Sure enough, the weight on Walker's chest vanished as the ghostfire elemental faded from the Material. His tearing eyes could see that it was not gone. Rather, the creature had turned from Walker's inert form and now flowed toward Arya.
With the elemental no longer standing on him, Walker struggled to push himself to his feet. It was, however, to no avail. Scorched and blackened, his body would not obey his commands.
"Ar-Arya..." he called, but the knight was unconscious.
Walker felt his concentration wavering and his burned body crying out in pain. The burning specter loomed over Arya and raised its two fiery appendages to crush her. He tried again to move, but he could not even lift his scalding sword from the ground.
Arya was about to die, and there was nothing Walker could do.
Nothing, except for the last action he would ever consider.
"Gylther'yel!" Walker shouted, blood spurting from his lips. "Aid us! Gylther'yel!''
He called for his mentor with all the breath he could muster. He knew that she was watching and he knew how much she hated humans such as Arya, but he knew that she could not leave him to die, not after she had spent fifteen years to mold him as her guardian.
Nothing happened.
The elemental paused in its attack as though to laugh at him, though it made no sound.
In that moment, Walker felt hope die. Gylther'yel was too far away. This creature would slay them both. He felt like a fool.
The beast turned and raised its fiery tendrils to batter the knight to a scorched pulp.
Then the forest became utterly black as a dark cloud moved over the moon. The ghostfire provided the only light.
The air around the elemental chilled and hail began to fall. The creature paused, as though it heard something Walker and Arya could not, and shifted again, shedding its body. Hail battered at its suddenly diminished flames. The magic struck it even though it was incorporeal—the spells were halfway between the planes.
"Gyl... Gylther'yel..." rasped Walker.
Then a bolt of lightning shot from the sky and slammed the elemental to the earth. The elemental burned low, stunned, and another bolt struck it. The elemental struggled to rise and lash out at the knight, but a third bolt struck it, then a fourth, and a fifth. Lightning bolts flew from the clouds and battered the beast to the ground.
The elemental, reeling from the blows, managed to rise, but then the hail increased and a veritable ice storm descended upon the creature, icy shards tearing apart the flames.
When the dust and fog cleared, the elemental was no more. The last flickers of ghostly flames licked up into the sky and vanished. Arya slumped against the tree, knocked out cold but unscathed save for several burns and a thin stream of blood that trickled slowly from her split lip.
Gray-green cloak billowing and whipping around her slender figure, the gold-skinned Ghostly Lady stood in the elemental's place, hugging her arms around her stomach. Her waist-length golden hair wafted around her cold face like fire. She looked down upon Arya exactly as the elemental had.
Walker, as he watched, was not sure he was any less afraid for the unconscious knight.
"I am your teacher and your friend," Gylther'yel said to him. The slow, beautiful Elvish sounded out of place on the battlefield. "I brought you back from death and raised you as my child, taught you all your skills and powers, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?" With the last word, Gylther'yel's voice rose in volume above an undertone—it was the loudest Walker had ever heard her speak.
She stared down at Arya, and her hand pulsed with black energy, the killing magic that she had wielded against the Quaervarr soldiers.
"Gylther'yel, please," croaked Walker. His voice was broken and wretched. "Spare her... She saved me... If you must be angry ... be angry at me...."
"I am not angered that you disobey," replied the Ghost Druid. Her fingers, blazing with destructive power, twitched idly. "I am merely... disappointed that you do not heed."
Then she waved, like brushing aside a flea, and the power crackled out of her hand. She walked over to Walker and placed her hand upon his forehead. He might have flinched, having seen the terrible magic she had just held, but he trusted the ruthless sun elf. The same hand that dispensed death so easily could also caress life into mortified flesh.
Gylther'yel's druidic magic soothed his mortal burns and he sensed—rather than felt, for his focus separated mind and body—his flesh re-knitting.
"I will allow you this diversion, while it lasts," said Gylther'yel. She stood, watching his wounds heal. "But know that you have brought this, my disappointment, upon yourself, and remember that the next time you cry to me for help, I will not be so quick to answer."
With that, the Ghostly Lady was gone. She vanished into the air as quickly as she had come, blown away with the passing mist and clouds.
Walker, his body healed such that he could move, pushed himself to his feet. He crossed to where Arya had fallen and, slinging the unconscious knight over his shoulder, began the trek west through the dark woods, on foot, seeking the sanctuary of his grove.
He prayed that he would have the strength to make it that far before he collapsed.
Chapter 11
29 Tarsakh
A heavy rap at the door awakened him. Stirring from troubled dreams, at first Greyt thought the knock was the sound of ribs crunching under a blow and he gave a startled gasp. He awoke but could see nothing in the darkness, as though he were blind. He soon realized, however, that he was alone in his bed and, exploring with his hands, that his body was whole. After a few tense breaths, the rap sounded again.
"What is it?" shouted Greyt.
The sickly-thin Claudir entered, robes carefully pressed and neat as always. He gazed imperiously down his thin nose at the Lord Singer buried under a small mountain of furs. "Important business, sir," he said.
"What could be so important?" Greyt threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He crossed to the window and yanked the latch open. The sun had not yet risen. The cold air surrounding his bare body sent shivers down his spine. "Especially before dawn?"
If Claudir minded or even noticed the Lord Singer's nakedness, he gave no sign. "There is a large group of townsfolk at the door," he said. "They have gathered in the square outside and wait upon your pleasure."
Greyt cursed under his breath, translating Claudir's words into tactical terms. "What is the general mood of the crowd?" he asked.
"They seem somewhat... ill at ease."
Greyt cursed again. "Angry mobs never 'wait upon your pleasure.' " He wrapped a blanket around his body. "Fetch my robe, yarting, and sword. I'm going out."
"Of course, my lord." Claudir bowed slightly. "Shall I send for several guards, two to escort you and half a dozen to filter through the crowd?"
"Naturally."
Claudir moved to leave, but Greyt stopped him with a call.
"And bring me a bottle of elverquisst after," he said. "I'm either going to toast a great success or the bodies of a dozen ignorant villagers. Or more."
"Of course, my lord," said Claudir with a bow.
* * * *
The crowd gathered in the courtyard of Greyt's manor, spilling into the main plaza of Quaervarr, was just as "ill at ease" as Claudir had described. Almost three hundred villagers stood in the plaza; nearly a third of the town's population. Most bore weapons, whether new purchases or dusty heirlooms, and others carried the saws and axes they used in woodworking. Those who did not carry weapons carried torches. Frowns were smeared across most of the faces and angry shouts rang out from the crowd.
"Well, sounds like the Lord Singer's going to get it," a thin voice observed, as though to no one in particular. "This reminds me of that time in Newfort, when we—"
"Derst, must you bring that up again?" the hulking man by his side whispered. Facing away from one another, the two warriors seemed totally unconnected, and their soft words were lost in the crowd. "That was not the best of experiences, an
d I'd rather not—"
"As I recall, we had gathered before the Hero's Reward and called out Mayor Uhl—"
"The situation quickly turned on us, and we had to flee the town," said Bars.
"Well," argued Derst. "That was hardly my fault."
"Your plan."
"Well, if you'd remembered the horses—"
"You distinctly said: 'leave the horses behind. We'll be back for them later.'"
"No fair pointing fingers," argued Derst. "But since we're on the subject, if you hadn't exposed our identities—"
"If you hadn't slept with Uhl's maid Emmi, we wouldn't have had to hide our identities."
A smile crossed Derst's face. "Ah, Emmi," the roguish knight said silkily. "Bars, you know I can't resist a pretty smile and a well-rounded ankle—"
"I suppose you didn't notice her chest," murmured Bars.
"Well, a little," he admitted. "It was hard not to, with a bodice like—"
At precisely that moment the Lord Singer swept out from the double doors that marked the entrance to his manor. He stood upon the raised entryway overlooking the crowd in his golden robe of office, carrying his fine yarting under his arm. To all appearances, Greyt looked as though he had been up all night and might be heading out to a dinner party. Bars and Derst knew better, though. Greyt's eyes gave him away: red-rimmed and containing a hint of savage anger. The eyes of a tired man on edge.
"My neighbors and friends," Greyt said in his smooth baritone. "To what do I owe the honor and pleasure of this visit?"
At his tone, the crowd quieted, except for a few discordant shouts. Derst swore. Greyt's disarming manner had just that effect: disarming.
One man, however, was not so affected. Black cloaked, he stood tall in the middle of the crowd and spoke in a rumble.
"Lord Singer," he called. "We demand justice."
"Sounds like you, Bars," said Derst. "Always straight to the point."
The paladin did not reply.
"By all means," Greyt called back with a smile. "I didn't think you'd all risen early to bid me a good morning."
There were a few scattered laughs.
"Really? That's exactly the reason I'm here," murmured Derst.
"Derst, that wasn't funny," Bars muttered in reply.
"In Speaker Stonar's absence," the cloaked man continued. "You are our defender and our lord. We demand protection. The fighting on the streets must cease, and your soldiers—"
"I find that demand ironic," Greyt shouted back. The crowd was stunned to silence. "Especially coming from you, who are supposed to keep the peace, Captain Unddreth."
A collective gasp ran through the crowd as the earth genasi pulled back his hood. The scars and bruises of battle still decorated his face and, if anything, added intensity to his words.
"Your men spent all night searching for some stranger, swords drawn, injuring or frightening the townsfolk," Unddreth accused. "This cannot stand!"
"A 'stranger?' Walker is a murderer who has been attacking our people for days!" Greyt corrected. "Many men are already dead and you insist I call my rangers back—you demand I leave our lands unprotected? I do what I must to stop this killer—for the watch has found nothing but failure." Unddreth shivered at the barb. "You protest my methods?"
"Speaker Stonar would have—" Unddreth began.
"Speaker Stonar left us in our time of need!" Greyt interrupted. "He refused to protect us, either because he would not or could not. He fled to our noble High Lady Alustriel when his countrymen cried out for aid! I can only hope she sees his cowardice or discovers his culpability."
Confused frowns answered from the crowd and Greyt chuckled.
"Guilt," he clarified, and the people cheered.
"A bid to rule Quaervarr?" Derst asked skeptically. "That's not like—"
"I know," returned Bars. Anger coursed through him. He hated politics and its machinations, but he understood the game. Greyt played the crowd like a yarting. "Not like the Greyt we know. He hates this city."
Greyt waited until the cheering died down. "I cannot believe, however, that Stonar is behind this," he shouted. "He is a good and just man, with nothing but noble intentions. I refuse to believe he is anything but ignorant—an unwitting piece of the puzzle."
Derst and Bars shook their heads. Not a power struggle, then.
"I believe the killer is acting on his own," Greyt said, "A lone villain murdering our people!"
"He is no villain!" Unddreth shouted, but his words were lost in the hubbub of frenzied shouting.
"Stonar must be told!" came a shout from the crowd. "Cast a sending to Silverymoon right away and bring him, along with a unit of the Argent Legion—"
"Impossible," came a voice that should have been too soft to penetrate the noise of the crowd but projected loudly all the same. At the sound of that voice, the crowd parted around a cloaked figure. Bars and Derst looked and saw a shapely half-elf woman in a leather cloak, flowers laced through her shockingly light hair and feathers adorning the end of a gnarled staff she carried. Though the morning was chill, she wore only a light leather tunic and leggings. Her face, flushed in the cold, was young and smooth, but her eyes were both knowing and wise.
Bars was at a loss for words. "Who is yon lady?" he asked Derst.
"Now that's a woman," the knight replied. "The Lady Druid Amra Clearwater, of the Oak House. Powerful, skilled, and an excellent tumble between the sheets." The paladin gave him a sidelong, warning look. Derst cleared his throat. "I mean, so I've heard."
The beautiful half-elf continued in a light voice. "Some barrier thwarts our spells, as though a dark moon rises over Quaervarr and shrouds our sight," she said.
"A magical barrier?" asked Greyt. "Then our enemy is more powerful than I thought!"
Cheers mingled with gasps of horror. The crowd fixed its eyes on the Lord Singer. The roguish knight and the paladin looked at one another, utterly confused. What could Greyt be thinking? Did he want to start a panic?
Silence, tense and fearful, gripped the square.
Greyt grinned. "Fear not, though, for the danger has passed," he said. "Thanks to my efforts, the killer is in our hands and we shall question him to find—"
"He escaped!" Bars shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "The killer escaped!"
"Dolt," Derst cursed under his breath, turning his head so as not to be recognized.
* * * *
Greyt swore inwardly, angry at this news. He had no doubt it was true. He had ordered his men to take Walker alive or dead but at all costs to take him. Incompetence and failure vied for his greatest frustration.
He moved to rub his gold ring, but found he had taken it off. Around his finger was a shallow indentation, reminding him of the first ring he had worn there, the ring that had inspired his seal.
His mind snapped back to the situation at hand. Walker's escape snarled Greyt's carefully laid plans. He was momentarily unsure how to proceed. His criticism of the watch would not carry the same weight if his own men could not capture Walker. And, loose, the murderer could talk to Unddreth, Amra, or even Stonar himself, and all would be lost.
Then the solution presented itself. The Lord Singer's quick mind found a way to approach this news that simply delayed his plans and, perhaps, even strengthened them.
"A testament to the power arrayed against us. Surrounded by attackers, cut off from the Marches... For all we know, there could be a war brewing just outside our borders!"
The crowd gaped.
"Save us, Lord Singer!" came a shout, a call that was quickly picked up throughout the crowd. Shouts of his nickname, "Quickfinger," and praises of his heroism reverberated around the square. "Save us!"
Greyt smiled and bowed. "The killer was in my hands, but he escaped. He will not escape again." He drew his rapier in a flourish and held it above his head. "Thirty years ago, I took up this sword against the giants of Fierce Eye, when the Raven Claw band was first formed. Know this now and know it true: mine every bre
ath shall shield you!"
As he sang the last few words, rhyming poorly, but it did not matter with such simpletons, Greyt seemed to grow: a trick he managed by standing up straight, where he had formerly bent his knees. A bit of bardic magic set his sword blazing with fire and illumined his face. The crowd was in awe.
Time for the final touch.
"I promise you, people of Quaervarr: as I was your hero then, so am I your hero now!"
With that, he released the illusory fire and the blade seemed to explode in flames, sending sparks flying over the crowd. These vanished before they struck flesh or clothing, and the people gaped in astonishment. They burst into cheers and shouts, calling for Lord Dharan "Quickfinger" Greyt, the hero of Quaervarr. The Lord Singer basked in the adulation and praise, his heart rushing despite himself.
Ah, the thrill of heroism ... how he had missed it!
"Send out riders!" came a call above the crowd, and the thrill died like a snuffed candle flame.
"What? " Greyt mouthed, looking over the suddenly silent crowd.
"Send out riders," Amra Clearwater called again. "Speaker Stonar must be informed."
"My lady, really," Greyt said as all eyes turned to him. He halted himself, thinking quickly, for the half-elf druid was widely respected and even feared for the powers of Silvanus she commanded. "We cannot simply go running for help every time—"
"But Geth does not know," argued Amra. "Let us assuage his ignorance—give him the chance to do his duty. Let him help!"
Greyt swore inwardly, trapped by his own words, but he saw a way out, one that could turn this to his advantage.
"A rider then." Greyt said. "But the Moonwood is dangerous—it is too easy for one of our own to be lost and slain!"
That elicited a gasp of horror from the crowd, but he waved them to silence.
Greyt smiled. "One who knows the land and its powers. One of your druids perhaps, Lady?"
All eyes turned to Amra, and the half-elf frowned. Greyt knew she could not refuse, not after she had challenged Quaervarr's hero so openly.
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