Erik DeBie - Ghostwalker

Arya scooted away from the cell door as Greyt opened it. She huddled back into the farthest corner of her cell, ignoring the damp and sticky feel of the wall behind her. She tried to scream at him to leave her alone, but her tongue felt thick and dry. Instead, she extended her feet to ward him off, though she realized she probably could not have injured him with a kick in her weakened state.

"Now, now," said Greyt. "What kind of monster do you take me for? You are my niece, after all." He reached into the folds of his robes and Arya's eyes widened. Then, to her vast relief, Greyt withdrew a skin and uncorked it. He held it out to her.

Arya looked at him suspiciously, but Greyt only smiled. Hesitantly, she edged closer to him, keeping her eyes locked on his face. When he had not moved, she brought herself into a kneeling position and looked up. He tipped the waterskin and cool water rushed into Arya's mouth. She drank frantically. To her parched throat, it tasted like the nectar of the gods. She could not catch all the water and a great deal splashed over her dusty face and undertunic.

"I'm so glad you could rejoin us, little Nightingale," said Greyt as he took the waterskin away. "We have so much to discuss, you and I."

"What do you want from me?" she asked coldly.

"Merely to explain myself," he said. "And it seemed meet to tell you of your defeat. Walker is dead. Amra and Unddreth are gone. Stonar is alienated. I win, little knight."

Arya looked up at him. "You wish to gloat over me?" she asked. "Save your breath, Lord Singer. I am a Knight in Silver. More than that, I have justice on my side." She set her mouth into a wry, bitter line. "And more than that, I'm a stubborn, defiant daughter. You think my father could break me, much less you? You will not vanquish me until the last breath leaves my body."

Greyt smiled at her jest. "Humor in the face of certain death? I respect such courage," he said. "Until you breathe your last, eh? Such could be arranged, even 'ere you be hanged…" He reached for the dagger at his belt.

She did not flinch, even chained and helpless before him. She may as well have been standing over him with a drawn sword for the look in her eyes.

"You won't do that," she said. "You can't."

"Is that so?" he snapped. He bent down, putting his face not a hand's breadth from hers. He drew his knife and pressed it against her cheek. "You know me so well, little wench? Then you must know that I am a hero-"

"Not a hero," she said.

"A villain, then!" Greyt roared in her face. "Bane of all that draws breath! Nothing but pain and death!"

"No." Arya prepared herself, body and mind. "A coward. You are nothing but a coward."

As she had expected, Greyt's face twisted in anger. He drew the knife up and back…

"Get away from her!" came a shout from outside the cell door.

Greyt was startled, distracted for just an instant. But that instant was enough for Arya to attack with the only weapon she had left-the one atop her shoulders. She slammed her forehead into his face with all the force she could muster, and the Lord Singer staggered back, his nose shattered.

Her world spinning, Arya managed to make out a huge body moving in another cell across the hallway. A man banging meaty fists against thick cell bars.

Cell bars…

"Bars!" she shouted.

"Me too, lass!" came Derst's weak voice. The short knight stood at the hulking paladin's side and shouted at the Lord Singer. "Stay away from her, Greyt! Attacking helpless, bound women-some hero you are, Quickwidower!"

Greyt whirled at the mocking nickname. With his nose splattered across his face, his graying hair disheveled, and his eyes burning, he looked more a monster than a man.

"Hero?" he snapped. "Hero?" He grabbed Arya by the hair and threw her aside like a sack of flour. The knight slammed into the cell wall and lay stunned. "There is no such thing!"

Arya had just managed to raise her head when Greyt lifted her again and stared into her face. She prepared for another attack, but this time he merely shook her and shouted.

"How can you believe in heroism?" screamed Greyt. "How can you believe in heroism, when the heroes you worship are murderers such as your beloved Walker, men who seek vengeance over justice, violence over peace, death over life?"

Arya struggled to respond, but he was choking the retort out of her. Then he released her, and she fell gasping to the ground.

Greyt paid her no mind as he stood over her shivering body and roared at Bars and Derst. "The closest thing this world knows to a hero is the one I'm sending to murder that courier!" His voice grew quiet. "Meris, my son."

There was a chilling silence.

"Greyt," asked Arya in one last entreaty. "Why are you doing this? You play hero for these people-why can you not be one?"

Greyt's delicate facade broke and he lashed out, slapping her across the face with the back of his hand.

"Me? A hero?" he growled at Arya. "If these fools believe that, in spite of what I did to her, who am I to break them of that illusion?"

" 'Her?'" mused Derst under his breath. "Who's 'her?'"

Arya, reeling, could say nothing.

Greyt spent a moment recovering his self-control before he addressed her again. He was rubbing his gold ring. Then he lifted Arya's chin and examined her. "I could take you out of these chains, you know. You and I-"

"I'll never touch you," Arya said, staring into his eyes, "except with a sword."

Greyt smiled. He let her head fall again and turned away. At the cell door, he paused.

"As you will," he said. "You've had your chance to do your prancing, now your feet will do the dancing… under the gallows."

30 Tarsakh

As the clouds obscuring the morning sun grew darker and denser, a single rider galloped hard along the road to Silverymoon. Keeping a hood pulled low, the rider urged the steed on in the secret tongue of the druids. A forest green cloak whipped in the wind like the wings of a griffon flying low to the ground. Lightning cracked and flashed, but the rider paid it no mind, driving the horse on and on.

Camouflaged and invisible in one of his hiding places-he did not claim the Moonwood as his home ground for nothing-Meris hid a mocking smile inside his black cowl as he drew a bead with his light crossbow.

This courier would be the last victim of the "Ghost Murderer."

When the druid galloped within range, Meris almost lazily let the crossbow bolt fly.

The bolt took the druid in the face, blooming from the right eye socket. A hand clutching at the shaft, the druid went limp. The steed whinnied and bucked, and after a few steps the rider slumped off. Seeing its rider lying unmoving on the ground, the horse panicked and bolted down the trail toward Silverymoon.

Meris sighed. How disappointing. His aim had been too good. He had really been hoping for the chance to inflict some good old-fashioned terror and pain.

Well, he might as well go down and make sure the courier was dead.

He slid down the shadowtop trunk and landed deftly on both feet. Hooking his crossbow back on his belt, he drew his trusty hand axe. He had lost his old long sword in the forest, but he had Walker's shatterspike to replace it. He kept the fabulous weapon-spoils of war, he figured-sheathed at his belt. He would not need both weapons to handle a weak and helpless druid who was probably already dead.

The druid lay like a discarded doll, legs grotesquely bent. The quarrel, standing out from the druid's face, pointed straight up at the sky. Sighing at his own perfect aim, Meris raised his axe high and bent low to pull the hood aside.

When he did, he found Amra Clearwater's very alive eyes staring at him. She had been holding the quarrel up to her face, but now moved it aside and smiled at him.