The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  Screaming, the rangers tumbled down, even as Walker broke into a run toward the bowmen, who now scrambled to set arrows to bowstrings. As he went, he leaped bodily through a ranger who chopped two axes down through nothing and ended up on the ground, confused.

  "He's an illusion!" shouted one of the rangers. "He's not even really—"

  Then Walker brought his blade down into the man's mocking smile and ended his words.

  Even as the rangers milled around in confusion and terror, Walker flew into a dance of death, his sword weaving back and forth, deflecting and shattering weapons even as arrows and swords passed through him. Though his body had no substance, his shatterspike—shimmering and almost translucent—still cut with just as much deadliness as it always had. Only his blade could bridge the gap between worlds and inflict pain in either.

  Ironically, Walker carried the only weapon in the plaza that could touch him as a ghost.

  Rarely did the shatterspike cleave flesh, though—most of the wounds that set rangers grunting, cursing, or falling were the result of the rangers' own weapons. Arrows flew through the battle without guidance, sailing through Walker's ghostly form to find ranger flesh instead.

  Walker brought the shatterspike whirling in a glittering semicircle, shearing two raised blades in half and cutting a bow­string neatly on the back swing. Before the bowman could even drop his ruined weapon, Walker slashed him across the face and sent him down into the mud. It was only his second kill.

  As though at random, Walker danced through the crowd, leaping around and through rangers, his shatterspike flash­ing, dropping weapons and men. He cut bowstrings, cleaved apart bows, and sliced quivers in two.

  After a few moments, when the rangers were largely panicked, mostly disarmed, and completely disorganized, Walker smiled. "Go forth," he whispered on the wind, even as he sheathed his blade.

  With that, he turned and ran toward the Whistling Stag. Many turned to give chase, hefting what weapons they could—belt daggers, hatchets, and the like—but then they heard new shouts.

  "Forth the Nightingale!" came a mighty cry, shared by three throats, from behind them.

  Most of the rangers turned, just in time to see three Knights in Silver, stripped to gray tunics and breeches, charge into the fray, weapons hungry for Greyt ranger blood. And the rang­ers had no bows or swords with which to cut them down.

  Meanwhile, Walker sprang toward the Stag and van­ished through the closed door, passing through the wood like a ghost.

  * * * *

  The three Knights in Silver swept upon the confused rangers like a trio of giants, hacking and crushing left and right. Four rangers went down in the initial rush—Bars having taken down two himself—and the knights' courage did much to shake the rangers' crumbling resolve.

  In the first confused moments of battle, Derst disarmed two men of their backup weapons and was dancing around a third, his improvised chain-dagger creating havoc for the ranger as he tried to cleave the wiry knight in two with a mighty war axe. An overhead chop was sidestepped, a wither­ing cross ducked, and a reversal hit nothing but air as Derst rolled and stuck the dagger in the man's side. The man yelped and staggered forward, but the dagger was firmly lodged between ribs and brigandine plating. The ranger turned, but his motion only pulled Derst to the side—in time to dodge the falling axe.

  Meanwhile, Bars worked furiously to hold off four rangers, his mismatched maces dancing and flashing like lightning. Though he could not launch a counter, the huge paladin put up a stunning defense, where he picked off every thrust, slash, and jab his opponents launched. Every time, they recoiled from the attack shaking their sword arms, which rung with the force of Bars's parries. Growling, Bars kept his duel at a standstill.

  Fighting three men, Arya, not as nimble or as strong as her respective companions, more than made up for it in ferocity and cunning. She parried aside one ranger and immediately shield rushed the second, catching him off guard. She dis­carded her shield, which she had only held, not strapped on, and he had to fumble it out of the way with a clumsy down­ward cross of his two short swords.

  The Nightingale shield fell to the dust, but Arya followed through and slammed her left fist then her left elbow into his face. The man staggered and collapsed backward, and Arya brought her sword back around just in time to parry the attack of a third ranger. She locked blades with him, then hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him stagger­ing into the man she had left behind.

  With a shout to the Lord Singer, the man on the ground slashed her across the front of the shin with his blade, but it was a weak blow, driven mostly by panic and not by skill.

  Arya gritted her teeth against the pain and brought her sword plunging down into his chest. The man screamed and lay still.

  "No mercy!" she shouted, slashing back around to deflect another seeking sword. The feral rage in her scream sent two rangers staggering back, doubtful looks on their faces.

  By this time, two other rangers had closed on Derst's duel and were slashing and thrusting, but they only nearly hit the axe-wielder. The roguish knight kept dodging their blows, running in two low circles around the ranger with the axe, weaving the lanyard of his makeshift chain-dagger as he went. Finally, with the man fully wrapped, Derst slid past one of the swordsmen, put both hands on the thick lanyard, and yanked for all he was worth. The lanyard pulled tight around the man's legs, ruining his balance, and one ranger staggered into the other, sending both down in a jumble of limbs.

  "Hail, lass!" shouted Derst as he leaped over another thrust, freed his lanyard, and kicked out, catching the ranger in the face.

  " 'Arya,' Derst!" the lady knight snapped back. She parried a slash and punched the man in the face as though with a shield. Her fist had much less effect, but it was enough to send him reeling back. "It's Arya! You want to be 'lad?'"

  "Oh, never that!" replied Derst. "Sorry! I was going to ask—" he parried a seeking blade with his dagger, hooked his lanyard around the weapon, and ripped it out of the man's hands, "—whether you think a—" he dodged another swipe, "—promotion's on the horizon?"

  "I concur!" rumbled Bars as he swatted a ranger aside like an insect. He faced four more, but they looked more afraid of him than he of them." 'Tis not every day you fight almost a score of men with just your two friends!"

  "Dashing friends," corrected Derst as he parried a sword and gave the man a quick kick to the shin, putting him down.

  " 'Tis not every day you win!" replied Arya as she narrowly deflected another slash. "Fight now, talk later!"

  Even with that chastening remark—or perhaps because of it—Derst continued right on chattering.

  "They might even make you a Knight Protector for this!" he said. Then his brows knitted and he addressed his current opponent, blocking and parrying between each word. "What's that, eh, chap? Equivalent to Captain? Colonel? General? No, surely not that high."

  He paused, expecting an answer. When nothing but another slash was forthcoming, which he dodged, Derst shrugged.

  "Not sure, eh? Well, I guess I'll just have to find out."

  The man bellowed and thrust again, but Derst leaped high into the air, kicked off the man's arm, flipped over his head, and come down slashing from behind. The ranger went down.

  One of Bars's opponents finally made the mistake of plant­ing his feet incorrectly on the thrust, leaving an opening as he stumbled back—an opening Bars took. With a bellow to Torm, the paladin leaped at him, working his maces inde­pendently to knock the man's sword aside. Bars thundered over the hapless ranger, knocked him flat to the ground, kicked his sword aside, and brought down both maces on the head of a fifth man who had been seeking to maneuver around Arya. With two foes down, Bars landed back on the ground and continued his defense.

  With a glare, Arya lunged at the two hesitating rangers. They fell back into defensive stances, unwilling to approach the fierce woman. She was thankful for the reprieve, since pain was lancing up her leg, even as she bit her lip to
ignore it.

  The momentary lapse in her duel allowed Arya a moment to glance after Walker, at the Whistling Stag. She could hear nothing from within, and that did nothing to calm her nerves. It was only a momentary glance, though, then the ranger was back, sword lancing for her heart.

  Her heart...

  "You are his only hope," had been the wizard's words.

  Arya slapped it aside and growled her frustration.

  * * * *

  Meris ran into the Whistling Stag's common room only to find it deserted except for the innkeep Garion and a few regulars drinking at the bar. At the sight of the bloodied Meris, carrying a drawn axe, bursting through the door, all eyes turned.

  "Oi, lad, wha' be the—" Garion began.

  Running across the room, Meris slapped him across the face, silencing his next few words. Stunned, the big man staggered back and knocked a few tankards over—including the ale of a wizened old man who kept right on drinking air without noticing.

  Wearing a haggard and hunted look, Meris grabbed up one of the drinkers—a drunken rake with long brown hair and a half-beard—and held the drunkard's body before him like a shield.

  "Now, wait jes' a moment—" stammered Morgan.

  "Silence!" shouted the wild scout. "Malar's claws!"

  He held the rake up between himself and the door, as though expecting a blade to come lancing for his heart at any moment.

  Then a fist came out of the darkness behind him and struck the back of his head.

  Meris staggered and fell, shoving Morgan away. He drew the main gauche from the rake's belt, though, and turned with the blade slashing, but there was no one to attack. There were only the other Whistling Stag patrons, who were even now fleeing up the stairs, with a surprisingly sober Morgan following them.

  "Meris Wayfarer," a haunting, ghostly voice called.

  "Face me like a man, damned creature!" challenged Meris.

  Walker appeared in a dark corner of the room before him, and Meris let fly with the main gauche. It stabbed into the wood wall and wobbled there.

  "Dark as shadow," intoned Walker. His voice, from no visible source, echoed around the room eerily.

  Meris drew a throwing knife from his belt and looked around, but no one was there.

  "You will die, Meris Wayfarer, Meris the bastard," Walker promised. As he spoke, he stalked Meris around the room, passing between the shadows, always just on the verge of material presence. The drawn shatterspike glittered, as did the sapphire eye of his wolf ring, spectral as both were. "For crimes against my family, for crimes against those I love, for crimes against the people of Quaervarr and the people of the Silver Marches."

  Walker stepped across a pool of light, and Meris threw the knife. It passed through the intangible ghostwalker and thunked into the closed door.

  Walker continued. "I am the silence of the grave, the shock of lightning. My passing is rain upon the mountains and wind through the plains. My rage burns in the Hells, and I will bring you to those Hells. I, the spirit of vengeance, promise you death."

  "Stay away from me!" shouted Meris, his expression terrified beyond belief. "Away! Take anything you want! Leave me be!"

  "Tempt not the spirit of vengeance," came the voice. Walker materialized right before him, his pointing finger but a hand's breadth from the scout's face. "He comes for you."

  Then Meris's expression changed and his feigned terror vanished. "Perhaps not, Rhyn," came the searing reply.

  * * * *

  No matter how fierce and skilled the three knights were, they knew it was only a matter of time before the rangers realized they outnumbered the knights. With renewed vigor—aided by simple assessment of the enemy forces—the Greyt family rangers fought back with greater confidence, with multiple men going to attack each of the knights in a coordinated fashion.

  "It's about time for that backup plan, Derst!" Arya shouted, parrying and running, keeping the four rangers that were now her opponents from surrounding her.

  Several more were moving her way, though—maneuvering to get at her flanks. Without armor or a shield, Arya would not be able to fend off more than one or two attackers.

  "Backup plan?" Derst asked dubiously, evading a swipe, rolling under the man's arm and gouging him in the thigh with his dagger. A ranger cut along his back, leaving a long red line, but Derst only grimaced, dodged, and fought on.

  "You used to be a thief!" roared Bars. "You always have a backup plan!" A pair of daggers shot in, seeking his flesh. He batted one aside, and the hand that went with it, but accepted a stab from the other. A knife wound for a broken hand would be more than a fair trade—under other circum­stances. "And it's about time for that plan!"

  "You know," panted Derst, even as he snagged a sword with his chain-dagger, only to have the thick leather snap in two. The cutting blade nearly sliced his arm in two, and it was only Derst's reflexes that pulled it out of the way. Frowning at the destroyed weapon as he dodged and eluded his attackers, Derst finished the sentence. "I think you're right."

  The door of Greyt's manor burst open and a score of men—some watchmen, some businessmen, even a couple noble dandies—with the gigantic Unddreth at their head, burst out, captured swords and daggers in their hands. With cries of "Quaervarr!" and "The Stag!" they rushed to join in the fray.

  Derst had always had a talent for opening locks—and more than enough experience with cell doors.

  "How's that for a backup plan, lass?" shouted Derst. Then he dived away from a frightened ranger and corrected himself. "Sorry—Arya. How about this development, eh?"

  There was no reply.

  "Arya?" he asked again.

  * * * *

  The ghostwalker gave Meris a bittersweet smile in reply. "Rhyn Thardeyn died long ago," Walker said. "That name holds no power over me."

  "No, no it doesn't," Meris said. "But your true name does, doesn't it, Rhyn Greyt?"

  Walker hesitated, shock spreading over his face, and his body wrenched fully into the physical world. Immediately, Meris slashed his axe at the ghostwalker.

  Stunned, Walker managed to deflect the axe, but it hooked around the shatterspike. Meris ripped the weapon from Walker's hand, spun it, caught the sword's hilt, and turned it into a stab. With his bracer, Walker managed to turn the killing thrust into his shoulder. The hand axe darted low and hooked around Walker's leg. Blinded by the pain in his shoulder, Walker couldn't resist as Meris yanked him from his feet. Walker's head slammed into the hard floorboards and the air fled from his heaving lungs.

  "Your mystery is your power, Rhyn Greyt," said Meris, "is it not? Your betrayer told me this. Not so confident without your secret, are you? You didn't even know, did you?"

  Walker was speechless.

  "Oh yes, brother," Meris said over him, spinning the shatterspike in his hand. "Lyetha loved our father first—before Thardeyn, the old priest. When Greyt wouldn't marry her, Lyetha turned to Thardeyn to hide you. And to think, all that time pretending that you were Thardeyn's—all for naught. I always suspected, but I didn't know. Until now."

  How did he know this? Who could have told him? Lyetha? She would never have...

  "Why?" Walker managed to croak through the lights danc­ing across his eyes. He felt so weak, so unsure, so unfocused.

  A memory flashed through his head, a memory of Meris: The boy stood over him. The look in his eyes; no anger, no passion, no sadness, no softness. Not even pity. Only hate.

  Meris pulled the shatterspike out of Walker's shoulder and looked at its sparkle.

  "How poetic, an avenger killed with his own sword," he said. "What do you say to that, Walker? You're a poet, right? Or perhaps it is really my sword, eh?"

  Walker stared up at him defiantly.

  "Rhyn, you've been deceived," said Meris as he held the sword between his legs and buckled the axe to his belt. His hands freed, he stripped his gauntlets so that he could kill Walker barehanded. "I did what I did fifteen years ago for my own gain and, well, because I've always
hated you. You inherited all our father's qualities—singing, courage, charisma—and I took all his faults—ambition, violence and, well, madness."

  Meris shared a private laugh with himself. No one joined him.

  "And you probably would have taken his wealth when you came of age. The truth would have come out, I knew—somehow." He growled. "And that's 'why,' really. My father would've spared you in the forest—the coward. He just wanted to frighten you, but I took the healing ring off your finger." He trailed off with a smile. "You were the first sibling I killed, even if I didn't know it at the time. Now you will be the last as well."

  Flashes of the forest swam in his mind—the rapier that rammed through his chest, that cut his throat and ruined his voice. Greyt's sword. But the healing ring...

  The boy with eyes filled with hate loomed over him. The wolf's head ring sparkled in his hand. "Let's hear you sing now," he said as his father's sword descended.

  A tear slid down Walker's cheek. How could Meris have known this? Walker had not even known. Who knew Walk­er's name? Who knew what only Lyetha could know? Who could have betrayed him?

  Walker did not know, and now it was too late.

  Meris laughed. "And here, look at me, gloating over my victory like my old man!" A chuckle. "Can't forget that ring—my father's ring." Meris knelt and pulled the wolf's head ring from Walker's finger, tearing away much of the improvised covering as he did so. Then he leaned over and ran a finger along Walker's cheek.

  The touch of death.

  "Well, Rhyn, let's hear you sing now," Meris said as he raised the sword over his head.

  * * * *

  In a distant grove, among verdant trees that seemed to weep in the winter's breeze, a ghostly golden figure stood atop a huge, overturned boulder and looked into the sinking sun.

  "It is done," Gylther'yel said with a sigh.

  * * * *

  "Meris!" came a shout.

  The wild scout hesitated and looked. Wild-eyed, Arya stood across the room, sword in hand. She wore almost as much blood as cloth—not all of it her own—and her hair blazed in the lamplight.