Keeping his weapons ready, he took lead in the group, searching in vain for signs of tracks or, failing that, signs that they were not turning in circles.
Even now, they crept through another stand of shadow-tops and cut at some especially thick patches of helmthorn. Meris watched the work grimly. All the while, his mind wandered elsewhere.
He was thinking about the dark-clad Walker—the man he had confronted three times but never really fought. Meris did not understand why his father feared Walker so much—the dark man did not seem so powerful or commanding in person, just crafty and treacherous. He was a coward, Meris decided, so afraid of the world around him that he hid behind a high collar and an assumed name, a dark face he thought would protect him.
Meris smiled. He wanted to be the one to cut that face off.
Distracted as he was, Meris failed to notice anything unusual about his two newest recruits—a thin weasel of a man and a hulking brute almost as large as Bilgren. They slouched in their cloaks, searching the misty ground for tracks. In fact, if Meris had paid any attention, he would have recognized the voices that traded soft repartee in the background.
“Did I ever tell you how I once walked to Mirabar from Everlund?” the small one asked. “It took three tendays of constant travel: no sleep, no water—”
“Shut up, mutton head, or my fist’ll send you on another journey,” the big one replied.
“Will you be there to keep me company on this new journey?”
“Of course not!” came the growling reply.
“Well, thank Tym—I mean, Beshaba.” The short man sighed in relief. “I was worried I was cursed to spend eternity with the likes of you, Winebelly.”
“And I with you, Leadthief.”
Meris’s lieutenant pushed back through the brush. “Silence, you two,” Darthan snapped. “Haven’t you heard of the word ‘stealth?’”
“I’ve heard of it,” the man called Winebelly replied.
“Then try it,” Darthan growled. “And if it doesn’t work, I’ll be back, and it won’t be a warning next time.”
Winebelly glowered at Darthan’s back as he went. Leadthief, on the other hand, laughed aloud and called after the ranger. “If Wine ’ere can sneak out of a maiden’s bedroom afore her pa wakes up and gets the axe, he calls that ‘stealth,’” the weasel man said.
“Leadthief, you ever heard of being knocked cold to the ground?”
“I’ve heard of it—”
Then a whisper cut them off. Forbidding light burst through the trees, dazzling the men. Blades fell from limp hands and the rangers threw themselves to the ground, shaking in terror. “What, by the Hells?” they asked.
Meris was the only one not bowing or cowering in terror. Meris stood tall and strong with his long sword and hand axe drawn. He spread his arms wide and bowed.
“Hail, Ghostly Lady.”
It was not until her eyes opened that Arya realized she had nodded into a warm, dreamless sleep. The sun had just set. Though she wore only a light undertunic and breeches, she was not cold. She sat up and looked around expecting to see Walker sitting some distance away in his usual cross-legged, meditative pose, but the clearing was empty save for a small cookfire over which two small animals roasted. Her auburn brows furrowed, but then she felt a soft hand brush her cheek. Strong arms wrapped around her.
A smile spread across her face. “How long have I slept?” she asked.
“Through the sunset,” came Walker’s reply. His voice was low and melodic, even as it was fragmented. She shifted in his arms, and he held her tighter.
“Have you been watching over me this whole time?”
“No,” said Walker. Startled at his answer, Arya turned her eyes to his partially hidden face. He had buttoned his collar halfway up but not donned his cloak again. He gestured toward the cookfire. “Hunting as well.”
The knight smiled and laughed. Heedless of how her garments clung to her slim frame, she sprang up and crossed to the cookfire. There roasted two wild rabbits. They were slightly blackened, but when she prodded one with her knife, rich juices flowed out and sizzled in the fire.
Arya realized she was famished. She removed the spit and carried it back to Walker, but the ghostwalker waved the meat away. Obliging him, she sat and bit into one of the rabbits. It was plain, not flavored, but it was the most succulent thing she had tasted in a long time, due in no small part to her growling stomach.
“I am not hungry,” said Walker when Arya pressed.
“But you need food, do you not?”
Walker did not reply, but held up the hand with the silver wolf ring.
Arya shook her head. “I might have guessed,” she said with a smile.
Neither rabbit was small, but she wolfed down both in short order. She was too hungry to stand on ceremony, but when she felt Walker’s eyes watching her, she became self-conscious. With an embarrassed laugh, she finished the second rabbit and wiped her fingers in the soft grass.
Walker said nothing and Arya felt profoundly comfortable in the silence. His sapphire eyes burned, but he did not match words to his gaze. Could not.
At least, though, they had made progress.
She scooted closer to him, leaned in, and rested her head on his shoulder. Walker sat frozen for a moment, seemingly unsure how to approach the situation.
Then he put his arms around her, and the knight melted.
“Walker, can I tell you something?”
To her astonishment, his answer was not “perhaps.” Instead, Walker said, “Yes.”
She leaned back into his chest and encircled his arms with her own. She gulped, steadying herself.
“You’ve never felt this way before,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve never had someone to love.”
Walker looked at her in confusion, but Arya knew it was not because she was wrong—it was because he was unfamiliar with the term. She felt a twinge of sadness, but tilted her head back and to the side, so that she could kiss his cool lips.
They needed no words.
The semi-transparent image of a beautiful elf lady stood before him, dressed in a long gray gown that trailed away to nothing. She seemed to melt out of the mists, and indeed he saw little of her features distinctly except for her burning red-gold eyes. The ghostly face raised its eyebrows, but Meris saw that any surprise was feigned.
Meris made no move to sheathe his weapons, even though he knew they would be useless against this spectral apparition.
You are not afraid, the feminine voice said in his mind. It was obvious that the other rangers heard it as well, for they cringed and gasped.
“No.”
Why? It seemed she was more amused than angered.
“How do you know me?” asked Meris.
That is not an answer, she replied.
“But it will suffice. Tell me how you know me, and I will tell you why I do not fear you.”
The Ghostly Lady smiled, and it was a beautiful if unnerving expression. She drew mistlike fingers along Meris’s cheek and he was surprised to feel a cold, physical touch. Stunning in the moonlight, her face had a smooth, hungry look to it that excited Meris’s body in ways he had not imagined—even in the arms of the barmaids and hunters’ daughters of his youth, even when he looked upon Arya’s lovely form.
Then she laughed. “I do not need to answer your question, Meris Wayfarer,” she said aloud, and he was surprised to hear her voice in his ears. “For the answer is written upon your heart: you do not fear me, because you fear nothing. You have overcome your last love and, with it, your last fear …” She fixed his eyes with her own. “Your father.”
In a flash of movement, Meris drove his long sword through the Ghostly Lady’s heart.
A long breath passed between them. Then she looked down at where the weapon protruded. No blood oozed from her breast. It had passed through her like so much mist. In contact with her ghostly body, the blade became chill as ice, but Meris held it even as the cold burned his hand.
“Impressive,” she said.
He held it as long as he could, gritting his teeth, but it was too much. With a gasp, Meris let go, and the sword stayed, borne aloft in her body. The elf smiled.
“You have great spirit, Meris Wayfarer.” She slid away, and his sword fell to the ground, chilled. She seemed unhurt. “I am Gylther’yel, and I need your aid.”
Meris’s eyes narrowed. “My aid?” he asked as he rubbed his hand.
She nodded.
He looked down at his long sword, white with cold. “My sword?”
“Let it lie,” replied Gylther’yel. “I will find you a greater, when you have accomplished your task for me.”
“And that is?” A little smile tugged at the corners of Meris’s mouth.
“Rats infest my woods. I want you to remove them.”
Arya and Walker sat together in the grove, bathed in moonlight, their eyes only for one another. The sun had set and moon had risen, but they hardly noticed, holding one another through the night, relaxing in blissful eternity. The grove lay peaceful around them and Selûne smiled down from high overhead.
Arya hardly believed it. It had all happened so fast. She felt as though her entire world was to be found in Walker’s arms. All seemed right.
All except….
With a start, Arya remembered what had brought her to Quaervarr and the strict orders that demanded she return to Silverymoon with her news.
Without thinking, she broke free of Walker’s arms and stood. She scanned around for her equipment, and finally found it beneath a tree on the edge of the clearing.
“What are you doing?” Walker asked, rising from where he had sat beside her.
“I have to go,” Arya said. “I’m sorry, but I have to.”
“No, you do not.” Walker stepped to her side.
“I have to report Greyt’s activities,” argued the knight. “My findings, my suspicions … Grand Commander Alathar needs to send more knights to—”
“No more knights!” snapped Walker, so fiercely Arya whirled to look at him. She made to speak, but he collapsed to his knees, awful coughs racking his body. Arya reached out to comfort him, but he flinched away.
Finally, Walker looked up. “No more knights,” he repeated.
“But—” Arya began.
“Fill the town with swords and Greyt will be untouchable. He will twist free of any hold your order puts on him, I promise you that.” Walker’s eyes burned. “Leave Greyt to me.”
Arya noticed he had not said anything about Meris but she dismissed it. “Walker, I cannot allow you to—”
“Leave them to me,” he repeated coldly. His eyes sent a chill down her spine. “Justice will be done.”
“And ’twill be, when I return from Silverymoon at the head of twenty Knights in Silver, a hundred from the Argent Legion, and half a dozen from the Spellguard,” she argued hotly. Arya felt her natural defiance flaring.
“Greyt and his henchmen will be dead long before you get here,” Walker said.
“Walker, my honor does not allow for vigilante—”
“Damn your honor!” he shouted. “Damn all honor. How many lives has honor destroyed? How many innocents has it slain? It is nothing. It is worse than nothing.”
The color drained from Arya’s face. This man she had shared herself with, this intoxicating, mysterious warrior she had known only a brief time but with whom she felt she had spent a lifetime, was spitting upon the knighthood she loved so deeply and the honor that gave her life purpose. That honor bound her more tightly than chains of steel, but she remembered the soft, tender grasp of Walker’s arms. Which held her heart tighter—honor and its obligations, or love and its freedoms?
These things warred in Arya’s heart in that moment, and the scrape of steel as her blade left its scabbard told them both which had won.
“My duty lies to the south,” said Arya, pointing her sword toward Silverymoon. “Stonar and Lady Alustriel must be warned. I’m sorry. I have to go. But I’ll come back. I promise. Just do not try to stop me.”
Walker’s eyes, burning upon her face, fell. He looked away, focusing on some object unseen a little ways away.
Arya nodded, sheathed her sword, stooped, and slid on the greaves of her armor. She looked back, her eyes firm, but Walker’s gaze remained averted. Seeing that the ghost-walker did not protest, she picked up her breastplate.
Then his voice came, soft and calm. “You do not have to go.”
Arya hesitated as she adjusted the breastplate into place, but only for a moment. She fit it snugly around her breasts and smooth stomach. The armor was perfectly fitted—her father had paid the finest armorers in Everlund for no less.
“Yes, yes I do,” said Arya. She fell to the clasps.
Walker’s deep blue eyes were tangible on her back, and she tried not to feel them.
“I do not want you to go,” he said.
Arya looked sidelong at him. “You have your task, I have mine,” she said with determination and not a little bitterness. “You can come with me if you want, but I cannot stay here. I don’t have that choice. My duty compels me to go.”
Walker had no reply to that. The last breastplate clasp snapped into place. She slid a steel vambrace around her right arm and fastened the clasps.
Walker gazed upon her with an expression that was like sadness as she put her armor on piece by piece. Arya’s hands shook in nervous agitation, though she knew a profound calm. The duality of her feelings struck her as profoundly tragic and beautiful at the same time.
“Walker,” Arya said, looking away. “Tell me something.”
“Perhaps.” The voice was cold.
“Will there ever be peace … for us?”
“Peace,” Walker mused. “When the last one falls, will I find peace?”
Arya would not relent, though. “When this is finished—when I’ve found the missing couriers and you’ve killed enough men—did you mean what you said … about dying? Or …” She bit her lip. “Or can I see you again?”
Silence for a moment. Then she heard Walker’s voice, and it was miraculously unbroken. “You would want that?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
Arya’s heart cracked.
She whirled on Walker, about to continue, but an arrow whizzed past her ear and bloomed from his shoulder.
“No!” she gasped as Walker fell backward from the impact. “Gods, no!”
She threw herself down and snatched her sword from its scabbard. An arrow drove into her side, through the plate, and she screamed at the sudden flame that swept through her. Had she been unarmored, the shot would have been fatal.
“Arya … run …” Walker gasped against the pain. He reached down and grasped his sword. “They come … for me …”
She caught his hand and held it tight. He looked up, and the resolute fire they had known was in her eyes now. She stood and towered over his prostrate form.
“Let them come,” said Arya, her voice cutting like a knife.
Half a dozen dark figures stalked out of the trees, steel glittering in their hands. Arya—sword and shield ready-rose alone to meet them.
CHAPTER 15
29 Tarsakh
Six rangers, two with drawn bows, stepped out of the forest. They wore the uniforms of Quaervarr watchmen but Arya was not fooled. The four in front pulled aside forest green cloaks to reveal drawn weapons. Their eyes shouted that she was hopelessly outnumbered and that she should surrender.
But Arya was one of the legendary Knights in Silver, and she knew nothing of surrender.
As she walked, Arya drew her sword up vertically before her, saluting them, and broke into a run, resembling a mounted knight charging with her lance ready.
So controlled and smooth was her run—despite the arrow standing out of her side—that the sword-wielding rangers hesitated as she came.
The bowmen, however, did not. They fired, one after the other.
Arya caught one arrow with her shield and the other ja
rred off her shoulder armor with enough force to make her flinch but not enough to slow her charge. She spun the blade back and over and slashed down at the first ranger—a wiry blond she mentally labeled Thin-Man—with an overhead chop, even as she brought her shield up to ward off the second, a cruel-looking veteran she decided to think of as One-Eye for his most dominant facial feature.
Recovering from the strike, Arya feinted at One-Eye and attacked Thin-Man with all of her strength. Both underestimated her speed. Thin-Man crossed sword and dagger to block the blow, but Arya had put all of her weight behind it. The resulting force crushed him down, but his parry held.
“Bane’s boot!” he cursed.
Appropriately, Arya’s boot slammed into his chest below the locked blades, knocking him to the ground. His parry came apart as he fell, and Arya spun, bashing him again with the shield before coming around to face the others, bringing her blade in line to parry a strike.
One-Eye was there, his twin short swords darting in for Arya’s life. She swatted one away, but the other slipped under her guard and struck a glancing blow off her armored shoulder. Arya hissed a quick thanks to Torm that it was not her arrow-stung shoulder.
That reminded her, and she cast her eyes back to the archers. They had arrows nocked but held. Apparently, neither was thrilled at the prospect of firing into a melee.
The other two rangers with blades drawn charged, seeking to get at Arya’s flanks, and the knight backpedaled smartly and bashed One-Eye back with her shield, keeping the rangers in front of her. One—the bulky ranger she had mentally dubbed Tough-Face—wielded a two-handed axe on her left and the other—a quick half-elf with a quicker rapier she called Red-Hair for his scarlet locks—came at her from the right. Ducking and weaving, Arya worked her blade and shield furiously to pick off their blows as she strove against her three opponents.
A few moments after the first blades clashed, the battle was caught in a high-energy holding pattern in which Arya could size up her opponents. Her advantages—greater skill and speed and higher quality weapons and armor—did not outweigh theirs—numerical superiority and an arrow in her side.
Ghostwalker Page 17
