Erik DeBie: Ghostwalker

30 Tarsakh, the Year of the Serpent (1359 DR)

He ran through the woods, jumping at every snapping twig, every moving shadow. The height of the moon told him it was midnight, but the youth cared little. His clothes had been torn to ribbons in his desperate flight, and his flesh had been scratched brutally by the shrubs, branches, and rocks.

The youth would do anything to avoid his pursuers.

Cruel faces, real and imagined, greeted him at every turn, and sometimes a fist lashed out and sent him sprawling. He always got up again, his head ringing and his vision swimming, only to run on, mocking laughter echoing behind him. They were playing with him, as a cat toys with its prey, allowing him to run and to think he might escape, but ultimately wearing down his nerves-and his fragile resolve-to nothing.

"Oh, Ri-in," a voice came, "here little Rhyn!"

Startled, Rhyn Thardeyn stumbled, tripped, and fell with a cry down a rocky hill into muddy water. He struggled to rise and squeaked despite himself when fiery pain shot through his right leg, and he collapsed again. He heard their voices steadily approaching and was nearly petrified with doubt and uncertainty, unsure of which direction to run-or even if running had any purpose.

The youth was thinking about how to drag his twelve-year-old body along when he heard footsteps among the trees. He froze.

"Why do you run, lovely boy?" a sharp voice called sweetly. "Come-come dance with me. I'll teach you how."

"Ugly little goblin's get," a gruff voice joined the first. "Come an' face us like a man. We won't hurt ye… much."

He cowered, hiding deep in the shallows, coated in mud. He saw two forms run by-the two men who had shouted. They seemed oblivious to his presence.

Fighting to calm his breathing, Rhyn hummed a merry tune over and over again in his head. Everything would be all right. Everything…

Rhyn heard a splash in the stream behind him. Slowly, he turned to look.

A young boy with curly ebony hair waded there, dressed in rich silks.

Rhyn looked, pleading, into the boy's eyes, and saw there unwillingness, even sympathy. The boy was not to blame for the sins of the father.

"I've found him!" shouted the boy. It was a condemnation.

Then they were upon him, rough hands clutching at his arms and his broken leg. He screamed and cried for his mother, but it was no use.

They threw him down in the circle of trees and lay into him with hobnailed boots. The kicks broke ribs, arms, and his uninjured leg, and when he tried to rise, the pain drove him back before the brutal men could punch him down once more.

Finally, the beating stopped. Rhyn looked up with bleary, red-filled eyes.

"You're going to die now, boy," a thick, slurred voice said. A huge man with a heavy wood axe loomed over him, patting the massive weapon.

"No, no, let him dance with me first," the thin man said. A rapier gleamed in his hand, and he whisked it through the air. "I will enjoy tracing his red trail, watching his broken moves. Come dance with me, boy-I'll be the last thing you ever see."

"If any o' us gets him, it'll be me!" said a bearlike man with a wicked grin. "I'll grind his bones an' tear his flesh with me teeth!"

Moaning, Rhyn tried to curl into a ball, away from them, away from the world of pain.

"Now, now, gentlemen," said the leader in a sonorous voice. He was the one Rhyn feared the most-the one behind this, the one who commanded the others. Rhyn just wanted to get away from him, the man he had once wanted to become.

"Please… please m-my Lord Greyt…" he managed through cracking lips. His voice was broken and slurred with pain.

His pleas went ignored. The man bent low over Rhyn and slipped a silver ring onto his finger.

"We have a job to do, and we shall do it." He flipped his rapier idly in the moonlight. "One blow at a time. Don't worry about killing him-'tis my ring. Death won't spoil our fun, or his pain. Let us hear him sing."

Mocking, lyrical words…

"Aye," said the woodsman, "me first."

The axe came down and Rhyn screamed as it cut into his shoulder.

"Then me," the thin man said before the bearlike one could speak. The rapier pierced Rhyn's arm, bringing with it razor-sharp pain.

"My turn!" the bear man spat.

The boy prayed he was far enough gone that he would not know pain, but when the spiked ball of the man's weapon slammed into his chest, he felt every shattering rib.

Rhyn moaned as darkness closed in. Blood trickled from his mouth.

"Good work," the leader said. Somehow, Rhyn could still hear. A rapier gleamed golden in the moonlight. "Now, let us teach him a new song."

The boy stood over Rhyn, his eyes filled with fire. Anger? Rage? Indignation? Rhyn had thought there was softness there…

Then he passed out, whether for a moment or an eternity, he did not know. He felt someone reach down and pull the silver ring from his finger-the ring whose magic had kept him alive through this torture.

"A horde of good it will do you now," said a soft voice.

Arguing broke out in the darkness. Lord Greyt was angry. "That was never our bargain!"

Whispers.

"Damned if you will have this boy!" Rhyn heard someone shout.

A cold finger ran down his cheek-the touch of death.

Then a sharp pang ran through his chest, a blade pierced his throat, and he started back into the world of misery.

"Let's hear you sing now," the soft voice said.

Rhyn opened his lips, as though to oblige, and only a bloody rattle emerged.

Angry shouts erupted and a scuffle ensued. Something small and metal, like a tear, fell against his left cheek and rested next to his eye.

"Whether you will it or no," whispered another voice in his ear.

The world went black.

24 Tarsakh, The Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Shivering, the courier pulled her cloak tight around herself, warding off the chill of the Moonwood night. At least the stinging drops no longer slapped down on her-the forest canopy caught much of the rain. She rode slowly down the road to Quaervarr so her mare could avoid stumbling on unforeseen rocks and sticks. Her parents told her spring was coming, but it was definitely taking its time. Chandra Stardown couldn't stand the cold, and she prayed to Mielikki and Chauntea that the warmth would come soon.

She clutched the leather case strapped around her stomach protectively, just to reassure herself it was there. This was not Chandra's first assignment, so negligence or jitters would not be excused. Grand Commander Alathar had said this message was important, so it wouldn't do to lose it en route. If she wanted a promotion, perhaps even membership in the famous Knights in Silver, she could not fail.

As she rode deeper into the shadowtops and firs of the Moonwood, the storm passed. The cold, however, grew no gentler. Chandra longed for the Whistling Stag, where she could order a room and a long, hot bath with the silver her father had loaned her.

Abruptly, Songbird, Chandra's mare, neighed and tossed her mane. She stopped all forward motion and pranced in a circle.

"What is it, girl?" Chandra asked, running a soothing hand along Songbird's mane. "Did you see something?"

Chandra looked around, but didn't see anyone. The trees loomed forbiddingly beside the trail like towering mountains hiding unseen dangers in their heights. She looked up, wary of an ambush by gnolls or even elves, and clutched her silver short spear tightly. Even though the real threat of the Moonwood-the People of the Black Blood, a cult of werebeasts-had been chased away months before, Chandra's father had wanted her to be prepared. The courier was far from a capable fighter, but any werewolf would think twice before it charged onto a silver spearhead.