I ultimately decided to delete this prologue from the final version of The Ghost in Exile because I decided that the novel worked better started at a later point in the story. Still, I rather like it, so I'm posted in here to get you in the mood for the release of The Ghost in Exile on November 25. Tell me what you think of the prologue in the comments below.
Prologue
He heard voices coming from the
open doorway ahead. "And the bastard's army?" Duke Argblutal asked.
The Ghost didn’t know how the usurper had found out that The Ghost, and not the
king, fathered the crown princess, but such accusations would die with him.
"It's larger than we
believed, at least two thousand strong,” a second voice answered. “Some of them
are untrained peasants, but we are still outnumbered nearly five to one. The
people throng into the street to join her."
"How can they want a
bastard on the throne?" The duke's voice dripped with venom.
The Ghost took two more
strides, threw a knife, and the duke's underling fell face down into the room.
He stepped over the body and hissed, "Because she's far more fit to rule
than you.”
"Guards!" the duke yelled.
The Ghost laughed. "There
are no guards to hear you. I've been most thorough."
Argblutal grabbed his sword.
The walls of his chamber were covered with the heads of beasts that he’d no
doubt severed with that sword, including a panther, which was the symbol of his
house. "Do you honestly think
you're my match?" Argblutal sneered.
"Easily." The Ghost
drew his sword. He could have killed the duke with a throwing knife. But that
would have been too quick. The monster had to be made to feel all the pain he'd
caused Samantha. That wasn't possible, though. It took a heart to suffer as she
had. The Ghost lunged in for a quick attack. Argblutal parried, but The Ghost's
sword made a shallow slice across the duke's upper arm. Blood began to trickle from
the wound.
"You think the people will
bow the knee before a bastard?" Argblutal tried to taunt him, but The
Ghost didn't answer. Words were wasted breath. Relentlessly, he battered
Argblutal back toward the wall. Blood sprang from wounds on the duke's legs and
arms. The Ghost was vaguely aware the duke had scored a few small hits of his
own. But The Ghost was no longer mortal. He didn't feel pain.
Argblutal was weakening, and he
again yelled for assistance. His parries became wilder and clumsier, and The
Ghost saw his opening. He swung his sword toward the duke's stomach, slicing
open his midsection and spilling his entrails. The duke clutched at his guts
and dropped to his knees. The Ghost bent down beside him.
"Who are you?"
Argblutal hissed.
The Ghost pulled the wax off
his face.
"Darhour, is it?"
Argblutal sputtered. But The Ghost was Darhour no longer. He’d left that
identity behind when he broke his vow never to kill again. "Do you really
think they will bend the knee to the daughter of a stable groom?"
"You'll never know if they
do or not." The Ghost looked at the duke's stomach wound. "You could
take three days to die of such wounds. Pity, I can't spare the time to
watch." He sheathed his sword and drew a knife. "I've heard you
remove the manhood of those who disappoint you."
Argblutal’s scream as The Ghost
castrated him in no way soothed the heart that had listened to his daughter
sob. The duke had to be made to feel more pain. The Ghost wanted to dismember
him piece by piece. Kill him as he’d killed the man who gave him the scars that
marred his face and body. But he hadn’t the time. His daughter’s army was at
the gates. Even now, he could hear her voice echoing through the palace
grounds, asking the duke’s men to surrender. But they never would while
Argblutal lived.
The Ghost drew his sword and
cut off the usurper’s head. A pike rested nearby. The Ghost placed the duke’s
head on it. Then he opened the doors to the palace balcony and displayed the
head above the railing.
He watched from a side window
until the duke’s men surrendered, and Samantha with the sorcerer and her army
rode through the palace gates. She was safe now, his job complete.
He looked down at his
blood-soaked clothing, a testimony to how thoroughly he’d broken his vow to the
goddess. He told himself he should feel something, but he felt nothing—not
regret, not sorrow, not even vindication. His soul was now completely dark. He
was truly a monster; as he looked through the window at the auburn hair of his
daughter shining in the sunlight, he knew this was the last look he could allow
himself of her. If he stayed, he would blacken her soul. Besides, if Argblutal
had discovered the connection between them, someone else could as well. He had
to get away, far from Korthlundia where his daughter would reign. Only one
place in the world could a killer like him be at home—Saloyna, the land that
had turned a simple stable groom into an assassin whose reputation spanned the
world.
“Goodbye, Samantha,” he
whispered. “Please forgive me, my daughter.” Just what he was asking
forgiveness for, he didn’t know. For leaving? No, he had no choice. For
fathering her? How could he regret what she had become? For her finding out
about the bond between them? Yes, that he regretted and wished there had been some
way to keep her ignorant. He took one last look at her, holding hands with the
sorcerer, and slipped back to his own quarters.
He took off his clothes, threw
them in a corner, and washed the blood from his body. He bound the shallow
wounds the duke had given him and changed into the livery of a palace servant.
With wax and makeup he disguised his facial scars. He packed quickly—a couple
of changes of clothes, the makeup for his disguises, his money bag. The bag
contained enough to get him to Saloyna, more than enough.
He slipped into the servants’
corridors and out of the palace. No one paid him the slightest attention. He
entered an alleyway and left the palace livery behind. He donned the garments
of a simple worker. He drew no attention as he made his way to the harbor and
found a ship headed for Saloyna. He paid for passage and boarded.
*
* *
As he stood at the rail
watching Murtaghan, the capital of his homeland, disappear over the horizon, he
felt a tug of pain against his heart. He hadn’t lost all capacity to feel as
he’d believed. A strong cord connected his heart to his daughter’s, and until
he was far enough away from Korthlundia for the cord to snap, his heart would
beat in agony. He shrugged off the pain as irrelevant and looked at his hands.
Bits of dried blood clung under his fingernails. Removing the blood beneath the
nails had always been the most difficult part. He’d once owned a small brush
specifically for that purpose. He didn’t remember what had happened to it. He’d
need to procure another. He’d lost his way, thought he could reform and be
again the stable groom he once was. Now he knew better. He was a killer, and
there were men, like Argblutal, who needed killing. He’d find them and rid the
world of them.
The Ghost had held many names
in his life. The first time he’d sailed away from his homeland, he’d been known
by the name his mother had given him. Ahearn had been confined in a small, dark
hold, believing he was about to die. He’d been eighteen—a mere child—and
completely unprepared for the life he’d found in Saloyna. Fifteen years later
he’d returned to Korthlundia as Darhour—so scarred and tainted that no one
who’d known Ahearn would have recognized him. Even The Ghost had trouble
believing he’d lived the lives of both the simple stable groom and the
notorious assassin. Now both men were dead, and The Ghost was nothing but an
empty shell.
Holy Sulis, Mother of us all, could Ahearn have taken a path that
didn’t leave a pile of corpses in his wake? Or was the choice taken from him
when a naïve young queen chose him as her lover?
If you liked what you read, the novel is now available for pre-order. Autographed copies can be purchased via PayPal through my website for the special pre-order price of $13. Click the link below:
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