Ghostwalker (4 page)

He began singing to himself, a tale of Thadax Gray wolf, a mighty warlord of the north and an ancestor of his, as he considered what he would ask the servant to bring him for a noon meal.

Quaervarr was a simple frontier town in the southern depths of the untamed Moonwood. A crude wall of felled trees encircled no more than fifty buildings. The cobbled main street—the greatest thoroughfare of the town—ran from the single gate straight to the plaza. The side streets were narrow and twisting, giving Quaervarr the feeling of a larger city, but rarely cobbled, as in Silverymoon or Everlund, maintaining the rustic atmosphere. Moon elves lived in the southern fringes of the Moonwood and existed in a state of benevolent neutrality with the human town, allowing it to stand as a symbol of peace and cooperation between the races.

In the recent past, Quaervarr had been a fort, plagued by the werebeasts of the Black Blood, but no more, not since adventurers and soldiers of the Argent Legion had driven the cultists out. These days, travelers could always find a welcoming smile, a warm bed, and a hearty mug of ale at Quaervarr’s renowned inn, the Whistling Stag.

With the Greengrass festival fast approaching, however, room vacancies were at a premium. The end of winter and the beginning of spring demanded celebration, and excitement was in the air. Hundreds of men and woman scurried every which way, making preparations.

The three Knights in Silver were acutely aware of the unusually bustling activity in the peaceful town, and the leader hoped they might find any room at all.

Heroes by appearance alone, the knights attracted smiles and shouts from running children, who hopped alongside the horses as fast as they could. The lead knight, slim of build, looked down at each one with a smile barely hidden behind a silver-inlaid helmet. A lance stood up from the rear of the saddle, and a fine Everlundian long sword hung next to it. A shield with a star and nightingale was on the knight’s arm. The two others—much less elegant in poise and carriage—rode approximately level with one another, exchanging bemused glances. They were engaged in quiet banter, as always.

“I say, Bars, that didn’t seem very wise to me,” one of the knights, a slender man in mail, said to the other. An ornate long sword hung from his saddle, but he looked too small of stature to have much use for such a heavy blade.

“Eh?” his companion, a hulking man in plate, replied. His voice was a growl.

“The watch at the gate,” the slender man said. “They let us through unchallenged. What if we’d been monsters in disguise, or brigands, or Malarites, or Zhents, or lycanthropes, or, worse, Sembians?” He shuddered. “They could be allowing truly dangerous men freely into their town. You’d better hide that voice, or you’ll be mistaken for a werebear for sure.”

“Derst,” the burly knight rumbled. Two light, flanged maces hung from his saddle, and his hand rested on one. “You’re going to have to watch your tongue. No right-minded citizen of the Silver Marches would mistake you for a werebear, but your shape is right for a wererat.”

“What does that have to do with my speech, pray tell, Sir Hartwine?” Derst asked.

“You’re being quite flippant, Sir Goldtook, and only a fool would be flippant, and a wererat would be a fool to wander into Quaervarr, disguised as a Knight in Silver,” Bars said. “Since you are being flippant, you are definitely a fool, ergo, you might be a wererat.”

“Ah, but could I not be a thief disguised as a Knight in Silver?” Derst asked. “As you often remind me, brother paladin, I am quite the rogue. Besides, you used a lot of words there that you probably shouldn’t—dangerous ‘logic,’ too. After all, what if some suspicious citizen overheard and questioned you, or reported you to the watch for ‘thinking?’ I would have a difficult time explaining all that back hair you seem to cultivate—”

“When did we lose the right to be logical?” Bars asked. He glared at Derst. “And leave the hair alone.”

Derst grinned behind his silver faceplate. “More to the point, when did we lose the right to be flippant?” he asked. “My life would be a complete waste of air if I found myself without that right. I mean, I wouldn’t be able to speak at all—”

“Bless the Morning Lord,” the burly knight bellowed. “Were it ever so!”

Derst glowered at him for a moment, but perked up when they entered Quaervarr’s main plaza. “Ah, the Whistling Stag,” he said as they approached the inn. “At least, so I would assume, by yon hanging, which bears a striking resemblance to Quaervarr’s pennant.”

The Whistling Stag was a plain but sturdy building of fir and pine, a great hunting lodge that had become a gathering place for travelers and locals alike. The knights heard laughter, jesting, and the clacking of tankards through the windows. Clearly, they had come to the right place for merry-making.

They dismounted and Bars turned to address the third member of their party. “Sir Venkyr, if you would be so good as to go in with me and reserve rooms, Sir Goldtook will take our noble steeds to the stables.”

“The horses?” Derst interjected with a look of disgust. “Why me?”

“Less chance of you swindling the innkeeper that way,” Bars explained.

Derst started a retort, stopped, then nodded.

The stout knight turned to their silent companion. “Please, allow me to do the negotiations. You must be tired from our long journey. Pray, get some rest. One of your distincti—”

The knight laughed, a high, musical sound, and reached up to loosen the helmet’s straps. “Excuse me?” came the melodious voice. “Being a noble, Bars, does not make me helpless.” The helmet came off, and the knight shook out a long mane of dark auburn hair. Gray eyes sparkled above her smile and sunlight danced across her smooth, lightly tanned face. Arya Venkyr was a songbird clad in steel feathers. More than a few passersby caught their breath. “Nor does being a noble lady.”

“Of course not, lass—I mean, Lady Sir Arya,” Bars stammered. “I said nothing of the sort.”

“Were you going to say one of those things, perhaps?” She put her hands on her hips and raised one crimson-dashed eyebrow. There was that fiery passion—the defiance well known in Everlund and the reason she was here, in a knight’s armor, rather than at home in a study hall, garden, or drawing room.

Cursing the demands of chivalry, Bars felt his face becoming a similar burning shade. “You may do all the diplomacy you like, Lady Sir,” he managed, after clearing his throat.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Arya replied with a roll of her eyes that belied her anger.

“Yes, Lady Sir.” Bars flinched at his accidental use of the title.

Arya sighed. She stroked her chestnut mare, Swiftfall.

“But since you’ve been so kind as to offer,” Arya said, her face amused, “I won’t refuse. Lead the way, Sir Hartwine, if it please you. And draw your coin purse. Sir Goldtook? The horses.”

“Forth the Nightingale,” the two men said together, without meaning to. It was their battle cry, which referred to Arya’s coat of arms. The synchronization drew a laugh from Arya.

Grumbling and half-smiling, Bars escorted her into the Whistling Stag. Grumbling and not smiling, Derst escorted the three horses to the stable.

The Whistling Stag was surprisingly roomy, and the dark atmosphere typical of an inn, with its choking smoke, was absent. Instead, thanks to the open windows, the knights found themselves able to breathe easy and free. Excepting the heads that turned as she entered, Arya admired everything about the common room.

Tables and long benches, each carved from single shadowtop trunks, were laid out with enough walking space for two people. Stuffed heads of animals, orc and goblin weapons, spears, axes, and broken arrows adorned the room. A glorious tapestry depicting elves hunting deer graced the north wall. Barmaids flitted about, hurrying to clear tables for guests and to set down wide trays of ale tankards. The common room was stuffed with patrons and celebrants who had gathered to observe the coming of spring.

Arya pushed herself up to the counter next to a loud man who was bragging about his lewd exploits in a slurred voice.

“Excuse me,” Arya said to the innkeeper, a burly man she gathered from the noise was named Garion. “We are looking for rooms for a tenday or two, and stables for our steeds.”

“Stables are open,” Garion said as he wiped a tankard clean. “But Greengrass’s got us all full. I’d love to help ye, Lady Knight, but we got no empty rooms.”

“Wha?” sounded a voice to her left.

The man who had grunted—not spoken, exactly—saw Arya and grinned lasciviously. Brown hair fell to his shoulders and he wore a half beard—a goatee, they called it in Waterdeep.

He was dressed exquisitely, with a long feather in his hat and a rapier and main gauche at his belt. He was clearly the foppish sort, and was just as clearly drunk.

“Ye kin stay in me own room, lassie,” the man slurred. “Me bed’s not too wide, but that needn’t bother us…”

“How romantic,” Arya murmured.

“Shut up, Morgan,” Garion said. He turned to Arya. “Decent enough fella, him, but when he gets in his cups—”

“Who axed ye, Garion?” scolded Morgan. “I was jes’ havin’ a chat with this comely wench ‘ere—”

“My thanks,” said Arya, smiling politely, “but no.” Then she ignored Morgan and turned back. “Are you quite certain? Do you know of any other rooms in town?”

“Hey!” Morgan snapped, reaching for Arya. “I was talkin’ to ye, flipskirt!”

A dagger appeared, quivering in the wooden surface of the bar a hair’s breadth from Morgan’s fingers.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Derst with a cough. “Must have slipped out of my hand.”

“Ye almost hit me!” shouted Morgan, following his exclamation with a string of curses that made Arya and even the innkeeper blush faintly.

“I say, Bars,” Derst said from behind Arya. “Quite a mouth on that knave.”

“Indeed,” replied the burly knight, standing to Derst’s right. “A knave indeed, to speak in such a manner in the presence of a lady. I fear I must ask him to desist.”

Arya looked at them sidelong, rolled her eyes, and slid out of the way. The two moved up to Morgan, Bars to his left and Derst to his right.

“Ye gots a problem, ye fat orc?” the drunk asked.

Bars’s face colored deeply and his hands clenched into fists. Morgan laughed at the spectacle and took a pull from his tankard.

“Uh-oh, he insulted the weight,” observed Derst. “Only I get to do that.”

“Bars, Derst—let it alone,” Arya warned.

“Too late, lass,” rumbled Bars as he fingered the twin maces at his belt.

“He’s very sensitive about his Beshaba-cursed figure,” explained Derst. “You shouldn’t have said that, Sir Inebriate.”

Morgan shoved his stool back and drained the last of his ale. “I’ll hear none o’ thy insults, mangy goblin!” he shouted as he yanked his rapier free of its scabbard.

Arya saw Derst wince and shook her head. “He shouldn’t have said that either,” she observed to Garion.

The barkeep nodded. “I’d stop them, but I have a feeling that’d just make it worse.”

Arya agreed silently.

” ‘Ave at ye!” Morgan shouted as he lunged, sword first, at Bars.

The big knight’s maces were out in a blur and he swatted the blade to the right, harmlessly wide, into the bar. The drunk drew the blade back and thrust again, this time at Derst. The roguish knight had already drawn his curious weapon—a dagger with a foot-long chain trailing from the grip—with which he parried, even as he spun the chain around in an underhand motion inside his arm. Morgan’s eyes grew confused. As the rapier slid past, Derst threw the chain up and struck Morgan on the chin with a resounding thump.

The rake staggered back clutching at his goatee, where a trickle of blood seeped between his fingers. Bars held two light maces, one overhand and one underhand, crossed before him. At the burly knight’s side, Derst absently spun the chain around, inside and outside his arm, alternating with a flick of his wrist.

Morgan’s eyes clouded over with rage and drink. Screaming, he drew his left-hand dagger and lunged again. His movements were graceless, but he carried with him a ferocity born of pure anger.

Derst parried at the last moment and whirled the chain around the rapier’s blade. With a flick and twist of his wrist, he tore the weapon free of Morgan’s grasp and sent both it and his chain-dagger clattering to the floor. Morgan, however, did not hesitate to stab out with his main-gauche, thinking to catch the knight unarmed and helpless.

A light mace darted in like lightning and smashed down on Morgan’s hand. The dagger clattered to the floor even as Bars’s other mace shot around and caught Morgan on the back of the head. Without even realizing what had happened, the rake toppled limply to the floor.

Bars reached down and scooped him up over one shoulder. He disentangled the chain from the rapier and handed the chain-dagger back to Derst. The roguish knight accepted it with a smile and twirled it around his wrist, where it hung like a bracelet. Then he turned to Garion.

“I think he’s had enough,” said Derst. “What’s his tab?”

Garion looked at the knight curiously then spoke. “Four silver an’ five copper,” he said.

Scowling at the price, Derst nodded nonetheless. He took a small purse from his belt and started counting coins out into his hand.

Garion eyed him sidelong. “Right courteous, seeing as how ye just caved his head in,” he said.

“Well, a knight is always courteous,” said Derst. He patted Morgan’s backside as Bars carried him past.

“How hard did you hit him?” Arya asked Bars as he carried Morgan to the door.

“Hard enough,” Bars replied without hesitation.

“Don’t worry, he’s still breathing. I think,” Derst reassured her. Arya raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure.” The eyebrow went higher. Derst shrugged. “Mayhap.”

The barkeep Garion looked to Derst again. “Well, I don’t take fight starters under my roof, but you didn’t start the fight—he did,” he said. “Excellent throw, by the way.” He indicated the dagger.

“My thanks,” replied Derst, retrieving the blade with some effort. “Oh, sorry about the damage, too.” He reached for his pouch again, but Garion waved away payment.