Erik DeBie - Ghostwalker

"Oh, never that!" replied Derst. "Sorry! I was going to ask-" he parried a seeking blade with his dagger, hooked his lanyard around the weapon, and ripped it out of the man's hands, "-whether you think a-" he dodged another swipe, "-promotion's on the horizon?"

"I concur!" rumbled Bars as he swatted a ranger aside like an insect. He faced four more, but they looked more afraid of him than he of them." 'Tis not every day you fight almost a score of men with just your two friends!"

"Dashing friends," corrected Derst as he parried a sword and gave the man a quick kick to the shin, putting him down.

" 'Tis not every day you win!" replied Arya as she narrowly deflected another slash. "Fight now, talk later!"

Even with that chastening remark-or perhaps because of it-Derst continued right on chattering.

"They might even make you a Knight Protector for this!" he said. Then his brows knitted and he addressed his current opponent, blocking and parrying between each word. "What's that, eh, chap? Equivalent to Captain? Colonel? General? No, surely not that high."

He paused, expecting an answer. When nothing but another slash was forthcoming, which he dodged, Derst shrugged.

"Not sure, eh? Well, I guess I'll just have to find out."

The man bellowed and thrust again, but Derst leaped high into the air, kicked off the man's arm, flipped over his head, and come down slashing from behind. The ranger went down.

One of Bars's opponents finally made the mistake of planting his feet incorrectly on the thrust, leaving an opening as he stumbled back-an opening Bars took. With a bellow to Torm, the paladin leaped at him, working his maces independently to knock the man's sword aside. Bars thundered over the hapless ranger, knocked him flat to the ground, kicked his sword aside, and brought down both maces on the head of a fifth man who had been seeking to maneuver around Arya. With two foes down, Bars landed back on the ground and continued his defense.

With a glare, Arya lunged at the two hesitating rangers. They fell back into defensive stances, unwilling to approach the fierce woman. She was thankful for the reprieve, since pain was lancing up her leg, even as she bit her lip to ignore it.

The momentary lapse in her duel allowed Arya a moment to glance after Walker, at the Whistling Stag. She could hear nothing from within, and that did nothing to calm her nerves. It was only a momentary glance, though, then the ranger was back, sword lancing for her heart.

Her heart…

"You are his only hope," had been the wizard's words.

Arya slapped it aside and growled her frustration.

Meris ran into the Whistling Stag's common room only to find it deserted except for the innkeep Garion and a few regulars drinking at the bar. At the sight of the bloodied Meris, carrying a drawn axe, bursting through the door, all eyes turned.

"Oi, lad, wha' be the-" Garion began.

Running across the room, Meris slapped him across the face, silencing his next few words. Stunned, the big man staggered back and knocked a few tankards over-including the ale of a wizened old man who kept right on drinking air without noticing.

Wearing a haggard and hunted look, Meris grabbed up one of the drinkers-a drunken rake with long brown hair and a half-beard-and held the drunkard's body before him like a shield.

"Now, wait jes' a moment-" stammered Morgan.

"Silence!" shouted the wild scout. "Malar's claws!"

He held the rake up between himself and the door, as though expecting a blade to come lancing for his heart at any moment.

Then a fist came out of the darkness behind him and struck the back of his head.

Meris staggered and fell, shoving Morgan away. He drew the main gauche from the rake's belt, though, and turned with the blade slashing, but there was no one to attack. There were only the other Whistling Stag patrons, who were even now fleeing up the stairs, with a surprisingly sober Morgan following them.

"Meris Wayfarer," a haunting, ghostly voice called.

"Face me like a man, damned creature!" challenged Meris.

Walker appeared in a dark corner of the room before him, and Meris let fly with the main gauche. It stabbed into the wood wall and wobbled there.

"Dark as shadow," intoned Walker. His voice, from no visible source, echoed around the room eerily.

Meris drew a throwing knife from his belt and looked around, but no one was there.

"You will die, Meris Wayfarer, Meris the bastard," Walker promised. As he spoke, he stalked Meris around the room, passing between the shadows, always just on the verge of material presence. The drawn shatterspike glittered, as did the sapphire eye of his wolf ring, spectral as both were. "For crimes against my family, for crimes against those I love, for crimes against the people of Quaervarr and the people of the Silver Marches."

Walker stepped across a pool of light, and Meris threw the knife. It passed through the intangible ghostwalker and thunked into the closed door.

Walker continued. "I am the silence of the grave, the shock of lightning. My passing is rain upon the mountains and wind through the plains. My rage burns in the Hells, and I will bring you to those Hells. I, the spirit of vengeance, promise you death."

"Stay away from me!" shouted Meris, his expression terrified beyond belief. "Away! Take anything you want! Leave me be!"

"Tempt not the spirit of vengeance," came the voice. Walker materialized right before him, his pointing finger but a hand's breadth from the scout's face. "He comes for you."

Then Meris's expression changed and his feigned terror vanished. "Perhaps not, Rhyn," came the searing reply.

No matter how fierce and skilled the three knights were, they knew it was only a matter of time before the rangers realized they outnumbered the knights. With renewed vigor-aided by simple assessment of the enemy forces-the Greyt family rangers fought back with greater confidence, with multiple men going to attack each of the knights in a coordinated fashion.

"It's about time for that backup plan, Derst!" Arya shouted, parrying and running, keeping the four rangers that were now her opponents from surrounding her.

Several more were moving her way, though-maneuvering to get at her flanks. Without armor or a shield, Arya would not be able to fend off more than one or two attackers.

"Backup plan?" Derst asked dubiously, evading a swipe, rolling under the man's arm and gouging him in the thigh with his dagger. A ranger cut along his back, leaving a long red line, but Derst only grimaced, dodged, and fought on.

"You used to be a thief!" roared Bars. "You always have a backup plan!" A pair of daggers shot in, seeking his flesh. He batted one aside, and the hand that went with it, but accepted a stab from the other. A knife wound for a broken hand would be more than a fair trade-under other circumstances. "And it's about time for that plan!"

"You know," panted Derst, even as he snagged a sword with his chain-dagger, only to have the thick leather snap in two. The cutting blade nearly sliced his arm in two, and it was only Derst's reflexes that pulled it out of the way. Frowning at the destroyed weapon as he dodged and eluded his attackers, Derst finished the sentence. "I think you're right."

The door of Greyt's manor burst open and a score of men-some watchmen, some businessmen, even a couple noble dandies-with the gigantic Unddreth at their head, burst out, captured swords and daggers in their hands. With cries of "Quaervarr!" and "The Stag!" they rushed to join in the fray.

Derst had always had a talent for opening locks-and more than enough experience with cell doors.

"How's that for a backup plan, lass?" shouted Derst. Then he dived away from a frightened ranger and corrected himself. "Sorry-Arya. How about this development, eh?"