The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  The Goblin didn’t look impressed. “Leeroy,” he said, his eyes narrowed on Gash. “What’s this about Gash’s real name?”

  At once, the Graigman’s face turned from red to white.

  “His real name is Gajh Olgorn,” said Krutch. “He’s a Graigman.”

  Somehow, Vel-Etta turned an even darker shade of green. He stared daggers at Gash, his fists clenched and a vein bulging in his forehead. A tense silence came over the storeroom. Serk and Gash’s troops prepared for battle, as did Vel’s Goblins.

  Krutch was tempted to take the shells and sneak away, when Gash screamed, “Kill them! KILL THEM ALL!!!”

  Vel and the Goblins roared something in their native language, and the two sides charged each other. Krutch ducked behind the crate as the war for Seba resumed before his eyes.

  With everyone’s attention away from him, he began stuffing his pockets with as many boxes of shells as he could fit. When there was no more room, he grabbed handfuls to carry out with him. He didn’t count how many packs he took, but he had enough. With a little luck, he thought, he could slip away unnoticed.

  He glanced over his shoulder and shrieked at the hideous sight of Jonathon Gash lunging at him, looking like some kind of nightmarish marionette. The Graigman’s hands locked around his throat and squeezed.

  “I’ll kill you, you cocksucker!” Gash snarled, his Graigish accent slipping. “If nothing else, I will murder you with my own hands before this is over!”

  Krutch’s head slammed against the stone floor. Gash was shouting, but he didn’t hear. He couldn’t breathe, and his vision blurred. Forgetting his pistol was still loaded, he struck Gash in the head with it.

  Gasping for breath, he inched away as Gash lurched to his feet. Before the Graigman could pounce on him again, he kicked at his leg. The left knee caved in with a crunch of wood. Gash shouted, but in fury rather than pain. He spun on his remaining leg and tried to keep his balance, but collapsed next to another crate containing black powder.

  Krutch looked at him in shock. From his thighs down, Gash had no legs, but pieces of wood attached to stumps like stilts. “Is walking around like that really an improvement over your real legs?”

  “Eat shit, Leeroy,” Gash hissed. “Easy for you to mock. You think I wanted to spend my life as a stunted creature, digging in the dirt like the rest of my trash people? I was meant for greatness! I didn’t come to this country to be a miner or a tinkerer! I came here to be a king!”

  “So you do this to yourself?” he asked, picking up his pistol and collecting the boxes of shells. “What was stopping you from doing that anyway?”

  “I realized long ago there was no way I would achieve what I desired as a Graigman. In my own country, I was low-born. Here, even if the Goblins hadn’t driven my people away, I would’ve been a worker. The only way I could thrive was if I shed my disgusting heritage and elevated myself.”

  Krutch stared at the deformed Graigman lying on the floor. He knew little of their culture, but he could imagine life in Seba being difficult for the Graigfolk with Goblins running around and people in power like Sebastian Clock enabling them. He almost pitied the man once known as Gajh Olgorn.

  “But why’d you have to sell your brother into slavery?”

  Gash looked at him, his faced locked in a scowl. There was no regret in his beady eyes. “There’s always a market for cheap labor,” he said. “Better to be the one doing the selling than the one getting sold.”

  Arms full with shells, Krutch turned and limped away, shaking his head. He kept to the edge of the storehouse to steer clear of the fighting between Gash’s men and the Goblins. He was near the exit, when he heard Gash shouting behind him.

  “You think this is over?! I might not get out of here, but I promise you, Krutch Leeroy, when your time comes, it will be my name you hear before you die! You hear me?! Me! JONATHON GA—”

  He stopped when Krutch turned around and aimed Arkady at the crates of black powder.

  “Bang.”

  * * *

  To Katrina, it was apocalyptic.

  Her battle with Jagger went on as if the riot in Seba wasn’t happening. Most of the fighting had drifted away from Mannix Square, leaving the burning space for them alone. If anyone happened to get caught in their path, they were cut down without pause or second thought. Some even stopped what they were doing to watch the fight.

  It was the first true test Katrina had faced in years. The rare occasion she found herself in a fight since Vigor fell had only been small skirmishes with bandits and would-be thieves. Even the mess with Krutch Leeroy’s pirates hadn’t challenged her. Neither they, nor Daredin’s followers offered a real fight. Rasul Kader had been nothing.

  When she knew him years ago, Jagger was an exceptional warrior. They sparred plenty of times, but never truly tested one another. In the years since, he proved to still be a great fighter—though his style had become more brutal and strength-based than it had when they were younger.

  Maybe when she was in her prime, she could’ve finished the fight sooner. But that was before a decade of aimless wandering, drinking, and smoking—not to mention she was still recovering from the beating he gave her. Nevertheless, she kept pace with him, and amidst the madness consuming Seba, the two former lovers engaged their own private war.

  He would strike with his spear, and she blocked with her sabre. He swung again and again, but she batted the attacks away. He charged forward, but she slipped around and answered with a slice at his back.

  The blade left a deep gash in his armor, but no wound. He glared at her and gritted his teeth. He looked like he would attack again, but held himself in check and cracked his neck.

  “I always did want to fight you for real,” he said with a forced smirk. “To see which of us was really better.”

  “I never cared,” she said.

  “Oh..?”

  She shook her head. “It never mattered, Jagger.”

  The smirk faded. “Stop calling me that.”

  The fight resumed. They fought all over the Square and into Clock’s tower. They went up stairs, down narrow hallways, through cavernous chambers, and across balconies. All around them, Seba burned.

  They ended up on a balcony overlooking the Square. Both were sweating and breathing hard, staring at one another with cold eyes. Katrina felt her heart pounding and fatigue setting into her legs. She’d lost feeling in her left hand a long time ago from the pain. Her knee ached, and her sides were sore.

  Jagger, too, looked near his limit. During the fighting, he’d torn off his armor—either because of the heat or to help him move, she couldn’t be sure. She’d managed a few cuts and slices, but nothing severe. He ignored his wounds and didn’t allow them to slow him down any more than she allowed hers.

  “Honestly,” she said. “You should’ve stuck with the daggers. A spear doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’ll admit,” he said. “You still got it, even after all these years.”

  She let out a slight smirk, despite everything. “Jagger, we don’t—”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this!” she said. “Jagger, I love—”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  He lunged at her, thrusting with the broad side of the spear. She blocked with her sabre, but his weight knocked her off balance. She was pushed back against the railing, and his hands wrapped around her throat.

  “You’re dead!” he screamed, his eyes burning with rage. Since finding him, this was the first real emotion she’d seen from him. “They’re all dead! I watched them die! YOU DIE, TOO!”

  She didn’t bother trying to breathe, knowing it would be useless. She was pinned down with his weight and felt a strain in her back from being pressed against the side of the balcony. The blood was cut off from her head, and her vision blurred. His grip tightened, and she was getting dizzy.

  There was frantic fury in his eyes. But he was vulnerable. She could slip her sabre
under the spear and stick it into his side. If that didn’t force him off, she could kill him.

  But she hesitated.

  She imagined him watching Vigor die all around him, as she had. She imagined him leaving their dead home, coming to Graylands, and wandering aimlessly like she did. Had it been worse for him? Even with the other survivors, did he let the pain eat away at him? Tear him up until Trayze Kilnerova helped him turn it into something dark and hateful?

  “Jagger,” she said, her voice strained and barely audible. “Don’t make me do this …”

  From somewhere in the Tombs, a violent explosion erupted with a massive fireball. The force could be felt even from the tower, and the ground shook beneath their feet.

  Katrina felt the balcony’s railing shudder with a crack. Nearing unconsciousness, she threw her weight back, and the two of them flipped over the side. Jagger disappeared from her sight, and for a moment, she thought she would join him plummeting to the ground below. It almost seemed a perversely fitting fate for the two of them.

  But she drove her sabre into the side of the tower and kept herself from falling. Grinding her teeth, she pulled herself back up and sank to her knees, gasping and choking. Exhaustion set in, her throat burned, and the agony in her left hand came back.

  “Kat.”

  She looked over the side and found him hanging from the ledge. Jagger looked up at her, but there was no expression on his worn, scarred face. They stared at one another, and she didn’t know what to do.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  A part of her wanted to pull him up and give him one more chance. For that to be enough. For them to pick up the pieces and move on. But she remembered the look in his eyes as he had his hands wrapped around her throat.

  “We’re all ghosts, Jagger,” she said. “And ghosts have to be left in the past.”

  He didn’t react to that. She saw resignation on his face—he expected her to say that as much as he might have expected her to save him. He said nothing as she slashed his neck with her sword and made no noise as he fell. She watched him fall and thought she saw relief in his eyes.

  He fell into the moat below, and his body dissolved into a dark cloud before dissipating into nothing. There was nothing left of Jagger Ryggs—the man she once loved. Nothing left to bury. Nothing left to remember him. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t even shed a tear for him.

  It was as if he never existed.

  She imagined Scifer Olc would’ve appreciated that.

  * * *

  Krutch saw a look of horror on Jonathon Gash’s face just before the Graigman was engulfed in a flash. After that, everything went dark and blurry.

  When he regained his bearings, he was flat on the floor and his ears were ringing. The world around him seemed to be shaking. He opened his eyes, and it looked like the ceiling was spinning. There was smoke in the air—so potent, it burned his nostrils—and he felt like he was watching himself from outside his body.

  He tried to sit up, when another violent force of heat knocked him back down. His ears were still ringing, so he didn’t hear anything. He was vaguely aware of humanoid shapes running about—some were being thrown through the air—and many appeared to be on fire.

  For a moment, he thought he was back in Jacob Daredin’s tower. Of course, he thought. Daredin’s followers are running around, getting killed by the Enforcer. Vicar Frost is somewhere, robbing the treasury. The dragon is flying outside, and Lily … where was Lily..?

  “I have bullets this time, Lily,” he mumbled out loud, even though he couldn’t hear his own voice. “I can shoot the dragon now …”

  He shook his head and clawed his way back to reality. Building 237 was on fire, and whatever was left of Gash’s guards and Vel-Etta’s Goblins were fleeing the storehouse. Sitting there, blinking at the fire, Krutch considered—although shooting the black powder might have seemed a good idea—he underestimated how much was in the crates and how volatile it was.

  Choking on smoke and his ears still ringing, he managed to escape the burning building, although the actual journey was a blur. He recalled falling down several times, but was coherent enough to remember the shells.

  Once outside, he collapsed onto the street and gagged, but in the fresh air, he came back to life. His senses returned to him, and he became aware of how much pain his body was in. He looked at his scarred hand and thought, not without some sardonic amusement, he’d gotten himself blown up again.

  “I really hope this is not going to be a thing with me.”

  He sat on the curb with his face in the palms, half tempted to lie down right there and go to sleep. The ringing in his ears faded, though not gone, and felt like a drill digging into his skull. He didn’t notice the group of people gathering around him.

  They pulled him to his feet, and it took a moment for him to see it was Tetra Serk and what remained of Gash’s men. There was a moment of panic before he realized they weren’t attacking.

  “Yeh—buh—wuh..?” he mumbled.

  “You are an impressive man, Krutch Leeroy,” Serk said. “Worthy of your reputation.”

  “What?”

  “Sebastian Clock is dead,” she continued. “Magistrate Elliot is dead. Vincent Dune is gone. And now Gash is dead, too. Seba is yours.”

  He stared at the Eldér woman and thought he was delirious.

  “Aye,” said Vel-Etta, approaching him, flanked by a handful of Goblins. “You got serious brass, Leeroy, I will say that. We Goblins respect strength. I think we can work something out. A better deal than the one we had with Clock. This can be a new era for Seba.”

  “I’d be willing to offer my service to you,” said Serk. “It would be an honor to serve under the legendary Krutch Leeroy.”

  The remaining guards and even the Goblins all nodded in agreement, offering their service and pledging loyalty. He’d done it, just as Audra wanted. Just as he wanted. The powers of Seba were eliminated, and he was free to take control of the city for himself. He had at last proven to be the Krutch Leeroy.

  They were still talking, when Krutch took out Arkady and fired the gun into the air. Serk, Vel, and all the others jumped back, wide-eyed and startled.

  “Piss off,” he said. “Piss on the whole lot of you. I’m done with this city.”

  Cringing, with his entire body protesting in pain, he gathered the shells and limped away. The Goblins and guards behind him stared in shock, but said nothing.

  “I’m not that guy.”

  * * *

  Everything crystalized before Deck Synclaire. All he could see was Lock’s face. He imagined his younger brother facing down this loathsome monster and dying by his claws. He pictured poor Seria, watching and unable to help—maybe dead now, too.

  And atop these images, he thought of Cassie and knew killing the Jackal was more than avenging their brother or keeping the Realm safe. If he failed, Cassie would be at the mercy of degenerates, and he would not allow that. He no longer cared about glory or romantic notions of heroism. All he focused on, at that moment, was killing the demented madman.

  Their battle carried on for some time as Seba burned around them. The explosion in the Tombs was barely acknowledged. In the corner of his eye, Deck could see Cassie’s face frozen in tension and fear—torn whether she should stay hidden, try to help, or shout encouragement.

  No, Cassie, he thought. Stay out of this. This is my fight.

  The Jackal fought unlike anybody Deck had ever seen. He was constantly moving and slashing with his claws, making him difficult to get close to. All through the fight, he had a mad grin on his face, as if it was all a game to him.

  The Jackal had some muscle, but Deck was the larger of the two. If he could get close enough, he could overpower his opponent. He slowed his pace, keeping a distance and holding his temper in check. He remembered Troa’s training—reminding himself the Jackal’s movements were meant to keep him off balance.

  He charged with his broadsword, but didn’t put all his st
rength into it. He knew the Jackal would dodge and counterattack, so he held back enough to see where his opponent would move.

  The Jackal ducked beneath the swing and sought to slip his claws into his side. Deck stopped himself and evaded the slash—though not without losing some meat—and wrapped his arms under the Jackal’s.

  He greeted his enemy with a head-butt and knee to the gut. The Jackal grunted and was thrown to the ground. Deck brought down his sword in a swinging arc, intent on splitting the Jackal’s face in two, but his opponent managed to bring his claws up first and block.

  Metal struck metal with a loud clang. Deck pressed his weight down, grinding his teeth and ignoring the slash at his side. Warm blood dripped down his leg and sweat formed on his brow. The Jackal looked at him with defiant eyes and resisted his weight.

  The strain wore on him, and he was forced away by the Jackal’s push. He stumbled back, holding his sword with both hands and trying not to let on how much his wound hurt. The Jackal was back on his feet, a thin line of blood coming down his nose.

  “Oh,” said the Jackal. “Slowing down, hero..? No more..?”

  “You’re welcome to surrender anytime you want.”

  The Jackal’s eye twitched. “Your sister’s cute,” he said, a perverse grin coming to his face. “It’s a shame you won’t see what will become of her after I’m done with you.”

  Deck said nothing.

  “I do love educating the pretty ones in the ways of the world.” He then stuck out his tongue. “I can be so imaginative.”

  He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he was allowing himself to be goaded in. But what made Deck attack was knowing the Jackal’s taunts were no mere empty threats. He understood what type of man the Jackal was. And the kind of man who would violate a woman was one who, in Deck’s mind, didn’t deserve to live. And that the woman in question might be his sister …

  Deck’s fury pushed him to a place he’d never known. Nothing—not the training and preparation, or the skirmishes with bandits and thieves—could’ve prepared him for this. In the end, true war—good fighting evil—was not the romanticized epic he long imagined it would be. It was not glorious or poetic—it was ugly and painful and filled with hate.