The Ghost Princess (Graylands Book 1) Page 7

  The day was damp, cold, and gray—as it often was in this part of the country pretty much all year. Traveling through the wilderness always bothered his throat—feeling like there was some sort of string or feather lodged there. It was a constant reminder of how much he hated the outdoors and how much he missed the city.

  He approached the shop, stretching his back and walking to the counter with a limp—sore from the long ride. He was a man of average height in his mid-twenties. He was physically unspectacular, and his thin frame had nothing to do with athleticism or fitness. He had shaggy black hair, tired brown eyes, and the disheveled look of someone who just woke up.

  Behind him, the mule let out an ill-tempered whine. “Back ‘atcha, you mean little bastard,” he grumbled.

  “What do you need, sir?” asked the shop’s owner, an older man with puffy white hair sticking out from the sides of his head.

  “Milk.”

  The shopkeeper reached under the counter and placed a thin jug of milk on top, and the man flicked a pair of silver coins in return.

  “Have a good one, son,” the keeper said, smiling.

  There was a pause.

  “Anything else you need, son?”

  “I believe you owe me some change.”

  The keeper’s smile faded into a look of confusion mingled with contempt. He hesitated, as though he thought he was being played, and finally flicked a single copper coin onto the counter.

  The traveler picked up his change, placed it in his pocket, and shambled back to his mule. It let out another angry whine as he climbed onto it and actually hissed when he jabbed his heel into its side.

  “Just move, you little prick,” he moaned.

  With another whine, the mule started moving again, and the man began his long trek back south.

  Even if the mule was a few years younger and infinitely more cooperative, it would still be a long ride. It took an hour and a half of riding before he even reached the point where he would turn off-road and cut into the woods.

  Once in the actual forest, his allergies worsened. It felt like something alive had crawled into his throat and was flicking his sinus with a feather. He checked the milk, and the bottle was lukewarm. He sighed, reminded of how it was near impossible to find chilled milk this far south and again wished he was back in the city.

  The woods dripped with moisture from the cold, damp air. It might even rain, he realized. It would be appropriate. It rained all the time down here—why not while he was outside?

  Luckily, his bungalow came into view before that could happen. It was a simple one-story cottage standing in the middle of nowhere—a make-shift place he had found abandoned. It was cold, leaky, stunk, and he hated it. But it was out of the way and hard to find. In the grand scheme of things, that’s all he needed.

  He dismounted the mule and shambled to the entrance, sighing all the way. He was through the door and well inside before realizing it had been unlocked and there were people waiting for him. Before he could react, someone tackled him from behind, and he didn’t even hear the jug of milk smash over his high-pitched scream.

  He was pinned, face-down, to the floor and didn’t see the person who said, “And what’s this..? The legendary Krutch Leeroy taken off guard?”

  With his face pressed into the floor, Krutch’s response came out as nothing more than muffled incoherent noises. There was a great pressure on the back of his neck, and he was sure he might pass out—assuming his neck didn’t break first.

  The man holding him down said, “No way! No way I took down the Krutch Leeroy this easy!”

  “Don’t get cocky, Arkady. He’s probably just letting you feel good about yourself. Better let him up before he really hurts you.”

  The weight came off his back, and Krutch lay sprawled out on the floor, while the group of men standing around him laughed and cheered. Then came a huge figure, wearing a sleeveless shirt that showcased muscular arms covered with tattoos. His scarred, rectangular face was grinning, and there was a jolly glint in his eyes.

  Recognizing the man standing over him, a single thought crossed Krutch’s mind: Oh, crumbs.

  “Howya doin’ Krutch! It’s me, Lemmy Hobbs!”

  “I know,” he murmured, void of any joy.

  In a flash, Hobbs grabbed him by his coat and hoisted him to his feet. “Long time, boss!” he laughed, wrapping his thick arms around him—Krutch was almost certain he heard a crunch. “What the hell you doing way out in the sticks, man?”

  “Hiding.”

  Hobbs let out a hearty laugh, not realizing he was being honest.

  “Listen, this here is my mate, Arkady. Not much upstairs, but a good guy.”

  “You’re one to talk Lemmy!” Arkady hissed—though with good nature. He was a small, gangly looking man with brown skin, shiny bald head, and, though thin, toned muscle.

  Hobbs gave a dismissive gesture and said to Krutch, “Take a seat, boss. I got great news! Say, you got any booze in this place..?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, don’t worry. We came prepared. Arkady, set us up with a round.”

  While Arkady prepared the drinks, Krutch awkwardly lowered himself into one of the few chairs in the bungalow. He scanned the room, counting about eight other men. Some he recognized from past (mis)adventures, others he didn’t. Hobbs handed him a glass of liquor that smelled terrible and sat beside him with a mischievous smile he’d come to recognize. Instantly, Krutch felt the urge to bolt out the door and run.

  “So I hooked us up with a job,” Hobbs said, clinking the two glasses together.

  “Who told you to do that?”

  “Easy work,” Hobbs continued, ignoring the question. “Basically, we’re supposed to kidnap this broad. Might have to ... take care of anyone that gets in the way. But the guy who hooked me up said it probably won’t even come to that.”

  “Neat,” he said, staring at the glass, reluctant to drink. About to take a tentative sip, he asked, “Who hooked you up?”

  “The Vicar, man.”

  Krutch spit—both due to how fowl it tasted and mention of the Vicar. “Frost?!” he choked out. “You’re taking job offers from Vicar Frost?”

  “He didn’t offer me the job. He just hooked me up with the right people. Besides, what’s wrong with that? Frost always knows about the good shit.”

  “He’s insane! Nothing good ever comes out of him.”

  “Look, boss,” said Hobbs, his voice sounding dismissive and upbeat. “It’s an easy deal. We kidnap some broad and deliver her to some cult loons outside Fane. Easy-peasy.”

  He stared at his grinning right-hand man—self-appointed right-hand man, in actuality—and felt a tremendous urge to draw the weapon hidden in his jacket pocket and strike the man dead. The weapon he got, ironically, from Vicar Frost. He’d been hiding in his crap-shack bungalow for over a year and honestly thought he’d escaped dealing with these people.

  He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to get dragged into another mess that could get him arrested or killed. He wasn’t keen on the idea of kidnapping some innocent girl and selling her to cultists. He didn’t want to deal with the collection of violent muscle-heads eager to fight and raid in the name of the “great” Krutch Leeroy.

  He wanted to go to bed.

  Krutch slumped in his chair and sighed in disappointment. Hobbs, somehow, interpreted this as an agreement, because he slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Great! Let’s roll out boys!” Hobbs then pulled him to his feet, and before he knew it, he was being practically carried to his unhappy mule to ride off for Dictum.

  And that was how Krutch Leeroy found himself caught up in the affairs of Katrina Lamont, Rasul Kader, and Jacob Daredin: all but kicking and screaming.

  * * *

  As Katrina headed into the Derelict Woods with her personal escort, Hobbs ordered a pair of scouts to ride ahead and keep a close eye on their movements. He wanted to keep up with the Sentries, but warned them to be careful not to be seen. He anticipate
d they’d be heading for Bevy, but by the time everyone was moving it was late afternoon. They wouldn’t get far before dark and have to camp overnight.

  It occurred to Krutch at some point he should probably be more involved with the planning and giving orders—but he was preoccupied with making sure he didn’t kill himself on the horse his men stole for him. The others felt his crabby mule was slowing them down, so a proper steed was procured for their fearless leader. What they didn’t know was Krutch’s skill at riding horses was virtually nonexistent.

  “I figure we can ambush them when they set up camp,” Hobbs said. He’d been talking for the past twenty minutes, and Krutch wasn’t paying attention. “We take out the Mage first, ‘cause he’ll be the most dangerous. Beyond that, I think we have enough men to just overwhelm them.”

  “Neat,” said Krutch, sitting atop his horse, stiff and awkward, afraid the slightest movement would make the animal buck him off.

  “After that, it’s smooth sailing.”

  He let out a sardonic chuckle, doubting that. He remembered seeing how the Rien woman moved the night before. Krutch had been one of the would-be attackers that cornered her in the alley. He watched her make quick work of the two pirates—he didn’t even know their names; he’d just been calling them “Rocko” and “Stretch”—as if they were nothing. And she did it while drunk, no less.

  When she turned her attention to him, Krutch briefly considered drawing the weapon from his coat ... but decided to use the opportunity to run away instead. He fled to the small drainage grate built in the south-eastern corner of Dictum’s wall his men used to get in and out of town and, if he had the chance, would’ve kept running far away from Hobbs and the pirates—but he only bumped into more of “his” men on the way out.

  “We get Kader’s broad,” Hobbs continued, “take her to the cult loons, and we get paid.”

  “What exactly are these guys going to do once they have her?”

  “Hell if I know,” Hobbs said, shrugging. “All these whack-jobs are the same. They probably want to marry her or sacrifice her or something.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. So we’re sending some innocent girl to her doom, and for all we know, they’re going to use her to summon a freaking dragon or something.”

  “Say boss,” Hobbs said, chuckling. “Remember that job a few years back—that crazy guy who thought he was the reincarnation of some Devil-god or something..? He wanted us to steal a special amulet from the Guardians so he could use it to open a portal to hell or something.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, you remember. When the Mages had us cornered, you tried smashing the amulet on the floor and just made a Bulrag appear.”

  “Okay, first, I’m pretty sure that’s not how it’s pronounced. Second: what the hell are you talking about? That never happened.”

  “Sure it did. And then you—”

  “Hobbs! I never did anything like that. Maybe that happened to you, but I wasn’t there.”

  “That was a sweet ride, boss. Good times.”

  Not for the first time, Krutch wondered just how exactly Lemmy Hobbs interpreted their relationship. He reflected on all the supposed stories “they” always said about him—stories of grand adventures, cunning crimes, and glorious battles ... none of which actually happened or involved him.

  Hobbs was an especially galling example. He wasn’t just another person spreading stories and legends of the “great” and “infamous” Krutch Leeroy—he seemed to believe he was a part of them. According to Hobbs, they’d been partners for years and gone on dozens of adventures all over the world.

  In reality, Krutch only met Hobbs two years prior. He was trying to sneak onto a ship out of Bartlett, hiding from a bounty hunter, when suddenly the muscular, tattooed man with a Mohawk appeared, insisting he knew him from a past job and they were long-time partners.

  Many times he thought Hobbs was just a low-level thief trying to ride the coattails of the “legendary” Krutch Leeroy. But every time their paths crossed—despite Krutch’s best efforts—he more and more wondered if Lemmy Hobbs did believe they were partners that had been marauding the Realm for years.

  He sighed and hung his head while his apparent right-hand-man continued talking about past adventures involving Krutch that never happened. The day was still bright by afternoon. The sky was solid white with clouds, but they were thin enough to allow the sun to shine through. It was warmer than it had been, but once they actually entered the woods, the day grew cooler. The white sky above became obscured by a veritable ceiling of branches and leaves.

  Hobbs was still talking, and Krutch’s eyes drifted around the forest. The woods were tight with trees practically on top of one another, but the autumn season had turned the leaves to bright colors of orange, yellow, and brown. In truth, he found it pretty to look at and wished he could appreciate it under better circumstances.

  Then, in the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the other pirates staring at him. He didn’t know this one’s name either, but he was a short, thin little man with scruffy brown hair and an odd, smirking face lined with two scars—one across his left cheek and another that went down the right side of his face. He wore dark clothes beneath an overcoat.

  He stared with sunken gray eyes, and when Krutch noticed him, he flashed an unpleasant grin and gave a slight nod. Without thinking, Krutch’s hand went inside his coat, feeling the metallic weapon kept in his pocket. For some reason, seeing that face sent a deep chill up and down his back.

  6

  The first part of Katrina’s journey was uneventful. Before leaving Dictum, Captain Marcus purchased a horse for her to ride, as she did not already own one, and she gathered what few belonging she had while the others got supplies.

  There was only one road from Dictum through the forest to the western coast. From there, the road splits between the north and south—Bevy to the north, Fane to the south. Because they left town relatively late, she knew they’d have to camp in the woods overnight. Knowing there were pirates potentially hunting them was a concern, but she also noticed the road was fairly empty. For the first few hours of their journey, they encountered no travelers pass by either way.

  She overheard Warren mention something about a “sickness” further south and wondered if that might have something to do with it. Listening to Marcus, she got the impression he was hoping they would be able to get through the woods without having to deal with it. She thought little of it, since it didn’t concern her, and otherwise kept to herself.

  Private Nelson, however, spent most of the remaining day riding beside her, reassuring whatever was going on in the woods was nothing to worry about, that no harm would come to her, and other aborted attempts at small talk. Every so often, she would catch the young Private sneaking a glance in her direction and quickly turn away if she noticed.

  She recognized the look in his eyes. Sympathy, concern, longing—a little of all at once. Based on what she’d seen of the Private, she pegged him an eager young adventurer who was playing out a story in his head. She’d seen this story already, too. He was getting curious. Curiosity would lead to a crush. And before he would know it, he would make it his personal mission to ensure no harm came to the troubled, mysterious damsel.

  Katrina sighed and took a swig from her flask.

  The air cooled as day gave way to evening. The sun set, and the woods darkened, as though a thick shroud of blue consumed the land. With the crowded trees and thick leaves, the forest floor went dark early and fast. Before they lost all visibility, Marcus directed them to a clearing off-road where they could camp for the night. It was a small patch of grass, surrounded by a tight circle of trees, and would offer decent cover, even with a fire going.

  While Nelson prepared the fire, Marcus and Brooks took a patrol of the perimeter. Warren walked off, saying he wanted to see if he could get a “sense of the forest,” whatever that meant. Katrina just sat against a thick oak tree at the edge of the camp, taking the occas
ional drink from her flask.

  Supper was cooked by the time everyone returned, but she ate little. Once they were finished eating, Warren started meditating, Nelson began whittling a broken branch (she hoped very much it wasn’t going to be a gift for her), and Brooks sat in silence, sharpening her sword with a whetstone.

  Sitting there, a wave of nostalgia came over her, and Katrina shuddered involuntarily. Travelers on a mission, talk of quests and destiny, evil afoot—it was all uncomfortably familiar. She reminded herself she’d only been caught in a series of coincidences, but in the back of her mind, she couldn’t shake a recurring dread this was only the beginning of something much larger—and that she, in some way, was the focal point of it.

  “Mind if I steal a sip there..?” Marcus asked, sitting across from her and gesturing toward the flask.

  “Go ahead,” she said, handing it over.

  He took a sip, cringing at bit as he swallowed. “You know,” he said, passing it back to her. “If you don’t mind me saying, drinking tea or something would probably be better for your throat.”

  “I always sound like this. I ... uh ... I hurt my throat a long time ago.”

  As she said it, she thought she saw Warren give her a suspicious look. She ignored it, thinking she must have imagined it.

  “So,” she said. “What were you guys doing before I came along? Or is that a secret?”

  “I guess there’d be no harm in telling you,” Marcus said, rubbing the back of his neck. “My unit and I, we were tracking the theft of a sacred dagger. Trail led us to Dictum. Turns out, there’s also something weird going on in the woods a little further south.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hell if I know. They’ve been calling it a ‘sickness,’ whatever the hell that means.”