Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)
BY BEN GALLEY
Book 3 of The Scarlet Star Trilogy
“This book is a work of fiction, but some works of fiction contain perhaps more truth than first intended, and therein lies the magic.”
Copyright © Ben Galley 2016
The right of Ben Galley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be edited, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s permission.
Permission can be obtained through
www.bengalley.com
.
Ben Galley owns the right to use all images and fonts used in this book’s cover design and within the book itself.
All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
BFEB1
ISBN: 978-0-9935170-0-6
Kindle Edition
1st Edition – Published by BenGalley.com
Cover Design by Teague Fullick
Professional Dreaming by Ben Galley
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Ben Galley is a young indie author and purveyor of dark fantasy from rainy old Brighton, England. Harbouring a near-fanatical love of writing and fantasy, Ben has been scribbling tall tales ever since he can remember. When he’s not busy day-dreaming on park benches or arguing the finer points of dragons, he works as a self-publishing consultant, helping fellow authors achieve their dream of publishing.
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Below are some of the songs that inspired me along my writing journey. I hope they inspire you too, in any way that they can. Enjoy.
Youth
Daughter
Free the Animal
Sia
F.C.P.R.E.M.I.X
The Fall of Troy
I See Fire
Ed Sheeran
10,000 Emerald Pools
BØRNS
Honey Whiskey
Nothing But Thieves
Solidarity
Enter Shikari
Divenire
Ludovico Einaudi and Robert Ziegler
For Your Love
Josh Record
New Rush
Gin Wigmore
Vitamin
Incubus
Nerve
Don Broco
Glimmer
Mallory Knox
How You Like Me Now?
The Heavy
Renegades
X Ambassadors
Feels Like Forever
Of Mice & Men
American Beauty
Thomas Newman
Comin’ Home
City and Colour
Follow Ben’s Bloodfeud playlist
For Nancy and Roger.
LONDON
29th July, 1867
A
rriving in any city via its dockyards is like being led to the most glorious of sweet shops, opening the door, and finding all the jars smeared with excrement. London is guilty of such a swindle, being the most glorious establishment in all the world.
Her mighty docks were a canyon of disjointed buildings, following every twist and turn of the Thames’ serpentine wanderlust. They formed the gateway to the finest city on earth, and they were nothing more than a dirty, busy barrier between the silt-ridden river waters and the glowing curvature of London proper.
The docklands spared no space for trees or other such idle trinkets. Where there was water, there were ships; and where there were ships, you could find men and coin. Empires are built on such simple exchanges.
It meant every inch of the yards bustled with activity. This was a place where work was long and hard, where the dingy taverns and whorehouses never closed. Night and day held no sway here. You would work until you were told to stop, and drink and rut until you passed out or it was time to work again. A rinse of seawater, and repeat. A roiling, ever-rotating concoction of work and play.
And just a gunshot from the bilge, ale and sweat was London in all her glory. The city was already shining in the marmalade light of the early sun. The highest spires and turrets caught it with ease; their metal and marble-work glinting as if afire. Arches soared. Flagpoles bristled atop countless towers, bejewelled by stained glass windows. It was a glorious sight; the sort that pulls at your collar. But the docks were also thick with filth of all kinds, and every traveller must pay his dues on the muddy roads, as well as the swept and cobbled.
The
Black Rosa
pressed on; engines chugging quietly, sails still flapping even though they’d been drawn in tight to the mast. There was no wind today. Just a lingering fog around the knees; the sort that was so thick you could almost carve shapes in it. It reeked of river-stink and industry, coal dust and log fires. It brought a bitter sting to the eyes after the fresh sea air.
Around the curve of the river, a quieter section of dockyard was spied, and the
Rosa
slowed, aiming for a spare jetty.
At first there was an argument between the captain and the apparent owner of the dock; but a couple of gold coins made him pipe down long enough for a gangplank to be lowered, for farewells to be said, and for boots to hit the deck.
Tonmerion Hark stared down at the dark wood beneath his feet. He wanted to kick it, to make sure it was real. He settled for shaking his head.
‘Bloody hell. I’m really home.’
‘Yes,’ snapped a voice by his side, in its usual ice-shard tone. ‘And you don’t see me whimpering about it. Now, come on!’ Calidae nudged Merion from his reverie and pointed him forwards. He tutted and took a moment to work the jelly out of his sea legs, then raised his chin and took a deep breath of salty air. It was almost as if he’d been holding his breath since leaving for Boston, all those months ago. He could even ignore the familiar rotten-egg stench of sulphur, and the stink of bilge.
‘Let’s get to it, then!’
*
As the
Black Rosa
churned her way back towards the sea, Merion and Calidae explored the winding streets between the dock buildings. They were barely more than corridors; narrow channels carved out of wood and bare brick. It was no wonder the sailors drifted between bunk and bar, never leaving the docks; the bowels of the dockside were just like the innards of a ship. Merion suspected that the wide open spaces of London’s parks would terrify the sailors solid, if they ever dared to venture out of their bilge-soaked kingdom.
Soon enough, muddy boardwalk turned into muddy cobble. Tenement buildings rose to tower over the streets; a patchwork of lives crammed into their boxes.
They passed factory drones of all ages, busy tramping to work. Their skinny legs were like sleek machine-parts, numbed by practise. Every head was bowed in solemn determination.
Just another day
.
Merion could almost hear them chanting it.
They walked by a factory, heard the clang and whistle of metal being pounded and sliced. Then a district of warehouses, with their long, dreary walls. And yet all roads pointed to London’s core, thanks to her clever architects, who toiled so long ago. It took a shade less than an hour to break into the city proper, where the buildings sat a little straighter, and where top hats and coat-tails replaced flat caps and overalls.
