Remembering the latter, Arya bit back the pain and fought off the haze that gripped her brain. The rangers did not seem to have received orders to take her alive; indeed, half their slashes could have been fatal had Arya not deflected them. If they got behind her, Arya knew she would be done for. If not, then it did not matter. Soon, she would tire and they would have her, advantages or no.
Then she heard Thin-Man groan behind her. Apparently, her kick and shield bash had not put him out of the battle for good. As soon as he got into the melee, she would be surrounded.
She could not win unless Tymora smiled, and perhaps not even then.
Thus, she decided, it was time to indulge in what Derst called “calculated recklessness” and Bars called “prayer.”
One-Eye stabbed one of his swords at her, but she smashed it left with her shield, causing Tough-Face to start back with a curse as the blade almost struck him. The brief opening she left was enough to tempt Red-Hair into thrusting his rapier in, just as Arya had hoped. She also prayed he would miss. She leaned forward, letting the thin blade shoot under her sword arm. Lady Luck did smile, it seemed, and the blade scraped off steel and went past her back.
Before Red-Hair could pull back his rapier, she gritted her teeth and snapped her arm forward. The steel screamed against her hard metal gauntlet and vambrace, and she felt a biting pain as the blade tore from Red-Hair’s hand and slapped against her body. It fell to the ground and was quickly trampled into the ground.
Suddenly without a weapon, Red-Hair ducked Arya’s wild slash and leaped back from the battle, heading for the south side of the grove. Arya followed, startling her other opponents, who both stopped short. She sidestepped away from them, keeping her shield up to ward off their blows. Even though they took the opportunity to attack, their blades bounced off her shield, leaving only tiny dents. Meanwhile, the Nightingale of Everlund bore down on her only unarmed opponent with fiery eyes.
“Shoot her! Darthan! Gieves! Damn it!” the unarmed Red-Hair screamed in vain as she pressed on him, her blade slashing and weaving.
He need not have been so terrified. Arya’s code of honor would not allow her to strike an unarmed man, and her pursuit was a ruse. Another prayer passed her lips. As Red-Hair stumbled into the brush, she feinted an overhead slash, then threw her full weight back on her shield, reversing her movement.
Her pursuing attackers were caught entirely off guard by her sudden backward rush. One-Eye managed to dodge but Tough-Face was not so lucky. He went down under Arya’s press, tripping over a root. Arya could not finish him, though, for One-Eye pressed her still. The knight dealt Tough-Face a furious kick, knocking his weapon away, and focused on driving One-Eye back toward the center of the grove. Overmatched, the ranger drew back, weaving his swords back and forth to ward her off.
She could have had him any number of times, but if she ran him through the archers would have a clear shot and she could not slap away arrows as easily as blades. She worked her blade to keep One-Eye on the defensive. If Tymora allowed it, she could play this battle her way, keeping her opponents alive, until she had an opportunity to …
An arrow slammed into her thigh, piercing the metal wrapping it. She screamed in sudden agony and followed it up with a curse as the limb went numb. A lucky shot, but that was all it took. Arya fell.
One-Eye, still up, immediately took advantage of the situation and leaped onto the prone Arya, blades raised high. The knight braced herself for the killing blow.
Sure enough, blood splattered her face, and Arya wondered that she did not feel the sword that must be standing in her chest or forehead. Perhaps this was death.
Then she heard a bubbling groan and her eyes snapped open.
A black throwing knife in his remaining eye, the ranger sank to the ground. His short swords tumbled from his limp hands.
Arrows protruding from his shoulder and chest, Walker stood over her, his mithral shatterspike knocking one arrow from the air even as another nicked his shoulder. Red-Hair—a pair of daggers in his hands—Tough-Face, and Thin-Man were rushing toward them, murder in their eyes.
“Strong as steel!” he rasped.
Arya raised her brow, but she understood his extended hand.
“Up!” Walker shouted, just in case she hadn’t. Arya was not about to argue.
Her armor weighed her down and her leg protested, but she managed to stand with his aid. Pressing her back to Walker’s, she lifted her sword and shield and awaited the three rangers stalking in from all sides.
“Turn into a ghost!” commanded Arya. “Flee!”
“Not without you,” Walker said through gritted teeth.
The rangers pulled up short, granting the two a wide berth. Walker’s cloak of grim resolution intimidated them, and they came no closer. Instead, Red-Hair reversed his daggers for throwing, and the others pulled light crossbows from their belts. Thin-Man even produced a slender white wand and pointed it at them—the crystal at the end crackling with electricity. Darthan and Gieves came to join them, pointing their arrows at the two resolute warriors.
“Lower your blade,” said Walker.
“What?” Arya could not believe her ears.
“No choice.” The point of his shatterspike dipped toward the ground, and he dropped the throwing dagger in his left hand.
Hesitantly, Arya lowered her sword as well, though the shield was still strapped to her arm. If they fired at them, she could step in front of Walker and protect both of them. Perhaps. If she knew Tymora’s favor.
“Smile on us, Lady Luck,” whispered Arya.
As though they heard an unspoken command, the line of rangers with projectile weapons parted and another man stepped through. With dusky flesh made penumbral at night and curly hair the color of soot, he seemed made of darkness—a darkness he usually kept caged in white hunting leathers. Not now, however: now he wore black.
“Meris,” growled Arya. “Bastard.”
“Indeed,” the wild scout laughed. “How nice to see you again, beautiful cousin. You spurned my well-meant advances before, but I assure you that you won’t this time.”
“Nothing from you is ever ‘well-meant,’ Meris.” Arya took the smallest step in front of Walker, and all the arrows and bolts shifted to her.
Meris ignored his rangers. Instead, he turned his gaze to Walker. “I see your affections have found somewhere else to rest,” he said.
“Leave him out of this,” said Arya. “I’m the one you want—take me and let him go!”
“Actually, I’m here for him,” replied Meris. “You’re just an added bonus. I’ve always looked forward to getting you alone, but I thought I’d missed my chance. Tymora must be smiling on both of us.”
The knight might have winced at the irony, but she was too confused. “You didn’t know I was here?” Arya looked at him incredulously.
“Oh, I’d guessed he’d use you and leave you dead in the forest somewhere,” Meris said. “He’s a dangerous man, that Walker.” He stepped toward them, his hand dropping to his axe.
Arya stepped in front of Walker and lifted her blade, warding him off. “Take another step and I attack,” she warned.
Meris looked at the rangers on his left and right. “Oh, that’s reasonable,” he smirked. “Really, Cousin—”
“If I attack, you’ll have to kill me, and you’ll lose your ‘added bonus.’”
Meris laughed. “Irrelevant,” he rasped, mimicking Walker’s broken voice. “I could just shoot both of you right now.”
“But if I come with you willingly,” Arya said. “You don’t lose it.”
“You would come with me willingly?” Meris’s face was calm, but she could tell he was intrigued. Then his eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“I am a Knight in Silver. I always keep my word.”
“What do you ask in return? For this … accommodation?”
Arya bristled at his words but refused to let him see her discomfort. “Walker goes free.”<
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“Of course,” said Meris. “I might have guessed.”
He pondered the agreement, crossing his arms before him. Arya could feel Walker’s eyes on the back of her head, but she refused to flinch.
“Done,” Meris said finally, a bemused smile on his face.
“Your word?”
“I swear on my sword.” Meris extended his hand toward Arya.
Arya raised her brow. It had not escaped her notice that he carried no sword. “Have your men lower their bows first.”
“You don’t trust me?” Meris shrugged. “Well, believe it or not, I am a man of my word.” He signaled, and the other rangers lowered their bows and put the arrows away. At the same time, Arya sheathed her sword and turned to the ghostwalker with tears in her eyes.
“Run away, Walker,” said Arya. “I’m not going to lose you. Not now.”
“We will meet again,” Walker assured her softly.
Meris reached out and took Arya’s arm, pulling her away.
True to her word, Arya followed. The rangers dispersed, though they continued to watch Walker warily.
After handing Arya by the arm to Darthan, who disarmed her, Meris turned back and strode toward Walker. He approached peacefully and unarmed. Walker kept his sword point down and stood calmly, awaiting the dusky scout’s arrival.
It pained the ghostwalker to surrender. He knew what was coming next, but there was no other way he could save Arya. This simply had to be done.
When Meris stood within a pace of Walker, he stopped and stared him in the eye. Even this was more than the other rangers were willing to do, but Meris’s hate overwhelmed any fear.
“I have been eager for this meeting since you humiliated me not once, not twice, but thrice, Walker,” said Meris. “Now I’m going to set you free.” He sighed. “Pity. I always hoped I’d get to cross swords with you.”
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 ghost-walker 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 fl
ank 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 instead. 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.
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