Erik DeBie - Ghostwalker

He paused, waiting while all that sank into his foes, but he need not have bothered. The rangers were trembling.

"I have slain your champions, and one alone awaits me," he continued. "My fight is with Meris Wayfarer, not with you. I offer you this one chance to throw down your weapons and to quit Quaervarr and the Moonwood forever."

Many of the guardsmen looked hesitant and afraid, but the reminder of Meris, their new lord, seemed to snap them out of it. Not that they knew loyalty, but as much as they feared the black specter before them, they feared the cruelty of Meris Wayfarer more. After all, one man could not defeat two dozen men, no matter his power. No ranger threw down his arms-indeed, many fitted more arrows to the string or drew swords.

"Then it seems I have no choice," said Walker, slowly drawing the shatterspike and continuing to walk toward them, "but to kill you all."

Half the rangers replied by aiming for Walker once more, and half tightened their grip on their weapons.

The ghostwalker made no sign of changing his calm walk until the first ranger, two short swords in his hands, lunged at him, screaming the name of the late Lord Singer.

Walker whirled, his blade out and dancing in the breeze. It cleaved one sword in two then snapped against the man's arm, sending him away screaming. A second ranger thrust a long sword at Walker from the other side, a blow that was deflected with perfect timing. The ghostwalker brought the sword up high, then threw the ranger off and continued walking, as though the man had never attacked. This ranger looked at his sword, saw that it was still whole, and swung at Walker's back. At the same moment, the dozen rangers with bows drawn fired upon the ghostwalker.

Unfortunately for the rangers flanking Walker, the arrows passed through the ghostwalker's head and chest as through mist and found resting spots in their bodies.

Screaming, the rangers tumbled down, even as Walker broke into a run toward the bowmen, who now scrambled to set arrows to bowstrings. As he went, he leaped bodily through a ranger who chopped two axes down through nothing and ended up on the ground, confused.

"He's an illusion!" shouted one of the rangers. "He's not even really-"

Then Walker brought his blade down into the man's mocking smile and ended his words.

Even as the rangers milled around in confusion and terror, Walker flew into a dance of death, his sword weaving back and forth, deflecting and shattering weapons even as arrows and swords passed through him. Though his body had no substance, his shatterspike-shimmering and almost translucent-still cut with just as much deadliness as it always had. Only his blade could bridge the gap between worlds and inflict pain in either.

Ironically, Walker carried the only weapon in the plaza that could touch him as a ghost.

Rarely did the shatterspike cleave flesh, though-most of the wounds that set rangers grunting, cursing, or falling were the result of the rangers' own weapons. Arrows flew through the battle without guidance, sailing through Walker's ghostly form to find ranger flesh instead.

Walker brought the shatterspike whirling in a glittering semicircle, shearing two raised blades in half and cutting a bowstring neatly on the back swing. Before the bowman could even drop his ruined weapon, Walker slashed him across the face and sent him down into the mud. It was only his second kill.

As though at random, Walker danced through the crowd, leaping around and through rangers, his shatterspike flashing, dropping weapons and men. He cut bowstrings, cleaved apart bows, and sliced quivers in two.

After a few moments, when the rangers were largely panicked, mostly disarmed, and completely disorganized, Walker smiled. "Go forth," he whispered on the wind, even as he sheathed his blade.

With that, he turned and ran toward the Whistling Stag. Many turned to give chase, hefting what weapons they could-belt daggers, hatchets, and the like-but then they heard new shouts.

"Forth the Nightingale!" came a mighty cry, shared by three throats, from behind them.

Most of the rangers turned, just in time to see three Knights in Silver, stripped to gray tunics and breeches, charge into the fray, weapons hungry for Greyt ranger blood. And the rangers had no bows or swords with which to cut them down.

Meanwhile, Walker sprang toward the Stag and vanished through the closed door, passing through the wood like a ghost.

The three Knights in Silver swept upon the confused rangers like a trio of giants, hacking and crushing left and right. Four rangers went down in the initial rush-Bars having taken down two himself-and the knights' courage did much to shake the rangers' crumbling resolve.

In the first confused moments of battle, Derst disarmed two men of their backup weapons and was dancing around a third, his improvised chain-dagger creating havoc for the ranger as he tried to cleave the wiry knight in two with a mighty war axe. An overhead chop was sidestepped, a withering cross ducked, and a reversal hit nothing but air as Derst rolled and stuck the dagger in the man's side. The man yelped and staggered forward, but the dagger was firmly lodged between ribs and brigandine plating. The ranger turned, but his motion only pulled Derst to the side-in time to dodge the falling axe.

Meanwhile, Bars worked furiously to hold off four rangers, his mismatched maces dancing and flashing like lightning. Though he could not launch a counter, the huge paladin put up a stunning defense, where he picked off every thrust, slash, and jab his opponents launched. Every time, they recoiled from the attack shaking their sword arms, which rung with the force of Bars's parries. Growling, Bars kept his duel at a standstill.

Fighting three men, Arya, not as nimble or as strong as her respective companions, more than made up for it in ferocity and cunning. She parried aside one ranger and immediately shield rushed the second, catching him off guard. She discarded her shield, which she had only held, not strapped on, and he had to fumble it out of the way with a clumsy downward cross of his two short swords.

The Nightingale shield fell to the dust, but Arya followed through and slammed her left fist then her left elbow into his face. The man staggered and collapsed backward, and Arya brought her sword back around just in time to parry the attack of a third ranger. She locked blades with him, then hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him staggering into the man she had left behind.

With a shout to the Lord Singer, the man on the ground slashed her across the front of the shin with his blade, but it was a weak blow, driven mostly by panic and not by skill.

Arya gritted her teeth against the pain and brought her sword plunging down into his chest. The man screamed and lay still.

"No mercy!" she shouted, slashing back around to deflect another seeking sword. The feral rage in her scream sent two rangers staggering back, doubtful looks on their faces.

By this time, two other rangers had closed on Derst's duel and were slashing and thrusting, but they only nearly hit the axe-wielder. The roguish knight kept dodging their blows, running in two low circles around the ranger with the axe, weaving the lanyard of his makeshift chain-dagger as he went. Finally, with the man fully wrapped, Derst slid past one of the swordsmen, put both hands on the thick lanyard, and yanked for all he was worth. The lanyard pulled tight around the man's legs, ruining his balance, and one ranger staggered into the other, sending both down in a jumble of limbs.

"Hail, lass!" shouted Derst as he leaped over another thrust, freed his lanyard, and kicked out, catching the ranger in the face.

" 'Arya,' Derst!" the lady knight snapped back. She parried a slash and punched the man in the face as though with a shield. Her fist had much less effect, but it was enough to send him reeling back. "It's Arya! You want to be 'lad?'"