The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  Walker eyed Meris's black leathers. "Black covers all things—blood and hate, sins and lies—does it not?"

  "What was that?" snapped Meris, thrusting his face next to Walker's.

  Walker seemed not to hear him. "I have read the eyes of many men, most of them dying," he said. "And I have never seen so much hate as in yours."

  "Look deep, Walker" Meris said. "Perhaps you'll see me laughing back."

  A memory came unbidden into his mind.

  The boy's eyes filled with fire ... Rage? Anger? At the world or at himself?

  Meris saw the look of recognition, and his eyes narrowed. "You know me," he said, almost intrigued, almost…

  "I remember your eyes," Walker said. "Eyes of anger, eyes of pain, eyes of fear. You were afraid, that night."

  "Am I afraid now?" Meris asked through his hard grin, his hands trembling.

  There was a moment of silence. Walker thought he could see the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn standing to the side, look­ing at him sadly. Then Walker smiled.

  "You will always be afraid."

  In a blur of motion, Meris seized the shatterspike from Walker's hand, whirled in a circle, and slashed the ghostwalker across the chest. Blood sprayed and Arya screamed. Even though his body lit with fire, Walker fell without a sound.

  "No!" screamed Arya. The knight started forward, but one of the rangers cuffed her on the side of the head, stun­ning her. She slumped in their hands, helpless.

  "How does it feel to be set free?" Meris asked.

  Walker could not respond through the blood bubbling up in his throat.

  "Still alive, eh?" Meris kicked Walker up to a kneeling position and stepped on his right hand. "No wolf’s head ring keeping you that way. What, did you lose it somewhere? You know, the ring you always wear on this hand?"

  Walker could only moan.

  "Or did you give it to her?" Meris said, pointing the bloody shatterspike at Arya, who glared at him. He stomped over to the knight and slapped her across the face.

  As Walker watched, he roughly tore off Arya's gauntlets to search for a ring, and then her breastplate, in case she wore it on a chain around her neck.

  "The ring's not there," Meris shouted. "You must have lost it. Poor, poor Walker—the one time you break your routine is the one time it counts!"

  The ghostwalker could not stop himself. He wheezed.

  Sneering, Meris turned back to the Arya. His eyes were burning, but it was not merely anger this time. He smiled and turned back to Walker.

  "I hope you live long enough to see this," he snarled to Walker, who could do nothing but twitch in reply. "I've waited for this a long time as well."

  He gestured to his men, and they began pulling off the rest of Arya's armor. At first, the knight struggled, kicked, and screamed, but Darthan slapped her on the side of the head and she lay there, dazed, stunned, and helpless once more. Meris, standing over her, untied his cloak and began unbuckling his leather cuirass.

  Walker tried to rise, but he could not. His strength liter­ally bleeding away with his life, he, too, was helpless. The wild scout finished with the hauberk, looked down at Arya, and turned to grin at Walker one last time.

  A whistling alerted Meris just in time to jerk aside as a throwing knife darted for his face. As it was, the projectile lodged itself in his shoulder. Roaring in pain, he dropped to the forest floor. Two of his rangers fell: Tough-Face cursed the blade in his arm and Thin-Man tried to breathe around the one in his throat.

  Red-Hair turned in time to meet a huge man who leaped from the brush with a pair of maces.

  "Forth the Nightingale!" the big man screamed, and his maces whirred in reply. They took the blades from Red-Hair's hands before the ranger could react. Then the wielder spun, and the first mace crashed into Red-Hair's chest with bone-crunching force. As the ranger started, the second mace slammed into his back, crushing his body between the two weapons. Red-Hair collapsed to the ground.

  "A mighty blow, Sir Hartwine!" a weasel-like voice said.

  "I wasn't the one who took down three in one breath!" Bars shouted back as he swung his twin maces around to knock an axe away and lunged, driving Tough-Face back a step.

  Bars might have pursued, but he threw himself onto his back to avoid an arrow from Gieves that cut a red line across his shoulder. With the momentary respite, Tough-Face pulled his light crossbow from his belt and trained it on a spot in the brush.

  "I suppose no one's perfect," replied Derst as he stood from that spot, letting fly with two more knives. "Except me."

  One of the blades neatly cut Gieves's bowstring and the other slashed across Tough-Face's forearm, ruining his aim. The ranger fired anyway, and the bolt drove into a tree a hand's breadth from Derst's head.

  Bars roared and slugged Tough-Face in the stomach with a mace, knocking the bulky man back. The paladin pushed himself to his feet, only to find that he had to roll away again to avoid more weapons.

  Disbelieving, Derst blinked at the quivering bolt for a moment. Then the wiry knight saw Darthan aiming a short-bow at him, holding it horizontally like a crossbow.

  Derst leaped out of the brush, hooked his chain-dagger about Darthan's bow, and ripped it from the man's hand. Unarmed, the ranger reached down for a short sword but instead found a dagger sticking out of his side. The man went down swearing and Derst jumped over his head to engage Tough-Face, who bellowed in anger and slashed his war axe at the wiry man.

  Derst dived under the slash and rolled back to avoid the next, overextending Tough-Face's reach. The man staggered and caught himself just in time to avoid landing on his face at Derst's feet. The short man looked down at his chain-and-dagger, then at Tough-Face's war axe, then up at Tough-Face sheepishly. Derst backpedaled, dodging slash after slash and seeking some respite to plan an offensive.

  Meanwhile, Gieves drew a short sword and lunged at Bars, who barely had time enough to stand before he had to defend himself. Darthan rose, despite the pain in his bowels, and attacked Bars's flank with a pair of hand axes. Outnumbered, the paladin backed away to keep both opponents in his field of vision, but the rangers were too well trained to allow him to escape. His maces working independently, Bars fended off their attacks with a dizzying display of skill, but all three men knew it was of limited duration—he would tire before they did.

  "Come play like a man, rat-boy," Tough-Face growled to Derst.

  "What sense does that make?" Derst wondered aloud. "The very point of your threat is that men don't play, and yet you want me to 'play' like a man?"

  Tough-Face snarled in frustration as Derst dodged and his axe took off a huge chunk of duskwood bark. "Well, fight like a man, then!"

  "I'd rather not," Derst said as he hopped over a low slash and slapped Tough-Face's cheek with the chain of his dagger to little visible effect. "People get killed that way." Another slash claimed a sizeable portion of Derst's forest cloak. He gulped.

  Then Derst feigned a stumble. Tough-Face roared in pain and rage, bringing the axe from on high to split the quick knight in half, but Derst slid between his legs and slashed the back of Tough-Face's leg with the chain-dagger. Ham­strung, Tough-Face screamed and plunged to the ground.

  "How does that—" Derst began, but stopped as he sensed a blade flashing toward his head. With a tiny gasp, he threw himself away from it and felt fiery pain rip through his shoul­der. He rolled to feet and touched his wounded shoulder.

  His attacker, holding Walker's gleaming shatterspike and a wicked hand axe, grinned at him.

  "Come, goblin," said Meris. "Let us see how you fight your betters."

  In the middle of the clearing, they circled one another, Derst with a chain-dagger whirling around his wrist and a worried look on his face. Meris's smile was a cruel one.

  The scout launched an attack so fast that Derst barely registered it in time to block. The hand axe slashed open the leather covering his hip and the shatterspike tore his cloak in two. Derst tried to parry, but ended up having to dodge instea
d. Meris was by far the superior duelist, with strength and magic—in the form of Walker's sword—on his side. This would be quick.

  Bars saw Derst's dilemma and howled in fury. "Meris!" he shouted. Pumping his arms as fast as he could, he swatted blades aside on both of his flanks and ran toward Meris's back.

  Though his posture said he was oblivious to the paladin's rush, Meris winked at Derst.

  "Bars, no!" Derst yelled, but it was too late.

  Meris spun and the shatterspike flashed. It intercepted both of Bars's maces and cleaved both stout pieces of steel as though they were warm cheese. The paladin stumbled to a halt, looking at his destroyed maces, and Meris seized the opportunity to step inside his reach and slam a knee between his legs. The bearlike man dropped to the ground, curling up and moaning.

  "Pathetic, for a 'Knight in Silver,'" Meris spat. He raised the hand axe in his left hand to deal a killing blow to Bars's unprotected neck.

  Then the axe would not obey Meris's commands. It even pulled him back a step.

  He looked and found Derst at the other end of the chain-dagger, straining to hold back Meris's axe—trying anything to keep the man from killing his friend.

  "How noble," Meris sneered. He brought the shatterspike around in a dazzling arc and cut the chain holding his axe.

  It snapped like thin twine and, because the opposite force had disappeared, Derst fell back a step. Meris took advan­tage of the misstep, continued his whirl, and hooked the axe around Derst's leg. He swept the man off his feet and dropped the axe. He raised the sword in both hands.

  "No!" Bars managed to shout.

  Weak, Bars kicked Meris in the shin, hardly enough to injure him, but enough to ensure that the killing blow was not true. The blade drove into Derst's shoulder. The wiry knight's scream was lost in pain. After an agonizingly silent moment, his body fell back and he lay still.

  Still, Derst's chest rose and fell.

  With a little smile, Bars did not even resist as Meris's men hauled him to his feet. They made to slit his throat, but Meris waved them off.

  "No," he said. "He's earned life for him and his friend, for now." He flicked blood off the sword. "Not sure why you prefer death by torture, knight, but you'll have your choice."

  Bars smiled grimly.

  The scout slapped him across the face, wiping that smile away. "Back to Quaervarr," he said. "And the knight carries his wounded friend."

  "I won't carry him back to be tortured," said the paladin. "Kill me if you want. I did everything I could."

  Meris clutched at his chest in mock horror. "Oh no, I'm crushed," he said. "Stubborn knightly honor, eh? Well, if you're both going to die, the girl might as well die too." He nodded to Darthan, who drew his blade and started toward where Arya lay senseless. "A pity, really. She was quite lovely—"

  "Stop!" shouted Bars, panic in his voice. Darthan stopped and Meris looked at the paladin with a raised eyebrow. Bars cast his eyes down. "I'll go. Just don't harm her."

  Meris smiled. "I am a man of my word, after all." He waved Darthan off and the rangers came forward to bind Bars's wrists.

  The paladin crossed over to Derst and put his hands on Derst's temples. "Sorry, old friend," he said. "We have no choice."

  The healing power of Torm, his patron deity, flooded through his hands and pulled Derst back from death's door. The wiry knight's face was still sallow and wan, but it was something. As soon as Bars had lifted Derst, the rangers prodded him with their blades and they began to move toward Quaervarr.

  * * * *

  Meris went to stand over Walker, whose breath still came in ragged gasps. Meris contemplated him curiously, amazed that he still lived. Never had he met a man who clung to life so tenaciously—especially considering he was a man who seemed to have so embraced death.

  He held up the mithral shatterspike and admired its almost translucent gleam in the moonlight. The blade seemed to have cleaned itself. Blood ran like water from its keen edge and he saw no dents or nicks. The blade looked as though it had never been used.

  "This is a beautiful sword, Walker," said Meris. He bent low and repeated himself, so the ghostwalker could hear.

  Walker, twitching, looked up at him without understanding.

  Darthan appeared at Meris's shoulder. He pointed a thumb at Arya. "You still want to have a little fun, my lord?" he asked.

  Meris regarded Darthan's lewd sneer. Apparently, he was not the only one who had taken an interest in Arya. It reminded him how far he had sunk, to share base desires with common rabble. The thought caused bile to rise in his gorge.

  "No," he said. "Take her with us." Darthan's eyes lit up and Meris added, "But I carry her. You carry her armor. It'll fetch a fine price."

  "As you wish, my lord." Darthan bowed, looking more than a little disappointed.

  "Three of our men are dead—take their weapons and equipment," said Meris. "Leave the bodies for the crows. Inform the injured that they will walk back to Quaervarr or they will be left behind."

  Darthan nodded, though he balked a bit at the harsh commands. He walked away.

  "Oh, and Darthan."

  The ranger turned back and looked at Meris. Meris was running a finger along Walker's cheek, contemplating where he had seen those sapphire eyes before.

  No matter.

  The dusky scout spun, brought the shatterspike high, and plunged it into Walker's chest. The ghostwalker shook once then lay still.

  "Start digging," said Meris. "Burning is too good for this one. Let the worms eat his corpse. And make it deep." He wiped the blade off then indicated Walker with it. "Just in case he decides to come back, there won't be much he can do under the ground."

  He looked back at Walker's body. "So ends the reign of the Ghost Murderer," he said.

  As Meris scooped up Arya's limp form, Darthan shud­dered and pulled his field shovel out of his pack.

  Chapter 16

  30 Tarsakh

  Meris and the Greyt family rangers stalked back into town. The sun was rising but no one could see it through the clouds. It would be a wretched, over­cast day, but Meris's smile was not diminished. In fact, nothing could dampen his spirits.

  Meris waved off the guardsmen at the gate—different guardsmen, since the ones of the previous day had not reported to their posts. These guards proved no obstacle to entering Quaervarr, even with an unconscious woman in his arms and Bars and Derst in tow. Now Meris was glad of the uncomfort­able uniforms they all wore and that the captives were hooded. It would not do to have to "take care of" another pair of soldiers.

  Meris and his group had just barely made it inside when a rider in a forest cloak burst out of the gates, riding south fast. The wild scout narrowed his eyes, but shrugged. Nothing to do with him.

  As soon as they were inside the city, he had the knights clapped in manacles and escorted to a certain Pitek's general store. Grossly fat Pitek, a loyal Quaervarr businessman, had expressed little hesitation about allowing the Lord Singer to use his store as the secret entrance to his dungeons. Pitek had no choice, after all, since the very reason Greyt kept his business in existence was to conceal the secret entrance, and as death would be the consequence of betrayal. There were two other tunnels as well: one to Greyt's personal wine cellar, and a final one from the ninth cell to Meris's servant's chambers in Greyt Manor.

  Prisoners kept in the ninth cell rarely survived long.

  Meris enjoyed the dungeons. Dark and dank as dungeons should be, hollowed out from preexisting caverns, they lay not directly beneath the manor but beneath the main plaza, deep enough that prisoners would not be heard. Light was nonexistent save for the candles kept lit in the guardroom—darkness was as much a torture as lack of food or drink.

  Meris was glad and disappointed at the same time to see that the little pest Derst had survived the journey: on the one hand, he appreciated the chance to torture Derst, though on the other he did not look forward to hearing the man's snide commentary. Perhaps his tongue would be the first t
hing to go.

  As for Bars... The paladin's healing touch had ensured the wiry knight's survival in the forest. Meris made a mental note to break or remove Bars's fingers.

  Regarding Arya, Meris had not yet decided what to do, though he relished a few torments he had dreamed up, most of which he had not tried for lack of a suitably beautiful female subject.

  First, however, it was time for rest. After seeing the knights locked away in the dungeon, he made his way through the third secret door, back up to his chambers. As he went, he stripped off his black watchman armor and discarded it, only vaguely aware of its sweaty stench.

  For the moment, though, he cared little as he thought about nodding off in the copper bathtub in his rooms. He had left orders to have it filled for him when he returned at dawn, and he was right on time. Meris stretched his back as he walked through the tunnel. The sweat felt cool on his bare skin and the packed earth around him smelled moist and almost metallic. The smell of blood did not dissipate in this place.

  A good scent to end a good night, and this had truly been a good night: the courier taken care of, the knights captured, Walker slain... What more could Meris ask for?

  The question was answered for him when he found Greyt waiting for him in his bedchamber. The Lord Singer had not even been facing the door—he had been waiting for Meris to come out of the servant's quarters.

  "A productive morning, son?" asked Greyt.

  Meris swore inwardly. Apparently, he was not the only one who knew about the third secret passage. "Yes," he said. "I've killed Walker—oh, I forgot his head. It's buried in the Moonwood somewhere. But I've brought you three other presents, who wait down below."

  The Lord Singer was pleased, but Meris hardly noticed.

  "As for me," said the scout. "It's time for a bath."

  The tub had been filled, as ordered, and steam rose from its surface. Meris stripped off his breeches, heedless of his bare body, and picked up a towel from the dresser.

  "Not as such, I'm afraid," Greyt said.

  "Excuse me, father? I don't think I heard you correctly," Meris said dismissively as he tested the water with his finger. It was nice and warm.