Erik DeBie - Ghostwalker

"Walker?" Arya asked, reaching out to comfort him. Gylther'yel's eyes flicked to her, and she extended a clawed hand toward the knight.

Sudden tremors tore through the grove and threw Arya to the ground. A hulking claw of earth erupted from the ground and caught her between its five fingers. The knight screamed and struggled, but the fingers-each as thick as her body-were too strong. The claw closed around her and held her aloft, even as Gylther'yel closed her hand halfway and smiled.

The ghostwalker, stunned at the ghost druid's attack, had just leaped to his feet when a ring of fire surrounded him, cutting him off from Arya. He slashed at the flames with his shatterspike, and the tip of the blade glowed red with heat.

"Walker!" screamed Arya. "Don't give up! Don't give in to-" Her words were cut off in a screech of pain as Gylther'yel closed her hand tighter and the claws closed around Arya's body. The vines that bound the unconscious Amra Clearwater reached up and began whipping at the knight, tearing at her metal armor and exposed skin.

Walker instantly retreated into etherealness, meaning to leap through the flames and attack, but Gylther'yel's fire burned just as brightly there. Walker cursed himself for a fool-of course the ghost druid's magic pierced the veil between worlds. Such was the nature of the netherworld powers they shared.

Fighting the helpless rage that clawed at his heart, Walker turned back to Gylther'yel and held his sword low to the ground.

Why? he asked, and the words flowed from his mind, but, in his sinking heart, he knew the answer. She had lied. This was an attempt to delay him, not to express any real love. Gylther'yel had indeed sent Meris to kill him. Her words had startled him, and he had fallen into her trap.

Gylther'yel wove her hands in another casting, and the wall of fire began to close around Walker. Once again, and for the last time, I make your choice for you, she said in his head. You have the choice to die, the choice I denied you fifteen years ago, and I choose that you will take it now.

He had been a fool to trust in Gylther'yel, a fool to listen to her coaxing words. Meris had not been a test-he had been Gylther'yel's attempt to slay her errant guardian. It had all been a trick, a trap designed to stab at his deepest desire-the desire for another.

It was so welcoming, so easy to fall into the embrace of a mother, or a father, or even a lover, and to let his choices be determined by another. So easy…

And now he would pay the price for his dependence, his lack of self-worth, a fault that had been buried beneath years of darkness, vengeance, and hatred. All of his life was coming to an end, all of his strength was unraveling.

The ghostwalker knew himself defeated.

Wriggling, ignoring the crushing pain that threatened to shatter her limbs, Arya finally managed to pull her blade free. She brought the borrowed Quaervarr steel down on the earthen hand, sending sparks and shards flying. Though her arm soon went numb from the ringing vibrations her swings caused, she sent a spider web of cracks across the thumb of the hand.

Suddenly a soul-wrenching cry that broke into a high-pitched wail shattered her concentration. The scream split the boundaries of life and death and jarred her very soul.

Walker's scream.

Panicked, Arya looked over at the ghost druid and ghostwalker and her breath caught. Walker had vanished, but somehow she could feel him there. Even now, she knew he fought beyond her physical sight, but not beyond the range of her heart.

Nor, she realized, beyond the range of her voice.

Though she could not see him, his ghostsight would allow him to see-and more importantly hear-her.

"Rhyn Thardeyn!" she cried. "Rhyn Thardeyn! I believe in you, Rhyn! I believe in you!"

As she shouted those words, words that did not even break Gylther'yel's concentration, she brought her sword down on the stone finger with one last mighty blow. The blade was terribly notched and bent but it held for this one last swing. Cracked beyond endurance, the stone split apart with a scream-a scream that matched Gylther'yel's own scream. Arya looked to see blood gushing from the torn thumb of the ghost druid's right hand.

Gylther'yel turned to Arya with murder in her eyes. With a snap of her fingers, Arya's bent sword suddenly glowed white hot and tumbled from her hand. Even as Arya cursed and drew her belt dagger to throw, Gylther'yel brought down the fires of nature upon the knight.

And Arya screamed as she had never screamed before.

I believe in you!

In the depths of a shaking Ethereal, Arya's face flashed across his vision, vision that was blurred between the two worlds. At once he saw her body writhing in agony-gripped by the hand of earth, slashed by animate thorn vines, and illumined in a column of fire. Her spirit was screaming one thing: his name. He could feel the pain and terror rippling through the shadowy half-world, but also love-love that burned more brightly than the flames that tore at it.

His first real choice-the choice that brought him from Gylther'yel's clutches-had been made in Arya's arms. Arya had become the source of his strength and resolve; in her arms, he knew a stronger power, a greater determination than anything rage or hatred could muster.

He would not give up. He would not yield to Gylther'yel's lies and deceit.

Then a memory, a memory not of love but of horrible pain, flashed across his mind. A memory long buried in his mind but uncovered in Gylther'yel's words, the walls chipped away by the chisel of Walker's love for Arya.

"Greyt could not choose until I sent him…" she had said.

Through newly opened ears, he heard again the ghost druid's subtle admission that she had met Greyt fifteen years previous.

Suddenly, spirits surrounded him, the spirits of his attackers, speaking again the words he remembered, the words by which he had condemned them. He did not hear them, though.

There was only one cold, familiar voice.

Whether you will or no.

Two spirits appeared over him, those of Lyetha and Tarm. They looked down at him sadly, but he could see the light of hope on their faces-tragic, resigned hope, but hope nonetheless.

And, suddenly, Walker knew what must be done.

Forgive me, Arya, he said to his beloved knight on the ethereal winds. I must pay for my sins. My vengeance must be complete. It has to end.

Walker? came her startled reply. He did not know how she, in the Material world, had even heard, nor how she replied. Then a swell of love, so tragic it tore his cold heart asunder, threatened to overwhelm Walker. He had to let it flow past him. Walker!

You are my perfect melody, he said to Arya, and I shall sing of you forever. The song of the Nightingale-the lay of the ghost she taught to love.

Walker, what are you doing? asked Arya. Then she felt his emotions resonating through the shadows and she knew. He felt her terror, and knew that she realized his desperate plan. Walker, no! Please! Don't-

But Walker did not reply. Instead, he tore himself out of the Ethereal. The shades vanished from around him as he emerged into the physical world of torment and agony. Outside the ghost world, he knew he could feel physical pain, and he wore no healing ring to save him after this. This was the end.

Black hides blood. Black shrouds pain.

Gylther'yel's fire was stripping the flesh from his bones, but slowly, agonizingly, so that he could feel every tiny bit of his death. He had to feel it in order for this to work, though-he had to feel enough pain to push him to the breaking point, then…

Perhaps she would not realize what she was doing until it was too late.

"Hurt me, false mother!" he called through the inferno. "Punish me, burn me, attack me!"

Gylther'yel looked at him and laughed. The fire did not intensify.