The Fighters: Ghostwalker

by Erik Scott Debie

  "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 ghostwalker said. "Never Rhyn Greyt."

  Before they left the Whistling Stag, Walker looked back at Meris's body.

  "Farewell, my brother," he murmured.

  Chapter 23

  30 Tarsakh

  As the sun set, Walker stood in the center of Quaer­varr's main plaza, his cloak billowing out behind him in the wind. The rain had passed and the clouds were clearing, but the fearsome wind still blew, threaten­ing to rip cloaks from the backs of any foolish enough to go outside. Despite this, hundreds milled about the square, voices chattering and shouting. Though the place was abuzz with activity, Walker's silent and unmoving form went largely unnoticed.

  The watch, with Captain Unddreth restored to command, had taken control of the courtyard quickly and was even now sorting out the prisoners. The surviving rangers—all fifteen of them, several too injured to move without assistance—were shuttled into the Quaervarr jail and, when that was full, to the very dungeons that had until recently housed Unddreth and others loyal to Geth Stonar.

  The rangers would be held until such time as their ultimate fate could be decided, but Arya had dissuaded Unddreth from calling for the noose. Loyal men should not be punished so severely for defending their master, especially when they thought him to be a noble and virtuous hero, she had con­vinced him.

  A courier had been dispatched to fetch Speaker Stonar back from Silverymoon, along with a cadre of watchmen for protection. They also sought to ascertain the fate of Clearwater and the other riders. One of the druids went along as well—the Oak House simply couldn't ignore the disappearance of two of their own, one their mistress.

  In Quaervarr's main plaza, a crowd had gathered to listen as Arya and her companions explained the events of the last few days. Under the watchful and approving eye of the stony-faced Unddreth, the knights spoke of Greyt's plots, kidnappings, and murders, as well as the atrocities commit­ted by Meris and his cronies. The town had been thrown into disarray, with the late Lord Singer's charismatic bravado pressing against the firm, peaceful rule of Geth Stonar. With the recounting of the day's bloody events and the revealing of the truth, however, most of the citizenship had grown disil­lusioned with the legend of Greyt and turned back to those civil leaders they could trust: Stonar and Unddreth.

  Mercifully, Arya chose to remain silent about the events of fifteen years previous—Walker did not think he could stomach a retelling of his murder. In addition, he lived, once again, in mystery—a mystery that kept all the citizens, except for the most inquisitive (and foolish) children, away from him as he rested and healed. The silver wolf's head ring was back around his finger, helping his wounds re-knit and his scars disappear, a pr
ocess that Walker had gone through so many times he hardly even felt the itchy tingling running through his body.

  Hardly, that is to say, except for four particular wounds. With the deaths of Greyt and Meris, the flesh they had broken could finally heal. Though he would carry the scars, and speak in a whisper to the end of his days, Walker felt nearly whole.

  Then a pain seized him and Walker's tranquil frown dipped.

  That was when he knew he was not fully whole. He had one task still to complete, one last wrong to set right, one last crime to avenge. He had one last life to take.

  Shifting into his ghostsight, Walker turned to the side, expecting to see the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn, who had always given him silent guidance. But there was no spirit there.

  Walker smiled. He remembered watching the spirits of Tarm and Lyetha fade, reunited at last in death. He also remembered the gentle, sweet emotion that had swept through him at the time—love, the kind of feeling Walker knew when he looked upon Arya Venkyr.

  Arya.

  Walker looked over at her as she addressed a body of gathered citizens, much as Lord Greyt had done in the past. She had cleaned her hair and wounds after the battle, and Bars had applied his healing touch to her as well. The knight was radiant in the fading sunlight that filtered through the clouds, the silver of her armor gleaming and her hair burn­ing. As though she noticed him watching, she drew herself up straighter and tiny spots of red bloomed in her cheeks.

  How could she ever understand what he had to do? How could he explain it to her?

  Walker decided he could not. He simply had to do it.

  With a sigh—a gesture that would have seemed foreign to him a few days ago—he pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked away.

  * * * *

  Smiling broadly at the shouts of support, Arya turned away from the crowd and massaged her throat. Shouting for such a long time had worn out her voice, but it had been worth it. Her mission was accomplished: the threat to stability in the Silver Marches removed. Finally, she could relax.

  A strand of auburn hair blew in her face, and she brushed it aside. As soon as she had done so, though, she realized something was amiss.

  Walker was not there.

  Gripped by sudden, unreasoning panic, Arya scanned the plaza. She caught sight of him at last, striding toward the main street of the town, as though to leave.

  "Walker!" she called, breaking into a run. At the sound of her voice, he stopped and let her hurry to his side. She put gauntleted fingers on his arm. "You're going?"

  Rather than looking at her, Walker's eyes were far away.

  "All my scars are healed, all my enemies dead," he said. "All but one." He put his hand over his heart.

  Confused, Arya covered that hand with her own. Walker smiled at the touch.

  "I don't understand," she said. "Who else is there?"

  "My teacher," replied Walker. "She who taught me my powers. She who betrayed me." He paused, as though digest­ing that. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sad. "Gylther'yel, the Ghostly Lady."

  "The spirit of the Dark Woods?" asked Arya. "The folk legend? She actually exists?"

  Walker nodded. "And she is powerful," he added, "much more powerful than any foe either of us has faced, able to level armies with a sweep of her fingers."

  "Armies?" she mouthed. Walker moved to go, but Arya held his arm tighter. "You can't go now—wait until there are more of us! Wait until we find Clearwater and can muster up a score of warriors, Legionnaires, Knights in Silver, wizards of the Spellguard—"

  "No," said Walker. "This is my fight, and my fight alone. No man or woman will die in my place."

  His fatalistic tone made Arya's heart race. "Wait, at least, until you are fully rested—"

  "If I do not confront her now, I will never find her," replied Walker. "Her spies are even now on the wing, going to tell her all that has transpired today. I must fight her now." Arya frowned, but Walker was firm. "I will heal as I walk."

  The knight did not understand, and she bit her lip.

  He took another step, but still Arya held him back. He turned to her, his eyes cold and hard, and Arya swallowed. She had meant to argue, but the determination she saw in those eyes told her that it would be no use. She closed her eyes, fighting within herself for words, and when they finally came, she fixed him with a gaze as full of resolve as his own.

  "Then I am coming with you," she said.

  "You are not...." "Walker started to argue, but then he trailed off. He did not need to look into her steely eyes to know argument was useless. "As you will. But if you are to come—" With a twist, he removed the wolf ring and offered it to her. "You will need protection."

  "But—but you need healing," she protested.

  "The shadows will provide," said Walker.

  Though she did not understand, Arya found herself trusting him. She slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. It felt heavy, but she took reassurance in its weight. She nodded then took a step away, meaning to call for her horse.

  This time, it was Walker's turn to grasp her arm and stop her.

  "You will need no horse for this journey," he said.

  Arya slid out of his grasp and eyed him. "How do we jour­ney, then?" she asked, hesitant to be away from Swiftfall and her trusty lance.

  "The only way Gylther'yel will not hear us coming—along the most silent of paths." He extended a hand silently to her. "The Shadow."

  Arya shivered. "Can she not see ghosts, if she is a ghost?" asked Arya.

  "Not the Ethereal. The Shadow," he said. "This is the only way."

  The others in the plaza had observed the two by now, and Bars and Derst were walking over, wearing question­ing looks.

  "Take my hand," said Walker, his eyes gleaming.

  Arya gnawed on her lip, indecisive. Though she wanted to delay, to explain to her brother knights the reason she had to go, or even ask them to accompany her, she felt Walker's need for haste.

  "The grove!" she called out to Unddreth, Bars, and Derst. Then she stepped into Walker's reach and clutched his out­stretched hand.

  Instantly, shadows surrounded them and the world seemed to turn black. Walker wrapped his billowing cloak around her and took her firmly in his embrace.

  "We walk the shadowy realm beyond the Border Ethereal—the Shadow Fringe—where our travel will be quickened," explained Walker. "Whatever you may see, whatever you may feel—remember that I am with you. Whatever else speaks, do not reply. Cling tightly to me—I will not forsake you."

  Arya nodded.

  Then, as Walker took a step forward, she followed him into the shadows.

  * * * *

  Arya felt her lungs fill with smoke, and she could not breathe. As they stepped between worlds, all the colors of Quaervarr and even the sun seemed to fade to a dull, bleak haze. She felt a tug, as though the very darkness pulled her in. Her gorge rose and her stomach danced. The afternoon sunlight became muddy, as though the sun were but a smol­dering torch behind thick spider webs.

  Surrounding her were a multitude of moving figures, all engaged in different activities, from pacing back and forth, to acting out duels, to mumbling or shouting incoherently. Their faces were blurry, obscured as though by a hand that had smudged their very being and wiped their features from sight. She started, seeing the men and women who had been in the square as mere blobs of light, and she became aware of the heat flowing from them like water.

  This is the ghost world, she thought. From here, we step into Shadow.

  An ephemeral man lunged at her out of the darkness, so violently and with such rage burning from him that Arya screamed and clutched at Walker. At the same time, a wave of panic washed over her.

  "I am here," came a voice, a deep and resonating voice, along with a wave of comfort. The angry spirit spun past her and continued on its way, jabbering about orc chieftains it had faced.

  A wave of sadness not of her own making swept through her.

  "G
harask is an old spirit—the father of Dharan Greyt. He has haunted Quaervarr for fifteen years," said the voice. "Kept there by anger, rage, and helplessness. Perhaps tonight we will set him to rest."

  Caught up in Walker's arms, Arya felt herself borne away on wings of shadow. The angry spirit, and the gathered multitude vanished, along with the darkened buildings of Quaervarr. Soon, Arya found herself in the woods, where Walker continued his slow steps, each of them covering dozens of paces.

  Then there came a scream, jolting Arya's attention to a spirit who ran beside them. Her face was blurred, but when Arya focused upon her features, they shifted and cleared. She was a comely woman, younger than Arya, but her features were lined with wrinkles of madness and her eyes burned with impotent wrath. There was a bloody wound in her breast.

  "Why? Why? Why?" she asked, repeating the word again and again, building in volume until it was so loud that it stung Arya's ears. The spirit wept black tears, which disin­tegrated in the smoky air.

  "Chandra Stardown?" asked Arya, as she recognized the spirit. She had known Chandra in Silverymoon—both had served under Sernius Alathar as cadets, but Arya had not seen her since her promotion into the order.

  Chandra's spirit seemed stunned for a moment. Then she burst back into her demands, reaching for Arya.

  "Why! Why! Why!"

  Startled, Arya cried, "I know not!"

  At this, Chandra paused again, but then gave a wrench­ing scream, stunning Arya to silence, and reached at her with fingernails grown into claws. The knight gasped and reached for her sword, but a warning hand clamped down upon her wrist.

  "Whatever you see, do not reply!" repeated Walker. "I am here—I am the only one here!"

  Arya started to argue, but then the spirit gave a gasp and vanished, as though it had suddenly fallen from a galloping horse they rode. Chastened, Arya clung to Walker, her only protection in this strange and fearful place. They continued their trek through the Shadow.

  For the longest time, Arya did not dare to look up at Walker. Fear and horror surrounded her like the very air, and it was only through Walker's soothing presence that she was able to keep her sanity in the darkness.