The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  Stonar frowned. "Of course not," he said. "Matters of real importance—matters relevant to the survival of our city!"

  Almost rolling his eyes, Greyt looked at the Speaker askance. Stonar wore a rich green baldric with a rearing stag, the symbol of Quaervarr, emblazoned on his thick chest. Greyt found it distasteful.

  Stonar wasn't exactly fat, but he was quite sturdy—a life of smithy work had made him that way. Greyt expected that the last few years in his authority role, lodging in Quaervarr's second largest house, and Stonar's recent diet of more rothe and potatoes than roots and venison, hadn't hurt the process either. He was a dull man without a mind for politics who relied more on his hands than his head. Of course, leader­ship like that carried much weight in uncivilized frontier towns such as Quaervarr.

  "What matters?" Greyt asked. He absentmindedly plucked at the strings of his yarting and eased himself back in his gilded chair. "As though we have matters of interest to deal with in Quaervarr. At the very height of danger, we are." The uninten­tional rhyme brought a smile to his face. He was a natural.

  "Matters such as getting the hunters and rangers to stop bickering over territory and hunting rights. They all get com­missions in the Whistling Stag, but there are only so many travelers who come through and more than enough rangers to go around! Matters such as the giants Goodman Revnir saw two days past, or the orc war party your own son caught! So many monsters shouldn't be wandering the Moonwood this time of year. Winter's not over and we're already seeing migrations. Ever since the Black Blood died out—"

  "Revnir's half-blind, and not because he lost an eye thirty winters ago," Greyt said dismissively. "Couldn't win that lass he wanted before he grew a beard, so he tries to be a hero."

  "Greyt, Revnir's not much older than you," Stonar countered.

  "Do you see me pretending to be a ranger?"

  Stonar conceded the point with a grunt.

  "As for Meris, it wasn't much of a war party he encoun­tered," Greyt continued. "Four orcs, lost and wandering the woods—he was just in the right place at the right time."

  "Your boy does like wandering those woods," Stonar admitted. "Quite the ranger."

  "Ah, Meris, my proud boy. My only joy," Greyt said flatly. In truth, he was proud his son had vanquished four orcs single-handedly, even if it had been through ambush, not heroism. He had to smile though—at least Meris wasn't that stupid.

  "As for the rangers, what do we do to decrease the bickering, the competition for commissions?" Stonar asked. "Thank Torm no blood has been spilled yet, but this is getting out of—"

  "Not every boy or wench who picks up a sword or bow in this town is cut out to be a ranger," Greyt replied, interrupt­ing the lord. "You can, you know, see and speak. Encourage the strong, not the weak." His rhyme was mocking.

  "Speak for yourself, Greyt!" Stonar rumbled. "And speak like a man, not all that poetry. You're the one they all look up to, you and your stories—your songs about heroes. Even the one about Drizzit, or whatever his name is! A dark elf ranger? Rubbish!"

  "Drizzt Do'Urden, hero of Icewind Dale? Who fought an orc army by himself? Is that the name you're looking for?" Greyt had dropped the witty poetry; epic verse was wasted on men of Stonar's caliber.

  Stonar looked as though he bit back a curse. The Singer shook his head. A mewling, uncouth dog changed little, even when he was dressed up.

  "And couriers are disappearing!" Stonar continued. "Something has been stopping more than a few on the path to Silverymoon, and their horses return without riders. Who could be doing such a thing?"

  The Lord Singer sighed. "Why bother me with all these things?" Greyt asked. "You're the Speaker. Call Unddreth if you want to keep things in order—that is, after all, the job of the watch. What do you want me to do? I'm a bard; I sing."

  "You're the hero of Quaervarr," Stonar replied in an incred­ulous tone. "Dharan 'Quickwid'—er—'Quickfinger' Greyt, hero of the blade and yarting. All the young men want to be you, all the young women want to chase off Lyetha...."

  Greyt smiled at the mention of Lyetha. The most beautiful woman in the town, she had been his wife for fifteen winters, much longer than any woman before her. No children, but he hadn't needed more. The last of the children he'd had from previous women, Meris, was the only one he needed—it was only too convenient the others had died early in life.

  His smile faded remembering that Stonar had almost used his less-than-complimentary nickname "Quickwidower," playing on his foul luck with women before his marriage to Lyetha.

  "You worry too much, Lord Speaker," Greyt said, flipping idly through the papers. The papers reiterated what Stonar had just told him but in a much longer, very wordy format. That was what happened when one turned a blacksmith into a lord-redundancy. Or gruffness. It was certainly not the elegance upon which Greyt prided himself. "Look on the lighter side. At least Jarthon haven't resurfaced, after those adventurers dealt with the Black Blood. There hasn't been a murder in six months, and none of the guards have reported sighting any of the Malarites. Maybe Jarthon finally got what he deserved."

  "Maybe he ran afoul of the Ghostly Lady," agreed Stonar.

  Greyt's face turned stony and annoyance flashed across his face before he gave Stonar a bemused smile. "Please, Ston—Lord Speaker. The Ghostly Lady? 'Tis a fairytale, nothing more." He sipped his wine. "I have been all over the Moonwood, and I've never encountered this 'golden spirit.' You sound as naive as the rest of the simpletons who live here."

  Stonar looked flustered, but he laughed nevertheless. "They may be naive, but as long as you are their hero, they are in good hands, Greyt," he said. He rose and gathered up his cape. "I'm leaving you in charge of Quaervarr during my absence. See that you protect the people while I am away in Silverymoon. I shall be back before Greengrass, seven days hence, I expect."

  Whatever difference your absence makes, Greyt mused silently. Instead, he offered a winning smile. "Of course, my lord," he sighed. "Consider them safe."

  When Stonar opened the door to leave, Greyt stopped him with a soft call. "Stonar?"

  "Aye?"

  "What do Clearwater and Unddreth have to say about this?" he asked.

  "Why, nothing," Stonar said. "I was elected to represent these people, I make the decisions. I trust Unddreth to do his job; he always does. As for Amra Clearwater... well, the Silvanites have a festival to prepare for. If you even see her, I'd be surprised." With that, Speaker Geth Stonar passed out the inlaid doors of Greyt's lavish sitting room.

  Greyt nodded, smiling. The appointment of the task was unexpected, but the trust Stonar exhibited amused him. Particularly since Greyt could easily use the position to undermine the Speaker's authority. Perhaps now was the time to set long overdue plans in motion.

  He looked out the window and saw that the rain was clearing outside. It was turning out not to be such a bad morning after all. There would be no hunting, but at least it wouldn't look so dismal outside. The fading drizzle on the rooftop was pleasant.

  He began singing to himself, a tale of Thadax Gray wolf, a mighty warlord of the north and an ancestor of his, as he considered what he would ask the servant to bring him for a noon meal.

  * * * *

  Quaervarr was a simple frontier town in the southern depths of the untamed Moonwood. A crude wall of felled trees encircled no more than fifty buildings. The cobbled main street—the greatest thoroughfare of the town—ran from the single gate straight to the plaza. The side streets were narrow and twisting, giving Quaervarr the feeling of a larger city, but rarely cobbled, as in Silverymoon or Everlund, maintaining the rustic atmosphere. Moon elves lived in the southern fringes of the Moonwood and existed in a state of benevolent neutrality with the human town, allowing it to stand as a symbol of peace and cooperation between the races.

  In the recent past, Quaervarr had been a fort, plagued by the werebeasts of the Black Blood, but no more, not since adventurers and soldiers of the Argent Legion had driven the cultists out. These days, tr
avelers could always find a welcoming smile, a warm bed, and a hearty mug of ale at Quaervarr's renowned inn, the Whistling Stag.

  With the Greengrass festival fast approaching, however, room vacancies were at a premium. The end of winter and the beginning of spring demanded celebration, and excite­ment was in the air. Hundreds of men and woman scurried every which way, making preparations.

  The three Knights in Silver were acutely aware of the unusually bustling activity in the peaceful town, and the leader hoped they might find any room at all.

  Heroes by appearance alone, the knights attracted smiles and shouts from running children, who hopped alongside the horses as fast as they could. The lead knight, slim of build, looked down at each one with a smile barely hidden behind a silver-inlaid helmet. A lance stood up from the rear of the saddle, and a fine Everlundian long sword hung next to it. A shield with a star and nightingale was on the knight's arm. The two others—much less elegant in poise and carriage—rode approximately level with one another, exchanging bemused glances. They were engaged in quiet banter, as always.

  "I say, Bars, that didn't seem very wise to me," one of the knights, a slender man in mail, said to the other. An ornate long sword hung from his saddle, but he looked too small of stature to have much use for such a heavy blade.

  "Eh?" his companion, a hulking man in plate, replied. His voice was a growl.

  "The watch at the gate," the slender man said. "They let us through unchallenged. What if we'd been monsters in disguise, or brigands, or Malarites, or Zhents, or lycanthropes, or, worse, Sembians?" He shuddered. "They could be allowing truly dangerous men freely into their town. You'd better hide that voice, or you'll be mistaken for a werebear for sure."

  "Derst," the burly knight rumbled. Two light, flanged maces hung from his saddle, and his hand rested on one. "You're going to have to watch your tongue. No right-minded citizen of the Silver Marches would mistake you for a werebear, but your shape is right for a wererat."

  "What does that have to do with my speech, pray tell, Sir Hartwine?" Derst asked.

  "You're being quite flippant, Sir Goldtook, and only a fool would be flippant, and a wererat would be a fool to wander into Quaervarr, disguised as a Knight in Silver," Bars said. "Since you are being flippant, you are definitely a fool, ergo, you might be a wererat."

  "Ah, but could I not be a thief disguised as a Knight in Silver?" Derst asked. "As you often remind me, brother paladin, I am quite the rogue. Besides, you used a lot of words there that you probably shouldn't—dangerous 'logic,' too. After all, what if some suspicious citizen overheard and questioned you, or reported you to the watch for 'thinking?' I would have a difficult time explaining all that back hair you seem to cultivate—"

  "When did we lose the right to be logical?" Bars asked. He glared at Derst. "And leave the hair alone."

  Derst grinned behind his silver faceplate. "More to the point, when did we lose the right to be flippant?" he asked. "My life would be a complete waste of air if I found myself without that right. I mean, I wouldn't be able to speak at all—"

  "Bless the Morning Lord," the burly knight bellowed. "Were it ever so!"

  Derst glowered at him for a moment, but perked up when they entered Quaervarr's main plaza. "Ah, the Whistling Stag," he said as they approached the inn. "At least, so I would assume, by yon hanging, which bears a striking resemblance to Quaervarr's pennant."

  The Whistling Stag was a plain but sturdy building of fir and pine, a great hunting lodge that had become a gather­ing place for travelers and locals alike. The knights heard laughter, jesting, and the clacking of tankards through the windows. Clearly, they had come to the right place for merry-making.

  They dismounted and Bars turned to address the third member of their party. "Sir Venkyr, if you would be so good as to go in with me and reserve rooms, Sir Goldtook will take our noble steeds to the stables."

  "The horses?" Derst interjected with a look of disgust. "Why me?"

  "Less chance of you swindling the innkeeper that way," Bars explained.

  Derst started a retort, stopped, then nodded.

  The stout knight turned to their silent companion. "Please, allow me to do the negotiations. You must be tired from our long journey. Pray, get some rest. One of your distincti—"

  The knight laughed, a high, musical sound, and reached up to loosen the helmet's straps. "Excuse me?" came the melodi­ous voice. "Being a noble, Bars, does not make me helpless." The helmet came off, and the knight shook out a long mane of dark auburn hair. Gray eyes sparkled above her smile and sunlight danced across her smooth, lightly tanned face. Arya Venkyr was a songbird clad in steel feathers. More than a few passersby caught their breath. "Nor does being a noble lady."

  "Of course not, lass—I mean, Lady Sir Arya," Bars stam­mered. "I said nothing of the sort."

  "Were you going to say one of those things, perhaps?" She put her hands on her hips and raised one crimson-dashed eyebrow. There was that fiery passion—the defiance well known in Everlund and the reason she was here, in a knight's armor, rather than at home in a study hall, garden, or drawing room.

  Cursing the demands of chivalry, Bars felt his face becom­ing a similar burning shade. "You may do all the diplomacy you like, Lady Sir," he managed, after clearing his throat.

  "I've asked you not to call me that," Arya replied with a roll of her eyes that belied her anger.

  "Yes, Lady Sir." Bars flinched at his accidental use of the title.

  Arya sighed. She stroked her chestnut mare, Swiftfall.

  "But since you've been so kind as to offer," Arya said, her face amused, "I won't refuse. Lead the way, Sir Hartwine, if it please you. And draw your coin purse. Sir Goldtook? The horses."

  "Forth the Nightingale," the two men said together, without meaning to. It was their battle cry, which referred to Arya's coat of arms. The synchronization drew a laugh from Arya.

  Grumbling and half-smiling, Bars escorted her into the Whistling Stag. Grumbling and not smiling, Derst escorted the three horses to the stable.

  The Whistling Stag was surprisingly roomy, and the dark atmosphere typical of an inn, with its choking smoke, was absent. Instead, thanks to the open windows, the knights found themselves able to breathe easy and free. Excepting the heads that turned as she entered, Arya admired every­thing about the common room.

  Tables and long benches, each carved from single shadow-top trunks, were laid out with enough walking space for two people. Stuffed heads of animals, orc and goblin weapons, spears, axes, and broken arrows adorned the room. A glorious tapestry depicting elves hunting deer graced the north wall. Barmaids flitted about, hurrying to clear tables for guests and to set down wide trays of ale tankards. The common room was stuffed with patrons and celebrants who had gathered to observe the coming of spring.

  Arya pushed herself up to the counter next to a loud man who was bragging about his lewd exploits in a slurred voice.

  "Excuse me," Arya said to the innkeeper, a burly man she gathered from the noise was named Garion. "We are looking for rooms for a tenday or two, and stables for our steeds."

  "Stables are open," Garion said as he wiped a tankard clean. "But Greengrass's got us all full. I'd love to help ye, Lady Knight, but we got no empty rooms."

  "Wha?" sounded a voice to her left.

  The man who had grunted—not spoken, exactly—saw Arya and grinned lasciviously. Brown hair fell to his shoulders and he wore a half beard—a goatee, they called it in Waterdeep.

  He was dressed exquisitely, with a long feather in his hat and a rapier and main gauche at his belt. He was clearly the foppish sort, and was just as clearly drunk.

  "Ye kin stay in me own room, lassie," the man slurred. "Me bed's not too wide, but that needn't bother us..."

  "How romantic," Arya murmured.

  "Shut up, Morgan," Garion said. He turned to Arya. "Decent enough fella, him, but when he gets in his cups—"

  "Who axed ye, Garion?" scolded Morgan. "I was jes' havin' a chat w
ith this comely wench 'ere—"

  "My thanks," said Arya, smiling politely, "but no." Then she ignored Morgan and turned back. "Are you quite certain? Do you know of any other rooms in town?"

  "Hey!" Morgan snapped, reaching for Arya. "I was talkin' to ye, flipskirt!"

  A dagger appeared, quivering in the wooden surface of the bar a hair's breadth from Morgan's fingers.

  "Sorry, sorry," said Derst with a cough. "Must have slipped out of my hand."

  "Ye almost hit me!" shouted Morgan, following his excla­mation with a string of curses that made Arya and even the innkeeper blush faintly.

  "I say, Bars," Derst said from behind Arya. "Quite a mouth on that knave."

  "Indeed," replied the burly knight, standing to Derst's right. "A knave indeed, to speak in such a manner in the presence of a lady. I fear I must ask him to desist."

  Arya looked at them sidelong, rolled her eyes, and slid out of the way. The two moved up to Morgan, Bars to his left and Derst to his right.

  "Ye gots a problem, ye fat orc?" the drunk asked.

  Bars's face colored deeply and his hands clenched into fists. Morgan laughed at the spectacle and took a pull from his tankard.

  "Uh-oh, he insulted the weight," observed Derst. "Only I get to do that."

  "Bars, Derst—let it alone," Arya warned.

  "Too late, lass," rumbled Bars as he fingered the twin maces at his belt.

  "He's very sensitive about his Beshaba-cursed figure," explained Derst. "You shouldn't have said that, Sir Inebriate."

  Morgan shoved his stool back and drained the last of his ale. "I'll hear none o' thy insults, mangy goblin!" he shouted as he yanked his rapier free of its scabbard.

  Arya saw Derst wince and shook her head. "He shouldn't have said that either," she observed to Garion.

  The barkeep nodded. "I'd stop them, but I have a feeling that'd just make it worse."

  Arya agreed silently.

  " 'Ave at ye!" Morgan shouted as he lunged, sword first, at Bars.