Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott De Bie

  Arya gazed into his eyes, and he could see tears sliding down her cheeks. “I do not care,” she said without trembling.

  Walker was overcome with a new wave of feeling, which frightened even as it excited him. At first, he thought he had never felt the sensation before, but then he discovered that it was there, buried deep, beneath the ice and shrouded in the mists of his heart. It was warmth in his chest, a feeling of loving and being loved.

  His eyes slid closed—eyes that were bleary from the moisture gathering there.

  This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, pressing him down, he did not stop her.

  CHAPTER 13

  29 Tarsakh

  Wandering child …

  Miles south of Quaervarr, Meris froze where he walked, sliding the kerchief along his blade. He extended his senses into the surrounding forest. The words might have been a figment of his imagination. He could hear nothing but the chirping of birds, the swaying branches, and …

  Where have you wandered, Wayfarer?

  Meris started in terror. He heard nothing, but there were the words, spoken in a mocking female voice in his mind!

  Feeling his flesh tingle, Meris let the kerchief flutter to the ground and drew his hand axe. He whirled around, searching every shadow and tree-top for the speaker.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted, brandishing his weapons. “Show yourself!”

  Haunting laughter sounded in his head, so soft as to be barely present.

  He sensed a presence behind him and whirled, letting fly his hand axe. The weapon cut into a fallen tree trunk.

  A terrified squirrel, which had barely dodged the deadly missile, scampered out of sight.

  Who do you fear, Meris Wayfarer, son of Greyt?

  “What do you want from me?” Meris waved his sword in the air.

  What do you want from me? came a reversal.

  He could see no speaker, only the forbidding trees of the Dark Wood. The canopy seemed to have grown tighter, swallowing the sunlight overhead.

  “Who are you?” Meris’s voice was a shriek. “Who speaks?”

  More soft laughter. You know me, Wayfarer. You have always known me.

  Meris ran to the fallen trunk and recovered his axe. Without pausing to search the clearing again, he pumped his legs as fast as he could, running toward Quaervarr.

  He hoped the whispers would not follow.

  The watchmen at the gates of Quaervarr were glad to see a spot of sunshine, particularly after the events of the last few days. So many folk were disappearing, victims of the Ghost Murderer, it seemed. Mostly heads of businesses, prominent leaders, and rich folk. It threw the town into chaos. This weather, however, seemed to carry hope. The watchmen relaxed and enjoyed the light and warmth of the coming spring.

  Meris neglected his usual subtlety when he ran up to the gates. Though he had sheathed his weapons, the darkly clad figure running toward them jarred the guards, who crossed their spears to bar his path until they recognized the scout’s face.

  “My lord?” they asked as he shoved their weapons away and rushed into town.

  Once he was inside, Meris calmed his breathing, but his heart still raced. He left the main street for an alley and shed his black clothes in favor of the white leathers he had placed in the alley beforehand. No one must see him in black—no one ever had. The watchmen were an exception he would have to take care of.

  Clad in the fresh armor, he strode down the street to his father’s manor.

  Claudir tried to stop him at the door, but Meris shoved the thin servant away and stormed in. Without waiting for his name to be announced, he threw the doors to the ballroom open and approached the Lord Singer.

  Greyt was dressed resplendently, as always, but his face was haggard and worn, as though he had slept little that night. The ballroom was as opulent as ever, but the statues and tapestries reflected Greyt—old and shabby. The Lord Singer had been musing about something when Meris came in, but he looked up immediately. His look was glowering, his eyes shot through with blood.

  Never, in Meris’s memory, had the old man looked so weak. A part of him wanted to ask what was wrong, perhaps in a show of familial friendship, but Meris despised his father in that moment, more than he ever had before. He held his tongue.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this impertinence?” asked Greyt. His voice did not sound melodic at all. At his wave, Claudir, following Meris, left and shut the doors.

  Meris trembled, but he pushed the memory of the ghostly whispers from his mind. “I come to report,” he said. “The courier is dead, slain by a man in black—as is her horse, so even those cursed druids can’t find out what happened. The woman was killed with a sword, as Walker uses.”

  “And if a priest thinks to conjure the dead?”

  “The girl recognized me before she died, but I buried her head separately,” replied Meris in distaste. “Let the corpse try speaking without a mouth.”

  “How about the others?” pressed Greyt.

  Meris bristled. So his father had puzzled out his habit of waylaying the couriers. No matter. “A man in black,” he said. “Unidentified. I—you are quite safe.”

  The Lord Singer sat back in his chair, weighing Meris. “Good,” he said shortly.

  Meris might have thanked Greyt. Then he realized it had not been a compliment—or even directed at him—and sneered instead.

  “Now, I want you to find and kill Walker,” said Greyt. “Bring me back his head, and I will be the hero of Quaervarr—their savior.”

  Meris had to work hard to keep from laughing. Some “hero.” He could not even take care of his own murders.

  How pathetic Greyt seemed to him then, how frail. If Meris had wanted to, he could have walked up to Greyt and run him through, or crushed the Lord Singer’s skull in his hands. What wards could he possibly have? He was not even wearing his rapier, flimsy weapon that it was.

  Greyt narrowed his eyes. “Try it,” he said.

  “Try what?” asked Meris. Had the Lord Singer heard his thoughts?

  “You want to kill me, then do it,” said Greyt, rising. When Meris’s eyes widened, the Lord Singer laughed. “Oh, don’t be so surprised. The hatred is written on your face. You are as easy to read as the simpletons who live in this town.”

  Bristling at the insult, Meris reached down and grasped the hilt of his long sword. He did not draw, though, for the tiny fear had returned; the fear that Greyt was hiding something, some defense that Meris could not perceive.

  “Come on, draw,” Greyt egged his son on. “You think me old, weak, frail … what was it? Pathetic. And that’s what I am, a pathetic old man, unarmed.” He spread his arms wide. “Draw, and run me through.”

  “What trickery is this?” Meris hissed.

  Greyt ignored him. “Draw your sword, boy,” he commanded. “Run me through. I have no defense.” He stepped within Meris’s sword reach. “Kill me. Or are you afraid?”

  “Afraid?” asked Meris. “Afraid of a pathetic old man?”

  “Afraid of a hero!” asked Greyt, his eyes shining. “Afraid of killing a hero, afraid of facing a town of vengeful woodsmen, women, and children?”

  “I fear no …” Meris trailed off. The words would make no difference, for his father was mad. He knew it then, knew it beyond doubt. Instead, Meris set his jaw and said nothing, though he kept his hand on his sword.

  “Then draw,” Greyt said, his voice low and biting. “Attack.”

  Meris did nothing but fight to control his trembling hand.

  “Attack, coward!” ordered Greyt. “You are my dog! I order you to attack!”

  Meris stared at him. Greyt had never been this abusive, had never badgered him like this. He knew that Greyt was his father, his own flesh and blood, but … He did not know what to do.

  “Attack!” shouted Greyt.

  When Meris said nothing, the Lord Singer slapped him hard across the face. The scout looked back, his eyes furious, and Greyt laughed.

  Meris felt
his mouth drawing up into a sneer. The screaming creature before him was no longer a man to be respected, admired, or even feared—instead, he was merely a weak fool like the other villagers of Quaervarr. Only a tiny voice in the depths of Meris’s heart protested that this man was his father.

  “Attack, bastard!” Greyt screamed, spitting in Meris’s face.

  That one word—a title Meris had always worn without any show of emotion, a name that spoke of obdurate bitterness and a gulf between them that could not be crossed—cut him deeply, down to whatever he had left of a soul, and forever silenced that tiny voice. Here was the one man—the one being—he had ever felt any connection to, and to hear that damning word….

  “Attack!”

  Meris almost did. But even as he sent the command to his arm to draw the sword, he felt that haunting fear in the back of his mind and all his anger become terror. He flinched away, averting his eyes, unwilling to let the Lord Singer see him afraid.

  Greyt chuckled. “As I thought,” he said, turning. “You disgust me, coward.” He walked back to his throne and sat, draping his gold-laced cape across the arm.

  Meris paused at the door and looked back. His gaze held nothing but hatred. Then Meris turned on his heel and walked out without a backward glance.

  The Lord Singer waited a moment after the doors shut behind Meris then he raised his hand in a particular signal. Talthaliel stepped out of the air at Greyt’s shoulder.

  “That was unwise,” observed the elf seer. “What if he had done it?”

  “You were there, weren’t you?” the Lord Singer asked irritably. “I was never in any danger. Besides, your vision said he won’t defeat you.”

  “What if I err?”

  “Have you ever erred?”

  Talthaliel nodded, conceding the point. Greyt’s face was calm but his eyes were furious.

  “Still, I advise caution,” the elf continued. “Words spoken in haste and without calculation lead to mistakes. The Spirit and the Nightingale are no threat. But send the Wayfarer after them and—”

  “Silence,” snapped the Lord Singer without looking at Talthaliel.

  “But—”

  The man swung around and slammed a fist into the diviner’s jaw. Talthaliel, startled, toppled to the floor. The Lord Singer stood over him, took the amber amulet out of his tunic, and dangled it in the air.

  Talthaliel did not move.

  His anger spent, Greyt returned the amulet to the inside of his tunic and stepped off Talthaliel. The elf seer didn’t make a sound as he climbed to his feet.

  “Now, are you maintaining the barrier to magical communication?” asked Greyt.

  “Yes … Lord.” The word came hesitantly.

  “Have you learned anything new of Walker or his protector?”

  “Nothing, lord.”

  “Why do I keep you? A seer who never sees anything I need!” Greyt fumed.

  “My sight is keen at times,” the diviner said. He did not mean to continue, but the words came out before he could stop them. Emotion was so rare that it startled him. “Even if your son did not see it, I saw what truly passed between you in those moments.”

  Greyt’s eyebrows rose, though whether in surprise or fury was unclear.

  The elf hesitated, but the Lord Singer glowered at him. Anger, then.

  “Speak, seer,” he muttered, pulling at the chain around his neck.

  “The balance of power is upset, Lord,” Talthaliel said. Greyt pulled the amber amulet out again, but the diviner could not stop himself. “A time is coming when that balance will shift, and it will not be in your favor.”

  Greyt held the amber amulet in his open hand, but his hand twitched to crush it. He was trembling with barely restrained hate. “And?”

  “I read the Wayfarer’s heart,” said Talthaliel. “His decision is made. As of now, he is your enemy. He could have loved you before, but he will never love you now.”

  Greyt’s fist snapped around the amulet and Talthaliel’s jaw closed with an audible clack. The two stared at one another for a long moment, their wills struggling across the short distance that separated them.

  It was the Lord Singer who broke the silence first. His challenge was low and cold. “By all means, slave, keep speaking.” His fist was closed tight around the amber gemstone, and Talthaliel could almost feel the hungry pressure of his fingers.

  The diviner bowed, indicating that he had nothing to say.

  “Well, if you’re finished,” said Greyt. He held the amber amulet up between them. “I suggest that if you want this gem to remain intact you still your impudent tongue and get out of my sight.” He turned away.

  “I only give counsel based upon what I see,” Talthaliel reminded him. “You should listen. After all, you are the one, Lord Hero, who said I never err.”

  The Lord Singer whirled, gem in hand, ready to curse the diviner for his impertinence, but Talthaliel was nowhere to be seen.

  The Lord Singer sighed, loud and long, and shuffled to his throne. He slumped down, threw his cape wide, and rested his chin on his left hand. The Greyt family wolf sparkled on his hand in the afternoon sunlight from the high windows. Sitting there brooding, Greyt seemed to have aged years in just the past day.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Come,” Greyt called absently.

  The door opened, and a woman’s face peered through. “Husband?” asked Lyetha in a tentative voice. “May I speak with you?”

  Greyt did not look up, but he did wave slightly—it was an almost imperceptible movement. He was thinking, and she didn’t even distract him.

  Lyetha, dressed in a shimmering red gown, swept in. Her dark, mourning colors were gone and her hair, which had been simply pulled back and seemed dull brown before, was a gleaming, golden cascade down her back. Even her words had lost the cold formality they once had. She approached the throne with a spring her step had not known for over a decade. The change that had come over her the last few days was startling—it was as though she had gone back in time fifteen years.

  Greyt hardly noticed. “What is it?” he asked, disinterested.

  The half-elf stopped at the foot of the dais and paused, looking up at him. She had weighed matters in her head and in her heart, and now she hesitated to do what she had intended.

  “I … I wanted to tell you something,” she said.

  “Yes?” He did not look at her.

  Lyetha opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Instead, she looked at Greyt’s averted face, seeing the lines of fear, discomfort, and hate there. His gaze was far away. For a time, she thought perhaps he had changed, but she saw once again the bitter, cynical, cruel, and very old creature he had become.

  “What is it?” he repeated, still not meeting her eyes.

  Lyetha shifted her gaze away. “’tis … ’tis nothing,” she said.

  Greyt did not argue. He merely shrugged and blinked once.

  Picking up her skirts, Lyetha went away, slowly at first, but her steps picked up speed until she was running. She could not let Greyt see the tears leaking down her cheeks.

  She need not have bothered, for the Lord Singer did not even look up.

  Somewhere in the shadows, another pair of eyes watched.

  “You could have saved him, Elf’s Daughter,” mused a spectral voice. The words were too quiet for Greyt to hear. “Just then, you could have saved him.”

  The Lord Singer shivered once, but he did not wonder why.

  Sighing, Talthaliel closed his invisible eyes.

  “And so it begins.”

  CHAPTER 14

  29 Tarsakh

  Still no sign of ’em, sir,” Darthan reported. “Even the horse’s trail has disappeared, as though …”

  He trailed off and bit his lip.

  “As though what?” asked Meris, though he knew the answer.

  “As-as though the f-forest swallowed it up!” the man stammered.

  Meris swore despite himself. This damned “cursed forest” nonsen
se was giving him nothing but trouble. He resisted the urge to slap sense into the jittery Darthan.

  “Keep pressing west,” Meris said. “Deeper into the Dark Woods.”

  “D-Deeper?” Darthan swallowed.

  “Forget this fanciful ‘Ghostly Lady,’” he ordered. “The woods are probably ‘haunted’ because Walker makes them that way. Well, tonight we’re going to undo his efforts.”

  “If we ever find him,” a ranger said from the side. The comment was greeted with snickers and other less optimistic grumbles.

  Meris was tempted to lash out at the speaker, but he had to agree.

  He and his eight rangers had been searching the godsforsaken forest for most of the day, and it was near midnight. The stolen Quaervarr watchman’s uniforms they wore were not as comfortable as woodland garb. The cloudy afternoon had become a dark night, albeit one with a bright moon. Unfortunately, because the canopy was packed so densely, little light shone down, and they were forced to carry lanterns to illuminate their path.

  In the weak radiance of the lanternlight, every tree seemed to loom over them, stretching skeletal limbs to grasp at loose clothing and stragglers. The wood was black—in the case of the shadowtops, duskwood, and firs—or luminous white—in the case of some trees of a kind even Meris had not seen before. The men shied away from these mysterious white trees and Meris could not fault them. Low-growing helmthorn bushes sprouted everywhere, jabbing long spines into a ranger’s flesh at every turn, prompting more than a few curses. Deep in that black and ghostly forest, the irritating shrub took on an even more sharp and sinister appearance in the mist that covered the ground. The forest brooded silently but for the occasional bird cry from trees directly overhead, causing rangers to jump and draw steel or point arrows at nothing.

  If there were ever a haunted forest, Meris imagined it would feel like this.