"Leg's gone. Fought a cat in the last house. Claw caught me right above the knee, so I've had to wrap it up tight for the night. I'm starting to wonder whether I'll ever see a tree again. This city is all stone and iron. Cold to the bone. Sift still searches. She's got the Day Watch on my trail. Coil guards too. It's got to be further east, to where the big houses are. The rich houses."
May 5th - 1867
The city was soaked to the bone. A constant pattering of dripping filled the air as the drainpipes, the arches, the lampposts, and even the bricks wept. The day was filled with fog. Interminably thick, it swirled about the streets without a care for the day, filling nooks and crannies until the air was choked and thick. In just the right places, you could stand and watch your limbs turn ghostly, stolen momentarily by the fog. It was an ethereal day. A day to stoke fires and rub hands, and leave the streets to the jealous weather.
It was a fine spring day, by any Empire standards.
It was a Sunday, and a lone black carriage rattled through the streets of central London. Pulled by four enormous horses, the carriage was ornate to say the least. Its wheels and axles were gold-trimmed, and a colourful coat of arms adorned each door. If you looked closely, you would have seen an eagle lifting a tiger into a blood-red sky. And if you'd looked any closer, you might have seen the name Dizali written in flowing letters.
A powerful name indeed, amongst the Emerald Benches.
It wasn't long before the Palace of Ravens loomed out of the thick fog. The two drivers slowed the horses to a gentle trot and aimed their carriage at a pair of giant black gates.
The Palace of Ravens was a marvel of architecture. A terrifying one, to the average tourist, but a marvel nonetheless. Four giant spires marked its boundaries, and between them thick walls and towering pillars formed the place proper. It was a humongous box, to put it plainly, a blotch on the face of London. But as its detail crystallised out of the fog, it was easy to see it was grand beyond belief.
Each side was a deceptively precise tumble of glass and turret and balcony and ironwork. It glittered in the murk, and through the glowing orange windows, a passerby could glimpse golden chandeliers and vast dining and dancing halls. Ravens cawed in its sharp reaches, watching any passing subjects like worms writhing in the dust.
As the carriage came face to face with the black gates that guarded the entrance to the palace, soldiers poured from the twin guardhouses and surrounded the coach. They had short swords at the hip, shields, and of course, their golden rifles for which they were famous for were slung over their backs.
'Papers, if you please,' ordered an officer, the medals pinned to his tall black hat chiming softly as he bobbed his head.
The blackened window of the carriage cracked open an inch, and a thin slice of paper was poked through the gap. The officer stepped up to the coach to grab it. He peered at the scribbled name.
'Your ring, my lord?'
There was a tap of metal on glass as an eagle and tiger-crested ring tasted the misty air, wrapped around a pudgy finger. The officer nodded and clicked his fingers. The soldiers jogged to the gates and began to push. The window was rolled up once more.
A man was waiting for the carriage at the main entrance, hands folded neatly behind his back and eyes low. He wore no hat, only a long coat that bulged in a way that indicated he was carrying a sword. As soon as the carriage had squeaked to a halt on the marble flagstones, the man stepped forward and opened the door.
YOU ARE READING
Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)
Fantasy"Magick ain't pretty, it ain't stars and sparkles. Magick is dirty. It's rough. Raw. It's blood and guts and vomit. You hear me?" When Prime Lord Hark is found in a pool of his own blood on the steps of his halls, Tonmerion Hark finds his world not...
