Free Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) by Ben Galley Page A

face, he led them up the curving staircases. At the highest level—some ten floors above ground—they came to the grand doors of the Queen’s throne room, studded with jewels and etched with scenes of wherever she and her kind had sprung from. The Lost, as they called it. Some island forgotten in the ice. Dizali spared no time for staring.
    The soldiers went to work, throwing their weight against the huge doors. There was no Chimera this time, just brute strength, and it took considerably longer. Dizali spent the minutes rehearsing his words. These were to be the words of revolution and every good usurper knows the benefits of practice. He looked around, counting the scores filling the hall, crowding the stairs. Witnesses all, each with a tongue that would wag on street corners and in taverns, telling the story of how Dizali damned the Queen. He wanted those words to be carved into memory, etched into stone, recorded in books for generations. Like himself, immortalised.
    When finally the bolts broke and the doors splintered, a gust of wind rushed inwards. Dizali felt the breeze rustle the waxed strands of his hair and goatee. It was as if the room itself gasped for air. The soldiers murmured between themselves.
    ‘Onwards!’ yelled a general. Rank by rank the soldiers and lordsguards pushed on, shoulders jostling together. Dizali and his entourage stayed behind this time, waiting for their troops to fan out and fill the vast throne room.
    When he emerged from the press of men and women and armour, Dizali looked up at the tall crimson curtain that halved the room and regarded it with a sneer. Hanister stood by his side, fingers twitching and ready. Dizali took a deep breath.
    ‘Victorious!’ he bellowed, intentionally omitting her royal title.
    His lone voice reverberated around the throne room. Echoes piled on top of echoes, until they finally died to eerie silence. There was no rasping, no rattling, no hoarse breathing.
    ‘Tear it down!’ Dizali ordered. But before anybody could move, she spoke.
    ‘Come to destroy me, Lord Dizali?’ rattled Victorious, her voice tight and hoarse. She sounded a good distance behind the curtain.
    Dizali spoke clearly as he delivered his practised words.
    ‘Queen Victorious, you have failed this country in its time of need, and spat upon its loyalty. You have been found wanting, and now we people have spoken. We will be heard. The Empire deserves, and shall be delivered with, a finer leader than you—’
    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