The Crimson Guild: The Blood Rage Series, #2

By Allan Walsh

Could you keep a secret living in a guild of thieves?

Orphaned Street waif Conall O'Lorcan lost his home and family because of the magic he harnesses inside of him. When he is recruited into a guild of thieves he must keep his magic a secret or face losing everything all over again.

The Crimson Guild is a fantasy novella and second book in the Blood Rage series, featuring compelling characters, an interesting storyline and a well-defined world. You'll be thoroughly entertained right to the end of this coming-of-age adventure.

Pick up your copy of The Crimson Guild today and join Conall in a world of betrayal among thieves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allan Walsh
• Release date: Mar 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386656746

Allan Walsh

Allan Walsh is a writer and artist, born in sun-scorched Australia and raised in the grungy suburbs of West London. He is a keen martial arts fan, lover of fantasy, and a movie buff. Allan has been influenced by cult Asian film directors such as Jacki Chan and Stephen Chow, Spec Fiction novelists the like of Joe Abercrombie and graphic novelists such as Wendy and Richard Pini.  Allan currently resides in Brisbane, where he enjoys creating new worlds through his writing.

Book preview

Growing Pains

Conall knew he was going to suffer today. His mother would make him endure pain; he wasn’t going to like it, but she would make him do it anyway.

A woven chair hung from the ceiling of their small hut, suspended over plump, colourful cushions. He pulled himself up and sank into the soft rope and bright rags. As he eased his head back, he looked up at the large hook in the beam above and swung gently.

Mmm, this must be what it’s like to float on a cloud, he thought as he stretched lazily.

A small fireplace burned beside him, its warmth radiating across his bare feet.

On the other side of the room, in front of a long, stone worktop, stood his mother. Hot embers smouldered in the clay oven beside her, sending wisps of smoke up the long chimney that disappeared through the thatched roof.

Don’t you fall asleep there, love, you’ve got work to do, Siobhan said as she cleaned the fire pit in the stone bench. She looked at him over a pile of bowls, then ducked down behind the bench. Conall heard the clinking and scraping of bottles being moved around.

Do you hear me lad? she asked as her head popped back up. She stood, the wrinkles that had gathered in her green linen dress falling straight again. Her wide sleeves slipped to her elbow as she raised her arm and gazed at the pear–shaped bottle in her hand.

Yes Ma, he said.

Well, come on then, it’s time for your lessons. She turned and plunged the bottle into a barrel, filling it with water. If you practice well, I’ll let you come and collect some herbs with me, and if we have time you can help me with my brews after, she said, looking back over her shoulder.

Oh, can I? Please!

Well, you’re old enough now and I’ve been thinking you should learn how.

Conall jumped down from the hanging chair and lowered himself to his knees in front of the fire.

Good lad, now start with your calming technique and then move onto a simple skin blend, just like Marla taught you, she said, pouring the water into a pot.

He nodded, placed his hands on top of his thighs and closed his eyes. He drew a long breath, then exhaled in a slow, steady motion. Conall rested his fingers on his temples and whispered a few words under his breath. He held his hands out before him; a shadow rippled across his skin, the colour of his flesh fading, until the glow of the fire was visible through his translucent palms. Conall bit the corner of his lip and his brow furrowed. The glow grew brighter as his hands ebbed away, and then he was gone, but for the slightest shimmer in the air before him.

Well done, his mother said. The air beside the fireplace rippled, and he re–appeared with a huge grin on his face.

That was the easy stuff, now let me see you shift.

Do I have to, Ma?

Yes, you do, you know you’re one of the special ones. There ain’t many that can take the changing like you can. And with people fearing magic these days, there’s so few of us practicing anymore. We can’t let our traditions die, somebody’s got to learn well enough to pass the knowledge on, his mother said.

I know, Ma, but I’ve been practicing since I was ten.

Siobhan laughed. That was only last year!

But it hurts, and it makes me tired.

It’ll always be painful, but everything gets easier the more you practice. She clunked the pot down on the bench and looked back at him. Remember, you need to focus your mind on something, keep calm, and never lose control, no matter how painful it is.

But…

No buts, you know what to do, Conall. Just look into the flames and concentrate on your form.

He huffed through his nose and stared into the fire—a moment passed… nothing. A crease formed on his brow; red and yellow flickering in his eyes as the flames danced up and down. His ears twitched. The crease on his forehead deepened. Stubby hair pushed through his skin. Another twitch and his ears grew, stretching upwards into long, pointy tips. His face screwed up and he cried out.

That’s it, love, well done, Siobhan said.

Conall smiled.

Now shift your face, she said.

His smile vanished.

Come on lad, you’ve got to practice.

Fine, he said, looking back at the fire. The room went silent as he stared into the flames once more. An ember leapt up with a crackle and a flurry of sparks, fading back into the orange glow. Conall grunted. The sound was followed by a deep moan as his mouth and nose began to elongate, his lips stretching tight around the muzzle that formed on his face. The moan faded into a gurgle, which rolled into a growl as wiry hair crept through his skin, covering his face in fur. He turned and snarled at his mother.

Excellent, now turn back, she said.

He whined in protest, looking up at her.

Don’t you be looking at me like that, she said, hands on hips. Go on then, change back.

He sniffed the air, his head tilting towards the flames. He focused on the orange–yellow glow flickering an arm’s length from his large black nose. His ears twitched, the hairs retracting into his skin, muzzle drawing back in a slow, fluid motion, inch after inch. He whimpered as the tips of his ears subsided into smooth, rounded edges. Conall expelled a large breath and sagged.

Good work son, I think that’s enough for the day. When you’ve got your breath back you come and help me with the brews.

Alright Ma, he said, letting out a yawn and wiping the tears from his eyes.

His mother handed him a small phial. Here, take this, it’ll give you some energy back.

Conall reached up and took the bottle. He bit down on the cork stopper and spat it into the fire. The cork fizzled in the flames as he raised the bottle to his lips and gulped the contents down. A cold tingle ran down the back of his throat, the chill moving rapidly to his stomach, making his body shudder.

That’s the effect of the icebark you can feel. I’ll teach you how to make the tincture later, but you mustn’t take more than one dose a day or you’ll start to crave it, understand?

Yes, Ma.

Good lad. Now, help me tidy up and then we can go gathering.

***

When they had cleaned up, Siobhan grabbed a couple