Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott De Bie

  “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.

  “Arya,” Walker managed. “No….”

  The lady knight bent her knees and held the blade low.

  “Come, bastard,” she growled. “We are not done yet, you and I. We have had this dance waiting from the beginning.”

  Meris sneered. “You should’ve killed me while my back was turned, while you had the chance.”

  “Knights do not stab enemies in the back,” Arya said.

  Meris gave her a mock salute and chuckled. Then he charged, shatterspike and axe held out to his sides. Arya ran at him, sword held low.

  They met in the center of the common room, blades whirring and sparks flying. Arya slashed in high, and Meris picked off the attack with shatterspike and axe then spun, bringing the weapons around at her head. Arya ducked the shatterspike and parried the axe, sending the axe back and shooting in a fist to pound Meris’s chest through the opening he left. Her punch hardly affected the man through his thick leather armor, and he pushed her back with a lunge. The two separated for a moment.

  “Oh, yes, wench, that’s right,” laughed Meris, beckoning her with his axe. “A valiant stand, as useless as valor itself!”

  The knight fought silently, though her shoulders heaved from the exertion of battle. Weariness shuddered through her body, threatening to slow her blade. Arya reasoned that perhaps she should just run—she could never defeat Meris alone, even if she were fresh, fully armed, and fully armored. His skill was beyond hers. What was she doing here? Letting Walker see her one last time, only to see her killed?

  She could not run, though. A Knight in Silver never ran, and never abandoned her friends and those she loved. She would fight Meris to the death—likely her death, but at least she would not die a coward, as he was.

  Then Arya saw something out of the corner of her eye, and hope glimmered in her heart.

  “For the Marches!” she cried, throwing herself forward in a desperate lunge.

  Meris, momentarily caught off guard by the wild thrust, brought the shatterspike around to parry her sword high, even as he swung in low with the axe to trip her. Then the blade twisted in Arya’s hand—a rolling of the wrist that reduced her grip almost to nothing—and her long sword went under the shatterspike, deflecting it wide. The notched steel sheared off against the shatterspike and she dropped the broken hilt. Her left hand shot in and seized the throwing dagger at Meris’s belt even as her sword hand grasped his wrist with as much strength as she could muster. The axe, ignored, hooked around her knee to pull her down.

  “What are you—” Meris started even as he pulled with his axe.

  “A trick I learned from Walker!” Arya snapped.

  Then Meris screamed in pain as Arya drove the tiny blade into his unarmored wrist.

  The shatterspike tumbled from Meris’s nerveless hand even as he yanked Arya to the ground. Since she was still holding his arm, he fell with her. As she fell, she caught the ghostly blade in her free hand—by luck not shearing off her fingers—and held it between them, its hilt against the floorboards. As Meris fell, his weight drove the blade through his left side.

  The two of them stayed there for a moment, Arya holding herself up under the impaled Meris, who rested on his knees. Blood leaked from his mouth and he looked at the knight without comprehension.

  Then madness returned to his eyes and, with it, rage. Meris spat blood on Arya’s face, causing her to wince. Then, his hand scrabbled across the floor and seized her fallen, splinted sword. He slammed the hilt into Arya’s forehead, knocking her back, stunned. As he
rose, Meris didn’t seem to notice the sword running through his side. He turned the splintered sword in his hands and loomed over Arya, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

  Then he stopped as a chilling melody came from behind.

  Meris turned.

  Walker, standing again, sang a song of dark beauty, a lullaby to lead a sleeper into the endless night, a song of velvet softness and nameless fear. The words in lyrical Elvish, it was a song of mourning, begging for forgiveness, and promising vengeance.

  Stunned, Meris looked at Walker for a moment, his eyes wide and staring. Then he came back to his senses and slashed the broken sword at Walker’s head. The dark warrior ducked smoothly and reached out with both hands. He pulled the blade from Meris’s side and stabbed it back into the dusky youth’s chest.

  Meris looked down at the sword and gave a weak gasp. The scout’s limbs went limp and he sagged, but Walker caught his body and held his face up.

  “Who?” he demanded. “Tell me. Who?”

  He did not truly need to ask, for Meris had torn the bandage free of his left hand and he felt the truth keenly through his bare skin, in ghostly resonance, from the shatterspike. But some part of him had to be sure.

  Meris smiled almost wistfully. “The Ghostly Lady,” he said.

  It seemed to Walker that he should be surprised, hurt, or frightened, but he felt nothing. Nothing but cold.

  Then Meris’s eyes slid closed for the last time.

  Walker held the cooling body for a moment, looking into the face he had hated so much, the last of his tormentors and the one who had taken his dream from him.

  Somehow, he felt no anger. Only sadness.

  “How?” Arya asked as he helped her to her feet. “How did you do it? The name. I thought your name had destroyed you.”

  “Rhyn Thardeyn will always be my name,” the ghost-walker said. “Never Rhyn Greyt.”