The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  The other guards came against Walker, but hesitated under the intensity of his gaze. He knocked aside one half-hearted attack, spinning to his right, and knocked the second guard's blade away with the same swing. This guard staggered back, stunned at the speed of the parry, and Walker kept spinning. As he came up again, he punched the third guard in the face, knocking him down, and continued his spin, his shatterspike coming around...

  To spark and lock against Arya's drawn blade, low to the ground.

  His momentum spent, Walker settled to his feet and stood against her. He had expected she would give way as easily as the guards, but she did not. Instead, she remained in place, determined, the last obstacle standing between Walker and freedom.

  Their eyes met, her steely orbs standing firm against his fierce, dark gaze. There was danger, there was threat, there was resolution, but Arya did not flinch. Exerting her full strength, she held his blade in place, a hand's breadth from her face. They battled, a contest of wills that both knew was of deathly importance.

  Of a sudden, Arya realized Walker's eyes were blue. The blue was obscured, hidden beneath the darkness, but defi­nitely there. Her heart leaped and her breath caught.

  Then, just like that, Walker pulled away, whirling back in exactly the opposite direction. Meris had reversed his charge and was coming back, but Walker made no move to meet him. Instead, he bounded toward a dark corner and melted away, as though into the very shadows.

  No sooner had Walker vanished than Meris's throwing dagger imbedded itself into the wall where he had gone. The wild scout, deprived of his opponent, whirled and searched, but there was no one to be found, except for groaning and disoriented guardsmen.

  "Beastlord's bloody—" cursed Meris. Then he stopped, seeing Arya looking at him in shock.

  Meris sheathed his sword slowly and deliberately, and retrieved his thrown axe and knife. Without a word to Arya, he shot her a vicious glare and stamped out into the night.

  Finally, the knight remembered to exhale.

  Chapter 7

  27 Tarsakh

  "Parry, parry, thrust, parry, thrust," Greyt intoned silently as he worked through the familiar move­ments. His opponent fell back with each of his attacks, but pressed when Greyt took the defensive. The Lord Singer's hand lacked the speed and strength of youth, but it was all the more deadly for experience.

  His opponent thrust high suddenly, his sword a silver blur.

  Greyt ducked, his knees bending apart. The weapon passed harmlessly over his head. Even as the younger fencer tried to reverse his blow, Greyt's rapier slashed open the dark leather covering the man's side. A line of bright red appeared on his pale flesh.

  As his opponent staggered back, Greyt took the opportunity to cuff him on the side of the head. "Keep your guard up, fool!" he shouted. "I should run you through for your stupidity!"

  "I'm sorry, Lord Singer—" Tamnus said, dropping imme­diately to one knee.

  Greyt promptly kicked him in the face, launching him backward. Blood streamed from his nose. When Tamnus looked at him in shock, the Lord Singer's mouth was hard.

  "Did I say the duel was over?" he snapped. The aide shook his head. Then he cringed when Greyt raised his rapier once more, as though to thrust it through Tamnus's head.

  A banging at the door startled Greyt, and he almost thrust. A tingle ran down his spine, and he whirled on the portal.

  "Who is it?" he shouted.

  "Captain Unddreth, Lord Singer," a rumble came. "I wish an audience with you."

  The bard ran a hand through his graying hair. Then he turned on his training aide with a vicious glare. "Out of my sight," he ordered with a hiss. Tamnus wasted no breath in hesi­tation. He ran away, clutching at his side in obvious pain.

  Greyt cared not. When Tamnus was gone, Greyt flicked the blood off his rapier and sheathed it. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he assumed a more comfortable stance.

  "Come," he called.

  The doors swung open and the massive Unddreth entered Greyt's ballroom. The floorboards, hard, good wood, did not creak, even under his heavy boots. Situated in the center of the mansion, the ballroom was the largest—if not the finest—room in Quaervarr. Tapestries of scarlet, bold white, and vibrant purples adorned the walls, laced with ivory and gold thread. In the center of the ballroom, marble statues of dancing nymphs poured water from basins down into a great copper fountain. If it had not been so dismal outside, sunlight would have cascaded through high, stained glass windows depicting dancing fey, dueling heroes, and wheeling dragons.

  If Unddreth was impressed as he entered the grand ball­room—useless in such a small town—he showed no sign of it. His blocky face was stoic, as always.

  "What is it, Captain?" Greyt asked.

  "I bear grave news," the earth genasi growled.

  "Of course you do," the Lord Singer said. He started away, toward a tapestry depicting a dragon in flight. Unddreth did not follow. Greyt thanked the gods for that.

  "I have come to inform you of a murder that transpired last night," Unddreth said. "Sir Torlic, a lieutenant in the Quaervarr guard, was killed in his house last night."

  "What do I—" Greyt started angrily, but stopped himself. "Why bring this to me?"

  The genasi's lip twitched. "He was once of the Raven Claws," Unddreth said. "I thought perhaps you might help me find the one who killed him."

  "Ah." Greyt wanted to claim that he knew nothing, but that would make Unddreth suspicious. "I well remember our days on the road, but I know of no enemy who would kill him, nor even seek to attack him in his humble abode."

  He had thrown out his hand in imitation of a performance and now became aware of a small spot of Tamnus's blood on his palm. He clenched his fist and looked back at Unddreth.

  "Perhaps Jarthon and his People of the Black Blood. They have been quiet for long enough. Could your soldiers have relaxed their guard, I wonder, Captain?"

  Unddreth's already dark complexion became black. "I personally fought the man responsible," he said. "And he was no werebeast. We are dealing with another attacker, one very skilled with a blade, and possessing powers I have never seen before."

  "Powers?" Greyt asked idly. He peered intently at a tapestry of a military victory, with a knight of Cormyr leading a host of soldiers. One of the Azouns, perhaps? He could not recall.

  "The villagers are whispering about a shadowy man named Walker," Unddreth said. "That may have been him."

  That produced a stir in Greyt. The name sounded like a discordant note on his yarting. He rubbed his gold ring, as was his habit.

  "And what do you want me to do, kill this shadow for you?" Greyt said, suppressing his reaction. "You and your soldiers find this attacker and deal with him as is proper.

  "Or..." He drew his rapier with a flourish. "Could it be you have come to ask for the aid I can offer?"

  "We need none of your thug rangers, Greyt," Unddreth spat. His animosity toward the Lord Singer was matched only by his contempt for Greyt's servants—as Greyt well knew. "Undis­ciplined scum, all of them. Especially Meris the bastard."

  "I can't argue," the Lord Singer laughed, unsurprised. "It's very true."

  Nor was he surprised that Unddreth had spoken so crassly. Unddreth had always been free with his tongue—it came from being raised a commoner. Greyt waved the captain away and sheathed his sword.

  Blaming the Black Blood was a ruse—for all Greyt knew, the bastard werebadger and his kin were all prowling Malar's infernal forests in the Abyss, or wherever Malar's forests were. He cared little for theology.

  After a moment, Greyt looked back and saw that Und­dreth had not moved.

  "You're still here," he said.

  "I am." Unddreth, not prone to fidgeting, gazed at him stonily.

  "There is more?" Greyt asked.

  "Speaker Stonar left the city in your hands," Unddreth said. "Thus, when an event transpires that threatens the welfare of the city, it is your responsibility to deal with it, is it not?"
r />   "And I have," Greyt said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. "I want you and your soldiers to find this attacker and kill him. Or her. Or it. Just do what you are paid to do."

  Dim-witted Unddreth. Greyt scowled. Are you as stupid as you look?

  "We must inform Speaker Stonar of the event," Und­dreth said.

  Not stupid then, Greyt decided. He should have foreseen the suggestion.

  He didn't miss a beat, though. "So send to the druids to communicate with their magic," he said dismissively. "They may not be under our control, but they will aid us."

  "I already have," Unddreth said. "Something blocks their magic, some barrier they cannot pierce."

  "Probably another of their foolish excuses—a damned equinox or something," Greyt said quickly. It was plausible, after all. Quaervarr was a frontier town in every sense: unless matters were really out of hand, the people preferred to settle their own problems, without help from the High Lady or her armies of mages. The druids would expect no less from the Watch. "Or it's a sacred time for their gods, or perhaps the guild of Silverymoon has better things to do than listen to our minor complaints—"

  "So we must send a courier," Unddreth said.

  "I'm sure that's not necessary," Greyt said with a shrug as if he meant to forget the whole thing. "As you said, it is only one man. Some independent town we would be if we ran to Silverymoon with our troubles every time a lunatic crops up. How much trouble can one man be? Take a few of your best soldiers and scour the Moonwood for him."

  Unddreth hesitated, but finally nodded. "As you com­mand, Lord Singer," he said curtly. Turning on his heel, the genasi strode out of the ballroom.

  Greyt watched his retreating form for a long moment, tracing with his eyes the image of the white stag emblazoned upon the huge shield Unddreth wore on his back.

  "As I command," he repeated to himself with a grin. He liked the sound of that.

  * * * *

  Wrapped in steel, Arya was approaching the front doors of her uncle's manor when they flew open and the hulking Unddreth stamped out. His face was even harder than usual. She dropped into a light bow.

  "Well met, Captain Unddreth," she said.

  The genasi's frown turned to a soft smile when he saw her, and Arya was acutely aware of her appearance. Her silver armor gleamed and her auburn hair burned in the soft light. Shining on her breast, the badge of the Knights in Silver—a clasp with the sigil of Silverymoon—secured a deep blue cloak around her shoulders. Arya knew Unddreth admired her simple elegance, and embarrassed warmth blossomed in her cheeks.

  "Good morning to you, Lady Venkyr," Unddreth said. He gestured to the sword belted at her hip. "Going about armed, are you?"

  She smiled shakily. "One can never be too careful," she said in reply.

  "True." He patted the warhammer at his own belt. "Very true."

  His face was still stony. Something about his voice, though, told Arya that he was thinking about the audience with Greyt he had just left. He perked up, though, when he caught her staring.

  "Thank you for your assistance last night," he said. "I hope it is clear that any momentary hesitation or doubts about your abilities—or loyalties—have been put to rest."

  "It is, Captain," Arya said. "I serve the Silver Marches, so I serve Quaervarr as well."

  Unddreth bowed his head then plodded on his way.

  Arya nodded, smiling as he went. She had read the characters of many people in her time with the Knights in Silver, and she knew that there went a just and noble soldier.

  As Unddreth walked farther away, though, Arya looked back to Greyt's doors and her smile vanished. She turned smartly on her heel and headed to the portal, where she rapped the gold wolf knocker. She pulled the cloak tighter around her armored body, trying vainly to warm the cold steel strapped around her limbs. Armor was impractical in this cold, but she wanted to be in full uniform when she confronted her uncle once more.

  Claudir arrived in a moment to take her inside. The steward looked at her with the same uninterested, detached look he always had. He led her through Greyt's spacious manor without paying attention to her. Once Claudir had ush­ered Arya into Greyt's study, he sniffed, as though to assure her that Greyt would arrive shortly, and left without a word.

  "Took you long enough," came an angry, nigh-angelic voice, startling her.

  In the center of the room, a beautiful woman in a dark gown was standing, facing away from her. When she turned and saw Arya, she started and assumed a confused expression.

  "I... I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else," the lady said. Golden curls fell around a beautiful, oval face. Her ears were slightly pointed. "I am tired." She moved to leave.

  "Lady Lyetha," Arya said finally. She dropped into a bow. "I'm sorry; I did not recognize you for a moment. I am Arya Venkyr, stepdaughter of your Lord Husband's sister."

  Lyetha paused, looking at Arya again with fresh eyes. Her orbs were sparkling sapphires, and something about their intensity made Arya's breath catch. Her serenity brooked absolutely no display of emotion. This was a noblewoman if Arya had ever seen one, and the knight was a personal friend of Alustriel herself.

  "No need for me to worry, then," she said dismissively. Lyetha swept out of the room, leaving a confused Arya in her wake, and that was that. Lyetha was gone.

  Arya would never speak with her again.

  * * * *

  Time passed.

  Eventually, the lady knight, bored, looked around for something to distract herself. While she waited, Arya scanned the titles of different tomes with disinterest. Lord Greyt kept epics, poems, treatises, and battle records. Arya recognized names, but that's where the interest ended. Though she could read and write Chondathan, Iluskan, and even some Damaran, thanks to schooling at her father's house, Arya had never fancied herself a scholar. Books were for sages, the nobility, and wizards, not knights. Still, there was nothing else to do in the small study, so she browsed the shelves and desk.

  After some time, Arya noticed a small amulet on the desk. It was gold, in the shape of a five-pointed leaf cunningly cut and delicately formed. Tiny Elvish runes were etched on the back.

  Arya wished she had paid more attention during Elvish lessons, but she could make it out. "It is easier to destroy than to create," she read out loud. She pursed her lips in thought.

  The door clicked and she looked up with a start, hoping it was Lyetha returned to collect the pendant so she could ask her about it, but her hopes were in vain. Instead, Greyt came in, dressed in soft leathers embroidered with gold thread that set off his similarly colored hair. Without thinking, Arya slipped the pendant into her pocket.

  By his mussed mane and smoldering eyes, Arya could tell Greyt was not pleased. Whether this was because of her interruption or not, Arya did not know, but she found she did not truly care. Somehow, she felt less uneasy when he was less than comfortable. His arrogance and supercilious manners were gone.

  "Ah, Niece," Greyt greeted her. "To what do I owe this dubious honor?"

  Arya winced. She retracted her earlier observation about his manners.

  "Not the best of mornings, eh, Uncle?" asked Arya. At least he was overt. She preferred when people did not hide how they really felt. Arya, honest herself, valued honesty in others. It was part of why she found court life stifling.

  A wry smile creased his face. "Mayhap," he said. "I am quite busy this morn with affairs of state—er, Quaervarr, that is. I am in charge in Speaker Stonar's absence."

  "Precisely the reason I desire an audience," replied Arya. "I have come to tell you something, something you should know."

  "And that is?" asked Greyt without any real interest. He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Cormyrean red. With a halfhearted lift of the bottle, he extended an offer to Arya, but she declined with a wave. He flopped into his chair.

  Arya took a deep breath before she next spoke, for against her better judgment, she was about to reveal an impor­tant secret.
/>   "Lady Alustriel is concerned about the disappearance of several of her couriers, who have set out for Quaervarr but never returned," said Arya.

  Greyt looked at her blankly. "And what does that have to do with either of us?"

  "My mission to Quaervarr," explained Arya, "is to inves­tigate those disappearances."

  He did not seem surprised in the least, a fact that made her wince.

  "The North is a dangerous place," Greyt replied with a shrug. "The People of the Black Blood were a danger in the Moonwood, and who knows what might have replaced them in the last months? I can't guarantee safety, and neither can you."

  "It's not that simple," Arya said.

  "No?" Greyt asked as he sipped his wine.

  "No," asserted Arya. "All the messengers had two things in common—all were young women, and all were alone."

  There was a moment of silence in the study.

  Then Greyt laughed, long and loud. When his mirth finally subsided, he managed to speak between deep chuckles.

  "I'm sorry, Niece, but I can't say I'm surprised," he said. "I've said it before, and it holds true now. 'The road for a man, home for a woman.' I believe a bard from Westgate said that ... Now, what was his name? Mayhap not."

  Shocked, Arya felt irritation rise in her throat and had to clench her fist to avoid striking him. Her reputation for stubbornness and temper was not undeserved. She had cast off her responsibilities in Everlund, despite her father's wishes, because of just such a discussion. But losing her composure as a Knight in Silver simply would not do.

  In the meantime, Greyt continued his mocking laughter. She could not help but feel it was partly at her expense. Soon enough, she could take it no longer. She wanted to say something to stop that laughter, and she spoke before her mind worked.

  "Are the streets of Quaervarr even safe? Can you not protect your own people?"

  "Niece, know that your safety is of top concern," Greyt added, seemingly at ease. "The attack upon your person last night will be investigated. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't put it past this—what did you say people called him? Walker?"