Blood Rage: The Blood Rage Series, #3

By Allan Walsh

Would you expose your darkest secret to save a kingdom that shuns what you are?

Loner and thief Conall O'Lorcan is plagued by the secrets of his past - secrets that people fear. When he accepts a job from a mysterious baron he must confront his past head on and risk revealing what he really is. The fate of the realm lies in his hands.

Blood Rage is the third book in this Blood Rage series. If you like fantasy, action packed adventure, and mind bending magic, then you'll love Blood Rage by Allan Walsh.

Grab your copy now and join Conall on the adventure of his life!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allan Walsh
• Release date: Apr 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386952886

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

The Tool for the Job

Conall stood opposite The Organ Grinder Inn, wondering if trouble was waiting for him. Nothing had changed since the last time he was here. The yellow thatch roof still rested upon the solid, mottled walls, and garbage still littered the cobbles outside.

His eyes were drawn to the image on the sign that hung above the entry: a butcher shoving animal organs into a grinder with one hand, while turning the wheel with the other. What kind of sausage squeezed from the end of that machine? What animal’s blood dripped from the small metal pipe at the bottom? He’d never liked that sign. Nothing had changed.

Conall crossed the street and peered in through the small squares of green–tinted glass; the circular swirls in their centre distorted the images behind. He straightened his cloak and entered through the doorway, walked past a couple of old men drinking at the bar and sat at a small wooden table, careful to choose a seat facing the door.

Hello love, what can I get you? the chubby barmaid asked, wiping down the table with a dirty rag.

I’ll have a tankard of the house brew.

Right you are, love, she said, shoving the rag into a pocket on the front of her apron.

The tavern gradually filled up. Dense clouds of pipe smoke hovered in the air; the smell of burning tobacco underlined with the scent of stale hops.

Here you go, mister, the barmaid said, slapping his ale down on the table. He flicked her a coin and she moved on to another customer. Chattering voices and laughter grew louder as more people packed into the large room. Conall sipped a mouthful of ale, watching the faces come and go. A tall man with a jagged, white scar running down his face caught Conall’s attention; the disfigurement separated his top lip with an almost vertical indented line. He entered alone, looked around and sat a few tables away, facing Conall. Patrons came and went and the man kept to himself, occasionally glancing around. Conall turned his attention back to the door. The chatter became slurred, smoky clouds turning into a mist, filling the room as he waited. A short, bald–headed man in a fur–trimmed coat walked in: O’Malley. He paused in the doorway. His eyes scanning the confines of the tavern walls before catching Conall’s gaze. A smile lit his face, clearly relieved to see Conall. He made his way over to the small table, slipped on some spilled ale and crashed to the floor. A few patrons stopped and stared. Conall watched, shaking his head.

I’m alright, O’Malley called, as he stood and wiped himself down. He slid himself into the empty chair opposite Conall.

Did you get it? O’Malley asked.

Of course I got it.

Let me see it then.

Conall dug into his pocket and pulled out a jewel encrusted broach. O’Malley’s eyes lit up and he extended his hand to grasp the item. Conall jerked it away.

Let me see the payment first.

O’Malley huffed. He pulled a pouch from within his coat and placed it on the table in front of Conall.

There you go, twenty silver scillings. Now hand it over, O’Malley said, his lip twitching slightly.

What do you mean twenty? The price was thirty scillings. You don’t pay, you don’t get.

Thirty! You thieving rascal, you know that’s more than the damn thing’s worth.

Conall stared at the man. Thirty was the agreed price.

Ah, I’m only messing with you, boy, O’Malley said. His hand trembling as he pulled out another coin purse, throwing it onto the table beside the other. Here’s the rest of it.

Conall plucked up the pouches and gave them a shake. They opened easily as he tugged at the string bindings. He eyed the contents, dug his fingers inside and took a silver coin from each, inspecting them closely. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover what he owed Finn, but thirty silver was thirty silver. Satisfied he’d been paid accordingly, he handed the heirloom over. O’Malley grabbed it and stuffed it inside his coat pocket. Without wasting any time, he stood up, bade Conall farewell and left the tavern.

Conall slid back in his chair, shoved the coin pouches into his trouser pocket, and took another swig of his ale. He was peering into the tankard, swishing the last mouthful of ale around the bottom when the tall man with the scar approached.

Conall sat up, readied his hand on his dagger and leant forward, gaze fixed on the man.

Are you the one they call Conall? he asked in a gruff voice.

Who wants to know?

McCabe’s the name. I need a job done.

So, pull up a chair and start talking.

McCabe drew up a stool and sat down.

I’ve been sent to ask if you’ll retrieve a small item for the Baron and return it to his care.

Baron? There hasn’t been a Baron in Armada since Kirwan took the throne.

Times are changing, Conall.

First things first McCabe, only my friends and well–known acquaintances call me Conall. Until you fit one of those categories you call me O’Lorcan. Now, who’s this Baron and what’s he after?

McCabe laughed. You’re just what I was expecting, Conall. He paused for a second, Conall holding his gaze. I’m sorry… O’Lorcan, he said. His attention shifted to a barmaid heading for the counter with a tray of empty tankards.

Woman, bring me some whiskey and an ale for my friend, he bellowed. His focus turned back to Conall. The Baron’s a powerful man. That’s all you need to know about him. As for the item, well, it’s an artefact of great personal worth to him. And that’s all I care to tell you about it—unless of course you choose to accept the job at hand.

How long do I have? Conall asked.

Thirty days.

What’s it worth?

Eighty gold.

Conall paused. Eighty gold. That would pay off his debt from last week’s game of stones… and see him living comfortably for a while.

Well? McCabe asked.

Keep talking, Conall said, maintaining a cool outer image while his heart tried to beat a hole through his chest.

A man called O’Cullen stole it from the Baron a year ago. The bastard’s got it under guard at his home. McCabe inched his chair a little closer. Understand this O’Lorcan, the artefact won’t be easy to retrieve. I’ve sought you out for the job because you’ve a reputation for being the best in your field. And as a sign of good faith, the Baron’s willing to pay you half up front. What do you say?

Here you are love, one whiskey and one ale, the barmaid said as she returned with their drinks. She placed them on the table and McCabe handed over a few copper groats.

She slipped the coins into her apron and moved along.

I’ve got another job lined up. Make it a hundred and twenty and I’ll see what I can work out. I can get you an answer in five days

How about I make it a hundred and you give me an answer in two?

Conall looked up, scratching at the stubble under his chin. Deal, I’ll meet you back here in two days. He stood and grabbed his cloak from the chair beside him, smoke swirling as he flung it across his shoulder and nodded farewell to McCabe.

There was no other job. Conall needed time. One hundred gold was a pretty price to pay for a lost artefact, and he wanted to find out what he was getting himself in to.

As he made his way along the road towards his lodgings, two large men stepped out from the shadows: Finn’s goons. Conall slid his hand to the hilt of his dagger and came to a stop. He glared at them; fighting men, maybe bare–knuckle fighters judging by their thickset brows and cauliflower ears.

Oi, we’ve been looking for you, the larger of the two men shouted.

Conall recognized him, his name was McBride, but the locals called him Scar. Ex–militia, kicked out for killing one of his men and recruited by Finn a short time later

So, what of it? Conall said.

You cheeky little bastard, we’ll have to teach you some manners, said the other through gritted teeth.

I’d like to see you try that, you ugly focker.

The smaller man edged forwards. Conall stepped back and drew his dagger, hands raising. Ready.

Scar grabbed his companion’s arm, holding him back.

I’m not fockin’ scared of you two, Conall said.

Leave it Mac, we’re not here to fight him, we just gotta deliver the message, Scar said quietly.

You’ve got twelve hours to come up with the money or I’m going to rip you apart, you skinny fockin’ runt, Mac sneered.

That’s right, keep your dog on a leash Scar. I’ve still got a day to come up with the coin.

You should know better than to play stones with a Rogin, O’Lorcan. No man can afford to lose money he ain’t got. But that’s twice as true for someone in your line of work.

I’ll have the money.

Make sure that you do or there ain’t nobody in town that’ll talk to you, let alone hire your services. And you really don’t want that to happen. Scar turned and walked away.

Choices

As he hurried along the quayside, Conall scanned for the mark of the Guild. He saw what he was looking for: a small, stylised drop of blood carved into the doors of an old wooden shack. Conall approached and peered through a gap in the doorway.

The scent of stale fish and body odour assaulted his nostrils. Inside, four men and a woman sat playing a game of stones on an old crate. Their clothes were shabby and their hands soiled by years of manual labour. The biggest man had a shaved head and his shirt sleeves were torn off at the shoulders, exposing the colourful tattoos running down his arms.

Conall knocked and entered. All heads turned towards him; they stood up, hands moving to augers tucked into their belts.

Take it easy, I’m not looking for trouble, Conall said, holding his hands up.

So, what are you looking for? the woman said, pushing her greasy hair off her face.

Information.

We can’t help you, now piss off, the big man said.

Conall slowly moved his hand and pulled back his right sleeve, showing a blood–drop tattooed on his wrist.

You’re a Blood, well why didn’t you say so? the big man said, gesturing for Conall to come and join them. The rest of the crew sat down, relaxing back into their game.

The name’s Blink, the big man said as he reached over, extending his hand.

O’Lorcan, Conall said, as they shook.

So, what is it you want to know? Blink said.

Have you heard of a man called O’Cullen, someone calling themselves the Baron or a stolen artefact?

Can’t say that I have, but old Burt the butcher on Main Street might know something.

***

Conall followed a trail of names, names of people who might know something. He travelled from the docks to the butcher’s shop, the butcher’s to a tavern, the tavern to an old woman selling carved, wooden animals on a street corner. He asked his questions again.

Have you heard of someone calling themselves the Baron? The old woman shook her head. What about O’Cullen or a stolen artefact?

I haven’t heard of no Baron or no artefact. Conall gritted his teeth, frustrated. O’Cullen on the other hand, now I’ve heard of him. You’ll find him at Cahill.

Cahill?

Aye, a town–come–city out in the eastern counties. Known for their horse breeding they are. You’ll need to be careful mind.

Why’s that? Conall asked.

He’s got a skilled militia and his own personal guard, but from what I been told, he ain’t no thief, the old woman said.

What else can you tell me?

That’s all I got, mister.

Thanks for that at least, Conall said.

Oi, you owe me one for that.

Conall flicked her a silver coin. I don’t owe you a thing.

Smart man, she mumbled.

***

That evening Conall returned to The Organ Grinder Inn. McCabe was waiting for him. A tight–lipped smile crept up on the man’s face as Conall approached.

So, you came back then, McCabe said.

I said I would, didn’t I?

Aye, I believe you did. He gestured towards a chair. Please, sit.

Conall pulled the chair out and lowered himself into it.

So, what’s your decision? McCabe asked.

I’ll take the job

Ha, good man. McCabe extended his hand. Conall took it and they shook. McCabe reached inside his woollen coat and pulled out a parchment and a large pouch of coin. He unfolded the paper and slid it to Conall. This is what you’re looking for. It’s an heirloom, carved from bone. A talisman was pictured on the paper, round and simple in design. It depicted a man’s body encompassed in flames. McCabe planted the pouch down on top of the paper. Fifty gold as agreed and another fifty on completion.

Conall opened the pouch and looked at the golden coins. A tingle ran down his neck.

That’s a lot of money.

He pulled the drawstring shut and shoved the purse into his pocket.

You’ve got thirty days, O’Lorcan. Fail or turn up late and I’ll drag your name down so low you’ll never work again. If you take off with the coin… you’re as good as dead, McCabe said.

Agreed.

Of course, they’ll be dangers along the way. The roads to Cahill are known for bandits and once you get there, you’ll have the militia to worry about.

They spoke for the best part of an hour. Conall listened, writing nothing down.

He left the tavern mulling over the information in his head. As he turned into an alley on his way back to The Half Moon inn, he almost didn’t notice the three men that stepped out in front of him, blocking the exit. Conall turned to go back the way he came, but another three men stepped into the darkened lane from a doorway a little further back.

We’ve got you now you little runt, came a familiar voice.

Scar let you off your leash, did he? Conall asked as Mac moved forward out of the darkness. Mac began to draw his sword.

Stand down, a voice commanded. Mac froze. Scar stepped out from the shadows to stand beside him. You got the coin? he asked.

Sure, I’ve got Finn’s money, Conall replied, pulling out the coin pouch. He took five gold coins from the cloth bag.

You’re a lucky focker, O’Lorcan, but one of these days your luck’s going to wear out, and believe me, when it does, I’ll be the one coming for you, Mac snarled.

Conall looked at him. Five gold as promised, he said and flung them at Mac’s feet. There you go, now pick ’em up and run back to your master like the good dog you are.

Mac stepped forward, drawing his sword again.

Scar grabbed his arm. Pick up the guilds, Mac, he said, holding the big man’s gaze.

Mac scowled and jerked his arm free, then bent to pick up the coins.

Scar looked back to Conall. You shouldn’t be so quick to make enemies. One day you’ll be in a fix and in need of a friend. And you ain’t got no friends. He turned to leave. Hurry up, Mac, he growled.

Mac finished collecting the guilds and stood up, his eyes locked on Conall. Conall smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. He shouldered past and continued to his lodgings.

Rats scuttled away into the cracks of the buildings as Conall’s footsteps echoed off the cobbles. Scar’s comments played on his mind as he walked down the dirty alleys.

No friends, huh. What would you know, Scar? I don’t need friends, I work alone and I like it that way. I got all the friends I need in the Guild.

Bad Judgement

Erin stood in the darkness, moonlight illuminating the shapes of the trees around her. Her legs were stiff and she bounced on the balls of her feet to work her muscles.

In the distance, she could make out a few faint, orange glows, like fireflies dancing softly in the night. The caravan was approaching. She crouched down, clasped her hands together and blew out the sound of an owl. Startled, a mouse scurried out of the leaf debris and into a hole.

Erin tied her hair back with a piece of black cloth and made her way back to camp. Just this last raid and she’d leave. It was a stupid plan, made by stupid men; she wanted no part of it. But she was stuck with it. She’d only taken up with Kearn and his gang for protection; the open road was a dangerous place for a lone woman. These men had proven just as bad. Seamus, Cogan and Niall growing more and more persistent with their advances since they’d left River Merge. It wouldn’t be long before one of them would catch her off her guard. She scowled. The Goddess help Cogan if he tried it on again.

The bird call had done its job. When she got back to the makeshift camp, they had extinguished the small fire and readied the horses. Erin took a set of reins and was preparing to mount her steed when Cogan approached her.

Need a hand up, gorgeous? he said, grabbing her arm with one hand as he drove the other between her legs. He smiled a predatory smile, lips curled back over blackened teeth, glint in his eyes like he was taking pleasure in doing it and enjoying the anger flashing across Erin’s face.

A sharp crack sounded out as her head met his nose, snapping the cartilage. Blood sprayed across her cheek and he stumbled backwards, clutching at his face. Cogan opened his eyes, rage flaring within them. He lunged forward.

You fockin’ whore, I’ll— his eyes widened as