Erik DeBie - Ghostwalker

There was no reply.

"Arya?" he asked again.

The ghostwalker gave Meris a bittersweet smile in reply. "Rhyn Thardeyn died long ago," Walker said. "That name holds no power over me."

"No, no it doesn't," Meris said. "But your true name does, doesn't it, Rhyn Greyt?"

Walker hesitated, shock spreading over his face, and his body wrenched fully into the physical world. Immediately, Meris slashed his axe at the ghostwalker.

Stunned, Walker managed to deflect the axe, but it hooked around the shatterspike. Meris ripped the weapon from Walker's hand, spun it, caught the sword's hilt, and turned it into a stab. With his bracer, Walker managed to turn the killing thrust into his shoulder. The hand axe darted low and hooked around Walker's leg. Blinded by the pain in his shoulder, Walker couldn't resist as Meris yanked him from his feet. Walker's head slammed into the hard floorboards and the air fled from his heaving lungs.

"Your mystery is your power, Rhyn Greyt," said Meris, "is it not? Your betrayer told me this. Not so confident without your secret, are you? You didn't even know, did you?"

Walker was speechless.

"Oh yes, brother," Meris said over him, spinning the shatterspike in his hand. "Lyetha loved our father first-before Thardeyn, the old priest. When Greyt wouldn't marry her, Lyetha turned to Thardeyn to hide you. And to think, all that time pretending that you were Thardeyn's-all for naught. I always suspected, but I didn't know. Until now."

How did he know this? Who could have told him? Lyetha? She would never have…

"Why?" Walker managed to croak through the lights dancing across his eyes. He felt so weak, so unsure, so unfocused.

A memory flashed through his head, a memory of Meris: The boy stood over him. The look in his eyes; no anger, no passion, no sadness, no softness. Not even pity. Only hate.

Meris pulled the shatterspike out of Walker's shoulder and looked at its sparkle.

"How poetic, an avenger killed with his own sword," he said. "What do you say to that, Walker? You're a poet, right? Or perhaps it is really my sword, eh?"

Walker stared up at him defiantly.

"Rhyn, you've been deceived," said Meris as he held the sword between his legs and buckled the axe to his belt. His hands freed, he stripped his gauntlets so that he could kill Walker barehanded. "I did what I did fifteen years ago for my own gain and, well, because I've always hated you. You inherited all our father's qualities-singing, courage, charisma-and I took all his faults-ambition, violence and, well, madness."

Meris shared a private laugh with himself. No one joined him.

"And you probably would have taken his wealth when you came of age. The truth would have come out, I knew-somehow." He growled. "And that's 'why,' really. My father would've spared you in the forest-the coward. He just wanted to frighten you, but I took the healing ring off your finger." He trailed off with a smile. "You were the first sibling I killed, even if I didn't know it at the time. Now you will be the last as well."

Flashes of the forest swam in his mind-the rapier that rammed through his chest, that cut his throat and ruined his voice. Greyt's sword. But the healing ring…

The boy with eyes filled with hate loomed over him. The wolf's head ring sparkled in his hand. "Let's hear you sing now," he said as his father's sword descended.

A tear slid down Walker's cheek. How could Meris have known this? Walker had not even known. Who knew Walker's name? Who knew what only Lyetha could know? Who could have betrayed him?

Walker did not know, and now it was too late.

Meris laughed. "And here, look at me, gloating over my victory like my old man!" A chuckle. "Can't forget that ring-my father's ring." Meris knelt and pulled the wolf's head ring from Walker's finger, tearing away much of the improvised covering as he did so. Then he leaned over and ran a finger along Walker's cheek.

The touch of death.

"Well, Rhyn, let's hear you sing now," Meris said as he raised the sword over his head.

In a distant grove, among verdant trees that seemed to weep in the winter's breeze, a ghostly golden figure stood atop a huge, overturned boulder and looked into the sinking sun.

"It is done," Gylther'yel said with a sigh.

"Meris!" came a shout.

The wild scout hesitated and looked. Wild-eyed, Arya stood across the room, sword in hand. She wore almost as much blood as cloth-not all of it her own-and her hair blazed in the lamplight.

"Arya," Walker managed. "No…"

The lady knight bent her knees and held the blade low.

"Come, bastard," she growled. "We are not done yet, you and I. We have had this dance waiting from the beginning."

Meris sneered. "You should've killed me while my back was turned, while you had the chance."

"Knights do not stab enemies in the back," Arya said.

Meris gave her a mock salute and chuckled. Then he charged, shatterspike and axe held out to his sides. Arya ran at him, sword held low.

They met in the center of the common room, blades whirring and sparks flying. Arya slashed in high, and Meris picked off the attack with shatterspike and axe then spun, bringing the weapons around at her head. Arya ducked the shatterspike and parried the axe, sending the axe back and shooting in a fist to pound Meris's chest through the opening he left. Her punch hardly affected the man through his thick leather armor, and he pushed her back with a lunge. The two separated for a moment.

"Oh, yes, wench, that's right," laughed Meris, beckoning her with his axe. "A valiant stand, as useless as valor itself!"

The knight fought silently, though her shoulders heaved from the exertion of battle. Weariness shuddered through her body, threatening to slow her blade. Arya reasoned that perhaps she should just run-she could never defeat Meris alone, even if she were fresh, fully armed, and fully armored. His skill was beyond hers. What was she doing here? Letting Walker see her one last time, only to see her killed?

She could not run, though. A Knight in Silver never ran, and never abandoned her friends and those she loved. She would fight Meris to the death-likely her death, but at least she would not die a coward, as he was.

Then Arya saw something out of the corner of her eye, and hope glimmered in her heart.

"For the Marches!" she cried, throwing herself forward in a desperate lunge.

Meris, momentarily caught off guard by the wild thrust, brought the shatterspike around to parry her sword high, even as he swung in low with the axe to trip her. Then the blade twisted in Arya's hand-a rolling of the wrist that reduced her grip almost to nothing-and her long sword went under the shatterspike, deflecting it wide. The notched steel sheared off against the shatterspike and she dropped the broken hilt. Her left hand shot in and seized the throwing dagger at Meris's belt even as her sword hand grasped his wrist with as much strength as she could muster. The axe, ignored, hooked around her knee to pull her down.

"What are you-" Meris started even as he pulled with his axe.

"A trick I learned from Walker!" Arya snapped.

Then Meris screamed in pain as Arya drove the tiny blade into his unarmored wrist.

The shatterspike tumbled from Meris's nerveless hand even as he yanked Arya to the ground. Since she was still holding his arm, he fell with her. As she fell, she caught the ghostly blade in her free hand-by luck not shearing off her fingers-and held it between them, its hilt against the floorboards. As Meris fell, his weight drove the blade through his left side.

The two of them stayed there for a moment, Arya holding herself up under the impaled Meris, who rested on his knees. Blood leaked from his mouth and he looked at the knight without comprehension.

Then madness returned to his eyes and, with it, rage. Meris spat blood on Arya's face, causing her to wince. Then, his hand scrabbled across the floor and seized her fallen, splinted sword. He slammed the hilt into Arya's forehead, knocking her back, stunned. As he rose, Meris didn't seem to notice the sword running through his side. He turned the splintered sword in his hands and loomed over Arya, ready to deliver the killing stroke.