The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  Gliding around her, Walker crossed to the patch of grass where he and Arya had lain together and pulled something from a low fir branch. With a flourish, he threw his black cloak over his shoulder and stepped into the shadows, only to vanish as though he had never been there.

  * * * *

  The rain dissipated and the lightning stopped.

  Gylther'yel stared at the shadow into which Walker had disappeared. They had never spoken to each other so bitterly as long as he had been in her keeping—and none of the bitterness had come from Walker.

  A memory of long ago flashed into Gylther'yel's mind—the most painful she possessed. It was a day not unlike this one, with angry clouds overhead, and a conversation not unlike the one she had just shared. It was the day that marked the dawn of her hatred of the humans.

  It was the day her sister Wyel'thya had told her she was going to the fledgling town of Quaervarr on an overture of peace from the druids of the Moonwood. She taught them the ways of the druids, of coexisting with nature—the ways of peace. Then a lover had come, and a child: Lyetha Elfsdaughter.

  The ghost druid, betrayed, had never forgiven Wyel'thya, refused even to see her when she sought out Gylther'yel's aid. Then Wyel'thya had grown sick, deathly ill...

  It had been a human disease.

  The sun elf had lost control of herself for the first time in her long life. Much of Quaervarr had burned that day, but the fledgling druids of Wyel'thya's order repelled Gylther'yel, the golden angel of the Dark Wood.

  Alone, left for dead in the forest, she had learned of a new power, borne of her hatred of the humans and all life. She had become the Ghostly Lady.

  Gylther'yel's eyes turned back to the shadows. A tear slid down her cheek.

  "I loved my sister," she said. "But I never got her back, did I?"

  Then the ghost druid let out a keening shriek that pierced both the Ethereal and Material and collapsed to her knees. The spirits remaining in the grove started and sped away as fast as they could manage from the enraged ghost druid. The force of that shriek caused all the songbirds and animals in the trees to shudder and die, their life-force wrenched from them.

  All was silent except for Gylther'yel, who wept bitterly into the mud, screaming in rage and frustration.

  Finally, Gylther'yel sniffed and wiped her tears away with the fringe of her cloak. There was one card left to play, and play it she would. Her face still red, she rose.

  "Forgive me, Wyel'thya," she said. "Forgive me for pro­longing his suffering. And forgive me now for what I must do to the last of our blood."

  Spreading her arms like wings, Gylther'yel leaped into the air and blinked out of the physical realms, turning into a ghostly raven. Riding the winds left spinning by the storm, she soared to a little grove near the edge of the forest, where she had left that last card slumbering.

  Chapter 19

  30 Tarsakh

  The guards at Quaervarr's only gate had seen many strange comings and goings in the past few days, but none quite so strange as this.

  The storm had passed but the sky was far from clear. A gray sheet of clouds still obscured the sky. The air hung thick and heavy, and a lingering tension caused more than a few watchmen to shift uneasily.

  Both did a double take when a figure—a watch­man by his garb—appeared some distance away, seemingly out of the very shadow of one of the great firs that flanked the road. In that silence, they should have heard him coming almost a mile distant. The man took a few zigzagging steps toward them, lurched, and fell.

  They ran to him. Clad in the ring mail of a watch­man, the man lay on his back in the mud. His face and tangled hair were plastered with mud and gore, obscuring his features except for a black leather eye patch that covered his right eye.

  "Aye, Belk, it be one-eyed Tamel, eh?" said one guard, a hefty man named Mart.

  "What's 'e doin' in one o' our tunics? In't 'e one of the rang­ers?" the pock-faced Belk replied. Mart shrugged, but his eyes flashed with worry. Unddreth would have both their commissions if he found out they were more loyal to Greyt than Quaervarr. Though Unddreth seemed to have disap­peared, it was better not to take chances.

  Belk checked the man for a pulse and breath, but neither were there to be found. His flesh felt like ice.

  "Beshaba's bosom, he's dead! And 'e looks like he's been dead days!"

  "What? What do we do?" asked Mart in a panic.

  "Let's get 'im inside quick, afore someone sees 'im!" Belk hoisted the man's arms and Mart took his legs. Together, they carried the body inside and carted him over to an alley, where they dumped him.

  "Where do we take 'im?" Belk's eyes darted this way and that, as though seeing spies hiding in every shadow. "Not to them druids, nor to Greyt's manor."

  "We gotta think o' something—"

  "But I don't know—"

  "Silent as mist."

  Belk looked at Mart.

  "Aye? What was that?"

  "I didn't say nothing," denied Mart.

  " 'Anything.' You didn't say 'anything,' you halfwit. Gods, I'm soundin' like one o' the druids, wit' their grammar-ical lessons. An' you did say something, something about—"

  "Still as death."

  "No, it wasn't nothing like that," argued Belk. "Something about mist—"

  Mart opened his mouth to protest then yelped when some­thing grabbed his ankle. Belk's eyes went wide. As one, they looked down, only to be yanked from their feet.

  Their heads struck the hard cobblestones and unconscious­ness took them.

  * * * *

  Shaking off the last influence of his deathlike sleep, Walker wiped his face clean with the fat guard's cloak and stripped the Quaervarr tabard from his chest and the bor­rowed eye patch from his face. Dressed once again in his comfortable black, he sheathed one of the long swords at his belt. He would carry the other. Lastly, he opened his satchel and pulled out his thick black cape, which he draped around his shoulders. Walker stood, throwing his cloak wide and adjusting the high collar.

  He looked over at the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn and nodded. The spirit did not respond, of course, but Walker thought he could feel grim pride resonating from Tarm.

  After steadying himself, Walker padded over to the lip of the alley, bracing himself against a rough oak wall. Walker had not yet fully healed—not by his ring or by absorbing the energies of Shadow—but he had no time for weakness. When he reached the main street, he crouched and peered around the edge.

  The street lay deserted, but Walker could hear shouts from a mass of people gathered in the main square of Quaer­varr, farther up. Flitting between the shadows along the street was a simple matter and, indeed, hardly necessary—no eyes came upon him.

  In the plaza, most of Quaervarr's population shouted for the Lord Singer. Guardsmen stood at the edges of the crowd, weapons drawn as though to ward off attackers, but their attention was just as fixed upon Greyt's door as were the eyes of the gathered hunters, trappers, traders, and families. Walker could see three dressed in the robes of druids wear­ing expressions of worry and undisguised anger. Walker noted the distinct absence of Captain Unddreth and Amra

  Clearwater. He wondered what had become of them. Perhaps Greyt had removed them, for they were well-known as his enemies.

  Then the doors to Greyt's manor opened and Walker's thoughts flew away in a wave of overwhelming hatred.

  Resplendent in a full suit of golden mail, with a deep purple cape billowing out behind him and golden hair fall­ing to his shoulders, Lord Singer Dharan Greyt stepped out beaming. His skin seemed to glow and the gray in his hair had disappeared. His golden yarting sang under his talented fingers, projecting chords of triumph and magic over the crowd.

  Much of the crowd was stunned at his glorious appearance, and all—even the druids who looked at him with suspicion—fell silent.

  "Welcome, friends!" shouted Greyt. His voice was loud and booming, and carried over the crowd to where Walker stood in the shadows. "You have come to my do
or question­ing and concerned, but you will leave with answers well earned!"

  Walker felt bardic magic resonate from the yarting and the Lord Singer's voice, Walker fought, exerting his will against Greyt's own, to keep the image of Greyt—his most hated foe—as the monster he had seen little but knew too well. The Dharan Greyt Walker knew was not the bold, self-assured hero stand­ing before the crowd, but a weak, aging coward.

  In the end, Walker was not fooled by Greyt's magic.

  "Today dawns a new day in the history of our fair town, here in the frontier of the Moonwood," continued Greyt. "Or, should I say, today marks the end of an era. For too long, a dark scourge has haunted these woods and our fair streets, a scourge that walks without sound and wields merciless steel—a scourge some call Walker, and some the Ghost Murderer." There were grumbles in the crowd. "Well, no longer! Today, my son Meris and I have brought to an end the terrible reign of the Ghost Murderer!"

  Cheers greeted this. Walker—standing there, listening to the announcement of his own death—might have smiled were he not overcome with enmity for the man speaking.

  Greyt waited for the cheering to die down before continu­ing. "This very last eve, my son slew him, with the help of several of my servants." With this, he indicated the gath­ered rangers. Gieves and Darthan nodded shortly. "We have also apprehended the Ghost Murderer's accomplices—three renegade knights from Silverymoon."

  Gasps sounded from the crowd. Walker's brow furrowed.

  "Surely you recall three strangers who came into town, led by a woman, asking questions? Lady Arya Venkyr, who came to Quaervarr on a mission to investigate missing couri­ers—couriers she and the Ghost Murderer slew! Along with her two companions, they sought to find what we knew of the ghastly crimes, so they could continue them at will!"

  There were a few murmurs among the crowd refuting this. Some called for proof, others for motive.

  Greyt had the perfect answer.

  "She is a Malarite spy! See for yourselves!" With a flourish, he produced a small, carved claw on a leather thong, old bloodstains decorating its fingers. Startled cries ran through the crowd as many recognized the dreaded holy symbol of the beast god of the Black Blood. "This was found around Lady Venkyr's neck—it provides all the evidence we need, even if her damnable actions were not known!"

  The crowd erupted in cries of terror and beseeching calls. They begged Greyt, their great champion, to defend them. A few even cried for Arya's death.

  Walker gritted his teeth and tightened his grasp on the sword he held beneath his cloak. He had to exert all his terrible will to keep from striding forward to confront Greyt.

  He caught a flash of a grin across Greyt's face, but no one else seemed to notice. "Fear not, friends of Quaervarr!" he called. "These vandals and thieves will not go free. The Ghost Murderer has already paid the penalty for his abominable crimes, but the traitor knights will also be punished. This eve, at sunset, the three shall hang in this very plaza, where all of you may bear witness to the consequences that await traitors and servants of darkness."

  Silence gripped the plaza. Few remembered such brutal justice being meted out, even in this frontier town. Even those who had called out for executions were struck by the realiza­tion that it might actually happen. Then, slowly, several men in the crowd—men Greyt had planted, Walker thought—began to clap. The applause picked up, louder and louder, until cheers sounded from the crowd. In moments, the name of "Dharan Greyt" and "Quickfinger" were the dominant calls.

  Walker had taken it all in stride, but he could listen no longer. Arya! The name resounded in his mind, followed by an image of the knight's face.

  He could not allow this. This was wrong, and not only because the one he loved faced execution. This was wrong because three innocent people would pay for Greyt's crimes, three innocents who fought against those crimes. What was more, this mon­ster undermined the town's stability—questioning its leaders and stirring up popular opinion against good, just people. More than just three knights would die in the chaos. Death was the only outcome of such madness.

  Walker did not know where this sense of justice came from—perhaps from the same center that made him feel a twinge of sorrow over every man he killed unnecessarily, over every guard, every ranger, and every man or woman manipulated by the words or actions of one of the monsters he hated so much.

  Feelings of justice, long forgotten and buried beneath years of pain, flooded back to him—values he must have held before his death at the hands of Greyt and his cruel fellows.

  The spirit of Tarm knelt at Walker's side and grasped at his hand. Walker, surprised, looked at Tarm in shock. The spirit was trying to communicate with him, but Walker felt nothing but a long string of conflicting emotions from the spirit: joy, love, agitation, fear, and anger. Walker had never seen his father act this way and it caught him off guard.

  Remembering the terrible purpose that had brought him here, Walker scowled.

  "Why do you not speak to me, Tarm Thardeyn?" he demanded. "Are you not my father? Am I not your son? Speak to me!"

  The spirit, shocked by the words, just stared, unmoving, and Walker felt nothing emanating from the spirit but sadness.

  Then he heard another shout to the Lord Singer from the courtyard, followed by applause, and he turned to fix the hated Lord Greyt's features with his withering gaze. He felt the cold power of his ghostly rage beating within, waiting to take control.

  Seething at the injustices perpetuated by Dharan Greyt, this hypocrite who so casually claimed the love and adoration of Quaervarr while he stabbed her people in the back, Walker made to step out into the open. He could picture the effect his appearance would have upon the assembled. The crowd would run in panic, scattering like flies before his cracked bellow of Greyt's name. Striding forward, sword pointed toward the Lord Singer, he would cut down any guardsmen who attacked him. He would swat aside the rangers like locusts. Even the towering Bilgren would fall under his blade. Finally, all his defenses gone, Greyt would cower, helpless before Walker and his sword—his avenging, just sword.

  The Spirit of Vengeance would have his due.

  That would have occurred, perhaps, except for the hand that reached out of the shadows of the alley behind him and cupped itself around his mouth.

  * * * *

  Chased back into his manor by cheers, shouts, and tangible adoration, Dharan Greyt shook his fists in triumph even as he fought against the ironic laughter that threatened to bubble up out of his throat. Claudir was a silent, lingering specter at his side. Greyt clapped the steward on the back, nearly knocking him down, and took the bottle of elverquisst he offered. In his triumph, Greyt almost forgot how to operate the corkscrew.

  The greatest performance of his life! They had drunk up every word, even without his enthralling magic! He had but to beam at them, and these foolish sheep adored him.

  Never had the stakes been higher, but never had his accomplishments been greater. Greyt loved the gamble—the risk that the townsfolk would see through the web he had woven, or the intrigues that won him their hearts—but he loved winning it even more. Secretly, quietly, he had removed Stonar's greatest supporters. Captain Unddreth, Amra Clearwater, and several local businessmen had met with "accidents" or had mysteriously disappeared in the last few tendays.

  Now he was in the perfect position to seize his heroic title, and he had done it—and with what form! If he wanted to rule the town, he had but to breathe the suggestion and they would crown him Lord of Quaervarr. If he wanted to sweep the Moonwood and dispose of whatever remained of that annoying Jarthon and the Black Blood once and for all, he had hundreds of willing suicide fighters. Even if he desired to march against Silverymoon, he had no doubt these poor commoners would bring out their hatchets and saws to aid his cause.

  Lord Singer Dharan Greyt felt a warm swell in his chest. So this was how it felt to be a hero at last—he hardly even remembered all the men and women he had slain to make it this far. They did not matter, f
or they had made him! A noble sacrifice, indeed.

  The farther he walked into his manor, though, the quicker the warm feeling faded, only to be replaced with a familiar lingering emptiness, the same feeling that had come upon him when Lyetha had denied his heroism, ironic as it was, and when Meris had...

  Greyt growled to no one in particular. Was there no one who shared his vision of heroism? Would he be doomed to a lonely existence as a hero forever?

  Well, Meris wasn't a concern any longer. Greyt could always have another son. How many women of Quaervarr were fight­ing over him even now?

  He took a swig of the elverquisst and the hearty wine banished the feeling of emptiness in his stomach.

  "So be it, then!" he shouted to no one in particular. He rubbed his gold ring. "If I must be a lone wolf, then so be it!"

  The rangers outside his door cast quick glances as he came, then snapped back to attention. Any other day, their behavior might have struck Greyt as odd. At the moment though, still feeling enthusiasm pulse through his body, the Lord Singer thought nothing of it. He opened the door to his study, laughing at his own joke, and shuffled inside. Shutting the portal behind him, Greyt breathed a great sigh then turned toward his desk with a smile.

  What he saw wiped the grin right off his face.

  "Hail, Hero-Father."

  * * * *

  Walker spun, breaking the grip around his mouth, and held up the guard's sword to threaten his attacker. He opened his mouth but words would not come to his tongue. He faltered, drew his blade away, and took a step back.

  His attacker—a golden-haired woman—stepped from the shadows. "I know why you have come," she said.

  At first, Walker heard Gylther'yel in her voice, but this woman was taller and fuller-bodied than any elf, even though she was thin—gaunt almost. The years had done their work on her features, but Walker could see the beauty in her face.

  Walker felt an overwhelming wave of emotion wash over him, a sensation of bittersweet love from the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn. Too stunned to address the spirit—and not about to turn away—he felt his fingers tingling on his sword hilt.