Ghostwalker (12 page)

Leaping headfirst, Torlic lunged at Walker, both weapons before him. The ghostly man took a single step back and swept his sword as though to parry. As he flew through the air, Torlic snapped back then forward with his right arm, bringing his rapier just out of line with Walker’s parry and punching it forward again. Walker’s sword swept through the seemingly vanishing rapier, making no contact, and Torlic threw the main-gauche wide, as though deflected, to disguise his feint.

The rapier, pulled and thrust just in time to avoid the parry, darted for Walker’s chest.

Torlic gave a triumphant cry as the blade drove through Walker, lancing his heart and punching out his back.

Arya spurred her horse ahead, but the guard’s horses crowded the road and so she arrived at Torlic’s townhouse with the last of the guards. When she arrived, several of the soldiers were already milling around the door and two were slamming their shoulders against it. Meris had dismounted and was standing among them, snapping at the watchmen pounding on the locked door.

“Swords inside,” a watchman shouted as Arya pulled up next to them. “I hear steel!”

“Mielikki’s scowl. We need a battering ram!” another cursed.

“Stand aside!” Arya shouted.

Protests on their lips, the watchmen turned toward her, but then their eyes went wide in shock and they leaped aside. With a pump of her legs, Arya’s reddish mare slammed both hooves into the shut portal. The door caved in with a crash and its hinges snapped.

“Battering horse,” Arya explained to the staring watchmen. “Just as good.”

“Inside!” Unddreth ordered, leaping out of his saddle.

With a short cheer to the Nightingale of Everlund, the watchmen rushed inside. Arya slid off her steed, right in front of a startled Meris. She flashed him a quick, wry smile, drew her sword, and ran after them.

Meris’s eyes smoldered.

They stood, Walker transfixed on the half-elf’s sword, for a long moment, Torlic smiling with his offhand held artfully back and Walker with his eyes shut. The ghostwalker seemed almost translucent, as though the blade had stolen his very essence.

Then Walker’s eyes opened. Torlic looked at him, confused.

The ghostwalker stepped to the right and became clearer, as though he had been but an illusion and was only now taking on solid matter.

The mithral long sword swept between them, cutting Torlic’s sword neatly in two. Walker continued the spin, his left hand going out.

Too late, Torlic saw steel glinting in the ghostly man’s hand. The dagger jabbed into his ribs. All the strength went from Torlic’s legs and he collapsed.

The broken sword hilt tumbling from his shaking fingers, Torlic looked up at his opponent in astonishment. Walker shook his cloak, and the rapier blade swayed with it. The blade had gone right through his ghostly body and done no damage. Walker’s body had only become material once the blade was outside his flesh. Now, it was stuck through fabric. Walker pulled it free and the blade came out sparkling clean.

Torlic saw, even as his vision swam in a sea of red, half a dozen guards rush into the room behind his attacker. He also could have sworn he saw a sad face flickering at the edge of his vision—the face of an old man mourning a loss.

Torlic had nothing at all to say as Walker slashed down with the shimmering mithral sword, angling for his head.

“You! Halt in the name of the Silver Marches!” Arya heard Unddreth shout from within as she ran into the house. The clashing of swords and more panicked cries followed the shout.

She rushed through the open door into the training room but pulled up short, along with three other guards in Quaervarr watch uniforms. They watched the spectacle before them, stupefied expressions on their faces.

Walker whirled among the guards as a dervish, his sword darting right and left to parry blows, whipping back and forth like a leaf in a hurricane. Three watchmen, including Narb and the hammer-wielding Unddreth, were hacking at the black-clad warrior, who stood over a corpse Arya could only assume had once been Torlic.

Rapier in hand, Narb lunged from the right. Walker leaped to the side, his cloak trailing in a circle as he spun away. Narb’s rapier sparked off Unddreth’s shield, causing the genasi to shout and falter in his low attack. Leaping over the swinging hammer, Walker whirled in the air, batting the third guard’s sword out of the way and snapping up an elbow to strike the back of Unddreth’s blocky head. With a confused grunt, the genasi staggered forward and fell bodily against Narb. They went down together in a heap.

Without hesitation—without even losing a beat—Walker stepped forward to engage the third guard, a ruddy-cheeked man whose movements had suddenly become much more frantic.

“What are you waiting for?” the cruel voice of Meris shouted almost in her ear. Turning, Arya saw the wild scout with a sword in one hand and a hand axe in the other. “After him!”

“Begging your pardon, Sir,” one of the guards said. They had entered the room but hung back warily. “What good can we do against—”

Meris swung his axe around and lodged it in the doorframe with a thunk. He reached over and ripped the light crossbow from the watchman’s belt. “Must I do everything?” he asked as he took aim.

“But ye’ll hit Delem!” the soldier protested. He reached out to knock the weapon away, but not before Meris fired.

As though he sensed the projectile coming, Walker spun, but not out of its path. Rather, as it streaked for the hapless Delem’s head, Walker shot out his arm to intercept the bolt. The ghostwalker scowled as it clanged off his left bracer, and the impact sent him stumbling away from Delem, shattering his momentum. The young guard, oblivious to the attack, seized the advantage and pressed after Walker.

“You see?” Meris said. He reclaimed his axe—and a chunk of the wall in the process. “Break his focus, and you win the battle. He’s ours now.” Then he charged into the fray, leaving the hesitating guards scrambling to catch up.

Arya took a step forward, but no more than a step, for she was immediately on her guard.

Walker, who had been retreating before Delem’s press all the way to the rear wall, suddenly leaped over Delem’s low slash, kicked off the wall, and flew over his head. Delem’s sword slashed in, but instead of finding Walker’s flesh, it cut into a thick oak beam supporting the wall and ceiling. Ignoring the stuck watchman behind him, Walker rolled and came up in a rush toward the exit—right into the thick of the oncoming guards.

Meris, charging at their head, hurled his axe with a flick of his wrist and pulled his sword back to slash. Walker’s mithral blade snapped around, as though of its own accord, and batted the axe aside. It sailed, end over end, to lodge itself in the wall near Delem. Meris slashed, but Walker dived over the sword, rolled, and came up running, leaving a startled wild scout behind.

The other guards came against Walker, but hesitated under the intensity of his gaze. He knocked aside one halfhearted attack, spinning to his right, and knocked the second guard’s blade away with the same swing. This guard staggered back, stunned at the speed of the parry, and Walker kept spinning. As he came up again, he punched the third guard in the face, knocking him down, and continued his spin, his shatterspike coming around…

To spark and lock against Arya’s drawn blade, low to the ground.

His momentum spent, Walker settled to his feet and stood against her. He had expected she would give way as easily as the guards, but she did not. Instead, she remained in place, determined, the last obstacle standing between Walker and freedom.

Their eyes met, her steely orbs standing firm against his fierce, dark gaze. There was danger, there was threat, there was resolution, but Arya did not flinch. Exerting her full strength, she held his blade in place, a hand’s breadth from her face. They battled, a contest of wills that both knew was of deathly importance.

Of a sudden, Arya realized Walker’s eyes were blue. The blue was obscured, hidden beneath the darkness, but definitely there. Her heart leaped and her breath caught.

Then, just like that, Walker pulled away, whirling back in exactly the opposite direction. Meris had reversed his charge and was coming back, but Walker made no move to meet him. Instead, he bounded toward a dark corner and melted away, as though into the very shadows.

No sooner had Walker vanished than Meris’s throwing dagger imbedded itself into the wall where he had gone. The wild scout, deprived of his opponent, whirled and searched, but there was no one to be found, except for groaning and disoriented guardsmen.

“Beastlord’s bloody—” cursed Meris. Then he stopped, seeing Arya looking at him in shock.

Meris sheathed his sword slowly and deliberately, and retrieved his thrown axe and knife. Without a word to Arya, he shot her a vicious glare and stamped out into the night.

Finally, the knight remembered to exhale.

27 Tarsakh

“Parry, parry, thrust, parry, thrust,” Greyt intoned silently as he worked through the familiar movements. His opponent fell back with each of his attacks, but pressed when Greyt took the defensive. The Lord Singer’s hand lacked the speed and strength of youth, but it was all the more deadly for experience.

His opponent thrust high suddenly, his sword a silver blur.

Greyt ducked, his knees bending apart. The weapon passed harmlessly over his head. Even as the younger fencer tried to reverse his blow, Greyt’s rapier slashed open the dark leather covering the man’s side. A line of bright red appeared on his pale flesh.

As his opponent staggered back, Greyt took the opportunity to cuff him on the side of the head. “Keep your guard up, fool!” he shouted. “I should run you through for your stupidity!”

“I’m sorry, Lord Singer—” Tamnus said, dropping immediately to one knee.

Greyt promptly kicked him in the face, launching him backward. Blood streamed from his nose. When Tamnus looked at him in shock, the Lord Singer’s mouth was hard.

“Did I say the duel was over?” he snapped. The aide shook his head. Then he cringed when Greyt raised his rapier once more, as though to thrust it through Tamnus’s head.

A banging at the door startled Greyt, and he almost thrust. A tingle ran down his spine, and he whirled on the portal.

“Who is it?” he shouted.

“Captain Unddreth, Lord Singer,” a rumble came. “I wish an audience with you.”

The bard ran a hand through his graying hair. Then he turned on his training aide with a vicious glare. “Out of my sight,” he ordered with a hiss. Tamnus wasted no breath in hesitation. He ran away, clutching at his side in obvious pain.

Greyt cared not. When Tamnus was gone, Greyt flicked the blood off his rapier and sheathed it. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he assumed a more comfortable stance.

“Come,” he called.

The doors swung open and the massive Unddreth entered Greyt’s ballroom. The floorboards, hard, good wood, did not creak, even under his heavy boots. Situated in the center of the mansion, the ballroom was the largest—if not the finest—room in Quaervarr. Tapestries of scarlet, bold white, and vibrant purples adorned the walls, laced with ivory and gold thread. In the center of the ballroom, marble statues of dancing nymphs poured water from basins down into a great copper fountain. If it had not been so dismal outside, sunlight would have cascaded through high, stained glass windows depicting dancing fey, dueling heroes, and wheeling dragons.

If Unddreth was impressed as he entered the grand ballroom—useless in such a small town—he showed no sign of it. His blocky face was stoic, as always.

“What is it, Captain?” Greyt asked.

“I bear grave news,” the earth genasi growled.

“Of course you do,” the Lord Singer said. He started away, toward a tapestry depicting a dragon in flight. Unddreth did not follow. Greyt thanked the gods for that.

“I have come to inform you of a murder that transpired last night,” Unddreth said. “Sir Torlic, a lieutenant in the Quaervarr guard, was killed in his house last night.”

“What do I—” Greyt started angrily, but stopped himself. “Why bring this to me?”

The genasi’s lip twitched. “He was once of the Raven Claws,” Unddreth said. “I thought perhaps you might help me find the one who killed him.”

“Ah.” Greyt wanted to claim that he knew nothing, but that would make Unddreth suspicious. “I well remember our days on the road, but I know of no enemy who would kill him, nor even seek to attack him in his humble abode.”

He had thrown out his hand in imitation of a performance and now became aware of a small spot of Tamnus’s blood on his palm. He clenched his fist and looked back at Unddreth.

“Perhaps Jarthon and his People of the Black Blood. They have been quiet for long enough. Could your soldiers have relaxed their guard, I wonder, Captain?”

Unddreth’s already dark complexion became black. “I personally fought the man responsible,” he said. “And he was no werebeast. We are dealing with another attacker, one very skilled with a blade, and possessing powers I have never seen before.”

“Powers?” Greyt asked idly. He peered intently at a tapestry of a military victory, with a knight of Cormyr leading a host of soldiers. One of the Azouns, perhaps? He could not recall.

“The villagers are whispering about a shadowy man named Walker,” Unddreth said. “That may have been him.”

That produced a stir in Greyt. The name sounded like a discordant note on his yarting. He rubbed his gold ring, as was his habit.

“And what do you want me to do, kill this shadow for you?” Greyt said, suppressing his reaction. “You and your soldiers find this attacker and deal with him as is proper.

“Or…” He drew his rapier with a flourish. “Could it be you have come to ask for the aid I can offer?”

“We need none of your thug rangers, Greyt,” Unddreth spat. His animosity toward the Lord Singer was matched only by his contempt for Greyt’s servants—as Greyt well knew. “Undisciplined scum, all of them. Especially Meris the bastard.”

“I can’t argue,” the Lord Singer laughed, unsurprised. “It’s very true.”