The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  Lost in his thoughts, Walker was completely surprised when a hand reached out of an alley, seized him by the shoulder, and yanked him from the hazy night into pitch darkness.

  Walker recovered enough from the surprise to draw his shatterspike in the blink of an eye and slash up and across at his unseen attacker. The hand released his shoulder and the dark figure leaped back, but Walker did not let up. He fol­lowed, his blade thrusting up and down, then slashing right to left. The first thrust the attacker managed to dodge and the second scraped off hard steel, as of armor. The high slash slammed against a hastily raised shield, a parry that barely managed to block it. The shield did not resist the sword's cut directly, but instead let the slash continue, straight into the wall of a nearby building, where the shield held it.

  Releasing the sword, Walker lunged forward and shoul­dered his opponent, who was already off balance, against the wall of the nearby building. A long sword came up, held in the attacker's other hand, and Walker immediately stepped inside its reach, putting his shoulder against the upper right arm, and held his opponent against the cracked timber wall with his body. The overhang stopped the rain from falling on Walker's head, but the darkness obscured his attacker's face.

  "Stop—" he started to say, but a flash of lightning over­head lit the alley for the barest of instants and bathed his opponent's face in light.

  It was the auburn-haired woman, the one he had hap­pened across in the alley, saved from an unknown assailant, then confronted in Torlic's house, all within a short amount of time.

  "You—" began his next question, but it cut off in a grunt as pain exploded up his leg from where she had stomped hard on his foot. He staggered back and a knee met his midsection. Walker doubled over, the air stolen from his lungs, but managed to reach up for his sword, still stuck in the wall.

  The woman made no move to attack, but she kept her sword up as she stepped away from the wall. "A less honor­able woman would have put that knee between your legs," she observed casually as she wiped a lock of auburn hair out of her face with her sword arm.

  Walker managed to right himself, holding himself up against the opposite wall until his stomach cramp disap­peared, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  The knight saw that he was vertical again and smiled. "Now—"

  Whatever the knight had been about to say became a startled gasp as she leaped back, barely avoiding a silvery blade through the ribs as Walker lunged. She slapped the sword away and fell back into a defensive stance, shield up and ready.

  That was fortunate—for her—because Walker's second slash came not a breath later, slamming into her shield with bone-numbing force. The fine steel held, though the keen shatterspike left a wide notch in its surface.

  The knight attempted to swing back, but Walker parried the sword out to his left, spun toward her, dropped the shatterspike, grabbed her wrist, and rolled along her arm, coiling up to her sword hand all in one smooth movement, holding her blade away from him. Then he punched her stomach hard with his off hand and slammed his palm against her sword hand, knocking the sword from numbed fingers. Uncoiling once more, he slammed her back against the wall, and held the point of a knife to her throat—a knife that he had slipped from his left sleeve.

  In the space of a breath, he stood, back to her front, her right hand in his, holding her against the wood.

  Walker hissed in her ear. "Now—"

  She twisted her hand and pulled a dagger from his right wrist sheath. Walker's eyes widened, but the surprise did not stop his reflex. With his free hand, he slapped the blade away.

  "Well, that's out of the way," she said, half jokingly, as the knife fell to the ground.

  "What?"

  "You don't understand," the woman said. "I'm not here to fight you—"

  "Then why are you here?" Walker demanded, so harshly that the knight flinched.

  Then, as though she had steeled herself with the same icy resolve that ran through Walker's veins, the knight's face went calm.

  "Are we through interrupting each other?" she asked slowly and levelly.

  "Are we?" Walker kept his voice calm.

  "What kind of answer is that?" asked the knight. "Obvi­ously, I'm in no position to surprise you with an attack, so it's really a matter of whether you—" Walker was impassive as he held the knife to her throat. The knight swallowed. "Right, well, let's assume that's a 'yes.' In that case, I'll tell you why I'm here."

  "Indeed."

  Though his rasp was chilling, the knight, unafraid, was staring into his sapphire eyes, a gaze that made him unchar­acteristically uncomfortable. It was not a sensation he was used to. Fortunately, her eyes were drawn to a silver gleam on his finger—the wolf's head ring. Walker shifted his stance, pulling her attention from the ring.

  "Will you do something for me?" she asked after a moment.

  "Perhaps," replied Walker.

  The knight lifted her chin, heedless of the blade poised there. "Allow me to speak without attacking?"

  Walker's face was impassive.

  "My name is Arya Venkyr of Everlund, Knight of Sil­verymoon," she said.

  "Men call me Walker," said the man in black.

  "I know," said Arya. "I have seen you before—"

  "And?" Walker hissed, forcing her back to the former subject.

  "I'm here on assignment to investigate the disappear­ances of half a dozen couriers—"

  "Couriers?" asked Walker, unfamiliar with the term. He spoke Elvish more often than Common.

  "Messengers," said Arya. "They have vanished over the last few tendays—"

  "Then why are you here?" came the interruption.

  Arya's brow wrinkled. "The couriers, they—"

  "No, why here—why follow me?" corrected Walker. "I know nothing of your couriers."

  "You do know something," she said. "Something that will help in my invest—"

  "I know nothing of your couriers," repeated Walker.

  "How do I know you're telling the truth?" asked Arya. Walker turned the knife he held to her throat. "Well, I sup­pose I'll have to take your word—"

  "Indeed," said Walker.

  Then he took the blade away from her throat, though he made no move to release her. He did not even realize he was still holding her until she tilted her head, examining his face.

  "It was you, wasn't it?" she said excitedly, as though making a discovery. "You saved me. You're not as old as I thought—you can't have seen many more winters than me. Why do you wear your collar so high? What are you hiding?"

  Not answering any of her questions, Walker released her and stepped away, toward his fallen sword. She stood there for a heartbeat, massaging her stung wrist. Then, as though remembering something, she clutched the trailing edge of his cloak and stayed him.

  "You're going after one of Greyt's friends, Bilgren," Arya said, holding him back.

  Walker shrugged, as if to concede the possibility.

  Arya continued. "Turn back. Knowing my ... knowing him, it's probably a trap."

  Walker smiled. "It matters not," he said. He turned. "If you knew how I am committed, you would not stop me." He pulled his cloak out of her grasp and stalked away.

  * * * *

  "Wait!" Arya shouted, not knowing why. She had almost let him fade away into the shadows, but something within wouldn't let her.

  He turned, showing no emotion at all in his face, but she could tell he was confused.

  The rush of words burst out of her faster than her mind could hold it back. "I wanted to thank you for saving me the other night."

  Walker's expression did not change, but Arya could feel something shift. That had startled him. He stood still for a moment, gazing at her, and she felt none of his bitter, icy resolve burning at her. Instead, he seemed almost a simple man gazing at her through the darkness.

  "You are welcome," Walker said quietly. He turned, bent low to retrieve the weapon, then headed back toward the street. Then he paused and looked back.

&
nbsp; "What is it?" Arya asked, knitting her brows in confusion.

  "I apologize for frightening you," said Walker. "You were in no danger." His voice was soft, almost gentle.

  It is the curse of quick words—when one shouldn't respond, they come, and when one needs to speak, they are mysteri­ously absent. When Arya could not form a reply, Walker bowed his head and turned to go.

  Arya blinked. What a quandary this man seemed: a creature of darkness, with vengeance burning in his eyes, and yet he had saved her. Arya felt the same conflicting duality as she looked upon him. On the one hand, his cold stare frightened her, and the rage she had seen in his eyes sent chills down her spine. But on the other, he intrigued her, taking her beyond her initial curiosity. And something told her that he hid much behind those blue eyes, beneath that black cloak...

  That thought made her blush, but she hadn't meant it that way. Too much time around Derst, perhaps.

  Now, Arya realized with a start, Walker was going back into the shadows, but slowly. There was more he wanted to say, she could sense, but he did not have the words. Something about the way he carried himself and the way he moved set her heart to racing.

  "Stop!" said Arya without meaning to. She realized she'd stopped him a third time.

  Walker turned back, and his eyes appraised her. "You possess courage," he said.

  It sounded almost mocking, and Arya puffed out her chest. "Why do you say that?"

  Walker may have smiled behind his high collar. "You do not fear me."

  "Should I?"

  Walker's gaze was her only answer.

  Arya felt her defiant spirit flaring, and a retort came to mind. Her mouth was moving first, though, before she even considered what was to come out.

  "Evil holds no terror for me," said Arya, baiting him.

  "Then you should feel terror indeed, for I hold no evil for you," said Walker. "Only vengeance for my foes."

  "Vengeance is evil," she argued.

  "Vengeance is beyond good and evil," replied Walker.

  They were silent for a long moment. Then, leaving it on that cryptic note, Walker turned and walked away.

  Arya made to follow him but stopped, a thought having occurred to her. She reached in her pocket and fingered the gold amulet she had accidentally taken from Greyt's manor. She ran the other way down the alley.

  * * * *

  Wiping rainwater from his nose, Walker pushed Arya's warning out of his mind as he approached Bilgren's house, though he kept his hand on his sword.

  Arya. So that was her name. A beautiful name, for a beautiful...

  Growling inwardly, Walker shoved the thoughts aside.

  The caravan in front of the decrepit former tavern bulged with crates and bundles of silks from Kara-Tur. He found it odd that merchants would stop in this part of Quaervarr, and even odder that the merchants would leave their wagon, fully loaded and unguarded.

  An odd sensation of paranoia crept through him.

  Strange. Why should he feel unnerved? Was this merely Arya's warning coming back to haunt him?

  He was pondering this when the lids of the crates burst open and soldiers, glittering steel in their hands, poured out into the rainy night around him. These men were dressed in dark leather and carried swords, daggers, and axes, most with a weapon in both hands.

  Caught momentarily off guard, Walker barely drew his sword in time to deflect the first slash of a ranger's blade. He twisted aside and winced as the man's dagger scraped past his side. Fortunately, the blow was cushioned by the magic of his bracers and drew little blood. He countered with a vicious punch to the jaw, laying the man low, but two were waiting to take the fallen ranger's place, swords darting for his life.

  Walker spun, throwing his cloak up high to distract them, and the blades stabbed right through the thick cloth, one narrowly missing and the other sparking off his left bracer.

  Continuing the spin, Walker yanked his cloak hard to the left, and the cloth pulled the swords along with it, dragging the rangers off their guard. He reversed the shatterspike in his left hand, followed the spin, and cut one of the rangers down with an underhand slash. Even as the man fell, Walker leaped backward into the middle of the street, warding off the dozen attackers with his blade.

  One came forward, and Walker batted the sword aside, but his counter went to parry the sword of a second, coming from his unarmed side. A dagger snaked in and Walker slapped the man's hand, disarming him, caught the falling weapon, and jabbed it into the first attacker's belly, all in a blur of motion. The man cursed and kicked out, but Walker twisted aside to dodge.

  Then white-hot pain slashed across his back, and Walker lost his focus. He ducked under the next slash and thrust his blade behind him. The flanking ranger leaped back with an oath.

  Walker rose. The angry-faced rangers, many sporting scars and eye patches, sneered at him. More men came out of the surrounding buildings, until Walker found himself facing thirty men, all armed to face a small army. They did not advance—Walker's aura of deadly resolve kept them at bay for now—but they kept Walker carefully surrounded.

  The huge iron doors of Bilgren's tavern home creaked open and two figures came out, one with dark curls, clad in white leather armor, and the other a hulking giant of a man, wrapped in furs and carrying a long weapon with a sword blade extending from one end and a single chain flail from the other. The latter man's thick red moustache quivered as he guffawed loudly.

  "Ah, ha ha!" the huge man bellowed. "Look at the rat me trap has caught!"

  "My trap, Bilgren," said the smaller man. "My trap. You'd have just fought him alone."

  Bilgren roared with laughter. "Ye be right, little Meris, ye be right." He spun his gyrspike before him, blade over chain. "An' now I'll do the like anyway."

  Meris raised a finger and opened his mouth to speak but then shrugged. "Whatever you say," said the dusky scout.

  Walker, bleeding from half a dozen small wounds, kept warding the rangers away with his threatening blade and gaze. Then the rangers drew back and lowered their swords, allowing Walker his circle. The ghostwalker stood up as straight as he could, held his blade low, and stared at the huge barbarian coming toward him. Bilgren shouldered his way through the rangers and stepped into the circle with the bleeding ghostwalker.

  "Thy race be run, dark man," Bilgren rumbled, holding his weapon ready. He twirled it in front of him and across to both his sides, then over his head, with astonishing grace given the weapon's size and Bilgren's bulk. He finally snapped it down and held the flail and sword handle in his two huge hands. "I only regret that a sickly goblin like ye could kill me friend Drex." He lifted his gyrspike over his head in challenge.

  Walker's grim scowl did not waver. He lifted his shatter-spike, accepting the barbarian's challenge.

  Bilgren roared and leaped in, attacking with reckless abandon. It was a berserk fury, a terrible blood frenzy Walker had observed many times in animals backed into corners. The rage would heighten Bilgren's strength, speed, and endurance. Against Walker, already injured, the advan­tage was clear.

  The fight would be a quick one, unless Tymora intervened.

  Spinning his gyrspike, Bilgren slashed down at Walker's head. The smaller man made to parry, then leaped aside, dodging the blow and the spiked ball that smashed down after it. Working with both hands, Bilgren continued the swing, allowing the sword and flail to slash past the side of his body. For such a huge man, he possessed remarkable speed. Bilgren turned and brought the weapon horizon­tally right to left, turning the swipe past his side and allowing the flail to swing. Walker managed to whirl away in time, the flail passing within a hand's breadth of his chest.

  Meanwhile, a dagger slid into Walker's hand, and he let fly.

  Walker landed and went to one knee, one hand low, and his cloak spread out around him. Bilgren gave a gasp from behind, and the ghostwalker closed his eyes as though mourning. The street was silent.

  Then a sound broke that silence—a loud, booming laug
h.

  Walker turned to see Bilgren looming over him, a dagger stuck to the hilt in his right arm. The barbarian looked at the wound idly, then ripped the knife from his flesh with the slightest of winces. He tossed it aside and swung the gyrspike, keeping the sword blade against his arm.

  Eyes wide, Walker managed to duck the flail by throw­ing himself on his back.

  Bilgren followed through and took the weapon behind his back, turning it like a staff, and the blade came back around his right side. Walker leaped to the opposite side of Bilgren's body, but the barbarian kept the weapon slashing after him. The ghostwalker managed to parry aside the sword blade but the spiked ball clipped his shoulder and sent him spinning to the ground.

  Intense pain lashed through Walker and blood flew from his lips. He pushed on the earth, trying to force himself up from where he lay on his belly, but he could not muster the strength. He tried to summon up the ghostly powers that would allow him to escape by walking through the very earth, but the necessary focus eluded him. For the first time in the life he remembered, Walker felt his resolve and his calm slipping away.

  The rangers laughed and jeered all around him. A flat, emotionless expression was painted across Meris's dusky face, but something burned in his eyes.

  In those eyes, something... Anger, yes. Rage, yes. But something else...

  Looming over him, the bearlike Bilgren spun the gyr­spike over his head. "Not used to facing death, are ye, dark man?" the raging barbarian roared like a lion. "How does it feel? To know I be about to crush ye—"

  "Sir Bilgren!" a voice shouted from somewhere.

  Startled, the barbarian watched, stupefied, as a lance stabbed into his shoulder, lifting him up and out of the circle.