by Ben Galley
Bloodmoon
BY BEN GALLEY
Book 2 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 2015
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.
BMEB1 eBook Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9927871-8-9
Kindle Edition
1st Edition – Published by BenGalley.com
Cover design by Teague Fullick
Edited by Kevin Booth
Professional dreaming by Ben Galley
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THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT!
About the Author
Ben Galley is a young indie author and purveyor of dark fantasy from rainy old 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, aiding fellow authors achieve their dream of publishing.
For more about Ben, and special Bloodrush content, visit his site:
www.bengalley.com
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[email protected]
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Also by Ben Galley
Bloodrush
The Written
Pale Kings
Dead Stars – Part One
Dead Stars – Part Two
Suggested Listening
Below are some of the songs that inspired me along my writing journey, and I hope they inspire you too, in any way that they can. Enjoy.
Warriors
Imagine Dragons
Riptide
Vance Joy
Take Me To Church
Hozier
Bloodflood
∆
Canyon Moon
Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness
Aibilene
Thomas Newman
Where Is My Mind?
Pixies
Gun
CHVRCHES
The Way I Tend To Be
Frank Turner
It’s Bigger Than Hip Hop
WTF, Dead Prez
Shout at the Moon
Mallory Knox
No Parallels
Hands Like Houses
Young Blood
Saint Raymond
Dig
Incubus
All Along The Watchtower
Jimi Hendrix
Hearts Like Ours
The Naked And Famous
Holy Diver
Killswitch Engage
Sæglópur
Sigur Rós
Follow Ben’s Bloodmoon playlist on
Spotify.
This book is for Lily.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
If you enjoy this book
About the Author
Also by Ben Galley
Suggested Listening
Dedication
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Epilogue
Ars Magica
Chapter I
OF GOATS
7th June, 1867
Goats never do what they’re told. They think they’re smarter than us, think they know which way is best, like they’ve got a secret they won’t tell.
At least that’s what Barnamus perceived, as his narrowed eyes glowered, almost murderous in the meaning, at each mischief-making one of his herd in turn. He swivelled his head—though not his eyes, for you never take your eyes off a herd of goats in the desert if you can help it—and spat to the side. A quick flick of his gaze, and he arched a lip in wry dismay. Another miss: the sliver of driftwood lay unsoiled, just sunbathing smugly in the day’s scorching glow.
The tobacco-stained spit sizzled softly in the sand, adding melody to the clomping rhythm of the goats trotting about, and digging up whatever roots and nibbles came their way. The earth wasn’t as barren as it could have been. Rivers tend to help with that. This one glittered away behind him, crisp and calm as a slab of pure marble.
Barnamus didn’t much care for water, especially not great vast lumps of it, lapping casually at the heat of the desert, distracting his goats. Goats like water, though to look at them, you’d never know it.
The goatherd snorted, hawked, and spat again. Another shift of the eyes, and this time he grinned, baring two rows of tobacco-stained teeth. A hit.
That meant it was time. With a grunt and a sigh, the old goatherd planted the trail-bitten soles of his boots on the ground and hoisted himself up with his stick. He gave a sharp whistle and poked the goats one by one into a rough group, as together as goats like to be. They needed a firm hand at all times, and he like to be more than firm.
As Barnamus led his herd a winding muddle through rocky outcrops and cactus patches, following the shoreline, he cast wary glances at the water’s edge. Driftwood, lots of it, had been pushed ashore by the desert breeze. Each piece was charcoal-black and smoothed by fire. Barnamus wrinkled his brow.
An hour trudged past, one thankfully free of any escape attempts from the mischievous goats. The river bent, and the shoreline with it. The goatherd and his charges had to scrape through a cut in the rock to reach the flat, open ground beyond the curve.
Destruction has a penchant to be noticed and adored. It tugs at the eyes, yanking a gaze into its clutches before the mind can get up out of its chair. Whether it is manmade or Maker-wrought, you can’t help but stare. And so it was that Barnamus stared, wrinkled eyes cranked wide, at the smoking hulk of a mighty riverboat that was crumpled against the far shore.
The once grand-looking vessel had been gutted by fire. It slumped like a drunk in the water, still clinging on to its anchors, a black shell of broken iron, still smoking in places where the cinders burnt on in the daylight. The river water around its belly was stained oily, black as the iron in places.
Barnamus tapped his goats away from the water, whacking their skinny legs with his stick and whistl
ing at them sharply. One started to trot away, but a hoarse shout and a look that promised a firm grip and a sharp knife brought the little beast right back.
The old goatherd fished a spyglass from his beaten-up satchel and peered through it, screwing up one eye. He could see nothing but ash and dead metal, and nothing in the water for the old goatherd to scavenge. Barnamus shrugged disappointedly and poked his goats onwards.
He got them ten paces further on before one of the beasts made a break from the herd. Spooked or distracted, it cantered down to the shoreline, with an angry Barnamus hot on its wiggling tail.
‘Get back here!’ he barked.
But true to stubborn form, the goat trotted on, finally coming to a halt next to a large lump of driftwood lying on the shoreline, a large lump of driftwood with hands, and ripped clothes …
Barnamus rushed forwards as fast as his aching legs would allow and slid to his knees. It was a young woman, lying face-down in the sand, pale where she hadn’t been burnt black. He gulped, feeling a cold sweat come to chill his roasting forehead. There were vicious red burns running over the right side of her head, where her blonde hair used to grow. What was left of it was matted and singed, sometimes right to the scalp. The burns trailed down her neck, and spread across her right shoulder and upper spine.
He had that awful urge to touch her wounds, as if his brain were having trouble processing their reality. He bit his lip and bent down. As his finger gently grazed her raw shoulder, the body moved and something hissed against the wet sand.
The goatherd had thought her dead, and staggered back. With all thought of his goats forgotten, knowing they would be halfway to Missipine by now, he set about trying to lever her up with his spare arm and his stick. She moaned, crying out weakly as he manhandled her into a sitting position. He tried to lean her against a rock so she could rest. With his eyes screwed shut, so as not see the burns hovering just inches from his face, he managed to prop her up, letting her head and shoulders slump over her soot-smeared chest.
The goatherd pulled a flask from his satchel and poured a little water into the cupped palm of his dirty hand. He held it under her mouth so she wouldn’t have to move. ‘Drink, girl,’ he croaked at her. ‘Drink it up now.’
For a moment, the girl did not move, and Barnamus feared she had finally drifted off, that he’d killed her with the strain. Then he felt her face move, and felt her mouth on his hand. She choked, managing only a little, but that was a start.
‘What’s your name, girl?’ he asked, trying to peer under her matted hair to see her face. ‘Who are you?’
‘Mmm—’ was all she could manage. Barnamus rubbed his sweaty brow, letting his hat slide back for a moment, wracking his brains. He couldn’t just leave her. Though he had the goats. But she was in a bad way. He scratched an itch deep in his thinning hair, and tapped his teeth together.
Barnamus moved to the water and brought some back in his hat. He poured it gently over her burns, washing the sand and soot away. He winced as she moaned again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. Barnamus went back to the water three more times, until the girl was soaking wet, but cleaner. Infection and desert tend to go hand in hand. Then he sat with her until she came around again. She tried to lift her head, and the goatherd moved a strand of her hair so she could look at him, sideways, through one bloodshot, raw and smoke-poisoned eye. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.
‘I’m …’ she paused, her eye roving about, taking in her surroundings. ‘Maid.’ It was just a hoarse cough.
‘A maid? On that?’ Barnamus pointed at the smoking wreckage on the far shore. It took a while, but she nodded. The goatherd narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. ‘What happened?’
The eye closed and the girl shifted against the stone, wincing when she caught her burns. A tear rolled down her grimy cheek. Barnamus could sense her pain. He bit his lip.
‘A boy came,’ she muttered. ‘Started a fire.’
‘A boy?’ Barnamus echoed.
There was another faint shift of the head that might be construed as a nod.
‘Mmm,’ grunted the girl. ‘We asked too much …’
Barnamus scowled. ‘What’s your name, girly?’
With a great amount of effort, wincing and biting her raw lips, the girl raised her head so she could stare at the old goatherd with both eyes. As her matted hair fell back, he couldn’t help but gasp. The fire had kissed the right side of her face too.
The raw red burns wandered across her forehead, cheeks, and jaw, reaching almost to her nose. Her ear was fused to the side of her scalp, and her right eye was a puffed-up slit through which she could barely see.
‘My name?’ she croaked. ‘Calidae.’
Chapter II
OF HUNTING
16th June, 1867
The soldiers trudged in through the gate with bleary eyes and heavy feet. The smiles with which they had strode out just four days before had long since faded, stolen by fear and replaced with masks of grim resignation and furious resentment. Battle-stunned, they called it.
No soldier likes to be shown their weakness, and that goes double for an officer. Weakness meant losses, and it was painfully obvious that this column of men and women was decidedly shorter and thinner than when it had left. Nobody was more aware of that fact than the good Major Doggard. His eyes, wide and red-rimmed, stared down the spear-straight thoroughfare that led to the door of the Brigadier General’s lodge, square in the centre of Fort Kenaday. His face was devoid of colour, save for a few crimson scratches here and there, and his flaming red hair, usually so neatly groomed, was a sweat-soaked mess.
There was a bang as the door to the lodge was thrust open, and a rotund, red-cheeked man came striding out. His body screamed of a lifetime spent in a sedentary occupation, eating food of dubious vitamin content. His thinning hair was slicked back behind his head to cover his baldness. Flapping jowls puffed from blushing cheeks. He had a mean glare in his little eyes, which were like two flecks of coal poked into a red cushion. In short, Brigadier General Linton Lasp, of the Third Frontier, Master of Fort Kenaday, did not look the slightest bit amused.
‘Brigadier General Lasp, Sir!’ Major Doggard swung a very long and very large gun off his shoulder and hefted it into a salute, then signalled for the column of dusty, bloody soldiers to halt.
‘You’re all dismissed,’ ordered Lasp. His words would have practically dripped from his mouth had his tone been any oilier. To the Brigadier General, sarcasm was nought but an accent, so natural that contempt might be mistaken for a speech impediment.
He was a high-born officer with a penchant for throwing his ample weight around, and Major Doggard knew this very well. If he could have turned any paler as he stood there, in front of all the people gathered to hear his dressing down, he would have. But by some luck of the Maker, it never came. Lasp simply leant in close and spoke two words low and firmly.
‘Inside. Now,’ he ordered.
The major nodded, saluted, and marched briskly towards the lodge, leaving his soldiers to disperse into the crowds, silent and grim.
Before he turned to leave, General Lasp cast a scowling glance around at the gathered people, refugees from the frontier towns. They were a bother to his operation, as far as he was concerned. His gaze found a particular pair of eyes, eyes he recognised, and he scowled all the more.
Tonmerion glared right back, until the general was forced to turn away.
‘I have no idea why that man despises me so much, but I can assure you that the feeling is utterly mutual.’
Lurker scratched his chin and rumbled. ‘Seems to me like he don’t like havin’ somebody of higher birth than him around. That’s what I reckon.’
Merion shrugged, looking up at the dark shadow of Lurker’s face under his dusty hat. His eyes had that squint to them, the one that told Merion he was deep in thought. Several of his old scars could be spied beneath his collar. Merion had always marvelled how the prospector stayed so stocky, instead of sweating a
way to nothing under the leather coat and britches he always insisted on. Merion stared at the little scratches in the elbow and shoulder of the coat, and idly wondered where Jake the magpie had got to.
‘Doesn’t make any sense. I couldn’t care less about who he is, or his precious fort. All I care about is why he isn’t letting us leave. We need to be heading east,’ Merion said.
‘Buffalo Snake ain’t givin’ up easy, that’s why. Lasp is worried we’ll all be snapped up as hostages, or worse, cut down. An’ his superiors won’t like that. Not one bit.’
Merion still wasn’t convinced. He shook the dust from his sandy blonde hair, which had been cut and hacked at by his own aunt just that very morning. He still wasn’t sure about the length, or the way it persistently spiked up. Merion scowled. ‘But we’re not even close to the frontier any more.’
Lurker lowered his voice. ‘Mayut’s come further than you think, boy. He’s pushed past Linger Hill already. That’s only two days’ march.’
Merion paused to look at a nearby soldier, hanging limply over the shoulders of another, older man. The soldier was missing an ear, and his eyes, as hollow and cold as winter’s breath, stared vacantly at the dusty ground.
‘Shamans again?’ Merion asked.
Lurker sniffed, smelling the sulphur and ash on their jackets. ‘Probably.’
‘Now I understand that look in their eyes,’ Merion replied, remembering a night not so long ago when he had watched the Shohari shamans in frozen awe. He rubbed his fingers together in his pockets, thinking of magick. ‘Come on, let’s go meet my aunt, before she and Rhin go hunting.’
The prospector grunted his assent. ‘You reckon he can get her out of the fort?’ he asked.
Merion shrugged again. ‘Says so,’ he answered, his voice a little lower, a little harder. Lurker caught it in an instant.
‘Then hopefully we’ll have some fresh meat for dinner.’