Ghostwalker (3 page)

“Then speak, boy.” Drex’s voice became irate. “Speak quickly. As you can see, I’m occupied at the moment.” The woman had rolled off the bed and was hiding beside it. “What is it you want?” he demanded.

“Your life,” Walker replied.

Drex froze, staring at the ghostwalker in outright shock. His expression turned to one of anger, then disdain, then contempt.

“I have no time for the games of Dharan Greyt or that bastard son of his,” said Drex. He spat at Walker’s feet, then reached over and hefted the great woodsman’s axe from the mantelpiece. “Now get out, or I’ll send you out… in several small bundles.”

“No,” Walker said. “You will not.”

Drex slashed his axe at him in reply, his shout slurred with too much ale.

Walker sidestepped and brought his arm around with a snap as though embracing Drex, allowing the axe to swipe past and the drunken lord’s momentum to carry him staggering toward the opposite wall. The heel of Walker’s hand darted for Drex’s back and should have put him down, but the lord dived, rolled, and came up, his axe slashing across in a blur. Walker fell back, and the blade tore a long gash through his cloak.

Drex kept up the assault, egged on by the ripping of fabric, and reversed his slash.

Dark cloak trailing, Walker leaped horizontally over the flashing steel and rolled away from the deadly side chop—even when half-drunk, Drex was fast—and the steel burst wood chips from the side of a desk. Walker came up with his hand on his sword hilt and his knees bent. His hard eyes cut into Drex’s watery ones. The lord was growing sober.

“You move like Torlic,” growled Drex as he pulled the axe free, splintering the hardwood desk. “All jumping an’ twirlin’ like a lass.”

“Torlic,” repeated Walker, the name crashing against his mind like a wave. Torlic…

Seeing his opponent distracted, Drex slashed low.

Walker leaped, his black boots clearing the glittering steel by a hair’s breadth, and turned in the air, lashing out with one foot. He caught Drex on the chin and sent him staggering back a few steps. Walker landed with a creak of wood even as Drex crashed backward into a nightstand, spilling several tankards and a pouch of coins to the floor.

The woodsman felt at the blood coming from his split lip and looked at Walker in surprise. Then his face twisted in outrage. “You’re going to die now, boy!” Drex growled.

Walker shuddered, a memory flooding through him: Drex’s face, red with blood that wasn’t his, laughing at those same words. Walker’s eyes narrowed. The world slowed as a dead calm flooded his limbs.

You’re going to die now, boy!

“I remember you,” he pronounced, as though intoning an elegy. “Standing over me….”

“As I will be in a moment,” Drex growled. His words spoke of confidence, but his eyes held doubt.

Walker drew his sword, letting the mithral glow with silver fire. The weapon seemed ghostly, almost translucent, though surely it was a trick of the light.

“The time has come for a reckoning, Drex Redgill,” Walker said softly. A familiar bleak power filled him—a terrible emptiness in which nothing existed.

Nothing but vengeance.

The axe darted, but Walker flowed out of the way. It missed cutting through his floating cloak by a breath. Drex reversed the blow, but Walker almost lazily swept his long sword down, catching the axe and throwing it back as though Drex were a child. The lord roared in frustration and slashed at him again and again, but Walker turned it aside each time.

Each time, he felt the pain of those first blows, struck so long ago…

After the fifth chop, Walker countered, his movement casual but blindingly fast. The sword seemed to snap into his left hand, startling Drex so that he missed the parry. Walker’s blade slashed a line across Drex’s naked torso.

Pained, the lord grunted and slashed, but Walker easily parried and countered, stabbing Drex in the thigh.

The warrior slashed again, hit nothing, took a third cut to his belly, and roared.

Drex chopped high to low with his axe. Walker parried it high and the blades locked. Drex punched Walker’s shoulder, but the dark man shrugged off the blow, shifted the sword to his right hand, and answered with a left hook to Drex’s jaw. The lord staggered back, Walker chopped at Drex’s weapon, and the mithral blade cut through it like paper, laying the axe blade in two.

Drex looked as though he would have said something, but Walker sliced open his throat. Blood splattered the half-elf courtesan’s face. Without a word, Drex slumped onto his belly.

Lightning crackled and thunder roiled. The man in black stood over him and reached a tentative hand up to touch his own shoulder.

The woman whimpered. After a heartbeat, Walker regarded her.

Then he vanished as lightning struck.

25 Tarsakh

The day was born stormy, brooding in a shifting downpour that grew in intensity and slackened off unpredictably. The weather seemed unable to decide whether to rage viciously or merely to simmer with mocking drizzles.

For Lord Singer Dharan Greyt, on the other hand, there was no such ambivalence: This was not a pleasant morning.

The capricious weather spoiled any chance of decent hunting. He had a terrible headache such that even being awake was a trial. Meris was nowhere to be found. And, finally, the man Greyt liked least in the Silver Marches had come to call.

“Why Speaker, what a pleasant surprise,” he said to the large man in his sitting room. Then he muttered sarcastically under his breath, “I was just hoping for banality at sunrise.”

With one meaty hand, Speaker Geth Stonar smoothed his bountiful moustache. “Well met to you, too,” the lord said with a note of weariness in his voice.

“Won’t you sit down? Can I offer you some wine—Cormyrean red? I have a bottle of feywine, but I’m saving that for a special occasion.”

From his expression, it was clear the gruff Lord Speaker had missed the subtle barb.

Greyt sighed. Typically oblivious.

The sitting room was large and lavish, as was the rest of Greyt’s home. In a town where every building had at least five—and usually eight or more—residents, Dharan Greyt and three others lived in an expansive house that could have held thirty or forty comfortably. It was a frontier manor, and Greyt had decorated the interior appropriately, with tapestries depicting epic battles, monsters, and legends. He kept it, he said, in the style of Waterdhavian high society. The trinkets and treasures he had won in his adventuring days were scattered around the mansion—many were cheap imitations, but starry-eyed youth rarely knew the difference. A trip to Greyt Manor was a journey into the castles of old, like walking into a dragon’s chamber.

“If you’ll just look over these papers and documents, I’ll deliver them to Alustriel in Silverymoon,” Stonar said brusquely. He declined the drink but took a seat. “She’s calling a council of the league within the month, and several matters need to be handled before I can give her my report.”

“Matters such as getting the hunters to stop talking about the mythical silver pheasant?” Greyt asked. “Or perhaps redecorating the Whistling Stag? Indeed, I have no doubt those are tasks for Alustriel’s personal attention.” Then, softly: “The hag.”

Stonar frowned. “Of course not,” he said. “Matters of real importance—matters relevant to the survival of our city!”

Almost rolling his eyes, Greyt looked at the Speaker askance. Stonar wore a rich green baldric with a rearing stag, the symbol of Quaervarr, emblazoned on his thick chest. Greyt found it distasteful.

Stonar wasn’t exactly fat, but he was quite sturdy—a life of smithy work had made him that way. Greyt expected that the last few years in his authority role, lodging in Quaervarr’s second largest house, and Stonar’s recent diet of more rothe and potatoes than roots and venison, hadn’t hurt the process either. He was a dull man without a mind for politics who relied more on his hands than his head. Of course, leadership like that carried much weight in uncivilized frontier towns such as Quaervarr.

“What matters?” Greyt asked. He absentmindedly plucked at the strings of his yarting and eased himself back in his gilded chair. “As though we have matters of interest to deal with in Quaervarr. At the very height of danger, we are.” The unintentional rhyme brought a smile to his face. He was a natural.

“Matters such as getting the hunters and rangers to stop bickering over territory and hunting rights. They all get commissions in the Whistling Stag, but there are only so many travelers who come through and more than enough rangers to go around! Matters such as the giants Goodman Revnir saw two days past, or the orc war party your own son caught! So many monsters shouldn’t be wandering the Moonwood this time of year. Winter’s not over and we’re already seeing migrations. Ever since the Black Blood died out—”

“Revnir’s half-blind, and not because he lost an eye thirty winters ago,” Greyt said dismissively. “Couldn’t win that lass he wanted before he grew a beard, so he tries to be a hero.”

“Greyt, Revnir’s not much older than you,” Stonar countered.

“Do you see me pretending to be a ranger?”

Stonar conceded the point with a grunt.

“As for Meris, it wasn’t much of a war party he encountered,” Greyt continued. “Four orcs, lost and wandering the woods—he was just in the right place at the right time.”

“Your boy does like wandering those woods,” Stonar admitted. “Quite the ranger.”

“Ah, Meris, my proud boy. My only joy,” Greyt said flatly. In truth, he was proud his son had vanquished four orcs single-handedly, even if it had been through ambush, not heroism. He had to smile though—at least Meris wasn’t that stupid.

“As for the rangers, what do we do to decrease the bickering, the competition for commissions?” Stonar asked. “Thank Torm no blood has been spilled yet, but this is getting out of—”

“Not every boy or wench who picks up a sword or bow in this town is cut out to be a ranger,” Greyt replied, interrupting the lord. “You can, you know, see and speak. Encourage the strong, not the weak.” His rhyme was mocking.

“Speak for yourself, Greyt!” Stonar rumbled. “And speak like a man, not all that poetry. You’re the one they all look up to, you and your stories—your songs about heroes. Even the one about Drizzit, or whatever his name is! A dark elf ranger? Rubbish!”

“Drizzt Do’Urden, hero of Icewind Dale? Who fought an orc army by himself? Is that the name you’re looking for?” Greyt had dropped the witty poetry; epic verse was wasted on men of Stonar’s caliber.

Stonar looked as though he bit back a curse. The Singer shook his head. A mewling, uncouth dog changed little, even when he was dressed up.

“And couriers are disappearing!” Stonar continued. “Something has been stopping more than a few on the path to Silverymoon, and their horses return without riders. Who could be doing such a thing?”

The Lord Singer sighed. “Why bother me with all these things?” Greyt asked. “You’re the Speaker. Call Unddreth if you want to keep things in order—that is, after all, the job of the watch. What do you want me to do? I’m a bard; I sing.”

“You’re the hero of Quaervarr,” Stonar replied in an incredulous tone. “Dharan ‘Quickwid’—er—’Quickfinger’ Greyt, hero of the blade and yarting. All the young men want to be you, all the young women want to chase off Lyetha….”

Greyt smiled at the mention of Lyetha. The most beautiful woman in the town, she had been his wife for fifteen winters, much longer than any woman before her. No children, but he hadn’t needed more. The last of the children he’d had from previous women, Meris, was the only one he needed—it was only too convenient the others had died early in life.

His smile faded remembering that Stonar had almost used his less-than-complimentary nickname “Quickwidower,” playing on his foul luck with women before his marriage to Lyetha.

“You worry too much, Lord Speaker,” Greyt said, flipping idly through the papers. The papers reiterated what Stonar had just told him but in a much longer, very wordy format. That was what happened when one turned a blacksmith into a lord-redundancy. Or gruffness. It was certainly not the elegance upon which Greyt prided himself. “Look on the lighter side. At least Jarthon haven’t resurfaced, after those adventurers dealt with the Black Blood. There hasn’t been a murder in six months, and none of the guards have reported sighting any of the Malarites. Maybe Jarthon finally got what he deserved.”

“Maybe he ran afoul of the Ghostly Lady,” agreed Stonar.

Greyt’s face turned stony and annoyance flashed across his face before he gave Stonar a bemused smile. “Please, Ston—Lord Speaker. The Ghostly Lady? ‘Tis a fairytale, nothing more.” He sipped his wine. “I have been all over the Moonwood, and I’ve never encountered this ‘golden spirit.’ You sound as naive as the rest of the simpletons who live here.”

Stonar looked flustered, but he laughed nevertheless. “They may be naive, but as long as you are their hero, they are in good hands, Greyt,” he said. He rose and gathered up his cape. “I’m leaving you in charge of Quaervarr during my absence. See that you protect the people while I am away in Silverymoon. I shall be back before Greengrass, seven days hence, I expect.”

Whatever difference your absence makes, Greyt mused silently. Instead, he offered a winning smile. “Of course, my lord,” he sighed. “Consider them safe.”

When Stonar opened the door to leave, Greyt stopped him with a soft call. “Stonar?”

“Aye?”

“What do Clearwater and Unddreth have to say about this?” he asked.

“Why, nothing,” Stonar said. “I was elected to represent these people, I make the decisions. I trust Unddreth to do his job; he always does. As for Amra Clearwater… well, the Silvanites have a festival to prepare for. If you even see her, I’d be surprised.” With that, Speaker Geth Stonar passed out the inlaid doors of Greyt’s lavish sitting room.

Greyt nodded, smiling. The appointment of the task was unexpected, but the trust Stonar exhibited amused him. Particularly since Greyt could easily use the position to undermine the Speaker’s authority. Perhaps now was the time to set long overdue plans in motion.

He looked out the window and saw that the rain was clearing outside. It was turning out not to be such a bad morning after all. There would be no hunting, but at least it wouldn’t look so dismal outside. The fading drizzle on the rooftop was pleasant.