Ghostwalker (29 page)

“You sent killers after me, and you yet believe that?” Walker’s voice seemed to cut Gylther’yel like a knife, but the ghost druid regained control in an instant.

“I sent them to kill that little harlot of a knight, not you, of course,” said Gylther’yel with a dismissive wave. “It was for your own good—she was leading you astray, diverting you from your path. I am not about to throw away the fifteen years of work I spent on you, training and arming you, teaching you the powers you and I alone share—”

“But do you love me, Gylther’yel?”

The question set her back on her heels. For the first time Walker could remember, the ghost druid was speechless. Gylther’yel mouthed words, but no sound came out. She looked at Walker as though at a maddened animal.

Walker nodded sadly. “As I thought.” He walked toward Red-Hair’s corpse.

“You turn your back on me, on everything I have taught you, on the years we have spent together, running the forest as mother and son, all because you feel neglected? Oh I’m sorry, you spoiled child!” Gylther’yel spat. “Love is not of nature, but is human artifice! You are better without it! The way I made you!”

Walker did not look at her. “Farewell, Gylther’yel,” he said. Walker arrived at Red-Hair’s corpse, sent the man’s spirit away, and nodded, finding this one to his liking. He crouched down and began pulling off the man’s clothes.

The ghost druid stared at him in shock.

“After all I have done for you. Even after I forgave you the female…”

With a grimace, Walker tore away the tattered remains of his tunic and slipped the Quaervarr watch uniform over his head. Then he strapped the sword belt around his waist.

Understanding seemed to dawn on Gylther’yel, and she stepped in Walker’s way as he turned.

“Then she is what this is all about!” she said. “Do not bother. Meris and his men probably dispatched her quickly, as soon as they had enjoyed her to the fullest. Your heroism is amusing, but there is no one left to save.”

“She lives.” It was a statement of fact.

“How can you know that?”

“Her spirit is not here with me,” said Walker with a shrug. “So she has not died.”

Gylther’yel looked around then eyed him curiously.

“Why do you expect her spirit to be with you?” the ghost druid asked.

Walker looked at her. “She loves me,” he stated. “And I love her.”

Gylther’yel had no reply except to stare at him in shock.

Gliding around her, Walker crossed to the patch of grass where he and Arya had lain together and pulled something from a low fir branch. With a flourish, he threw his black cloak over his shoulder and stepped into the shadows, only to vanish as though he had never been there.

The rain dissipated and the lightning stopped.

Gylther’yel stared at the shadow into which Walker had disappeared. They had never spoken to each other so bitterly as long as he had been in her keeping—and none of the bitterness had come from Walker.

A memory of long ago flashed into Gylther’yel’s mind—the most painful she possessed. It was a day not unlike this one, with angry clouds overhead, and a conversation not unlike the one she had just shared. It was the day that marked the dawn of her hatred of the humans.

It was the day her sister Wyel’thya had told her she was going to the fledgling town of Quaervarr on an overture of peace from the druids of the Moonwood. She taught them the ways of the druids, of coexisting with nature—the ways of peace. Then a lover had come, and a child: Lyetha Elfsdaughter.

The ghost druid, betrayed, had never forgiven Wyel’thya, refused even to see her when she sought out Gylther’yel’s aid. Then Wyel’thya had grown sick, deathly ill…

It had been a human disease.

The sun elf had lost control of herself for the first time in her long life. Much of Quaervarr had burned that day, but the fledgling druids of Wyel’thya’s order repelled Gylther’yel, the golden angel of the Dark Wood.

Alone, left for dead in the forest, she had learned of a new power, borne of her hatred of the humans and all life. She had become the Ghostly Lady.

Gylther’yel’s eyes turned back to the shadows. A tear slid down her cheek.

“I loved my sister,” she said. “But I never got her back, did I?”

Then the ghost druid let out a keening shriek that pierced both the Ethereal and Material and collapsed to her knees. The spirits remaining in the grove started and sped away as fast as they could manage from the enraged ghost druid. The force of that shriek caused all the songbirds and animals in the trees to shudder and die, their life-force wrenched from them.

All was silent except for Gylther’yel, who wept bitterly into the mud, screaming in rage and frustration.

Finally, Gylther’yel sniffed and wiped her tears away with the fringe of her cloak. There was one card left to play, and play it she would. Her face still red, she rose.

“Forgive me, Wyel’thya,” she said. “Forgive me for prolonging his suffering. And forgive me now for what I must do to the last of our blood.”

Spreading her arms like wings, Gylther’yel leaped into the air and blinked out of the physical realms, turning into a ghostly raven. Riding the winds left spinning by the storm, she soared to a little grove near the edge of the forest, where she had left that last card slumbering.

30 Tarsakh

The guards at Quaervarr’s only gate had seen many strange comings and goings in the past few days, but none quite so strange as this.

The storm had passed but the sky was far from clear. A gray sheet of clouds still obscured the sky. The air hung thick and heavy, and a lingering tension caused more than a few watchmen to shift uneasily.

Both did a double take when a figure—a watchman by his garb—appeared some distance away, seemingly out of the very shadow of one of the great firs that flanked the road. In that silence, they should have heard him coming almost a mile distant. The man took a few zigzagging steps toward them, lurched, and fell.

They ran to him. Clad in the ring mail of a watchman, the man lay on his back in the mud. His face and tangled hair were plastered with mud and gore, obscuring his features except for a black leather eye patch that covered his right eye.

“Aye, Belk, it be one-eyed Tamel, eh?” said one guard, a hefty man named Mart.

“What’s ‘e doin’ in one o’ our tunics? In’t ‘e one of the rangers?” the pock-faced Belk replied. Mart shrugged, but his eyes flashed with worry. Unddreth would have both their commissions if he found out they were more loyal to Greyt than Quaervarr. Though Unddreth seemed to have disappeared, it was better not to take chances.

Belk checked the man for a pulse and breath, but neither were there to be found. His flesh felt like ice.

“Beshaba’s bosom, he’s dead! And ‘e looks like he’s been dead days!”

“What? What do we do?” asked Mart in a panic.

“Let’s get ‘im inside quick, afore someone sees ‘im!” Belk hoisted the man’s arms and Mart took his legs. Together, they carried the body inside and carted him over to an alley, where they dumped him.

“Where do we take ‘im?” Belk’s eyes darted this way and that, as though seeing spies hiding in every shadow. “Not to them druids, nor to Greyt’s manor.”

“We gotta think o’ something—”

“But I don’t know—”

“Silent as mist.”

Belk looked at Mart.

“Aye? What was that?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” denied Mart.

” ‘Anything.’ You didn’t say ‘anything,’ you halfwit. Gods, I’m soundin’ like one o’ the druids, wit’ their grammar-ical lessons. An’ you did say something, something about—”

“Still as death.”

“No, it wasn’t nothing like that,” argued Belk. “Something about mist—”

Mart opened his mouth to protest then yelped when something grabbed his ankle. Belk’s eyes went wide. As one, they looked down, only to be yanked from their feet.

Their heads struck the hard cobblestones and unconsciousness took them.

Shaking off the last influence of his deathlike sleep, Walker wiped his face clean with the fat guard’s cloak and stripped the Quaervarr tabard from his chest and the borrowed eye patch from his face. Dressed once again in his comfortable black, he sheathed one of the long swords at his belt. He would carry the other. Lastly, he opened his satchel and pulled out his thick black cape, which he draped around his shoulders. Walker stood, throwing his cloak wide and adjusting the high collar.

He looked over at the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn and nodded. The spirit did not respond, of course, but Walker thought he could feel grim pride resonating from Tarm.

After steadying himself, Walker padded over to the lip of the alley, bracing himself against a rough oak wall. Walker had not yet fully healed—not by his ring or by absorbing the energies of Shadow—but he had no time for weakness. When he reached the main street, he crouched and peered around the edge.

The street lay deserted, but Walker could hear shouts from a mass of people gathered in the main square of Quaervarr, farther up. Flitting between the shadows along the street was a simple matter and, indeed, hardly necessary—no eyes came upon him.

In the plaza, most of Quaervarr’s population shouted for the Lord Singer. Guardsmen stood at the edges of the crowd, weapons drawn as though to ward off attackers, but their attention was just as fixed upon Greyt’s door as were the eyes of the gathered hunters, trappers, traders, and families. Walker could see three dressed in the robes of druids wearing expressions of worry and undisguised anger. Walker noted the distinct absence of Captain Unddreth and Amra

Clearwater. He wondered what had become of them. Perhaps Greyt had removed them, for they were well-known as his enemies.

Then the doors to Greyt’s manor opened and Walker’s thoughts flew away in a wave of overwhelming hatred.

Resplendent in a full suit of golden mail, with a deep purple cape billowing out behind him and golden hair falling to his shoulders, Lord Singer Dharan Greyt stepped out beaming. His skin seemed to glow and the gray in his hair had disappeared. His golden yarting sang under his talented fingers, projecting chords of triumph and magic over the crowd.

Much of the crowd was stunned at his glorious appearance, and all—even the druids who looked at him with suspicion—fell silent.

“Welcome, friends!” shouted Greyt. His voice was loud and booming, and carried over the crowd to where Walker stood in the shadows. “You have come to my door questioning and concerned, but you will leave with answers well earned!”

Walker felt bardic magic resonate from the yarting and the Lord Singer’s voice, Walker fought, exerting his will against Greyt’s own, to keep the image of Greyt—his most hated foe—as the monster he had seen little but knew too well. The Dharan Greyt Walker knew was not the bold, self-assured hero standing before the crowd, but a weak, aging coward.

In the end, Walker was not fooled by Greyt’s magic.

“Today dawns a new day in the history of our fair town, here in the frontier of the Moonwood,” continued Greyt. “Or, should I say, today marks the end of an era. For too long, a dark scourge has haunted these woods and our fair streets, a scourge that walks without sound and wields merciless steel—a scourge some call Walker, and some the Ghost Murderer.” There were grumbles in the crowd. “Well, no longer! Today, my son Meris and I have brought to an end the terrible reign of the Ghost Murderer!”

Cheers greeted this. Walker—standing there, listening to the announcement of his own death—might have smiled were he not overcome with enmity for the man speaking.

Greyt waited for the cheering to die down before continuing. “This very last eve, my son slew him, with the help of several of my servants.” With this, he indicated the gathered rangers. Gieves and Darthan nodded shortly. “We have also apprehended the Ghost Murderer’s accomplices—three renegade knights from Silverymoon.”

Gasps sounded from the crowd. Walker’s brow furrowed.

“Surely you recall three strangers who came into town, led by a woman, asking questions? Lady Arya Venkyr, who came to Quaervarr on a mission to investigate missing couriers—couriers she and the Ghost Murderer slew! Along with her two companions, they sought to find what we knew of the ghastly crimes, so they could continue them at will!”

There were a few murmurs among the crowd refuting this. Some called for proof, others for motive.

Greyt had the perfect answer.

“She is a Malarite spy! See for yourselves!” With a flourish, he produced a small, carved claw on a leather thong, old bloodstains decorating its fingers. Startled cries ran through the crowd as many recognized the dreaded holy symbol of the beast god of the Black Blood. “This was found around Lady Venkyr’s neck—it provides all the evidence we need, even if her damnable actions were not known!”

The crowd erupted in cries of terror and beseeching calls. They begged Greyt, their great champion, to defend them. A few even cried for Arya’s death.

Walker gritted his teeth and tightened his grasp on the sword he held beneath his cloak. He had to exert all his terrible will to keep from striding forward to confront Greyt.

He caught a flash of a grin across Greyt’s face, but no one else seemed to notice. “Fear not, friends of Quaervarr!” he called. “These vandals and thieves will not go free. The Ghost Murderer has already paid the penalty for his abominable crimes, but the traitor knights will also be punished. This eve, at sunset, the three shall hang in this very plaza, where all of you may bear witness to the consequences that await traitors and servants of darkness.”

Silence gripped the plaza. Few remembered such brutal justice being meted out, even in this frontier town. Even those who had called out for executions were struck by the realization that it might actually happen. Then, slowly, several men in the crowd—men Greyt had planted, Walker thought—began to clap. The applause picked up, louder and louder, until cheers sounded from the crowd. In moments, the name of “Dharan Greyt” and “Quickfinger” were the dominant calls.

Walker had taken it all in stride, but he could listen no longer. Arya! The name resounded in his mind, followed by an image of the knight’s face.