Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2)
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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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.
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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
This book is for Lily.
OF GOATS
7th June, 1867
G
oats 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 whistling 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.