The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  I slipped aboard with my satchel of tools and stowed away.

  We had a long voyage ahead, and I was going to have me some fun.

  Part I

  Someplace to Belong

  1

  “If it’s any consolation, this isn’t how I wanted the day to go either.”

  Krutch Leeroy could see the barmaid didn’t believe him, as her eyes shifted to confusion before returning to fear. He sighed and tried again to find some kind of comfortable position.

  The tavern’s crawlspace was the three foot gap between the floor and the dirt foundation underneath. The ground was harsh and stony, and the floorboards above were filthy and congealed with something sticky. The air was sweltering—summer was under way and already hot—but the stink was the worst. It was the inevitable stench one would expect in the dirt beneath a tavern packed nightly with drunks and worse.

  He tried not to imagine what awfulness had festered over the years in the dismal space he was cramped in—spilled drinks, dropped food, vomit, piss, blood—and focus on more cheerful thoughts like the growing cramp in his back, sweat dripping beneath his clothes, or the Sentry Elite he was hiding from.

  The floorboards creaked, and dirt from the soldier’s boots spilled through the cracks. There were only two—in the tavern, at least. There was no telling how many more were waiting outside. One called himself Wayland Dillon. The other didn’t speak, but Dillon introduced her as Ellen Wells. The names rang a bell, but Krutch could barely hear them.

  Not that it mattered. He knew the questions being asked. It had been the same song and dance in dozens of other places: We’re looking for Krutch Leeroy. Have you seen him? If so, where? How long ago? Where’s he heading? What’s he up to?

  Across from him, Arkady looked calm, even though his skin was shiny with sweat. For a moment, he pondered if he might be able to see his reflection in Arkady’s bald head. The young pirate’s lanky body fit into the crawlspace well enough, but his toned muscles were tensed. He was ready for anything if things turned ugly.

  In spite of the heat, the barmaid trembled. She too was sweating, but he suspected that was fear as much as anything else. He kept his hand over her mouth and pistol pressed against her temple. He hated this. Although the weapon wasn’t loaded and he had no intention of hurting her even if things did turn bad, he felt disgusted with himself.

  It had been Arkady’s idea to stop and get food. It was risky, but he believed the tavern was far enough out of the way to avoid any patrolling Sentry Elite. Unfortunately, that turned out to not be the case, and the two pirates were forced to improvise. It was also Arkady’s idea to take the barmaid hostage in order to keep the owner silent.

  A lot of what happened since that mess at the Blind Cliffs had been Arkady’s idea. Krutch didn’t contribute much—if anything. He didn’t even have the interest to try ditching his would-be comrade. So he followed along, having no investment or input. He supposed it was fortunate that, if nothing else, the kid was at least competent at what he did and had a knack for keeping them alive.

  The bartender did his part and brushed off the questions. Although Krutch couldn’t make out exact words, from the tone, it sounded like the two soldiers weren’t confident he was anywhere in the area.

  Once the Sentries left, they let out sighs of relief. Krutch looked at the barmaid, her eyes wide and still frightened, and nodded at her. He’d hoped to be reassuring, but it seemed to have no effect. She was probably convinced he was going to kill her anyway.

  After waiting a few minutes to give the Sentries time to leave, he muttered, “All right, let’s get out of this hole.”

  They emerged from the hatch beside the bar. The bartender looked on, tense and uneasy, and his eyes had a pleading look. “Okay,” he said. “They’re gone. I did like you said. Please, just be on your way.”

  Krutch was up first and replied, “Yeah, yeah. We’re going. Just hang on a second.”

  He took the barmaid by her hand and helped her out of the crawlspace. She gave him a confused look, as if she didn’t understand what he was doing or why. He rolled his eyes, getting used—and indifferent—to people’s constant misinterpretations of his actions.

  Then again, I was holding a gun to her head a few seconds ago.

  Arkady emerged after the girl. “What do you think, boss? Should we get going, or do you want to spend the night?”

  “Please,” the bartender whined. “I did everything you asked. Please, just—”

  “Hey!” Arkady barked. “If we want to stay in this dump, we’re going to—”

  “Both of you relax,” Krutch interrupted, cracking his neck.

  He groaned and scratched his shaggy black hair, which was damp with sweat. Sleep in an actual bed would be nice—as would a bath—but he didn’t want to have to deal with a complaining bartender all night.

  “Look, we’re going to—”

  “Excuse me, barkeep, I was wondering if I could get some …”

  The Sentry trailed off, seeing Krutch—pistol still in hand, pointed at the barmaid—and Arkady climbing out of the hidden latch near the bar. They all stared at each other, save the bartender whose head looked like it was about to burst. The barmaid cringed, as if expecting to be murdered. Arkady’s face strained—his hand drawing toward the dirk on his belt.

  Krutch clicked his tongue and said, “Ah, crumbs.”

  * * *

  Katrina Lamont was drinking more than she should have.

  Her flask was empty before she even reached Lester that afternoon. She woke up that morning with a swig and was hitting it more and more as the town came into view. Summer wasn’t for another couple weeks, but it was already hot, and she was sweating when she arrived. She knew she shouldn’t be drinking so much, but she couldn’t steady her nerves.

  They all hate you.

  Lester was a simple village near central Graylands. Upon entering, she saw it was little more than a collection of homes and shops. Due to its location, it began life as a trading outpost between larger towns east and west of it, but seemed to be growing into something more now.

  At the north end of Lester was a narrow road leading through some woods into a valley—seemingly hidden from the rest of the world. In this valley, there was supposed to be a collection of homes populated by a small community of people. Some were said to work in Lester, but for the most part, this group of people preferred to keep to themselves and be ignored by the world at large.

  If Katrina was right, that valley was what she was looking for.

  They all hate you.

  She convulsed and reached for her flask, already forgetting it was empty. She stopped near a Pilgrim’s Stop and hitched her horse, Hyde, to a post outside. He huffed and snarled at her, but stayed in place while she lit a cigarette and tried to calm herself. Her hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

  The sun beat down on her. She told herself she shouldn’t drink. She hadn’t eaten all day, and it was in her best interest to stay sober. If nothing else, she didn’t want a repeat of that incident outside Devon.

  “I should just go,” she said under her breath. “Just go there and let whatever will happen to happen.”

  She took another drag from her cigarette, hand still shaking, and exhaled to the annoyance of Hyde. He was a black destrier, covered in scars, with a foul temper. She got him cheap because no one wanted to buy him, and they’d been stuck with one another through the winter as Katrina made her way north.

  She paced outside the Pilgrim’s Stop, sweating and tugging at her hair. Her stomach churned, and she felt as though a terrible vice was grafted to the back of her neck. She didn’t remember the last time she felt this tense. She knew she shouldn’t, but after finishing the cigarette, she walked into the Stop and ordered an ale.

  Once, Katrina Lamont had been a princess. More than that, she was the Chosen One—destined to save her kingdom and free her people from the tyranny of Armand Tyrell. She was trained since childhood by the finest warriors and spent most of
her life fighting to achieve that goal.

  But that was a long time ago. Before the Red Plague.

  “You need a refill, ma’am?” asked the bartender.

  She hesitated, realizing she already finished her first drink. “Yes, I would.”

  The bartender cringed hearing her speak. She always spoke with a harsh, scratchy voice, like she had a permanent sore throat, but she’d been sounding worse than usual these days.

  As he refilled her ale, he said, “You okay, ma’am? You look—uh—under the weather..?”

  “I’m fine,” she croaked, taking the drink.

  She glanced at the mirror behind the bar and saw what he meant. Her long, raven-black hair—except for the white streak coming from her right temple—hung from her scalp like it hadn’t been washed in days. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and her skin was a sickly shade of white.

  Another reminder she shouldn’t be drinking. After her kingdom fell, she spent years trying to drown her sorrows, wandering Graylands like a ghost—remembered only as a rumor known as the Ghost Princess. The last survivor of Vigor.

  Or so she thought. Until Rasul Kader found her and revealed there were other survivors. And if she was right, the last of her people were in Lester.

  They all hate you.

  She thought of that voice and convulsed again. Kader didn’t just reveal some of her people were still alive. He claimed they resented her and blamed her for what happened to their homeland and had made no attempts to find her in the years since.

  They all hate you.

  Most would strangle you themselves if they crossed paths with you.

  She downed the ale without stopping. Still sweating and her nerves shot, she lit another cigarette. Through the winter—after that incident in Devon—she searched for the remains of her people. And now that she was here, with the end of her journey in sight, she was terrified to proceed.

  She ordered another refill, telling herself she would only drink two or three to steady her nerves. Two or three turned into six, and six was looking to turn into eight.

  Afternoon gave way to evening, and somehow, that turned into a black-out night.

  * * *

  “What is this?”

  The Sentry, Wayland Dillon, was an imposing man with dark skin and long, black hair. He stood in the tavern’s doorway, and the glare of light outside made him an intimidating silhouette. But his eyes stood out, and they were staring daggers at the pirates before him.

  “What is this?”

  Krutch suspected the question was rhetorical, but bluffed anyway. “We were,” he said. “Fixing. Um—the floor. We were fixing the floor.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what we were doing. Did, um, did … bartender not mention we were repairing the floor just now?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Dillon took a step in, his fists clenched. A large axe was strapped to his back. His eyes narrowed on Krutch. “What’s that in your hand?”

  “This?” he replied, holding up the pistol. “Just a tool. I … I need my tools. For fixing.”

  The Sentry took another step forward, his face frozen in a harsh glower. “You’re Krutch Leeroy.”

  “Noooo,” he replied, backing against the bar. Drawing out his words, he said, “I … am … not … actually … positively … blargh!”

  With that, he snatched the wash towel from the bartender and hurled it at Dillon’s face. Wasting no time, he charged toward an open window and dove through it, not even waiting to see if Arkady was following.

  He ran into the nearby woods, hoping he might find some cover and hide, and heard the commotion behind him as Dillon alerted Wells—a tall, thin woman with dark hair—he was escaping. This was followed by the sound of a galloping horse.

  Despite being in his mid-twenties and fairly thin, Krutch Leeroy was by no means an athletic young man. It didn’t take long before he was gasping for air with a sharp cramp stabbing at his side.

  Making matters worse, the cover of forest didn’t go far. After a couple of yards, he found himself in a wide clearing. Gentle hills sloped up and down as far as the eye could see, and the nearest cover was miles in either direction. He ran a little further to find his path only led to a steep ravine that fell into a river. Behind him, he heard the horse approaching.

  “Oh, crumbs.”

  Wells caught up to him fast. He avoided getting rode down, but he was struck by a kick to the head as she passed. Circling around, she shouted, “Remember me, Leeroy?”

  Dazed and rubbing his head, he replied, “Not really, no.”

  “I am Lt. Ellen Wells of the Sentry Elite!” she declared, drawing her sword.

  He stared at her. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

  She frowned and said, “You escaped us at the Blind Cliffs!”

  Krutch groaned. “I was at the Blind Cliffs, yeah, but I’m sorry I don’t take inventory of every individual Sentry I encounter. You all kind of blur together.”

  That seemed to offend her. She dismounted the horse and strode toward him, looking like she was expecting a grand duel. “You’ve eluded us long enough. Today, I’m going to take you in and—”

  “You all say the same things, too.”

  She frowned again and raised her sword. “Come on, Leeroy! Show me how the infamous pirate lord fights!”

  “Not well, I can assure you.”

  The Sentry started circling him, on guard and ready for attack. Krutch stood in place, not sure how to respond. He didn’t know how to fight, and the only weapon he had was an unloaded pistol. Even if he had shells, he had no desire to kill a soldier doing her job—even if she was bit of a glory-hound.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Fight me!”

  He looked at the pistol in his hand and said, “Look, I don’t know what to tell you, but—blargh!”

  Acting on impulse, he threw the gun at her face. It struck her in the jaw, and her head jerked back. She covered her now bleeding mouth and screamed, “OW! What was that?!” She hesitated and spit something into her hand. Staring at it, her eyes widened. “That was my tooth, you little shit! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

  “That’s how the infamous pirate lord fights,” he said, shrugging.

  Wells’s eyes filled with rage as she raised her sword again. “I’m going to kill you, you son of a..!”

  Taking advantage of her confusion and anger, Krutch lunged in what could only be described as a clumsy tackle. He plowed into her and knocked her off balance. She dropped her sword, so he grabbed it and hurled it away as hard as he could. Taking his pistol, he then ran in the opposite direction.

  Behind him, Wells snarled and shouted at him—calling him a coward and worse—but he didn’t care. He was a coward and never claimed otherwise. Unfortunately, in his haste to flee, he forgot about the ravine, and to Wells, it was as though Krutch Leeroy disappeared into thin air.

  In actuality, he took a nasty spill down the rocky wall—knocked unconscious before he even hit the river at the bottom.

  2

  The city of Beacon was something of a border between the more populated and developed Northern Regions and the rest of Graylands, serving as the last stop for pilgrims heading into the frontier and the first glimpse of true civilization for travelers coming north. It was a vast collection of stone buildings and towers that stretched high into the air. Built in a hilly area, parts of the city raised up and down, looming or sinking depending on where you were.

  Like other cities in the Northern Regions, Beacon was connected to the only working railroad in Graylands. Although becoming more common for the rest of the world, travel by train in Graylands was limited to the far north between the more dense cities. Some talked of extending the railroads into the frontier, but no progress had been made.

  The Beacon train station was calm this morning. The air was cool, but comfortable, and the sky was pink with a golden glow on the horizon. Most of the passengers kept to themselves as they waited for the train to
arrive. It was scheduled to head northeast, stopping briefly in Lacon before continuing on to Gerritsen, which was the end of the line.

  A woman walked up and down the station’s platform. She appeared to be in her early twenties, and her ash-gray hair went to her shoulders. Her pale skin was striking, as was her eager smile and sparkling crimson eyes. Her beaming presence had an effect on people around her. Everyone she passed seemed to cheer up a bit. Children waved at her. Men and women smiled and nodded as she walked by.

  Lily Blackthorn knew there was a reason for that beyond simple good cheer, but she didn’t care. She was too excited to stay still. She was happy and didn’t mind if she made other people around her happy. Today was the beginning of her new life.

  The train arrived, gliding to a stop at the platform with a loud chugging noise. Steam whistled and sprayed everywhere, and Lily couldn’t help but feel awed by the great vehicle. Having spent most of her life wandering the Graylands frontier, she had felt intimidated when she first entered Beacon and now felt it all over again seeing the huge engine with smoke billowing from the top.

  There was a great deal of commotion as passengers stepped off the train while others waited to board. Lily stood with her shoulder-bag—her only luggage—and felt her chest tighten. This was it, she thought. This was what she’d come here for—to leave Graylands and start a new life in one of the Two Empires. Civilization.

  With people.

  She’d been so excited that morning, but now reality was sinking in. Seeing the train in front of her, it was as though she at last could see the final threshold. Her knees felt weak, and her entire body trembled. Not for the first time, she questioned whether she was ready for this. The Two Empires were not Graylands. She wouldn’t be able to just disappear into the night if things went bad.

  You can do this, she told herself. You’re in control. You’re always careful—you’ll just have to be more careful. It’ll be worth it.