Martina Mackenzie: The Isle of Bala Zopyre

Martina Mackenzie

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The Isle of Bala Zopyre

By Cori Nicole Smith

Martina Mackenzie: The Isle of Bala Zopyre. Copyright 2012 by Cori Nicole Smith. Smashwords Edition.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For information, address Rinesmith Carothers Publishing House at Rinesmith.Carothers@gmail.com.

Cover art by Liza Phoenix, LizaPhoenix.com

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Rinesmith Carothers Publishing House, Pittsburgh, PA

For my Baby London, who waited patiently for this book to be published before she arrived

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Fire and Rain

Chapter 2 – The Mariner’s Tale

Chapter 3 – Tales and Curios from Sheardland

Chapter 4 – The Cursed Dagger

Chapter 5 – Of the Golden Island and Dagger of Fire

Chapter 6 – Forged of Fire

Chapter 7 – Fanning the Flames

Chapter 8 – Firewall

Chapter 9 – To Follow the Dragon

Chapter 10 – The Dagger Scroll

Chapter 11 – The Queen’s Claim

Chapter 12 – Blazing the Trail

Chapter 13 – To the Elf’s Door

Chapter 14 – Boiling Over

Chapter 15 – Risen from the Flames

Chapter 16 – Stirring the Ashes

Chapter 17 – Martina’s Nivasosen

Chapter 18 – Smothering the Flames

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Chapter 1 – Fire and Rain

Slam! The ship was rocked by yet another pounding wave that washed over the deck, drenching everyone on that side. Closer now, lightning sparked through the sky and thunder crackled. Bouncing with the ocean’s fury, the ship, Odessa, rose and fell at obtuse angles to the grey, sloshing water. And lit by frequent lightning, black sails approached, almost invisible against the charcoal clouds of this evening storm.

Vague shouting could be heard over the din, but exact words were indiscernible, so the crew operated only on instinct. They fought the waves and tried to rein in the sails as they flapped uncontrollably in this sudden storm, wrapping around the mast and then flinging out suddenly into the sky only to wrap again around the mast before the crew could tame them. Another wave rocked the ship, bringing most of the crew down, washing them across the lurching deck far, like chess pieces knocked askew.

In the distance, the black sails came steadily on.

At the wheel, Captain Marlowe called out inaudibly to his crew as thunder echoed across the galleon, covering even the sound of the waves.

The main mast had been struck. Blazing like a match, it stood out in the night, a glowing beacon for the black sails. The stench of wet, burning wood mingled with the odors of ozone and the churning, salty sea piercing the air. Despite the hammering rain, the fire torched the mast, sizzling, zipping down the length of it, lapping up the wood with its myriad tongues and spitting ash into the night.

For a moment, all seemed still and silent except for the fire. The world was only fire—no rain or tumultuous ocean, no gusts or blustery gales, and certainly no Earth fathoms below the mighty Odessa. Flames were the only reality. The crew remained motionless, mesmerized by the blaze, as it consumed the mast and raced toward the ship.

Cut it down, they murmured suddenly. Acting as one, the crew brought out axes and nicked away at the burning oak post. A great cracking was heard as the center splintered from the weight, while the galleon tipped precariously back and forth. Finally, the trunk gave, and the flaming mast came down just before the fire reached the deck. Miraculously—strangely—as the mast fell, the boat swung to the side, and a heavy wave receding from the deck pulled it overboard, still aflame, to be swallowed by the depths of the ocean. A single splash and some steam rising from the frothing waves, and then it was gone.

That was weird, Martina thought. Then she looked down. Was not the fact that she was there at all peculiar? Clothed in what Hollywood considers to be the fashion for a swashbuckling lady in the days of pirates, Martina was standing on the ship that was being beaten about in the gale. Reaching down, she touched the hilt of a sword. "Well, that’s cool, she said aloud, though no one heard her, I suppose I could stick around and find out what happens."

Returning her attention to the galleon, she was not sure what she could do. Until that point, Martina had watched the events unfold, much like a movie, unaware that she was anything more than an observer. Now, she wondered if she could interact with the scene and characters.

Clumsily, she walked toward the scalded stump where the mast had been, aware of the heavy cutlass that swung at her side. Not far off now, the black sails billowed in the storm. Why did they not lower them so they could move with more accuracy? The approaching ship crept steadily toward Martina’s vessel, seemingly unaffected by the wind, rain, and waves.

The crew raced around Martina, doing whatever it is that a crew would do during a huge storm on a ship with a torched mast. She watched them for a moment, lost in their movement and unnoticed. Moving like ants, they performed their duties mechanically, scuttling across the slick deck. Still, Martina remained motionless, tasting sprays of salty sea water and feeling the rain on her face, the wind in her drenched hair and clothes, and the Odessa moving like a pendulum.

Slam! Harder than the waves pounding against the ship, something rammed their port side. The black sails loomed overhead. Without wasting any time, the buccaneers on the other ship clambered aboard the Odessa and drew their weapons. Odessa’s crew countered with their swords drawn, and the two parties clashed.

Martina remained apart from the fray for a moment but changed her mind about participating. None of this was real, after all. She, too, drew her sword and rushed toward the battle, ready to fight for the Odessa.

Within two minutes, Martina was captured and tied up, lying on the deck of the ship with the black sails. I should mark ‘pirate’ off my list of career choices . . . she thought. Others were near her, restrained in the same manner. So, she was not the only one to be captured. That was a relief . . . sort of.

The storm raged on as the prisoners lay on the deck of the enemy ship with the battle continuing unseen on the Odessa. Martina could hear the clash of swords, thunder, and the occasional crash of the two boats banging together when they were not straining their tethers. As she stared into the gloomy sky, a pair of scarred black leather boots obscured her vision. Tipping her head, she stared up the length of a particularly tall pirate stereotype complete with tattoos and an eye patch. He grinned at her and opened his mouth to attempt speech over the drowning rain. Just then, lightning pierced the sky and thunder crashed loudly.

Martina sat up in bed. The rain was caterwauling against her window. The storm pounded them from the east, promising to be a strong and unrelenting one. In the distance, she could just see a blaze of orange against the night sky.

* * * * * *

That was a bad storm last night, Heath commented. I kept waking up at midnight.

The girls looked at each other for a moment. Then, calmly, Martina replied, Well, if you put a back-up battery in your alarm clock, it won’t reset to midnight every time the power goes out. She and London chuckled softly as Heath gave them a look.

I know that, Heath defended. I just like the adventure of waking up and not knowing what time it is.

And what about the adventure of being late for school? London smiled.

I have an internal clock that allows me to be on time for everything, Heath stated, coolly. He leaned back in the chair and nodded to the girls, appearing aware of his own awesomeness. Twisting a sandy blonde curl around his finger, he pulled it down his forehead to the bridge of his nose and let go, allowing it to spring back into the mass on top of his head.

Martina shook her head. Heath had been her best friend since they were little and her family bought Willoughby’s Sundae Best, an ice cream shop that adjoined the house next door to Heath’s house. And he had been a goofball as far back as she could remember, one of the reasons he had always been her best friend.

Martina can vouch for me, Heath continued. She’s been around me a lot over the years, since Mom likes to leave me with the Mackenzies while she and the three ugly stepsisters run errands, check out colleges, go shopping, and do all that upkeep that older sisters need to do. I imagine there was a lot a claw trimming and removal of horns, warts, and tails, over the years. Glad I missed that. So yeah, Martina can attest to my uncanny sense of time. It’s pretty amazing.

Yes, astounding, Martina said. It’s a gift you were born with. Lucky you dodged the horns, warts, and tails gene your sisters got.

Weren’t there only two ugly stepsisters, London asked.

No, definitely three, Heath answered. The third one was a stunt double. You’ll learn about her in your freshman literature class next year. I’ll fill you in on all the other cool secrets I’m learning about as the year progresses. I wouldn’t want you two to be too surprised when the innocence of eighth grade is banished.

Starry Fields High School, here we come. Martina rolled her eyes.

Heath pulled his tuba mouthpiece out of his pocket and responded with a duck noise. Speaking of Fairy tales, I wonder how the gang in Sheardland is doing.

Martina smiled as she fondly remembered their previous three trips to Sheardland, where Rhihalven—the magically-endowed descendants of Neanderthals, who had long ago left the surface world—along with Elves, Sock Gnomes, and other magical creatures live in a safe haven they had created within the Earth. Despite their magic, they were constantly under attack by prehistoric humans who were apparently ill-equipped to understand that these creatures could, by little more than lifting a finger, obliterate their entire civilization. And yet, they did not do so. They simply left. The Rhihalven believed that they had no right to decimate any other creature via magic, and so, to maintain the balance, remain still in their own realm.

It’s crazy to think that just a few months ago, we all thought my Great-Granddad was an ordinary, friendly, old man, London said. And that music box he left Martina was what started all our adventures.

Mr. Willoughby . . . Martina began. I miss his stories. But I’m glad we get to continue his work by returning to Sheardland to help out the Rhihalven and everyone else. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured the music box, with the miniature Mr. Willoughby racing through the doors of Willoughby’s Sundae Best. She thought it was a wonderful way for her to remember Mr. Willoughby.

It’s a shame that music box didn’t lead us to a treasure, Heath said. But finding Sheardland wasn’t such a bad consolation prize.

Martina moved her piece on the board game that the three had been playing at her dining room table. Speaking of treasure, I had a bizarre dream last night. I guess my mind was pulling the sound of the rain into it. I was on a ship in a bad thunderstorm, and we were attacked by pirates—

Pirates you say? Heath bellowed in his best buccaneer voice. Arrrrgh! It’s been many a year since I heard me a good seafarin’ yarn. Be there a treasure? And scallywags?

Aye, there be scallywags, Martina taunted. But if you don’t let me finish the tale, I suppose you won’t be hearin’ about ‘em. Curling her finger like a hook, she poked it at Heath’s arm. Arrr.

Watch where you be pokin’ that thing, Missy Peg-Foot Peg, Heath growled. Me parrot don’t take too kindly to the Captain being prodded like that. And he has a taste for landlubber flesh!

Parrots don’t eat large animals! Martina retorted in her normal voice.

Will you get on with the story? London laughed. She ran her hands through her short platinum blonde hair, leaned back, and crossed her arms.

Fine. Martina chuckled. I was on the ship, and there was a storm. Oh, then the mast caught fire, and they cut it down. We were rammed and attacked by pirates. I decided to fight, too. It was cool until I was captured. I didn’t last long.

Maybe you should take sword-fighting classes, Heath suggested. "No, wait, we should all take sword-fighting classes! That would be awesome. You never know when we could be attacked."

I’ll think about it, Martina placated. So I was captured, and a pirate was standing over me. Then there was a huge crash, and I woke up to the storm.

It’s odd that we had a storm like that in December, London commented.

You know what else is odd? Heath asked. I have a pirate story, myself, er, meself, or something.

Since we’re taking a break from the game, let’s hear it. Martina leaned back in her chair.

Resuming his pirate voice, Heath began his tale. The story I’m about to tell you has been passed down through the generations of swashbuckling sailors in me family until now, when I give it to you, me hearties. One of the men on this brave ship was me ancestor Burkhard Egonhilde.

Really? Martina asked, skeptically.

Well, not really, Heath whispered in his normal voice. It just sounds better if you’re telling a story to give a frame of reference like that, and—

Wasn’t ‘Burkhard Egonhilde’ the name you went by when we were disguised as Elves? London mentioned.

Martina laughed. That sounds right.

Do you two want to hear the story or not? Heath faked pouting.

The girls murmured yes through their giggling.

Then brace yourselves, for this is not for the faint of heart, Heath said. If you have heart, neck, or back conditions; a weak stomach; or problems controlling your bladder or if you think you may be pregnant, then . . . I think that’s the warning they give for roller coasters. Nevermind. Anyway . . . this is me ancestor Burkhard Egonhilde’s tale . . .

Chapter 2 – The Mariner’s Tale

Still no sign of ‘em, Captain, Jack called from the crow’s nest. He had been on shift for the past three hours and was growing tired of peering off toward the western horizon. That morning, the Odessa had a scare. Black sails had been spotted. For the sake of the cargo, and themselves, the crew kept vigilant watch. If the pirates noticed them, they may be interested in the ship. If the pirates knew what they carried, they would be doubly so.

Those down on the deck were on full alert as well. Pacing nervously, Captain Marlowe continually scanned the horizon through his spyglass. He would not be taken by surprise. He had worked too hard for this mission. Port must be reached. Nodding his approval, he called back toward the crow’s nest. Good work, Jack. Change shifts.

Another crewman jogged to the base, ready to climb into Jack’s position once he was down. Quickly, Jack shimmied down the pole to minimize the time between watches. He knew what they carried. If anyone else on the seas that day knew . . .

Still clear! called the man now in the nest.

Jack breathed deeply and resumed normal deck duties. Most of the crew were not the average men hired to care for such a vessel. They were among the best trained in swordsmanship