The Ghost Princess (Graylands Book 1)

by M. Walsh

  Katrina grinned. “Don’t you just love the vague, obtuse words and explanations Mages and Eldér always use to describe this shit?”

  Marcus laughed.

  “It’s always these riddles and complex webs,” she continued, “but in the end, usually their grand schemes wind up boiling down to: ‘kill that before this happens.’”

  They continued laughing. Warren and Brooks ignored them, while Nelson tried to pretend he was.

  “No, you’re right,” said Marcus, still chuckling. “You’re absolutely right. Anyway, yesterday I meet Warren over there, and he gives me new orders: we put the dagger trail aside and rendezvous in Bevy to focus on the forest thing full time.”

  “And Warren thinks it all might be connected somehow?”

  “Looks that way.”

  She nodded and, after a pause, asked, “Does he think I am, too?”

  Marcus flashed a quick glance toward Warren and smirked. “He thinks you’re hiding something.”

  She snickered, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Nothing sinister, Captain, I promise. Just my own baggage, is all.”

  “I guess that’s usually how it is in Graylands,” he said, leaning back against a neighboring tree. “This is the land for people that don’t want to be found. Where people can just disappear.”

  “Well ... try to, anyway,” Katrina said with a sardonic smirk. “As you can see, it doesn’t always work for us.”

  Marcus laughed. “Like I said, I don’t think you’re anything more than someone caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Warren, though, he doesn’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Trust me, I know the type.”

  “I guess you are—or were—a warrior of sorts.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Those pirates you took out weren’t common thugs. And unless I’m wrong, you made pretty short work of them.”

  She didn’t say anything. Feeling uncomfortable, her gaze drifted off into the dark woods beyond the camp. Finally, she said, “Old habits die hard.”

  “So,” he said. “What is your baggage? What makes someone like you become this?”

  After another long pause, she sighed, took another swig from her flask, and said, “Let’s just say I’ve seen more than my share—almost none of it was my choice—and when it was all said and done ... there was no happy ending waiting for me.”

  Seeing she would say no more than that, Marcus nodded and said, “Understood.” With a sigh, he stood up and continued, “Well, for what it’s worth, once we get to Bevy, I’m going to make sure you are taken care of. I give you my word: whatever the hell is going on, you are not going to get drawn into something you want no part of.”

  Katrina hesitated, realizing suddenly that throughout her entire life, this was the first time anyone had said that to her. As far back as she could remember there was never a choice. Never an option. Her life was dictated by destiny and fate—often told to her by other people—and all she could do was follow along.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Call me Deacon.”

  She smiled and said, “Deacon.”

  * * *

  Katrina bolted upright in a cold sweat, her heart pounding. For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was and felt certain she’d have another panic attack.

  “You okay..?” Marcus asked.

  Seeing the familiar camp and faces, she calmed down and slowed her breathing. It was still night, and the fire was still burning. “How long was I asleep?” she asked.

  “Not long,” he replied. “Not even an hour, I think. We were just about to decide who would first stand guard.”

  She sighed, wiping sweat from her forehead, and took a drink from her flask. She already couldn’t remember the nightmare, but guessed it was little different than the usual bad dreams—the same faces, voices, and dead things. Considering what she’d been through for the past two days, she figured it was no surprise old memories would be dredged up.

  She was beginning to calm down, but for some reason, couldn’t shake a nagging dread. She looked out into the dark woods and felt certain they were being watched. She tuned out the sound of Marcus and the others talking and focused on the forest. After a few moments, she heard a snap.

  At first, Katrina thought it might be a deer or, at worst, a wolf. But there was another snap and some crunches. It was something on two legs, and it was heavy. It stomped around in the dark, like it wasn’t trying to keep its presence hidden. And it was getting closer, whatever it was.

  “There’s something out there,” she said, backing closer to the center of the camp.

  “What is it?” asked Marcus.

  “I don’t know. But it’s big, and it’s close.”

  He snapped his fingers at the others, signaling them to be prepared for anything. In a flash, Nelson, Brooks, and Warren were spread out at every corner of the camp, weapons drawn.

  The stomping and crunching would persist, stop, and resume in a completely different place. The thudding sounds of movement seemed to be coming from the same, large individual—so unless there was a half dozen men all the same size and weight surrounding them, one person was somehow circling them and closing in.

  “Warren,” Marcus whispered. “What do you make of this? Only one or many?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something ... wrong about this.”

  Katrina remained silent, feeling a terrible chill in her core. Her skin tightened and heart beat faster. That unpleasant sense of nostalgia returned, only this time it was the lurking dread that would creep up her spine before something very bad happened.

  The dread didn’t go away, even as the sounds in the darkness faded. All fell quiet and still, except for the slight breeze and cracking of the fire. But she was certain whatever was out there wasn’t gone yet.

  “I think we should go,” she choked out.

  “Don’t worry, Rien,” Nelson said, soothingly. “Whatever’s out there, we’ll take care of—”

  He was cut off by a huge black shape emerge from the darkness swipe past him. In an instant, his throat was slit open, and blood was pouring down his chest. His eyes widened and skin turned white, as he fell to his knees and crumbled face-down in the dirt.

  Time seemed to freeze in that instant—Marcus, Brooks, and Warren staring at their fallen comrade. Katrina’s eyes locked on the massive figure standing over him.

  He stood a towering height, and his wretched body was thick with muscle. He wore ragged, black clothes and a featureless black mask that covered his entire face. Sickly strands of light hair hung from his balding scalp. His skin was a decomposing shade of gray, and his body was riddled with scars, burns, and cuts. In one gloved hand, he was holding what could technically be considered a knife—a thick length of jagged metal at least two feet long attached to a make-shift grip. In the other, an ax powdered with blood long dried to brown and black.

  He looked down at Katrina—his eyes unseen beneath the mask, leaving only empty black slits. Upon feeling his dead gaze on her, a lifetime of fighting, war, and death flashed through her mind all at once. With it, came the horror of pure, unapologetic panic.

  “The Enforcer!” Warren bellowed.

  He was about to say more, but he was cut off by Brooks shrieking, “He killed Adam! Bastard!”

  She charged, ignoring Marcus shouting at her to stop. She made two slashes with her broadsword at the Enforcer’s chest. Thick, putrid spurts of blood oozed from the wounds, but he otherwise didn’t react.

  Brooks hesitated, still not hearing Marcus ordering her to pull back. Before she could respond, the Enforcer turned his attention to her and buried his ax in between her eyes. Her body arched, and an unnerving gasping noise came out of her mouth. With a swift slash of his blade, he cut her head from her shoulders with the ax still in her face.

  Katrina backed to the opposite side of the camp, crouched in between Marcus and Warren. The Mage was trying to summon some kind of spell—Marcus, on guard, ready to defen
d if need be.

  With a flick of the ax, the Enforcer threw Brooks’s head at Warren. It hit his chest with a dull thud, and he gasped at the horror of it. The Enforcer grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed, forcing his spine to bend at the wrong angle. There was a sickening crunch as the Mage’s body broke in half, his head left resting on his heels.

  “Rien!” Marcus roared, “Run! Get out of here now!”

  He charged, swinging his broadsword with all his might. The cut was deflected by the Enforcer’s blade, but he followed it with a hard thrust of his armored shoulder. The Enforcer didn’t budge, and as Marcus tried to follow the attack with another swing of the broadsword, his arm was caught in the Enforcer’s grip.

  Marcus grimaced as the Enforcer’s fingers dug into his flesh and screamed when his arm was torn off at the elbow. The broadsword fell to the ground before Katrina, Marcus’s hand still clutching it. The Sentry Captain’s skin lost its color, but nonetheless, he still tried to fight, drawing a dirk from his belt. He managed only a feeble slash before the Enforcer grabbed him by the face—followed by a spray of blood and Marcus shrieking.

  Katrina was clutching at her hair. Nausea threatened to overtake her stomach. The world seemed to be spinning all around her. Her breathing was frantic. Her heart was in her throat and thudding with such force, she thought she was going to drop dead right there.

  She slowly got to her feet while Captain Marcus was torn apart in front of her. Not thinking clearly, she picked up his fallen sword, having no idea what she was planning to do with it. All her life she’d been taught to fight. To never give up and know no fear in the face of death. But that was a long time ago, and her world was crumbling to pieces.

  Run.

  With the last of her companions finished, the Enforcer turned his attention to her. She held up the broadsword, feeling its weight in her hand, and suddenly had an appalling thought: It’s just like my father’s sword. Upon thinking that, she came very close to collapsing to her knees and throwing up.

  The lumbering giant approached, blood dripping from his weapons and gloved hands. Katrina backed away, feeling no strength in her arms or legs. Since her childhood she’d been taught to fight those that would threaten her. To be a warrior, a champion, a hero ...

  You don’t have to prove anything anymore.

  But those days were behind her and left her broken and empty. She had the sword in her hand, and she knew how to use it. But she couldn’t bring herself to. Seeing the blood, and the thought of fighting and death, brought back all the pain and horror that left her this way.

  You could always run.

  She remembered hearing battle ... figures twice her size looming over her ... having to drag herself up from the dirt, beaten and bleeding, to fight ... the burst of red death that covered the horizon and her people screaming and the blood pouring from their eyes ...

  RUN!

  Just as the Enforcer raised his ax to strike, she turned and fled. She could barely see anything in the night. Whatever moon might have been out was shrouded by leaves above. But that didn’t matter. Panic and horror mingled with her natural grace and speed, and she bounded through the woods, somehow avoiding every obstacle and navigating her way through.

  Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps of the Enforcer following. She thought she heard others voices all around her. Was she hearing things in her panic? Was it the pirates looking to take advantage of the Enforcer’s attack?

  Didn’t matter.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, beneath the panic that drove her on—the part of her she’d been trying so hard to drown away forever with alcohol—she felt the sting of shame. It was the same part of her that felt guilt when she turned away Rasul Kader and his desperate plea for help. It was the part of her, trained since her childhood, to be a leader and savior.

  It called her a coward. An embarrassment to her name and people.

  Shut-up! I’m not that person anymore!

  She ran until she found the edge of a cliff overlooking a wide river. In this clearing, the moon shone bright and piercing. It colored the scene a dull shade of blue and far below, Katrina could see the rushing water of a river reflecting the moonlight.

  Behind her, she heard the Enforcer approaching—looking to finish his job.

  The ravine was wide, and no bridge was in sight in either direction. The water was far below, and in the darkness, she had no way of knowing its depth.

  The Enforcer was closer.

  Seeing no choice, Katrina leapt from the cliff. The cold wind rushed by in free-fall, and she tried not to think of anything until she was engulfed by the freezing water. The river was deep, but not enough to prevent her from hitting her shoulder and head on the ground. Sharp pain shot throughout her upper body, and she dizzily flailed herself to the surface.

  She managed to get her head above water, but couldn’t see anything as the river carried her downstream. She gasped for air, but her dizziness got the better of her, and suddenly the world seemed very far away and dark.

  She sank below the water, and her last thought before drifting into unconsciousness was this was a fittingly pathetic end to her life.

  7

  The scouts came back that evening, revealing the Sentries had made camp off-road. The pirates caught up and set up a camp of their own fifty yards away. Hidden in a thick patch of trees and bushes, they started no fire for fear of being spotted—using lit matches as the only source of light.

  The agreed plan was they would wait until late, when they were asleep, and waylay them. Hobbs warned they would have to be cautious, as they would likely have someone standing guard throughout the night, and emphasized when they did spring their attack, the Mage needed to be the first one taken out.

  Krutch Leeroy, despite being the supposed leader of this outfit, sat off to the side and said nothing. Nestled in the thick woods, with a near solid ceiling of leaves blocking the moonlight, he could barely see anything except the hints of faces talking over the tiny matches. It looked almost like children telling each other scary stories with dim lights propped beneath their chins.

  As Hobbs and the others discussed their plan, the only contribution he would make was an occasional hacking sound trying to clear his throat. Sitting in the thick woods, amongst bushes and weeds, Krutch once again felt like a feather or piece of string had lodged in his throat.

  Even if his allergies weren’t bothering him, he wouldn’t have been paying much attention anyway. Throughout the rest of the day, he kept sneaking glances at the strange, scar-faced pirate who seemed to be constantly staring at him. Even there, with everyone sitting under the cover of darkness, he could feel that unsettling, smirking face watching him.

  He thought to his previous misadventures, dealing with people who bought into the stories and rumors that surrounded him like Hobbs or Arkady. Many feared him or viewed him with a kind of cautious awe—despite his never giving them anything to fear or be in awe of. Even though the stories and tales about him were lies, Krutch Leeroy was regarded as a dangerous man of authority to be respected.

  But that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes he’d find pirates and thugs who would act antagonistic or outright hostile to him. And almost invariably, it wasn’t because these people didn’t believe the stories—rather, it was because they were itching to start a fight and kill him to prove how tough they were. More than once he’d encountered macho muscle-heads and nut-jobs who wanted to go down as the guy or woman that took down the “legendary” Krutch Leeroy.

  If not that, Krutch thought, it could be a bounty hunter. He had prices on his head all over the world. When he wasn’t dodging Sentry Elite and militia, it was usually bounty hunters and assassins trying to take him.

  Sitting in the dark, imagining all the worst possibilities, he nearly shrieked when Hobbs sat beside him and patted his back.

  “We’re going to hold off for now. Wait until they sleep and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don’t care,” he said, wavi
ng his hand. “Listen, Hobbs, who’s the guy with the scars on his face?”

  Hobbs stared at him, his expression blank. “Gonna have to narrow that down, boss. Lot of our guys have scars.”

  Krutch grumbled. “Um ... the short, skinny guy. He’s real creepy looking. Uh ... brown hair..?”

  Hobbs scratched his head, thinking it over. “Oh, I think I know. Uh, I’m not really sure of his name. It’s ... um ... Mord, I think. Something Mord. Let me ask Arkady.” He motioned Arkady to come. “Hey, what’s the name of the Mord guy..?”

  “Mord..?” repeated Arkady, his eyebrows arching. “I think his name is Cyfer, but I didn’t know his last name is Mord.”

  Krutch stared at them, incredulous. “Are you serious? You guys hired someone to work for us, and you don’t even know his name..? For all you know, he could be an assassin or bounty hunter or—”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  This time, Krutch did shriek seeing the creepy, scar-faced man had sidled up beside him. He was smoking a cigarette, barely lighting his face that was otherwise obscured in darkness.

  “Hey,” said Hobbs, casually. “Your name ... you’re Cyfer Mord, right..?”

  He exhaled a puff of smoke and said, tonelessly, “It’s what some people call me.”

  “There, see,” Hobbs said, patting Krutch on the shoulder. “Cyfer Mord.”

  Krutch stared at him, feeling his skin scrawl. Cyfer’s eyes were hidden in shadow, and what little light that came off the lit cigarette highlighted his blank face, making it resemble a skull. To Krutch’s surprise, he found he would’ve preferred being able to see the staring gray eyes.

  “Want a smoke, guy?” Cyfer asked. “Might calm those nerves.”

  “No, I have allergies.”

  They sat there, staring at each other, and Krutch fought a distinct impulse to run away—not because he didn’t want to be seen as a coward, but fear he’d get stabbed in the back.

  The tense silence was cut off by the sound of someone screaming in the distance—which made Krutch himself squeal like a cornered animal.