The Ghost Princess (Graylands Book 1)

by M. Walsh

  Dreary weather did little to make the town seem more inviting. The sky above was overcast with thick clouds of varying shades of gray and white. The air was cool, but there was little breeze, and it looked like it would rain sometime that day.

  What Dictum did have was a decent enough market for trade and plenty of bars. It was best served as a gateway between the larger town of Canton to the east and the forest on the west—a stopover for travelers headed one way or another, nothing more.

  Once they reached the town square, Marcus dismounted with a sigh. Tired as he was, it felt good to stretch his legs. “Right,” he said. “I’m going to talk to the Sheriff and let him know our business. I know there’s a Pilgrim’s Stop nearby. You two get some rooms.”

  “How many rooms, sir?” asked Private Brooks. She was a short, stocky woman with blonde hair she kept tied in a tight bun at all times. Her face had a look of stern authority. As far as Marcus knew, she’d been a Sentry Elite for less than two years, but he could see it was a duty she took with the highest seriousness.

  “Sky’s the limit,” he said, yawning. “I really don’t care, unless you want to share rooms.”

  Brooks didn’t react to that, maintaining her grim-looking expression, and he wondered if she interpreted that as an actual order. He glanced at Private Nelson, who tried to look serious, but mostly he looked tired and bored. He was a young rookie with a round, baby face, and short, dark hair that looked almost blue.

  “How’s the arm, son..?”

  “No problem, sir,” Nelson said, glancing at the bandaged wound on his left arm. Marcus was fairly certain this was one of his first missions, and the kid seemed just a little proud of the wound he suffered the previous day. “I’m good.”

  “Once we’re set up, we’ll check that and change the bandage.”

  The two Privates nodded and rode off. Marcus sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and headed for the Sheriff’s. Like most of the buildings in Dictum, it was a simple structure—a single-story box of wood with a pair of windows in the front. Unlike most, though, the back was built from brick and stone befitting the jail cells. Marcus tied his horse in front and stepped inside.

  Sheriff Dunham hadn’t changed much since he last saw him. Older and perhaps and little fatter, but he was always a round man with a weathered and red face, distinguished by his thick mustache. He sat at his desk, feet up, and hands folded on his fat belly, either deep in thought or dozing. Tanner’s prediction was vindicated by the half-eaten sandwich on the desk.

  Marcus encountered the Sheriff once when he was still a Private, but they never spoke. That prior experience and finding the man lounging at his desk told him any help Dunham offered would be minimal, if at all. Nevertheless, it was standard procedure for Sentry Elite to make their presence and purposes known to local militia and law enforcement.

  “Sheriff Dunham,” he announced, stepping inside. “I’m Captain Deacon Marcus of the Sentry Elite.”

  The Sheriff glanced up with beady eyes, and his eyebrow cocked slightly. He showed no sign of recognizing him and lurched from his chair, the wood creaking loudly with his movement. Marcus could already tell his presence displeased the fat Sheriff as they shook hands.

  “What can I do for you, son?” Dunham asked.

  “I am here with my two officers—Private Janis Brooks and Private Adam Nelson—and we’ve been tracking the theft of a certain object, the Dragon’s Fang dagger.”

  “The what..?”

  “An old relic—dagger with a silver handle and blade said to be forged from a dragon’s tooth. It was stolen about a month ago from a temple outside the Coldstone Desert. My unit and I have been tracking it.”

  “I see, I see,” said Dunham, nodding and stroking his mustache. “Any idea who took it?”

  “Pirates, most likely. No one specific.”

  Apparently tired of standing, Dunham sunk back into his seat—the wood crying out even louder than before. “No word of pirates around here. Not recently anyway. Something special about this dagger?”

  Marcus shrugged, seeing no point in telling the Sheriff what little he knew of the Dragon’s Fang. It supposedly had some story or history behind it, but he didn’t know, nor did he care. All evidence of the theft thus far pointed to pirates, and he was a soldier—experience told him the realms of magic and sorcery weren’t his jurisdiction.

  That’s Guardian business.

  “The trail has led us in this direction,” he said. “We think whoever has the dagger might have come through this way.” He paused, wondering whether he should even bother pursuing any questions, doubting Dunham would reveal anything Tanner hadn’t. “Anything suspicious going on around town, Sheriff..?.”

  “Nothing serious,” he said. “There’ve been reports of some cultists and priests passing through. Some demon sightings in the woods. It’s probably on account of the Devil’s Moon in a few days. Got everyone spooked.”

  “Understood. Well, I don’t expect we’ll linger long. If you or your men should happen to hear anything, be sure to let us know.”

  “Not a problem, son,” Dunham replied, returning to his reclined position.

  Marcus turned toward the door, glad to be finished with the formality. With that out of the way, he was eager to adjourn to the inn, eat a decent meal, and take a long nap.

  “Oh, that reminds me!” he heard the Sheriff call as he was stepping out the door. “There was a younger fella here yesterday. He said he was expecting you.”

  And you only just remembered this.

  “Yeah, said he was staying at the Pilgrim’s Stop,” Dunham continued. “Said he needed to speak with you.”

  He hesitated and asked, “Was he another Sentry?”

  “Naw. Don’t recall the name, I’m afraid. But he was a Guardian Mage, I’m sure of it.”

  Marcus didn’t show it on his face, but upon hearing the word mage, he felt his stomach drop and craved a cigarette again.

  * * *

  Katrina managed to sleep another few hours. It appeared to be around noon when she finally awoke, still hung-over, but infinitely better than she was earlier. She dunked her head in the bowl of water a second time before putting on her coat and heading outside for some air.

  She stopped to ask if the inn offered anything resembling bath accommodations, but the keeper only responded with a look wondering if she was insane or stupid. Stepping outside, she considered that just as well. Even if the inn did have a bath—or Dictum a bathhouse—she dreaded imagining what kind of condition it might be in.

  Being outdoors helped somewhat, but her headache remained, and Katrina could feel the shakes starting to crawl down her arms. She craved another drink. Rubbing her eyes, she considered it might be too early to jump back into boozing and checked her pocket for a smoke. Out of cigarettes, and figuring since she was outside anyway, she decided to head to the market.

  The weather managed to make Dictum look even worse. A cold dampness hung in the air, turning the roads to mud, and draining away what little color the town had. Most everyone in the streets looked morose and sullen—the only notable difference was travelers only passing through seemed to move with some sense of purpose or destination. Locals loitered around listlessly or seemed to wander with nowhere specific to go.

  Most of the locals haunted the town square. Some were young, but most were old men she recognized from the tavern. The only person who appeared out of place was the tall Sentry Elite going into the Pilgrim’s Stop—and even he looked like he was going to be sick. Completing the scene was an old beggar. He sat in the dirt, shirtless and scrawny, looking as though his soul had been drained from his body.

  The market didn’t sell any pre-rolled cigarettes, but Katrina was able to buy a decent sized packet of smoking leaves and rolling paper. Completing her purchase, she dropped the remaining change in the tin cup of the beggar. He looked up at her with sad, bloodshot eyes, and a weary, toothless smile formed beneath his shaggy beard.

  “Bless you, ma�
�am,” he moaned, barely above a whisper.

  Katrina nodded and noticed a tattered sign propped up at his knees that read: I was the chosen one.

  She gestured toward the sign and said, “Aren’t we all?”

  Her stomach still churned, and she had no appetite—but she craved a drink all the same and needed someplace to roll her cigarettes and smoke. She headed to the tavern she’d been frequenting, preferring to stay in the out-of-the-way dive. This early in the day it was still pretty empty and dismal—only the bartender serving a handful of locals and travelers passing through.

  She took a seat at an empty table in the far corner, trying not to think too much of a pair of old men sitting at the bar greeting her with waves and smiles. She’d only been in Dictum for a day and a half, but she was already being recognized by regulars.

  Guess I’m just a memorable person, she thought, rolling her first cigarette.

  Taking her first drag, she debated whether to start drinking already and wondered how much longer she’d stay in town. Listening to other patrons at the bar, Katrina got the feeling she shouldn’t linger in Dictum and head north. Talk of cultists, talk of pirates, talk of demons, and even some talk of the end of days. At first she wrote it off as spook stories one would often hear this close to the Dark Lands—made worse by the approaching Devil’s Moon—but the most recurring talk was of something evil brewing in the nearby Derelict Woods.

  Past the forest to the west lies the coast. To the north was Bevy, and to the south, Fane. Bevy was the more developed town, but she recalled they’d be celebrating some kind of festival soon. Fane was a shithole, but the thought of being surrounded by so many joyous and festive people made her uneasy.

  And then there was Canton to the east—probably the closest to an actual city this far south. From there, she could grab a ferry and make her way back north. And if there really was something evil infesting the western forest, it would probably be better to avoid that direction.

  Good a plan as any.

  Katrina sat by herself, smoking her cigarette, having forgotten the man that called himself Rasul Kader knocking at her door that morning. If she had remembered him, she probably would’ve left Dictum as soon as she woke up and not been greeted by the well-dressed young man who approached her with a gentle smile.

  “I’m glad you came, Ms. Rien,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m afraid I need your help.”

  * * *

  Marcus had been through a hundred towns all over Graylands, and almost every one had a Pilgrim’s Stop. More than once he wondered whether it was a coincidence, they were all connected, or their respective owners wanted patrons to think they were. There was no link in quality—a Stop in Garland would have fantastic service, while one in the next town over was a dive—but one could count on a Pilgrim’s Stop to be a moneymaker.

  This particular Stop smelled of cooked chicken, but Marcus’s appetite died after the Sheriff’s. He found his unit sitting with a young man he could already tell was the Mage. Upon seeing him, Brooks sprang up at attention. Nelson didn’t react as fast, but he dropped the chicken wing he was eating and followed suit. Brooks announced she was able to rent individual rooms for each of them at a fair price.

  He just waved his hand and nodded, keeping his attention on the Mage sitting at the opposite end of the circular table. He was young and studious looking, with short, light-blonde hair and green eyes beneath thin spectacles, wearing loose-fitting gray clothes and a white cloak.

  “Greetings, Captain Marcus,” he said, rising and extending his hand. “I am Elijah Warren of the Guardian Mages.”

  “Pleasure,” he replied, shaking Warren’s hand. He unhooked the broadsword from his back and took a seat. “Sheriff Dunham told me you were expecting us..?”

  “Yes. I arrived here yesterday hoping to catch you.” He paused to take a bite from his sandwich. “Your comrades tell me you were delayed outside Canton..?”

  “Yeah. We got into a scuffle with some bandits.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Is this about the Dragon’s Fang?”

  “I’m afraid not, Captain.” Warren wiped his hands and revealed a rolled up scroll from his inside pocket. The paper was sealed with the familiar badge of the Sentry Elite. “I was sent by your superior, Major Garrison. You have new orders.”

  Marcus took the message and read the new orders. With each word, he felt an increasing weight press down on his neck. Then he read them again to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. They weren’t as bad as he initially feared, but he still felt the urge to strangle Garrison the next time they met.

  While he was reading, Nelson told Warren about their encounter with the bandits outside Canton. “Hey, Captain,” Nelson said. “Who was that guy that helped us out there? Sipher..? Sipher something..?”

  “I think it was Drepa,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think he’s some kind of mercenary.”

  “Sipher Drepa,” said Warren. “Not familiar with the man.”

  Finished reading, Marcus looked at his two Privates and Warren. If things turned bad, he hoped the Mage who was now part of his unit had more field experience than the two Privates.

  “What’s the word from Major Garrison, sir?” asked Brooks.

  “There’s apparently something wrong with the Derelict Woods to the west. Some kind of ‘sickness’ brewing in the southern parts of the forest and believed to be spreading.”

  “Sickness..?” Brooks repeated. “What’s that mean?”

  “Details are sketchy, but from my experience, that usually means evil spirits and mutated wildlife. Maybe demons. May or may not be related to the Devil’s Moon. According to our new orders, we are to put aside our hunt for the dagger for now. Mr. Warren here is going to be our resident Mage on the case. Major Garrison says we should rendezvous with him in Bevy in a few days, and since the way to Bevy is through the Derelict Woods, we get the first sniff.”

  Brooks showed no reaction, but Nelson was visibly disappointed with the new orders. Warren asked, “What were you looking for, Captain?”

  “We were tracking the theft of an old dagger from outside Coldstone. Trail led us here.”

  “The Dragon’s Fang..?”

  “Yeah.”

  Warren nodded, a hint of concern forming on his face Marcus noted.

  “Thing is, we started hearing some rumors,” Nelson chimed in, chewing on his chicken.

  “Rumors..?” said Warren. “Of what..?”

  “Pirates,” Marcus said. “Some have been spotted lurking around the woods in the north and the east. Others are believed to be around the coast. We think the bandits outside Canton might have even been linked to them.”

  “Not just any pirates, though,” said Nelson, barely containing his eagerness. “Tell him, Captain. The big one.”

  “Relax, killer,” he said. “But yeah, there’s even been some word of Krutch Leeroy in the area.”

  “Krutch Leeroy..?” asked Warren.

  “The most infamous pirate in the world,” Nelson answered. “No one really knows where he came from, but they say he’s one of the deadliest fighters in the Realm. They say he once outfought an Eldér and Scimitar warrior at the same time.”

  “Thanks, Nelson,” said Marcus, trying to get the discussion back on track.

  “I heard he has this magic weapon,” the Private continued, sounding like he was a hunter talking up big game. “Something that can summon thunder and fire. They even say—”

  “We get the point, Nelson,” Marcus cut in. “But yeah, Krutch Leeroy is a legit, real-deal pirate the Sentry Elite have been tracking for years.” He paused, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Whenever pirates are involved, Leeroy’s name gets thrown around at least once.” He sighed and asked Warren, “So what’s the deal with the woods?”

  “Well,” Warren said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “There is something going on in the forest. My superiors sensed a darkness building in the south, and it appears to be spreading. I’m to assist you in
investigating the cause in any way I can.”

  The table fell silent, and Marcus found himself wishing for a cigarette again. This far south, it was not uncommon to hear talk of demons, but that rarely amounted to more than a roaming pack of orcs. They were only a couple leagues shy of the Dark Lands, after all. The badlands to the south was a practical hotbed for loose demons.

  But anything that would warrant the attention of the Guardians would have to be much more than an orc pack. He wondered if Warren knew more than he was letting on, but decided to hold off on pursuing the matter.

  Nelson and Brooks were both willing and held their own against the bandits well enough, but still were inexperienced. If what was going on in the forest was a worst case scenario, he didn’t like the idea of wandering into darkness with just a lone Mage and two rookie Privates.

  “Captain,” Nelson said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Do you suppose the stolen dagger might be linked to what’s happening in the woods?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, a magic dagger is stolen. We trace it here, where there’s apparently something nasty brewing in the forest. What if it’s connected?”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, okay..? We have nothing to base that on, and that kind of thinking will just have us chasing our own tails.”

  Nelson nodded and resumed eating. Warren was silent, but Marcus could see the suggestion there might be a connection piqued the Mage’s interest. Suddenly he didn’t just want a cigarette, he wanted a drink.

  * * *

  Katrina took a sip from her pint of ale. The beer went down like razorblades, and she felt her stomach churn in protest, but she ignored it. She stared at the young man seated across from her, her eyes cutting holes into him like she was trying to will death upon him with the strength of her face alone.

  He either didn’t realize her foul mood, or ignored it, because he regarded her with a friendly smile. His long brown hair was neatly groomed, and warm hazel eyes stared at her from behind thin spectacles. A faint goatee grew on his upper lip and chin, and he was dressed in a fancy, dark maroon overcoat with an elegant suit underneath—far too nice for these parts.