Ghostwalker (10 page)

“Who said … I was a … knight… ?” Arya managed through swelling lips, though she was painfully aware of the Silverymoon brooch that shone brightly through her open cloak. Blood trickled from her split lip.

“Count thyself fortunate ye harlots disgust me,” he said. He held a dagger to her throat but then paused. “Still, I could reconsider, seeing thy face….” He ran a finger down her cheek, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Then a dark shape dropped behind the attacker, silently, with what seemed like wings billowing wide.

The man grunted as the newcomer threw him against the opposite wall. The dagger that had threatened Arya’s life skittered into the shadows. The gruff attacker went for another knife, but a gleaming sword point appeared at his throat and the hand froze.

“Inadvisable,” the savior rasped. The assailant cringed at his broken voice, and even Arya felt a chill when she heard it.

Arya’s vision swam, but she heard the assailant chuckle.

“You not going to tell me to drop the knife?” he asked. “Just that my suit is ‘inadvisable?’”

“Your choice,” came the reply.

A knife clattered down. “So you’re the one they call Walker,” the assailant said. His voice was back to normal. It seemed familiar, somehow.

“Perhaps,” her savior—Walker, she knew in her heart—replied. His manner was filled with a terrifying resolution.

“You don’t seem all that impressive to me,” the assailant said. “You fool us all from a distance with your cloak and your silence, but you don’t impress me up close.”

“Irrelevant,” Walker replied. “Yours is the judgment of a coward in a mask.”

Arya’s vision was just clearing. She saw that Walker had not withdrawn his sword and the unnamed attacker was still standing at the end of the sharp steel. He didn’t look cowed at all; rather, his stance was a challenge to Walker. The assailant wore a tattered black cloak and had his cowl pulled low. Even so, his mouth was just faintly visible stretching into a sneer.

“This isn’t over, whoever ye be, Walker.” He was feigning the drunken voice again and slipping away along the wall. “The People of the Black Blood will have your heart for this.”

“I doubt it,” Walker replied, though which assertion he doubted, he showed no sign. He kept his blade up until the hooded man ran out of the alley. Walker watched him go for a moment, sheathed the sword, and turned back toward the street.

“Wait!” Arya managed as she struggled to climb to her feet.

Startled, as though he had not noticed her, Walker turned to regard Arya. His collar was pulled up high and his face was half concealed, but Arya took careful note of his features—they were the only things she could focus upon. His pale skin and black cloak contrasted starkly in the moonlight. He was dark in dress and wild of hair, as though he were a demon come to Faerun. Arya, however, could only see the light of his eyes. At first, his presence had been terrifying, but she found that as she looked on him, she became less and less afraid. There was something about him, something that told her he was important, a key to the entire unfolding mystery.

And there was something she could see in his eyes—a call waiting to be answered, a terrible vengeance…

Then Walker’s eyes vanished into shadow as he turned away. Arya tried to follow him, but her vision swam. He was gone.

Staggering, off-balance, and with her head splitting, Arya managed to limp back to the Whistling Stag, where she could hear the sounds of raucous laughter issuing from the windows. She ignored it as she pressed through the doors and made her way up to her room.

For Arya knew two things: that her business with the dark stranger was not finished for the night, and that she would need her blade.

26 Tarsakh

Walker strode away from the alley, his mouth set in a frown. He did not have far to go—Quaervarr had perhaps five dozen buildings and only three main streets. Few would be out of their homes after nightfall, and none would spot him as he glided between shadows.

Not that he would have cared even had he been watched. He was thinking of the woman with the auburn hair.

He had come upon the struggle in the alley by coincidence as he stalked through Quaervarr, and any other day he might have passed by without interference. Why had he saved her? He had no idea who she was. He’d never seen before, but that was not surprising. Strangers often came through Quaervarr; he himself was a stranger, in a sense.

Had he acted out of a sense of justice? Walker scowled. Justice was antiquated and meaningless—he had only to think of the murder of his father, a devotee of Tyr, for evidence. Still, the choice had not felt random; it had not been whim. Had the sight of the woman sparked feelings in him, feelings long since buried? His pulse quickened.

Walker turned to the spirit of Tarm for guidance, but his father’s face was impassive. Whatever answers Walker was going to discover would come from within, where he was empty.

Using techniques perfected over long years of practice, Walker put it as far as he could out of his mind. His memory of the auburn-haired woman remained vivid, and it burned, almost indignantly, from its place in his subconscious, but he paid it no attention. He focused his attention on the task at hand—Torlic, the warrior known in Quaervarr as the “Dancing Blade.”

Walker’s hand went to his arm, where an old stab wound throbbed.

Torlic’s was a large townhouse, built in the early days of Quaervarr and expanded later. Over the last twenty years, Torlic—a razor-thin half-elf with a penchant for the rapier—had built himself a substantial base in the Quaervarr watch, thanks to Dharan Greyt. Torlic was first lieutenant to Unddreth, though not because of his personality or any friendship with the hulking captain of the Watch. Torlic was also known for his paranoia and regularly posted his underlings to guard his own house, rather than to patrol the streets.

There were no guards that night, though, Walker observed. It seemed unlike a man such as Torlic to be unprepared, so Walker was wary. Mithral sword in its scabbard, the ghostly warrior stalked toward the house on a roundabout path, through the shadows, just in case any guards were watching from behind the darkened windows.

Leaving the front entrance behind, Walker slid along the worn logs of the outer wall and searched for a back entrance.

He could have tapped into the ethereal and walked through the barrier, but he preferred to reserve his powers for an escape, if necessary.

As Gylther’yel had done, Walker questioned the timing of his attacks. He was not worried about one of his targets overwhelming him, but fighting more than one was risky. His success depended, to an extent, on surprise, but his foes would become increasingly paranoid as they died one by one. It seemed like a tactical error, allowing them to build defenses as they grew suspicious, and as time passed…

Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to show them that all their paranoia and preparation would not save them from cold vengeance. Or perhaps he wanted them to stop him. For in the end, what could be awaiting him but the logical conclusion of his task?

He looked over at the mute spirit of his father, Tarm, who hovered three paces to the right. The man was wearing a sad, distant expression unsuited to his face. Why was he always so sad? Walker wondered. Did he hold a secret of some kind, something he could not share?

Walker doubted the spirit would aid him in his struggle, considering how deeply Tarm seemed to disapprove of his task. And, besides, for all Walker knew, Tarm might not be able to speak. Pity, since he would have appreciated scouting before he walked into potential ambushes.

Walker found a rear entrance, which was, of course, locked. Not a thief by trade, Walker had no skill in opening locks, but he had come prepared. Opening a belt pouch, he carefully extracted the contents—a small leather-wrapped bundle: a gift from Gylther’yel. Delicately, he unfolded the wrapping until an orange-red acorn stood out against the black leather of his glove.

He pondered it for a moment—a beautiful piece of nature, to be used in such an unnatural thing as murder. Gylther’yel had taught him all his skills and abilities, true, but was his course in keeping with what she held sacred? The Ethereal was as much a part of the world as the physical, but was he going too far? Was his talent, his very existence, unnatural?

For that matter, would that not make her unnatural as well?

Again, Walker looked at Tarm but, as always, the spirit gave him no answers, merely the chance for Walker to ask questions of himself.

Was Walker an abomination?

After a moment, he found that he did not know and, when he was honest with himself, he found he did not much care. In a few days, it would no longer matter at all.

Walker held the acorn against the lock and handle on the door. “Eat away the works of man,” he rasped quietly in Elvish.

In response, the acorn shuddered and sank into the metal. Where it touched, ripples of red spread outward, rusting and corroding the lock and handle. The metal groaned in helpless protest, but the rust did its work.

The handle was red dust before it hit the mud.

The hinges creaked only slightly. He saw no guards or servants in the dark house. Walker calmly walked inside.

His nonchalance was, of course, an act. Walker had to assume that Torlic was ready for him; his task was too important to risk carelessly.

Walker heard a faint ringing, as of swords clashing far away, and he fell into readiness. The differences in Walker’s carriage were subtle, such that only a skilled swordsman could detect them; to the rest of the world, he remained relaxed.

Walker found himself in a rear entry hall, with benches around the walls and hooks for cloaks and other garments. The place was sparse. There was little furniture to sit upon and the walls were stark. A few cloaks, mostly the black ones with the green lining of the Quaervarr guard, but that was it. The tapestries that usually adorned the homes of the wealthy were absent. Torlic’s home was simple, with small, uncomfortable rooms—that of a soldier.

In the entrance room, Walker saw double doors leading deeper into the house and a pair of doors on either side. He explored the side doors first, opening them a crack to peer through. One led to a kitchen, the other to a storeroom, and neither was occupied. A pot sat over a long-cooled fire in the kitchen, and knives and small cleavers hung overhead where servants could reach them. Bundles—most likely containing bread and other slow-perishing items—sat on wooden shelves, untouched. There was a larder in the corner of the kitchen as well. The storeroom contained weapons, armor, saddles, and part of a wagon.

The door to the main room beckoned and Walker answered the call. He listened at it briefly, long enough to ascertain that the noises of the swords were coming from behind it, and put his hand on the latch. Tarm fixed him with a supplicating gaze, as though begging him to turn back, but when Walker met those eyes, the spirit turned away and walked through the wall.

Walker nodded.

His father may never speak, but his guidance was still there.

Greyt was startled as Meris stormed into his study, throwing the doors wide. He tore a black cloak from his shoulders.

“Back so soon, son?” Greyt asked, looking up from the scroll upon which he was inscribing his latest ballad. Next to him rested some neglected correspondence he had meant to send to Stonar’s desk when he got around to it—perhaps sometime later this year. “Claudir hadn’t announced your presence, but I see time was of the essence.”

“He didn’t get the chance,” Meris said curtly. Behind him, the gaunt steward rushed in, red-faced, apologizing over and over for the intrusion.

Greyt waved him away. “A bad day?” he asked. “Didn’t find sport to your liking, eh?”

Meris stomped over to the Singer’s desk and slammed down a black leather bundle. It clattered on the thick oak. “Tell me he’s just a shadow now,” he said angrily. Then he whirled and strode out, his feet pounding the creaking wood under the carpet.

“I need to get that fixed, it seems,” Greyt said of the floor as the door slammed.

The words trailed off as he looked at the leather pouch Meris had deposited on his desk. He wasn’t about to touch it, but it consumed a moment of his attention.

He went back to making notes, but the rhymes would not come. He was forcing the ballad and, like all art, it could not be demanded. Greyt threw the ink quill down on the desk.

A disgusted frown twisted his face and he seized the bundle, wincing when something within scratched him. Ignoring the blood that welled from his finger, he ripped it open, threw the contents down on the desk, and drew back in shock.

It was the snapped blade of Drex Redgill’s wood axe. There was a bit of blood on it, where the jagged edge had torn through the leather and cut his finger.

Torlic spun back and around, bringing his rapier singing up to parry his opponent’s blade. The glittering blade snapped down and thrust under Torlic’s guard, but the nimble half-elf simply twisted his rapier around and sent the thrust out harmlessly wide.

The blond watchman Narb, Torlic’s opponent, slashed right to left, and the half-elf picked off the attack with a neat, almost casual parry. An attack high followed by a thrust low met similar fates, parried with quick flicks of Torlic’s wrist. Narb lunged—a strike Torlic easily dodged—and faltered. Torlic sidestepped Narb and slapped him twice on the backside with the flat of his blade, making a “tsk” sound in his throat. Torlic covered his yawning mouth with one dainty hand.

Angry, the youthful watchman lunged at Torlic, but the half-elf leaped back, spinning to land on his toes. The dancing half-elf flicked his sword back and forth, tempting his opponent.

“Try harder, Narb,” Torlic said. “I haven’t broken a sweat yet.”

The two fought in Torlic’s training room. It was a wide, open square with walls lined with weapons and practice dummies. Members of Quaervarr’s Watch used this training arena for dueling and for working on their sword skills. Most of them took instruction from Torlic himself, whose sword’s sharpness was surpassed only by his tongue. If fencing was his hobby, criticism was his habit.