The Ghost Princess (Graylands Book 1) Read online

  The

  G H O S T

  P R I N C E S S

  M. Walsh

  Back Weeds Publishing

  Brooklyn

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Prologue

  Part I: Refusal

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Part II: Threshold

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Part III: Crossroad

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Part IV: Brink

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Part V: Denial

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Mom, Dad, Kathleen, & Kristine

  “Destiny is a good thing to accept when it’s going your way. When it isn’t, don’t call it destiny—call it injustice, treachery, or simple bad luck.”

  - Joseph Heller

  Prologue

  It’s a funny world we live in.

  There was a sign on one of the bodies I found hanging from a tree on the side of the road. It had been nailed into the old man’s throat, and it read: The prophecy is a lie. Hell if I know what prophecy the sign was referring to—there are so many, after all.

  By their look, the bodies hadn’t been dead long. Aside from the geezer were two grown men, a boy that couldn’t be older than his teens, and finally a woman that was either overweight in life or bloated after death. Their skin was gray, peppered with blotches of dark purple and green. The stab wounds had turned almost black. They hadn’t been in pristine condition, even before the crows got at them.

  I contemplated these people and their sign. A family simply trying to get by that ran afoul the wrong people? A fellowship of adventurers seeking glory and fortune? Was this false prophecy responsible for their fate? Were they people who believed they were meant for some special destiny? Something grander, I imagine, than getting chopped up and hanged from a tree on the side of the road.

  There never is a shortage of hypothetical prophets, would-be mystics, and supposed oracles—all shilling this “ancient” prophecy foretelling that great destiny or horrific doom. More amusing are the overeager swashbucklers who think just because they have a sword strapped to their back, they’re the Chosen One—the destined champion, ordained by fate to be the savior, conqueror, or destroyer.

  Such as it is in Graylands, where the land is still mostly frontier, unsettled and unmoored by the greater Empires of the Realm. A land of opportunity—ideal for drifters, warriors, outlaws, cultists, and everything in between to cultivate power, find riches, disappear, or just get trampled by everyone else.

  One thing that certainly piqued my curiosity was the enterprising fellow responsible for the display. Whoever killed them had worked them over with something large and unsubtle before stringing them up and was evidently proud enough of his work to hang them up as a ... message..? Warning..? Just for fun..?

  “Sloppy,” I muttered, resuming my journey.

  Not far past the bodies, I came across a small outpost ten miles east of Devon. There was a market for supplies, an inn, a stable, and a tavern. The overcast afternoon was giving way to cool evening, so I decided to stop for a pint. The bar was serving a healthy crowd—mainly travelers, a few Graigmen, and even an Eldér or two. No one paid me any mind as I took a seat at the bar and ordered my drink.

  “What brings you around these parts?” the bartender asked, a middle-aged, balding man with greasy hair coming down to his shoulders.

  “Just passing through,” I replied, taking a sip of beer. “I found an interesting display of bodies not far from here. You hear anything about that?”

  The bartender paled, and his head sunk into his neck like a turtle retreating in its shell. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You see the big fella in the back? The one with the spiked armor?”

  Indeed, in the back of the tavern was a sinister looking man sitting in a darkened corner. Even seated, I could see he was a big, bolshy bastard. He was tall and barrel-chested, and his scowling face looked like it was chiseled from stone by twitchy, uncertain hands. His thinning hair had formed into a formidable widow’s peak, and his thick body was adorned with devilish tattoos and black, spiked armor.

  Truth be told, he looked like what a child would believe a “bad-ass warrior” should look like.

  “That’s Burke Zell,” the bartender continued. “They call him ‘Burke the Butcher.’ Those people you found were pilgrims on their way to Garland the other day. I couldn’t say what set it off, but the Butcher heard them preaching in the street, and next thing you know ...”

  “Feeding the crows,” I said.

  The bartender nodded, and I continued drinking, when a young man sitting next to me I didn't even notice asked, “Why haven’t the Sentry Elite done anything?”

  The kid wasn’t a soldier, but he might as well have been—young and strongly built, with reddish-blonde hair and fierce look in his eyes. He was dressed for travel and kept a fine looking broadsword by his side. He had the look of a warrior, but was too fresh faced with too noble a demeanor to be a mercenary.

  “The Butcher usually lays low when they’re around,” said the bartender. “But lately we haven’t seen much of the Sentry Elite. Most have been heading south for some reason. I think they’re all occupied with the Devil’s Moon and all.”

  I’d forgotten a Devil’s Moon was soon. I’ve never been certain of the details, but it only comes once every fifty or hundred years. It’s said when there’s a Devil’s Moon the barriers to the Black are at their weakest and evil energies are at their most potent. Demons flourish, and malevolent spirits roam unchecked. Basically a holiday for warlocks and dabblers in the dark arts.

  “Anyway,” the bartender continued. “With the Sentries busy elsewhere, the Butcher’s been worse than ever. Best thing to do is just try to stay out of his way. Especially when he’s getting his drunk on.”

  The kid scoffed, took his drink, and found a table of his own. Just from his look and tone, I could tell everything I needed to know about him. Here was a boy setting out, weapon at the ready, to take on the world, find adventure, and etch his name in legend. I daresay he was the spirit of Graylands on two legs. A young man who saw himself as a future hero with a capital H.

  And by the look of it, hero-boy was itching for a fight with the notorious Butcher.

  Color me intrigued.

  * * *

  I think, aside from myself and probably the bartender, the only person who recognized and appreciated how ugly the scene was going to get was the barmaid.

  She was a pretty woman with delicate features and chestnut brown hair. She moved around the bar, serving patrons with a cordial and pleasant smile. She brought beers to Burke Zell and tolerated his leering and groping, trying her best to remain on his good side. But her eyes revealed the tense unease of someone who knew she was sitting on a keg of black powder that was itching to explode.

  I kept my eye on the Butcher. When he wasn’t “flirting” with the barmaid, his beady eyes moved from face to face. It was a look I recognized—he was looking for a fight and just deciding which poor clod would suffer his wrath.

  Over on the opposite side of the tavern, I could see hero-boy was willing to oblige�
��just waiting for something to set him off. And unfortunately for the young barmaid, she would be that something.

  The girl was walking past Burke when he grabbed her and forced her onto his lap. She tried to free herself—gently and politely, so as not to anger him—but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. The groping started to get rougher, and the barmaid was more than uncomfortable—she was getting frightened.

  The other patrons of the tavern continued talking, but it was clear they were only pretending not to notice. The barmaid struggled, just short of hitting him or screaming for help, but no one was coming to her aid. Until ...

  “I think the lady isn’t interested.”

  The tavern went dead silent, all eyes turning to hero-boy as he stared down Burke Zell.

  The Butcher didn’t look impressed. “Piss off, kid. Before you get hurt.”

  He continued groping the barmaid, and hero-boy declared, “Leave her alone.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I am Benjamin King.”

  Burke chuckled. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “No, I suppose a guy like you wouldn’t care. But I’m sure you remember the name, Westen.”

  Burke’s eyes narrowed before the grin returned to his face. “Aye, that I do.” His arm tightened around the barmaid, and he added, “But I don’t think you’re the guy who’s going to do something about it.”

  Hero-boy tapped the hilt of his broadsword. He was smirking, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You want to find out?”

  Tension sunk over the entire tavern like a thick, humid fog. Making no sound, the two Eldér slipped out the door, wanting no part of this nonsense. A handful of other patrons followed suit. Everyone else was frozen—some in fear, some in anticipation. The barmaid had gone deathly pale—the look of someone who knew (not thought) she was going to die.

  As Burke rose from his seat, the bartender said in a quavering voice, “Not—not in here, guys! Take it outside!”

  If anyone heard him, they didn’t acknowledge. Standing, Burke towered over the barmaid. His left hand gripped her shoulder, keeping her close, but he wasn’t using her as a shield. Not yet, anyway. His other hand went to his side, where he had a massive, bloodstained cleaver strapped to his belt.

  Hero-boy’s hand was on his sword, ready to draw. The smile was gone. “Leave the girl out of this.”

  The Butcher chuckled and hissed in the barmaid’s ear, “Would you like that, girl? You think this pup is going to save you?”

  In a flash, the cleaver was out and under her chin. She didn’t even squeak. The bartender made a noise—somewhere between a scream and bark—but froze in place, as though he feared the slightest movement would provoke Burke. Hero-boy’s sword was drawn, but he made no move.

  “No!” he shouted. “Let her go! This is between us!”

  “But you brought her into this, boy,” Burke replied, grinning. “If you wanted a fight, you just had to ask. But you didn’t make a move until she got involved.” The barmaid flinched, a stream of blood dripping from her chin down the cleaver’s blade. “Her blood’s on you, hero.”

  I had to give that one to Burke. If hero-boy was after the Butcher all along, he went about it all wrong—getting riled up about some barmaid and making it about her. Now he might’ve cost some girl her life. Sloppy—and from the grimace on his face, I think hero-boy realized it, too.

  “Luckily,” Burke said. “I’m a gentleman.” He moved the cleaver away from her neck and smiled. “With honor.”

  With that, he hurled the barmaid at hero-boy with all his strength. The kid had barely enough time to catch her and move her aside before Burke was coming at him with the cleaver. Wasting no movement, the Butcher drew his other cleaver and was hacking away with dual weapons.

  Hero-boy got his sword up and blocked the attacks as best he could, but he never got any momentum. His second mistake challenging Burke the way he did was relying on a broadsword in a crowded tavern. The close quarters made the weapon unwieldy and difficult to swing.

  To the kid’s credit, he saw his disadvantage and tried to lead the fight outside. But the Butcher was too strong and surprisingly fast for a man his size. He overwhelmed hero-boy, backing him into a corner, and slammed him through a table placed there.

  One of the cleavers was buried in the kid’s right shoulder, and the sword was knocked from his grip. In desperation, hero-boy tried clawing at Burke’s face with his good hand, but that did no good. Burke gripped the kid’s arm and twisted—a loud crunch, followed by hero-boy’s howl filled the tavern.

  Both arms useless, the kid offered no defense as Burke hacked into his chest and gut with the second cleaver. The kid’s flesh turned white, but he made no sound—only watching his body torn apart with wide, disbelieving eyes. Suddenly, Mr. Benjamin King looked no older than ten years old.

  The Butcher chopped away and snarled, seeming to anger himself somehow. He turned to the barmaid, who looked like she was going to throw up. “You like this?!” he barked. “You think your hero was going to take me down?!” He then snatched her by the hair and slapped her face.

  Charming.

  Returning his attention to hero-boy, Burke started hacking at the kid’s neck. The chops were messy, and the head came off with an audible ripping sound, leaving a ragged stump. He held the head up for everyone in the tavern to get a good look.

  “You see this!” he bellowed. “You see what happens when you challenge the Butcher! This little shit ain’t better than me! You hear?! He ain’t NOTHING!” Still not satisfied, he walked to the barmaid and shoved the head into her face—because this was now her fault, apparently. “See your hero now! Look at him, bitch! NOTHING!”

  Burke then spit on her, slammed the kid’s head down on the floor, spit on the remains, and stormed out of the tavern, muttering to himself. Outside, he mounted his horse and rode off into the night.

  What was left of hero-boy lay in an expanding pool of blood. The barmaid sunk to the floor, her shirt now stained red, and tears pouring down her face. The bartender rushed over to her, trying to comfort her. Patrons that hadn’t fled as soon as the fight started looked on in horror and disgust. At least one man threw up.

  I paid for my beer and left the bar with a smile on my face and song in my heart.

  I had found my next project.

  * * *

  There wasn’t much to find out about Burke Zell’s background. He began as a simple farmhand in his teens. Specifically, he was in charge of handling the meat sold to market. As he grew older, he took a stab at joining the local military and later the Sentry Elite. Because of his background and fondness for his custom-made cleavers, he was nicknamed, “Burke the Butcher.”

  Oh, what cracking wit the Sentry Elite possesses.

  Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your point of view—Burke’s cute little nickname became even more appropriate once he hit the battlefield. Suffice to say, his brutality led to a dishonorable discharge. Ever since, he’d been making a name for himself as a small-time marauder, notorious for terrorizing the villages surrounding Devon and Garland.

  Basically, he was perfect.

  I kept a close eye on his movements for the next few days. When he wasn’t blustering through the local villages, he moonlighted as a debt-collector in Garland. He rented a small room there some of the time, but I found he preferred to spend most of his nights in a secluded cabin hidden in the Shadow Forest. It took some hunting, but I tracked down the cabin’s location, and everything was easy-peasy after that.

  It was a small, ramshackle dump. I’d wager he probably found the place abandoned. But it was off the beaten path, relatively well hidden amidst the woods, and an effective hiding spot for an outlaw. In a way, Burke paid me a kindness using the cabin—the seclusion would suit my purposes nicely.

  When the big day finally came, I hid myself away in the brush while Burke made his rounds. I entertained myself imagining how I would proceed when the Special Moment finally
came. I kept coming back to Burke’s idiotic nickname, and as I turned it over in my head, I considered an appropriate way to begin.

  Night soon fell, and what a night it was. The autumn air was cool and crisp, gently stirring the trees and dying leaves. A shroud of clouds covered the whole sky and turned them a lovely black and red—like blood mixed with ink—but thin enough to allow a fat, yellow moon to beam upon the world. With the sky and color of the leaves, the night was a dark shade of dull, but very potent red.

  When Burke returned, he stomped his way to the door of his cabin, looking sullen and maybe a little drunk. He moved with the ease of someone who never thought for one moment danger might be lurking in the shadows—certainly not on his home turf. But in the end, there was no ambush of Sentry Elite or waiting posse of avengers. Just little old me.

  As he reached the door, I moseyed up behind him, and with a little prick of the sedative dart, he was out like a light. Dumb bastard never knew what happened.

  With that done, I went to work. There was a dingy cot in the corner I suppose he used for sleep. I figured that would suffice and began the preparations. After tying Burke up, I started setting up candles and lit the fireplace. I like my sessions well lit.

  But I was stopped when I heard behind me what sounded like a wounded dog with a sock stuffed in its mouth. I turned to find a young girl, no older than a teenager, tied up in the corner. She was a small, delicate thing, with golden hair and wide, frightened green eyes. Her dress had once been white, but was torn and filthy, and the girl herself was covered with bruises.