Ghostwalker (11 page)

Narb, shaking his golden mane, growled a negative. “Sorry, Captain,” he said. He turned away and took a few steps. He limped from where Torlic’s blade had slapped his thigh. “Me bed’s callin’ me louder than your sword.”

Narb was handsome and young, and it was clear that Torlic had picked him for exactly those traits. The vain half-elf loved the company of men he found lovely—and enjoyed proving his superiority over them even more. Narb fingered the scar running down his otherwise flawless face, remnant of a recent rapier wound.

“Tired, are we?” Torlic asked. “Too warm? Or perhaps you’re not properly motivated. Do you need another scar?” He cut his light rapier through the air, then stretched his arms.

Narb’s face paled.

“It’s a little too warm, I agree,” said Torlic. He turned to open the window, letting in the cutting chill of the breeze.

The young watchman was walking away when Torlic cleared his throat.

“Narb, you work for me, remember?” he asked without looking back.

At the door, the watchman stopped. “Yes, but—” Narb started.

“Put up your guard,” Torlic said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

As he turned, Narb opened his mouth to protest then staggered away, gaping.

As though he had stepped out of the air itself, Walker stood between them, the fringes of his cloak rustling in the breeze from the window. Spikes of hair shifted around his face. His arms were hidden inside the black cloth of his cloak. His cold eyes—beautiful in the way that thunderstorms are—were fixed on Torlic.

“Your replacement seems to …” Torlic started, but his voice trailed off as the crushing weight of the ghostwalker’s will fell upon him. His knees felt weak and the rapier in his hand grew heavy.

“Send him away,” Walker rasped.

Torlic seemed to gather his senses again. “Go,” he said to Narb without taking his eyes from his new opponent. “This is a duel between me and the dark gentleman.”

“Should I call Unddreth?” Narb stammered, trembling with exhaustion and fear.

“Yes,” Torlic said. He flicked his eyes toward the watchman. “There will be a corpse to cart away when I’m done.”

Walker said nothing, but a hint of a smile might have creased his mouth—behind the high black collar.

Narb wasted no time in leaving, and the two listened to his rapid footfalls and the outer door slamming shut as he dashed off. Torlic tossed the rapier from hand to hand, cutting it through the air in practice moves.

The man in black did not move.

“So, Walker—if I may call you so, lovely boy—how long would you guess we have?” Torlic asked. His voice was almost lewd. “It’s a disorganized Watch, and Unddreth is a heavy sleeper—”

“How soon do you wish for your death?” Walker asked.

“How about not at all?” Torlic asked with a whimsical smile. “How soon do you wish—”

Walker stepped aside as Torlic’s blade flashed past.

Faster than the eye could follow, the half-elf had darted forward and thrust, thinking to end the battle right then. Walker swept a silvery long sword out of the folds of his cloak and knocked the rapier to the right, then parried to the left when Torlic tried to reverse his strike. Walker leaped away, his cloak swirling around him, and brought the blade left to right, low to high, throwing the rapier up wide when Torlic thrust a third time.

As the half-elf danced back, his offensive momentum spent, Walker continued his spinning attack. Eyes popping wide, Torlic barely got the sword up in time to knock the blow high enough to keep it from taking his head from his shoulders. Walker’s mithral blade screeched against the rapier and Torlic pulled his weapon away as quickly as he could. He leaped back and wove his blade through the air to distract and ward off his opponent.

The warrior in black charged, ignoring the whipping blade. Torlic dived aside of the slashing long sword and turned a somersault on the floor, coming up with a main-gauche in his left hand, drawn from his belt.

Walker slashed in with the long sword, and Torlic hooked it on his rapier’s basket hilt. He pulled his left arm back to jab, but Walker’s fist was faster. The half-elf went tumbling backward, his face stinging, but he kept a firm hold on his weapons.

That was fortunate for him, since Walker was right there, slashing again.

“My lady, what… ?” asked Garion. The voice trailed off as Arya shot the innkeeper a burning look. She would clearly brook no delay. The blows to her head had left her dizzy but intent.

She had to find the man in black, the mysterious Walker she had heard about in whispers. She felt almost desperate to see him again. He frightened her, but he intrigued her; thus, he frightened her all the more.

Arya threw open the door to her room and darted inside, , ignoring the snoring bodies of Bars and Derst in the middle of the floor. Apparently, they had both tried for the bed but neither had made it.

Arya knew she didn’t have time to don her plate armor, so she grabbed her shield and long sword before rushing down the stairs.

Arya heard hooves stomping by outside the door just as she reached for the handle. She threw open the door and leaped out to intercept the horsemen.

There were perhaps a dozen, dressed in the green and black of the Quaervarr guard, about twenty paces up the cobblestone street. Riding on unarmored horses, they carried spears, shields, and long swords. The horses were moving at a brisk pace, so Arya was certain something was afoot.

Arya dashed in front of the approaching horsemen, causing them to rein in. “Hold, in the name of Lady Alustriel and the Silver Marches!” she shouted, brandishing her sword high.

“Out of the way, wench!” one of the guardsmen, a young, handsome man with a scar running down his face, shouted at her. “We almost rode you down!” He drew his sword and pointed it at her. “Don’t interfere—”

“Stand down, Narb,” a deep, growling voice came. “Can’t you recognize a Knight in Silver?” The boy seemed to shrink in his saddle, and the sword went back in its scabbard.

Arya turned. The lead watchman, a huge man on an even more tremendous stallion, addressed her. A hammer sprouted from his fist. Powerfully muscled, he might have been wider than the length of the warhammer he carried, his shoulders broader than Arya’s sword was long.

“Hail,” he rumbled. “Who are you who wears the colors of Silverymoon?” He indicated her blue cloak and distinctive brooch of office.

“I am Arya Venkyr, knight-errant of Silverymoon,” she said, resolute.

“Well met, Sir Venkyr, Nightingale of Everlund,” the commander said, with a slight nod, sparking murmurs from the other watchmen. Arya winced to see her name recognized, but the murmurs were only about a Knight in Silver, not about Arya Venkyr.

The captain pulled his hood back. Underneath, he had a blocky face with stone-colored skin, and the gemlike eyes and distinctly chiseled features of an earth genasi. “I am Unddreth, Captain of the Watch.”

“Sir Unddreth,” Arya greeted him. “What business takes you at such a dark time of night?”

“Narb reports that Sir Torlic—of the watch—has been attacked by some darkly clad intruder who appeared out of the shadows,” he said. “We go to his aid.”

“I’m coming with you,” Arya said.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but you are not mounted,” Unddreth observed.

“Horses are hardly necessary, if it’s in town,” Arya said, fingering her sword.

“There may be a chase,” Unddreth rumbled. He flicked the reins of his huge war-horse. “We need the speed.”

The rest of the guardsmen kicked their steeds and trotted down the cobbled streets. “I appreciate the offer of aid, but we cannot delay longer.”

“My horse!” Arya shouted to the stable boy, who was peeking out the stable door at the commotion. Unddreth bowed his head slightly, turned his steed, and made to trot away.

“Don’t bother,” a voice came from the side. Arya whirled, and Meris was there astride his stallion, dressed in his distinctive white leathers. “I’ll take you.”

When Meris appeared, Unddreth stopped and looked at him warily. “We don’t need your help, Wayfarer.” The surname was a condemnation, akin to calling Meris a bastard directly.

Though the edge of his mouth twitched slightly, Meris ignored the genasi as though Unddreth’s voice, the crashing of boulders, were but the breeze. He extended his hand. “Come.”

Arya took a step back. “My thanks, but I’d rather ride with Unddreth,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“That brute’s horse can barely carry him,” Meris said. He smiled, an expression that might have been pleasant had Arya not known him better. “Let me make amends for my rude behavior earlier.”

Arya hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand. She didn’t want to take it, but it was a seemingly good-hearted offer. The code of knighthood, to which she had sworn, would not permit a personal bad sentiment to interfere with duty. Unddreth was watching and weighing her; Arya knew the significance of her decision.

The stable boy appeared then, leading Arya’s horse, Swiftfall, fully saddled. The crimson mare neighed in friendly recognition, but quieted when it saw Meris’s black stallion.

“Oh look,” Arya said pointedly. “My horse.”

Meris sneered. “Suit yourself,” he spat. He turned abruptly, dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks, and burst away.

Unddreth nodded to her, a slight smile on his blocky features, and rode off.

Arya, not weighed down by armor, easily vaulted into her saddle and followed them. The stable boy ducked out of the way just in time, and the knight-errant was away, racing down the street to the house of Torlic.

The long sword came down over his head, and Torlic barely deflected it with both weapons. The black-clad warrior was deceptively slender—his frail build belied strength equal to even Unddreth’s might! Torlic was on the defensive, constantly retreating, keeping his weaving blades moving to ward off Walker’s blade.

“Is this it?” Torlic sneered. “You call this skill?”

Walker slashed diagonally, and Torlic parried, but the warrior in black slid the sword down the rapier and main gauche, locking the hilts on his own. He gazed into Torlic’s eyes with something akin to fury. Torlic took that as a good sign.

“Having some trouble?”

No reply.

“What are you, mute?”

“Silent as the grave,” Walker said calmly.

“That’s not polite, my lovely boy,” Torlic mocked.

Walker did not reply but gritted his teeth.

Torlic peered harder at his opponent. Walker was younger than he had seemed at first. “Impressive entrance, frightening dress, but no skill,” Torlic said. “You have no business fighting a real man.”

Walker smiled. Then he threw Torlic tumbling back with a heave of his shoulders. The half-elf rolled, blades held wide, and went into a crouch. He came up slashing, but Walker had not followed.

Rather, the dark warrior stood, eyes burning, in the center of the room once more. The only difference between now and when he had first appeared was that he held his mithral sword outside of his cloak, pointed down at the floor. The blade was touched with translucence, making it appear almost ghostly. Torlic felt the weight of Walker’s presence once more, only now it seemed sharper, more focused.

“That’s a shatterspike blade, is it not?” the half-elf asked. He looked at the nicks it had left on his rapier. “Interesting,” he continued when no reply was forthcoming. “Come dance with me, boy, whoever you are,” Torlic said, weaving his blade before him. “I wasn’t careful before, and you caught me. It won’t happen again. I’m through toying with you.” He pointed his blade at Walker’s eyes. “Dance with me, boy: I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

Even as Torlic spoke the words, he could feel the heat bleed out of the room and Walker’s stance become even firmer. It was almost as though the half-elf had just thrown down his blade and admitted defeat. Above it all, though, Walker seemed to pulse with an icy resolution that set the ever-confident Torlic back on his heels.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Torlic asked, noticeably flustered. “Some fool I chased out of town? Some angry merchant I swindled? Some jealous, cuckolded husband? Lover? Some pretty thing I scarred?”

Walker was silent.

“You know, it doesn’t matter.” Torlic shifted his grip, turning his knuckles skyward. His blade flashed in the dim light. “Or, at least, it won’t matter in a moment.”

Torlic thrust forward, rapier flashing out like lightning and dagger whipping, ready to block a counter attack. Walker leaped at the last moment, seeming to fly back and under the blade. His trailing foot caught Torlic’s wrist and knocked the blade harmlessly high, and his other foot struck the half-elf in the chest, knocking him back. As though not exerting himself in the least, Walker rolled backward in the air and fell to his feet. His cloak flowed behind him.

Torlic staggered back, righting himself with effort, only to find Walker standing before him, that same stoic expression on his face.

Impressed, Torlic slashed right, and left, then right again, but Walker dodged each blow. Whirling, Walker knocked the rapier away, but Torlic allowed the parry to spin him the same way, and his dagger shot out. The half-elf sneered, thinking this to be a deadly strike.

Walker continued spinning as well, and, to Torlic’s astonishment, he floated into the air. With matchless grace, Walker leaped over the chest-level thrust. The shatterspike slammed down, and Torlic barely managed to block it. The blades sparked and the half-elf staggered back.

When he looked up, blades held low, Walker landed and faced him, nonchalant, his sword held down.

Torlic was shaking with anger. “Enough,” he snapped.

With a furious snarl on his lips, the half-elf came forward in a rush, low to the ground, balancing on the balls of his feet. As he ran, Torlic waved his weapons around him in a whirlwind flurry, faster than any but the greatest duelist could follow. As he came on, he jumped, rolled, cartwheeled, and twirled through the air, in a confusing and dizzying charge.

This devastating acrobatic rush, seemingly reckless but actually tight and controlled, was an elf technique Torlic had used to slay his greatest enemies in his adventuring days. No ore chieftain, no fencer, no knight, no swordsmaster had ever been able to stand against it.