The others sat up, rubbing bleary eyes. The sun had sucked the life out of them. It was no surprise that they ate in silence, staring like zombies into their bowls. Rhin was still the only one who kept his head up, his lavender eyes narrowed at the gloom as he chewed quietly.

The faerie paused. He had heard something, and not just a crunch and squeal of some unfortunate creature, or the tittering of the insects. A rock tumbling.

For what seemed an age, all he could hear was the noisy mastication of the others around him. To his keen ears they sounded like cows grazing, and he strained to listen to the desert beyond.

There: another clatter of rock. Rhin put down his thimble of a bowl and drew his sword. The others seemed startled. A bit of life appeared in their dull eyes. Lurker made to get up, already swinging the Mistress from her holster. He cocked the pistol quietly.

‘What is it?’ Lilain whispered. ‘What do you see?’

‘Hush, listen,’ Rhin hissed. His skin was already fading into nothing, just the dim outline of his features remaining. He tried to penetrate the darkness, but the light from the fire blurred the night’s edges. He began to tread sideways. There came another rattle of stones in the darkness. They all heard that one.

Merion was reaching for his coat, where the three bottles of blood were hidden in his pockets.

The faerie pulled out his knife as well. ‘I see people! About five, comi—’

The thundercrack of a gun cut him off, chased by the whistling of a bullet as it glanced off a tree a worrying distance above Lilain’s head.

‘Down!’ Lurker shouted, squeezing off three rounds into the darkness. There was a yell and a round of roars and curses.

‘The Sand Rabbits have got you now!’ came a cry.

‘Quiver in fear!’

‘Hand over your coins!’

Lurker growled. ‘Bandits! Merion, what have you got?’

As more guns opened fire, they threw themselves behind the nearest trees and hunkered down.

The young Hark scrabbled for a bottle. ‘Chipmunk?’

‘Fast reactions!’ Lilain yelled above the deafening gunshots.

‘Get a rock, and go round the back,’ Lurker ordered him, making a fist and driving it into his palm. Merion understood completely.

With nervous hands, he reached for the nearest, biggest, and lumpiest rock he could find. He wondered whether he was afraid or simply startled. He did not like the idea of the former. Merion held the rock with one hand and flicked the cork off the bottle with the other. A bullet struck the sand two inches from his foot, and sprayed dust at him, and he yelped.

The blood slid down his throat with all the speed of cold honey. Merion desperately tried to swallow it down as the bullets flew.

The Mistress sung out again, and the gunfire halted for just a moment. ‘Go!’ Lurker hissed.

Merion seized his chance. As he leapt from the tree and dashed for the desert, he felt the magick bite. He tensed as it began to flow with his blood. This was a fierce little shade. He could feel it coursing up his spine already, eager to get to work.

Another bullet zipped through the branches, spinning splinters in its wake. One of the guns had been turned on him. The boy pushed the magick down into his legs and found himself zig-zagging through the low bushes like a burst of lightning through cloud. It felt like his muscles had just awoken from a long sleep, and he finally knew how to use them. He gritted his teeth and powered on, bursting out of the copse and curving around to come at the attackers from behind.

Merion saw the muzzle-flashes a dozen yards from the treeline. There seemed to be seven, maybe more. Every time a gun crackled, Merion caught glimpses of a glowering face, the brim of a hat, or a threadbare jacket.
Bandits indeed
, he inwardly spat. Common thieves, come to kill and steal. Merion’s nervousness slunk away. He had no love to spare for thieves or murderers.

The young Hark scurried low between the boulders, holding his rock as tight as he could, twitching with every gunshot. The Sand Rabbits were spread out in a line, diagonal to Merion. Speed would be the essence. Fortunately for Merion, speed is what chipmunk blood is famed for.

The boy darted forwards as the nearest man stopped to reload, cursing to himself as another of Lurker’s bullets ricocheted off the rocks. The resounding thunder of Long Tom could be heard now as well. Merion raised the rock high and before the bandit could react, he brought it down hard against the man’s temple. He went as limp as a dead snake, relinquishing his gun and bullets to the sand.

‘Over here!’ came the startled cry of the next man along the line, already swinging his pistol at Merion. But the boy was faster, ducking just in time. The gun fired at nothing but darkness. Merion spun as he rushed forward, swinging the rock upwards into the man’s groin. The bandit howled and folded in two. There was a dreadful, muffled bang as he fired a round into his own stomach in pain and panic.

The other five were now all bringing their guns to bear. Merion gulped and blindly hurled himself to the side as their muzzles burst with fire. Though his mind may not have willed any finesse into the dive, his muscles had plenty to spare.

Merion rolled agilely to his feet and darted from side to side, puffs of sand exploding around his feet. Not a single one seemed able to touch him, though a few came perilously close. Merion just grimaced as he lurched from side to side, ducking and dipping, never in one place for more than a whisker of a second.

Before he knew it, he was swinging his rock again, swiping another of the guns aside. A blade flashed, and Merion skipped back. A muscle in his stomach spasmed, and for a moment he thought he was done for. But it was Rhin, pouring further chaos on the dwindling pack of bandits. Fae steel slashed through leather and cloth, sliced at calf muscles and tendons. One man went down with a bloodcurdling scream, clutching at the backs of his legs. A sword to the back of his skull silenced him. Rhin, still only half-visible, wrenched his blade free and shook the blood from it. It was hard to keep up the spell in the midst of battle, but Rhin was more practised than most. He held his blades out to the side and began to jog forward. The remaining bandits were now shooting madly at the desert. Far too high, and far too wide.

Nobody ever suspects a faerie can do so much damage. Rhin raised his knife and threw it hard, catching a bandit in the chest. The blade may have been small, but it was as sharp as a winter wind, and hurt like the depths of hell when it caught bone, which it had. While the man clutched his chest, his face crinkling into a wail, Rhin bounded to the top of a nearby rock and lunged at him, his wings buzzing loud and strong. Rhin sailed through the air, slicing the man’s throat as he flew past his head.

A few paces away, Merion found himself being grappled from behind. Even while rushing the chipmunk blood, it caught him off-guard. He managed to roll instead of pitching onto his face. A brawny bearded man with wildness in his eyes stood over him. He had a small knife in one hand, and was jabbing it at the boy.

Merion felt the blade whistle past his ear. He smacked his rock against the man’s ribs, but the other just wheezed and barged forward, pushing Merion off his feet again. They fell as one and the boy felt the breath driven from his lungs. Magick rushed into his arms and hands, wrenching them upwards before the knife plunged into his heart. One hand grabbed the man’s throat, the other his wrist. They writhed and strained, wordlessly, muscle versus magick, with the only prize being life.

The bandit broke Merion’s hold by ramming his forehead into the boy’s brow. Sparks exploded behind Merion’s eyes and he reeled. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the man raise the knife high for the final strike.

But whatever luck he’d scraped from the day stayed with him. Lurker loomed from behind, grasping the man’s knife hand with two of his and driving it hard into the man’s forehead as he turned in shock. He was dead before he hit the dust. Lurker raised the Mistress and fired, once, twice, and the desert fell silent.

Only panting and the ringing in his ears filled the vacuous absence of gunshots and yells. Rhin was busy retrieving his knife from its temporary home.

‘Thank you,’ Merion panted, still regaining his breath.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Lurker rumbled, his dark eyes roving the rocks around them, watching for any further trouble. The desert offered none, at least for now. A few shapes could be seen, hurtling towards the distance. ‘Nice job,’ he said, helping the boy to his feet. The magick was wearing off now, leaving Merion trembling and short of breath. He swore silently never to doubt chipmunks again.

Once they had washed the blood from their hands and blades, and stamped the fire out, they all huddled up, leaning their backs against each other. The only light they had was that of the bright stars above and the fat half-moon in the south. Rhin sat between Merion and Lurker, his black sword on his lap. Even though he appeared to be relaxed and lounging, he was a coiled spring, ready for more should the night offer it.

‘Who were they?’ Lilain whispered into the darkness.

‘Bandits. Must have seen the fire and fancied their chances,’ Lurker told her, contempt dripping from his voice. Merion wondered if they reminded him of his wife’s murder in some way, recalling the story Lurker had told him at the edge of the Buffalo Snake’s fires, all those weeks ago. ‘Just a small crew, probably watchin’ the road.’

‘Got what they deserved,’ Rhin said.

Merion shut his tired eyes for a moment and grimaced. The image of the bandit raising that knife seemed to be etched into his eyelids. He could not stop playing it over and over again in his mind. What could he have done? What should he have done? Yet every time, that knife rose, poised to plummet down and bury itself in his heart. Merion felt his teeth began to chatter, and told himself it was the breeze. The exposed bones of weakness are always cold.

Seven dead and not a word traded with any of them. A simple, raw transaction, it seemed. But survival always makes murder a little easier to swallow. They had all rolled their die and the bandits had come up short. Merion just could not shake the feeling that the margin had been too narrow. Whether it had been over-confidence, or simple outnumbering, Merion could have died at that man’s hand tonight, and was a sliver away from doing so. Had it not been for Lurker, it would have been Merion lying out there in the sand, unburied and unblinking, staring blankly up at the stars with a knife through the skull. And that, Merion swore to himself, would simply not do at all.

As the boy felt the tiredness begin to ferry him off to sleep, as his eyelids sagged and his body grew heavy, he made himself a promise. He would train, and train hard, and he would never let this happen again.

‘Merion,’ Lurker whispered to him. The prospector was dangling in the clutches of sleep himself. His hands rustled in a pocket. ‘I forgot I had this,’ he said. ‘Found it a few days back in the fort, and brought it thinkin’ it might cheer you up. If we run into it, that is. It ain’t good to focus so much on one thing all the time, and I should know,’ Lurker rumbled. There was a crackle of paper as he found what he was looking for. ‘My father took me to a circus when I was just a boy, and I never forgotten that day. Lions. Elephants. Pretty girls spinnin’ on ropes and wires. All sorts of things. It was one of the things that used to keep me going when I was in chains. Seein’ another circus again. Yes Sir. First thing I did after the war.’

Merion looked down and found a half-ripped poster in his lap. He turned it over and squinted at the words in the dappled starlight. ‘Cirque Kadabra’, it said. Merion turned around to thank him, but Lurker was already snoring. Lilain was taking the first watch.