Erik DeBie - Ghostwalker

Then he stopped as a chilling melody came from behind.

Meris turned.

Walker, standing again, sang a song of dark beauty, a lullaby to lead a sleeper into the endless night, a song of velvet softness and nameless fear. The words in lyrical Elvish, it was a song of mourning, begging for forgiveness, and promising vengeance.

Stunned, Meris looked at Walker for a moment, his eyes wide and staring. Then he came back to his senses and slashed the broken sword at Walker's head. The dark warrior ducked smoothly and reached out with both hands. He pulled the blade from Meris's side and stabbed it back into the dusky youth's chest.

Meris looked down at the sword and gave a weak gasp. The scout's limbs went limp and he sagged, but Walker caught his body and held his face up.

"Who?" he demanded. "Tell me. Who?"

He did not truly need to ask, for Meris had torn the bandage free of his left hand and he felt the truth keenly through his bare skin, in ghostly resonance, from the shatterspike. But some part of him had to be sure.

Meris smiled almost wistfully. "The Ghostly Lady," he said.

It seemed to Walker that he should be surprised, hurt, or frightened, but he felt nothing. Nothing but cold.

Then Meris's eyes slid closed for the last time.

Walker held the cooling body for a moment, looking into the face he had hated so much, the last of his tormentors and the one who had taken his dream from him.

Somehow, he felt no anger. Only sadness.

"How?" Arya asked as he helped her to her feet. "How did you do it? The name. I thought your name had destroyed you."

"Rhyn Thardeyn will always be my name," the ghostwalker said. "Never Rhyn Greyt."

Before they left the Whistling Stag, Walker looked back at Meris's body.

"Farewell, my brother," he murmured.

30 Tarsakh

As the sun set, Walker stood in the center of Quaervarr's main plaza, his cloak billowing out behind him in the wind. The rain had passed and the clouds were clearing, but the fearsome wind still blew, threatening to rip cloaks from the backs of any foolish enough to go outside. Despite this, hundreds milled about the square, voices chattering and shouting. Though the place was abuzz with activity, Walker's silent and unmoving form went largely unnoticed.

The watch, with Captain Unddreth restored to command, had taken control of the courtyard quickly and was even now sorting out the prisoners. The surviving rangers-all fifteen of them, several too injured to move without assistance-were shuttled into the Quaervarr jail and, when that was full, to the very dungeons that had until recently housed Unddreth and others loyal to Geth Stonar.

The rangers would be held until such time as their ultimate fate could be decided, but Arya had dissuaded Unddreth from calling for the noose. Loyal men should not be punished so severely for defending their master, especially when they thought him to be a noble and virtuous hero, she had convinced him.

A courier had been dispatched to fetch Speaker Stonar back from Silverymoon, along with a cadre of watchmen for protection. They also sought to ascertain the fate of Clearwater and the other riders. One of the druids went along as well-the Oak House simply couldn't ignore the disappearance of two of their own, one their mistress.

In Quaervarr's main plaza, a crowd had gathered to listen as Arya and her companions explained the events of the last few days. Under the watchful and approving eye of the stony-faced Unddreth, the knights spoke of Greyt's plots, kidnappings, and murders, as well as the atrocities committed by Meris and his cronies. The town had been thrown into disarray, with the late Lord Singer's charismatic bravado pressing against the firm, peaceful rule of Geth Stonar. With the recounting of the day's bloody events and the revealing of the truth, however, most of the citizenship had grown disillusioned with the legend of Greyt and turned back to those civil leaders they could trust: Stonar and Unddreth.

Mercifully, Arya chose to remain silent about the events of fifteen years previous-Walker did not think he could stomach a retelling of his murder. In addition, he lived, once again, in mystery-a mystery that kept all the citizens, except for the most inquisitive (and foolish) children, away from him as he rested and healed. The silver wolf's head ring was back around his finger, helping his wounds re-knit and his scars disappear, a process that Walker had gone through so many times he hardly even felt the itchy tingling running through his body.

Hardly, that is to say, except for four particular wounds. With the deaths of Greyt and Meris, the flesh they had broken could finally heal. Though he would carry the scars, and speak in a whisper to the end of his days, Walker felt nearly whole.

Then a pain seized him and Walker's tranquil frown dipped.

That was when he knew he was not fully whole. He had one task still to complete, one last wrong to set right, one last crime to avenge. He had one last life to take.

Shifting into his ghostsight, Walker turned to the side, expecting to see the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn, who had always given him silent guidance. But there was no spirit there.

Walker smiled. He remembered watching the spirits of Tarm and Lyetha fade, reunited at last in death. He also remembered the gentle, sweet emotion that had swept through him at the time-love, the kind of feeling Walker knew when he looked upon Arya Venkyr.

Arya.

Walker looked over at her as she addressed a body of gathered citizens, much as Lord Greyt had done in the past. She had cleaned her hair and wounds after the battle, and Bars had applied his healing touch to her as well. The knight was radiant in the fading sunlight that filtered through the clouds, the silver of her armor gleaming and her hair burning. As though she noticed him watching, she drew herself up straighter and tiny spots of red bloomed in her cheeks.

How could she ever understand what he had to do? How could he explain it to her?

Walker decided he could not. He simply had to do it.

With a sigh-a gesture that would have seemed foreign to him a few days ago-he pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked away.

Smiling broadly at the shouts of support, Arya turned away from the crowd and massaged her throat. Shouting for such a long time had worn out her voice, but it had been worth it. Her mission was accomplished: the threat to stability in the Silver Marches removed. Finally, she could relax.

A strand of auburn hair blew in her face, and she brushed it aside. As soon as she had done so, though, she realized something was amiss.

Walker was not there.

Gripped by sudden, unreasoning panic, Arya scanned the plaza. She caught sight of him at last, striding toward the main street of the town, as though to leave.

"Walker!" she called, breaking into a run. At the sound of her voice, he stopped and let her hurry to his side. She put gauntleted fingers on his arm. "You're going?"

Rather than looking at her, Walker's eyes were far away.

"All my scars are healed, all my enemies dead," he said. "All but one." He put his hand over his heart.

Confused, Arya covered that hand with her own. Walker smiled at the touch.

"I don't understand," she said. "Who else is there?"

"My teacher," replied Walker. "She who taught me my powers. She who betrayed me." He paused, as though digesting that. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sad. "Gylther'yel, the Ghostly Lady."

"The spirit of the Dark Woods?" asked Arya. "The folk legend? She actually exists?"

Walker nodded. "And she is powerful," he added, "much more powerful than any foe either of us has faced, able to level armies with a sweep of her fingers."

"Armies?" she mouthed. Walker moved to go, but Arya held his arm tighter. "You can't go now-wait until there are more of us! Wait until we find Clearwater and can muster up a score of warriors, Legionnaires, Knights in Silver, wizards of the Spellguard-"