The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  Unfortunately, the troll would not be so easily fooled. In mid-air, he was greeted with the troll’s roaring face—and what a face it was. Its eyes were tiny, yellow, bloodshot slits. Its snout was upturned and partially torn off. It was missing most of its teeth, and those that remained were varying shades of yellow, brown, and purple.

  The troll swatted him out of the air and sent him flying back into the rock wall. With no armor, he felt every nook and cranny of stone dig into his back as he scraped across the surface. He landed five feet away, the shock going through his body in a wave.

  His sword fell from his hand, but Deck considered himself lucky. As much as that hurt, the wind wasn’t knocked out of him, he wasn’t concussed, and nothing was broken. He was coherent enough to dodge the troll’s follow-up attack which would’ve squashed him like an insect.

  Despite the troll’s appearance and size, it was surprisingly fast and not without some sense. Just missing him, it didn’t waste a breath to try snatching him as he rolled away.

  Although inexperienced in actual combat, Deck proved to have exceptional reflexes. He continued dodging the troll’s attacks and regained his sword.

  The troll tried to grab his head, but he slashed his sword without thinking—cutting a vertical gash up the creature’s hand and taking a finger off.

  The troll roared—more in anger than pain—and tried to take him with its other hand. Still acting without thinking, he rammed his sword into its palm—plunging it deep into the creature’s arm. This time, the roar was in pain.

  The beast backed away, clutching its wrist. Bellowing, Deck dove forward, plunging the sword in the center of the troll’s chest. For a moment, he worried he wouldn’t penetrate the creature’s chest bone, but the force of momentum and weight broke through.

  The troll stumbled and fell on its back. Deck pressed the sword deeper until the hilt touched its hairy chest. The monster swatted him away, and he landed in a cloud of dirt—this time sure something was broken.

  The troll lurched to its feet—the point of the sword visible out of its back. Deck stared at the beast and thought for sure he was finished. He was hurting, and if stabbing it in the heart wouldn’t put it down, he was as dead as the rest of the men littering the valley.

  It took one step, groaned, and then vomited blood from its mouth. The troll swayed on its feet, but it still wouldn’t take its eyes off him. Its hideous face was twisted in a look of rage and hate. It was then Deck realized the troll was dying—perhaps dead already—and knew it. It just wanted to end him first.

  It took one final step, let out a strangled croaking noise, and finally its face went slack. The troll collapsed on its belly and, with one last belch, died.

  Deck remained on his back, trying to control his breathing. When he was sure enough to move, he spent another several minutes trying to figure out how he was going to get his sword out of the dead troll. Unable to turn the creature over and unwilling to go digging through its back, he forced himself to accept the sword as a loss.

  Certain one of his ribs was broken, Deck was tempted to just head home. But he endured the rotten stench of the cave looking for whatever it was he was convinced was in there.

  After nearly an hour of searching through the troll’s wretched nest, he feared he’d risked his life and lost his sword over nothing. Worse, he wondered whether he had some kind of bizarre death-wish.

  That was when he found the Gauntlet.

  13

  Once upon a time, there was a boy who was nobody.

  He was the second son of a carpenter and a teacher, and aside from a talent for drawing, there was little worth noting about the boy. He was average looking at best and not particularly strong, athletic, or intelligent. But he was a nice enough young man who, although rather forgettable, was loved by his family.

  On the boy’s nineteenth birthday, his older brother decided it was past time he got with a woman—for the boy, not very adept at wooing the girls, was still a virgin. So his brother took him to a seedy village several miles from their home where they got good and drunk and a meeting with a prostitute was arranged.

  The boy was told to find his lady in a private hut outside, but left on his own, he couldn’t find her. Drunk, confused, and lost, he passed several identical looking huts, having no idea where his arranged meeting was to take place.

  And that was how he met the sorceress.

  The sorceress was a striking woman of great beauty with long violet hair and burning red eyes. Earlier that night, she had a vision she would meet a great warrior. A barbarian of tremendous strength, destined to be a mighty conqueror. The sorceress planned to bed this barbarian in the hope his seed would give her a child.

  What her plans for this intended child were, no one would ever know, but she found the boy drunkenly wandering about outside and assumed him to be the warrior foreseen in her vision. She beckoned him to come into her tent and warm himself by the fire, and the boy foolishly assumed he had found his brother’s birthday gift.

  Little seduction was required on the part of the sorceress, for the boy was quite drunk and not bright. They made love, though the boy would remember very little of it. The sorceress spoke of his destiny as a great warrior whose very name would inspire fear and awe wherever he went. The boy assumed she was being paid to spout nonsense to build his ego. He played along, nodding with a ridiculous smile on his face while mumbling agreements and gibberish.

  Their sex was brief and unspectacular—as befitting a boy’s first time. The sorceress was disappointed, though the boy didn’t notice. He was going to mention her payment, when he passed out.

  The following morning, he awoke to the sorceress screaming and hitting him, for she discovered he was not the great warrior she had foreseen. Hung-over and confused, the boy tried to explain the situation, which only served to enrage the sorceress even more. Still not understanding her anger, he offered to pay her extra, but ended up vomiting on her.

  In her fury, the sorceress cursed the boy as revenge. She declared he would indeed be known as a great warrior, whose name would spread fear and awe forevermore. But there would be no glory or joy in this reputation. He would spend his days as a fugitive—hunted by mercenaries and the authorities, surrounded by pirates, and hounded by rival warriors seeking to kill him to prove their strength and skill.

  No one would believe he was cursed. All would assume he was lying or trying to trick them. He was driven from his home, remembered as a disgrace to his family. He would know no peace, doomed to a life of “adventure” he never asked for or wanted.

  And that little boy, who nobody liked, was none other than …

  * * *

  “Krutch Leeroy!”

  Krutch was jerked from his sleep, and his heart shot into his throat. Expecting any number of things coming down on him—Sentry Elite, the Enforcer, bounty hunters, Brother Lucas, his crazy grandmother—he reached for his pistol on reflex, but it was nowhere in sight.

  “Sorry,” said Audra, sitting beside him on the bed. “Didn’t mean to scare you, but you’re a pretty deep sleeper.”

  Calming down, he took in his surroundings and remembered where he was. They rented a room above the Ugly Pig, and it was a crummy little square of wood with a lone window. The single bed was broken in at the middle and to lie on it was to sink into the center. Audra didn’t mind.

  “I talked to the bartender,” she said. “We can eat breakfast here.”

  “Okay, good,” he said, rubbing the crud out of his eyes. His allergies weren’t bothering him, and he assumed, aside from the summer, the desert air helped. “Let’s—”

  “Unless you want another go first?”

  Krutch looked at her. Her hair was loose and seemed to glow in the morning light. She was smiling, and her hand was inching toward his crotch. It actually made him uneasy, last night notwithstanding. Despite his revered reputation, he was not a ladies man by any stretch, and having a woman so eager for him was a little vexing.

  It�
�s because she thinks I’m something I’m not, he thought. It’s like with Lemmy Hobbs, only I never slept with him.

  “Um, maybe later,” he said, slipping out of bed. “Why don’t you go downstairs and get some food. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She grinned and left the room. By himself, he sat on the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Last night, he got caught up in the moment and let himself get taken in by Audra’s sweet talk—

  … and her smile … and her hair … her body … the way she smells …

  —but he needed to think realistically. Despite what she might say, he still was not “the” Krutch Leeroy his curse made him out to be. He was not that guy, and he never was going to be that guy …

  It means whatever you want it to mean.

  He shook his head, pulled his pants on and joined Audra downstairs. She was waiting at a table in the corner with two plates of scrambled eggs and scraps of bacon. It wasn’t much, but he accepted it gladly.

  Aside from them and a handful of old drunks who appeared to have no interest in breakfast, the Ugly Pig was empty and quiet. Audra noticed him looking around before he started eating and asked what was wrong.

  “Just making sure Brick isn’t around,” he said, munching on some bacon.

  “If he bothers you,” she said, “why don’t you shoot him?”

  “What..?”

  “Your gun,” she said. “If you didn’t like the guy, just shoot him.”

  “Well, um,” he said, unwilling to advertise he had no shells—not even to her. “Bullets aren’t easy to come by. Need to conserve, you know?”

  She nodded and seemed to accept that. “What’s it like?” she asked. “Killing someone with that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You squeeze the trigger, there’s a boom, and whoever you shot gets a hole in them.”

  “Is it bloody?”

  “It can be.”

  She chewed on her bacon, looking thoughtful. “I suppose killing comes easy to a man like you,” she said. “Especially with something like that on hand.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, feeling uncomfortable. “It just … it depends, I guess.”

  If memory served, he’d killed four people in his life. He was not proud of the fact, but the truth was—he was ashamed to admit—he rarely thought about it. When he was younger, the idea of killing never occurred to him. If asked, he probably would’ve assumed it a major decision and one he’d have difficulty living with.

  Reflecting on the first time he killed someone, he said, “Let’s just say, when an unrepentant murderer and rapist who outweighs you by a couple hundred pounds is threatening you with an axe, it’s surprisingly easy to just shoot him in the face.”

  Audra laughed. It was high and almost musical sounding. He cracked an awkward smile, not sure how to react. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about,” she said. “Man like you should have no problem making it in Seba.”

  His smile faded. “Audra, about that,” he said. “Listen, I …”

  He trailed off. There was something about the way she looked at him. He thought about the previous night and the look on the two thieves’ faces when he drew his pistol on them. He remembered how it felt to strike down someone threatening him—for once, to be the guy who didn’t roll over and let someone step over him.

  All these years, he’d been running away from his reputation, always convinced he wasn’t “that guy.” Maybe he’d been going about it all wrong? Audra and others before her followed him because of a lie—but maybe it didn’t have to be anymore?

  “Lee..?” she asked.

  He chewed on his bacon, thinking it over. Maybe it was time he stopped running and made his curse his power?

  Before he could answer, his attention was caught by a pair of men walking into the Ugly Pig. The first was a bald Graigman. Like most Graigfolk, he was short with wide shoulders, although the usual harsh features appeared softer somehow. As he approached, Krutch realized he was wearing make-up. He was also thin, neatly dressed, and could possibly be mistaken for a short human.

  “Good morning, Mr. Leeroy,” he said. “My name is Gojhi Olgorn. I was sent on behalf of my master. He wishes to meet you.”

  * * *

  From the outside, Gain’s fighting pit seemed an innocuous structure. Inside was cramped and uncomfortable. The center was a wooden platform with a metallic mesh built around it like a cage. There was an entrance for the fighters to enter, which seemed to come from a basement under the arena. Over the fighting pit was a private balcony offering the best view.

  There were two stations that served drinks, but aside from that, it was a free-for-all when it came to watching the fights. There were some stands built near the walls so people in the back could see, but otherwise no seats. At full capacity, the arena was crowded, loud, and hot.

  Katrina lingered by the back, trying to ignore the smell and her growing headache. She felt tense and jumpy, like she wanted to crawl out of her skin.

  After her confrontation with Slim, Dux, and Zeke, she spent much of the night on the floor against her bed, trying to ensure she wasn’t in for another panic attack. She sat in the dark, hearing the wind slam against the walls outside, with her hand over her heart and trying to control her breathing—which proved painful after being strangled.

  She hadn’t had an attack like that in a while. She thought she might be over them, but the fight triggered something. Less than a year ago, she faced a similar scene in Dictum—walking home through darkened streets, confronting three would-be attackers, and dead bodies at her feet. All part of Rasul Kader’s sick game.

  Just a coincidence, she told herself, running her hand through her hair. Just three degenerates who thought her an easy victim they could have their way with—nothing more.

  Taking a breath—which was difficult in the stuffy arena—she saw no sign of Scifer Olc and wondered if that was a good thing or bad thing. The bartender claimed he was a mercenary, but that could mean anything. Was he following her? Why did he help her?

  For that matter, when she got breakfast that morning, she heard no mention of her attackers either. It seemed dead bodies in the street were a usual occurrence in Gain. As far as she could tell, there was no sheriff or militia. The closest to an authority figure was Mr. Carmine, who lived in the big house at the end of town.

  Having no information about Jagger, she considered going to him, but upon finding the fighting pit open, she decided to check there first. She didn’t know what she expected to find—if she even wanted to find anything—but thought it would be worth looking.

  It was a decision she regretted almost immediately. Standing in the back, surrounded by loud drunks and waiting for the fights to begin, for the first time since Lester, she truly craved a drink. More than beer—something strong that would be no help to her injured throat and make her black out and forget the world for a little while.

  A gong sounded, signaling the fights were about to start. She took a breath and focused her attention on the cage. The first fight was between two men named Reese and Gratto. Reese was a thin, but muscular young man with long, almost luxurious black hair. Gratto was a larger, round man—but not fat.

  The two fighters were unarmed, so it appeared the battle would be hand-to-hand. An announcer—wearing a ludicrous suit that did not look comfortable in the hot arena—hyped the battle as speed versus power. The gong went off again, and the crowd erupted with cheers.

  Reese danced around his opponent, throwing an occasional jab or kick. His opponent stood in the center of the cage and waited. He sprang forward with a series of quick punches to Gratto’s gut and face, but the big man barely reacted and swatted him away.

  Reese shot back to his feet, but shrugged and smirked. He continued circling Gratto, who remained where he was. When he was ready, Reese charged again with another flurry of punches and kicks.

  Katrina noticed something off about his fighting style. He didn’t seem to have one. He was fast, but t
here was no finesse in his attacks. Watching him, she thought he had the appearance of someone who knew how to look like he could fight, but had no genuine training.

  A final, theatrical roundhouse kick to Gratto’s gut pushed the big man back and made him sink to a knee. Reese threw his fists in the air and welcomed the cheers of the crowd.

  His glory was short-lived. He turned only to get slammed by Gratto’s thick arm. The small fighter flipped into the air, head over heels, and came to a hard landing on his face. The crowd erupted even louder.

  Reese got up, but Katrina saw he was already out of the fight. Impressive physique, quick fighter … but little skill and less stamina.

  With his opponent out on his feet, Gratto proceeded to lay into him. Holding him up by his long hair, he unloaded with punches to the gut and face. Not that he needed it at this point, but Katrina noted Gratto appeared to have little skill either—a fighter reliant on his brute strength and nothing else.

  Reese’s face a bloody mess, Gratto snatched him in a bear-hug and shook him about like a ragdoll. Reese made a feeble effort at escaping the crushing hold, but he went limp in the large man’s arms.

  Gratto lifted the motionless Reese over his head and slammed his body down over his knee. Even with the crowd, Katrina heard the sickening crunch as Reese’s spine shattered. Gratto dropped his opponent’s twitching body onto the floor and basked in his victory. Memories of Vigor came to her. At the height of his decadence, Armand Tyrell re-opened the pits to serve as both entertainment and a warning to his foes. More distressing than the wanton bloodshed was the number of people loyal to his regime who welcomed it.

  She remembered people cheering as one man or woman cut down another. Or as a poor victim was fed to a tiger or lion—sometimes both, forcing the animals to fight each other. They cheered and roared and begged for more.

  It was times like that Katrina would find herself questioning if her kingdom was worth saving.

  As Reese’s body was dragged from the pit, she shifted her weight, feeling ill. She supposed she shouldn’t concern herself. Reese and Gratto knew what they were getting into and both were all too eager to kill for the pleasure of the crowd. Live by the sword and all that.