Ghostwalker Read online

  “Uh-oh, he insulted the weight,” observed Derst. “Only I get to do that.”

  “Bars, Derst—let it alone,” Arya warned.

  “Too late, lass,” rumbled Bars as he fingered the twin maces at his belt.

  “He’s very sensitive about his Beshaba-cursed figure,” explained Derst. “You shouldn’t have said that, Sir Inebriate.”

  Morgan shoved his stool back and drained the last of his ale. “I’ll hear none o’ thy insults, mangy goblin!” he shouted as he yanked his rapier free of its scabbard.

  Arya saw Derst wince and shook her head. “He shouldn’t have said that either,” she observed to Garion.

  The barkeep nodded. “I’d stop them, but I have a feeling that’d just make it worse.”

  Arya agreed silently.

  “’ave at ye!” Morgan shouted as he lunged, sword first, at Bars.

  The big knight’s maces were out in a blur and he swatted the blade to the right, harmlessly wide, into the bar. The drunk drew the blade back and thrust again, this time at Derst. The roguish knight had already drawn his curious weapon—a dagger with a foot-long chain trailing from the grip—with which he parried, even as he spun the chain around in an underhand motion inside his arm. Morgan’s eyes grew confused. As the rapier slid past, Derst threw the chain up and struck Morgan on the chin with a resounding thump.

  The rake staggered back clutching at his goatee, where a trickle of blood seeped between his fingers. Bars held two light maces, one overhand and one underhand, crossed before him. At the burly knight’s side, Derst absently spun the chain around, inside and outside his arm, alternating with a flick of his wrist.

  Morgan’s eyes clouded over with rage and drink. Screaming, he drew his left-hand dagger and lunged again. His movements were graceless, but he carried with him a ferocity born of pure anger.

  Derst parried at the last moment and whirled the chain around the rapier’s blade. With a flick and twist of his wrist, he tore the weapon free of Morgan’s grasp and sent both it and his chain-dagger clattering to the floor. Morgan, however, did not hesitate to stab out with his main-gauche, thinking to catch the knight unarmed and helpless.

  A light mace darted in like lightning and smashed down on Morgan’s hand. The dagger clattered to the floor even as Bars’s other mace shot around and caught Morgan on the back of the head. Without even realizing what had happened, the rake toppled limply to the floor.

  Bars reached down and scooped him up over one shoulder. He disentangled the chain from the rapier and handed the chain-dagger back to Derst. The roguish knight accepted it with a smile and twirled it around his wrist, where it hung like a bracelet. Then he turned to Garion.

  “I think he’s had enough,” said Derst. “What’s his tab?”

  Garion looked at the knight curiously then spoke. “Four silver an’ five copper,” he said.

  Scowling at the price, Derst nodded nonetheless. He took a small purse from his belt and started counting coins out into his hand.

  Garion eyed him sidelong. “Right courteous, seeing as how ye just caved his head in,” he said.

  “Well, a knight is always courteous,” said Derst. He patted Morgan’s backside as Bars carried him past.

  “How hard did you hit him?” Arya asked Bars as he carried Morgan to the door.

  “Hard enough,” Bars replied without hesitation.

  “Don’t worry, he’s still breathing. I think,” Derst reassured her. Arya raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure.” The eyebrow went higher. Derst shrugged. “Mayhap.”

  The barkeep Garion looked to Derst again. “Well, I don’t take fight starters under my roof, but you didn’t start the fight—he did,” he said. “Excellent throw, by the way.” He indicated the dagger.

  “My thanks,” replied Derst, retrieving the blade with some effort. “Oh, sorry about the damage, too.” He reached for his pouch again, but Garion waved away payment.

  Bars returned from throwing Morgan into the street.

  “You three can have his room,” Garion said. He held up the key to one of the rooms upstairs. “Fox room. Upstairs, second on the right—look for the etching on the door. Basin, copper tub. I’ll send hot water up. Only one bed, though.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Arya. “These two wool-heads will take the floor, of course.” Bars and Derst both looked at Arya sidelong, but Arya just smiled sweetly and stretched road-weary muscles. “A bath. I can’t wait.” She took her leave, humming lightly as she went.

  Bars and Derst looked at one another, then at the innkeeper.

  “Lasses,” Derst said to Garion. “Always in distress, and always ungrateful.”

  Bars laughed.

  CHAPTER 3

  26 Tarsakh

  The dawn rose cold the following morning and dark clouds choked the pale skies. A chill and a light blanket of snow had settled over the western Moon-wood, what local legend called the Dark Woods—a patch of deep forest where even the elves of the Moonwood would not venture. The guardsmen at the gate of Quaervarr, near the road south to Silvery-moon, stood easy, however. There were no visitors that morning and the road seemed deserted.

  Deserted, at least, until a dark figure emerged from the mists.

  Opening their eyes wide, the guards made to stop him, stepping in his way and crossing their silver-tipped spears, but one look from the night-clad man and they cringed back. He didn’t have to speak—the chilling resolve that surrounded him said enough. It didn’t even occur to them to ask his name or his business, for they knew they would soon find out. They weren’t sure, however, that they wanted to.

  The man called Walker strode calmly past the silent, nervous guards without a second glance, carrying a small bundle wrapped in rough leather. His pace was relaxed and his strides were great.

  He had one task: an ultimatum to issue. A warning.

  Children in the streets ceased their play and crowded under the snow-covered eaves to watch as the man in black strode by. “Walker, Walker, Walker,” they whispered to each other in excited, hushed tones. “Silent, not a talker!”

  Stillness reigned in Quaervarr where he walked. It spread up the street, causing children’s games to fall silent, adults to cut off conversations and watch, and even the barking of dogs and the neighing of horses to cease. When a pail slipped the notice of a stable boy and fell clattering to the ground, those nearby cringed in surprise.

  Walker did not slow or pause. Carrying his bundle, he walked through the main street of Quaervarr toward the mansion of Lord Singer Dharan Greyt.

  Reading a romance by Alin the Mad, a Cormyrean writer of great skill who had a talent for description, even if that description ran to the fantastical, Greyt had just finished swallowing the last bit of venison and had lifted the vintage to his lips when the doors to his dining hall banged open. He looked up in annoyance, but he didn’t need to. He knew who it would be.

  “Stonar’s gone?” the young man asked. “Now at least you can relax, with that oaf out of the way. At least for a while.”

  “Dearest son, won’t you join me? I’m almost finished with my lunch,” he said.

  Meris, frost caked on his white cloak, grinned and smoothed his jet-black hair with a brush of his hand. He had a couple of men with him at the door—the Greyt family rangers were little more than hired thugs and disconsolate woodsmen—but the Lord Singer hardly noticed. Meris took all his attention.

  Meris was armed with a sword and a hand axe, the weapons of hara-sakal, the specialized high axe, low sword style imported from the barbarians of Rashemen, and his dusky skin was rosy from the frosty morning. While Greyt admired the pale sheen of his own face, he found Meris’s slightly darker features, aesthetically, to be more than decent. Greyt had made a good choice with Meris’s Amnian mother, gods rest her soul. He tried to remember how she had died, but the exact details escaped him. No matter.

  “Thank you, no, father. I’ve already eaten,” Meris said. His voice was rich and full but carried a sinister und
ercurrent, a twist to the tone that hinted that everything he said was slightly mocking. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “That it’s terrible out and there’s nothing to hunt?” Greyt yawned. He swirled the wine in his goblet and pointed to the window, where it was still dark outside, even though the sun had risen some time ago. “I already noticed the lack of sun.”

  “Something else,” Meris replied.

  Their manner was always curt, which was fine by Greyt. He didn’t like Meris so much as he approved of him. The dusky youth reminded him of himself. He suspected his illegitimate son had killed his siblings to clear his own path to inheritance. Ruthlessness ran in the Greyt family like blood.

  “Aye?”

  “A death that occurred two nights past. Well, two deaths, actually,” Meris said.

  “A drunken brawl?” Greyt asked. “Tell me Unddreth finally had an accident—”

  “No,” Meris replied. “Deaths at the house of Sir Drex Redgill, your longtime friend.”

  “Drex got a little hot under the collar and took it out on a couple servants again, eh?” Greyt waved dismissively and took a sip of his wine. “Not my concern.”

  “Unless he took it out on himself, something else happened,” Meris said. “Drex was killed two nights past, along with one of his guards.”

  The Lord Singer squeezed the goblet so hard it shattered in his hand. “What?” he asked, wincing as the shards sank into his flesh. A healing potion was brought quickly, and he quaffed it to stifle the pain.

  “Drex was slain.” The guards at the door—Greyt family rangers, loyal servants all of them—looked at Meris expectantly, and he added, “Oh yes. And the guard had a family … apparently.”

  “Drex is dead?” Greyt asked, ignoring the news of the guard. He was beginning to take an interest in the discussion. He halfheartedly made the sign of Milil, his supposed patron. As they spoke, he delicately picked shards of glass out of his flesh, which healed as he removed the glass, thanks to the potion. “What happened?”

  “Single slash to the throat, found naked in his bedroom, his guard dead in similar fashion, though he was armed and armored,” Meris said. “Dagger wounds, runs my thinking.”

  “Why did you not come to me yesterday?” asked Greyt, narrowing his eyes, but he already knew the answer. Meris had wanted to solve the mystery himself—not to win his father’s favor but to demonstrate his own superiority. He only came to Greyt because he had failed.

  The grimace on Meris’s face told him his suspicions were correct. The fool.

  “Suspects?” Greyt asked. He felt irritation and more than a little anger. Accidental death, if Drex had fallen from a window and broken his neck, was one thing, but murder was quite another. “Goodwife Redgill has been dead these past ten winters, so she’s out of the question. One of his guards?”

  “His flipskirt, I wager,” another, deeper voice called.

  Bilgren, wild black mane flowing around his shoulders, huge gyrspike on his back, and rage on his face, dragged in a struggling half-elf maid who was clad only in a torn shift. Her face was bruised and spattered with congealed blood, some of it her own.

  Bilgren threw the half-elf down and spat on her. The maid cringed.

  “Th’ wench was caught fleeing from ’is house in th’ middle o’ the night. No knife, but bloodied up.”

  With a flourish of his scarlet cape, Torlic glided in behind Bilgren. He disdained to touch the barbarian, and weaved a path around him, heading to the wall. He leaned against it. Greyt supposed he should have expected Torlic to appear—he, Bilgren, and the late Drex, in addition to Greyt himself, had once been members of the Raven Claw band.

  “She didn’t put up much of a fight.” Torlic sneered and ran his hand over the handle of the rapier sheathed at his belt. “Typical, for a wench.”

  The half-elf knelt before Greyt’s chair and table and looked up with teary eyes. While her condition no doubt had been poor the night in question—Greyt knew well the late Drex’s propensity for violence coupled with pleasure—he was sure she hadn’t been caught in quite this poor a condition. Greyt was certain his son or perhaps Bilgren had interrogated her in his own way; another reason for the troublesome delay in information.

  The Lord Singer rose and unfurled his violet cape, which trailed from his shoulders. “Leave us,” he said to the guards and Bilgren. “Meris, you may stay.”

  Bilgren shot him a look. His azure eyes were burning with dim-witted anger. “What about me, Greyt?” he spat. “Let me help ye ‘persuade’ this little …”

  Greyt did not flinch as he looked up at the Uthgardt barbarian, who was a foot taller and almost twice his weight. Even Bilgren’s gyrspike—a wicked sword with a flail on the end that was about the size of Greyt’s head—did not move the Lord Singer.

  “Begone,” Greyt said without blinking. Cutting off any objection, Greyt added, “It wouldn’t do for you to be seen here after this incident. People might suspect.”

  “Drex was me friend, don’t ye forget!” Bilgren bellowed. He took the opportunity to shoot the half-elf woman another angry glare and to take a menacing step toward her. “An’ just ye wait, little flipskirt—” She cringed and tried to fold herself into a tighter ball. Then Bilgren stormed out. From the way the girl’s face relaxed when Bilgren left, Greyt could tell his guess had been correct.

  “What about you?” Greyt asked Torlic, who had been standing impassively.

  Torlic squinted bright blue eyes and gave a shrug. “Drex was swine. At least, I always thought so.” He turned abruptly on his heel and followed Bilgren.

  The half-elf woman was noticeably less nervous. Apparently, Meris hadn’t touched her, or she would have scurried away from him as well. That helped. Greyt removed a rich crimson blanket from the back of his chair and draped it around her shivering shoulders. “Have no fear, child. You are quite safe.”

  She looked up at Greyt through blurry eyes and a smile spread across her face. “Oh, good Lord Singer!” she stammered, her voice broken with sobs. “Th-those men—”

  “I know, I know,” Greyt replied. He reached down to help her up. “Have no fear, they will be dealt with. They are servants of Sir Drex. They’re a bit unhappy, eh? Don’t worry—you’re safe now.” Most of that was a lie, but Dharan Greyt had always been glib and persuasive.

  “Thank you, oh, thank you!” she said. She took his hand and kissed it several times. “I was so afraid.”

  “There is no need for you to fear, fair lady,” he said silkily, lifting her gently by the hand. His words sounded almost lyrical. “But I am afraid, maid—”

  “Tillee,” she said quickly, filling in the gap his words left.

  “Maid Tillee,” Greyt repeated. “I’m afraid you will have to help me. You see, I need to know what happened that night. The faster you tell me, the safer you will be.”

  Tillee paled, but she managed to speak. She unfolded the story as she had seen it, about the man appearing out of the shadows, the vicious fight, and the bloody outcome of the duel. She even described, in detail, the rasping of the ghostly warrior’s voice, so filled with darkness and hate. By the end of her story, she was shuddering with remembered fear.

  Greyt shook his head. Such a feat as she described would take a powerful wizard, and he knew without a doubt that no wizards had been active in Quaervarr that night. Neither had he heard of a wizard who possessed such blade skill.

  Greyt walked to Meris. “What do you think?” he asked softly. No affectionate name. No “son.” Not even “boy.”

  Meris shrugged. “Maybe she really is an innocent victim of circumstance.”

  “Or a whore trying to save her neck,” Greyt said. “Who else is there? Jarthon hasn’t sent any killers into Quaervarr in a long while, and this kind of murder isn’t like him anyway.”

  “The killing wounds are too precise for a woman suffering Drex’s attentions,” Meris said. “The attacks must have come from a trained hand, perhaps someone like the assassin she d
escribes. And there’s something else besides—”

  “You said you were convinced it was her,” Greyt argued. “Bilgren certainly thought so.”

  “That was in front of the men,” Meris replied. “And Bilgren’s skills don’t exactly run to thinking. It wouldn’t do to share my real suspicions in the hearing of possibly disloyal ears, and all the remaining ears in this mansion are yours.” He gestured toward the tapestry behind Greyt, where both knew of a secret passage perfect for just such spying.

  With a disarming smile, Greyt nodded. How little Meris knew about his “ears.”

  “I think she speaks the truth,” said Meris.

  Greyt raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he invited.

  “Two of Drex’s guards mentioned a man in black,” Meris said. “Who swept out of the shadows and attacked them at their posts. They killed him on instinct, but decided afterward that he had been just a drunk. We examined the alley where they swore they had dumped the body, but there was nothing there. An assassin, perhaps?”

  “A man in black.” Greyt stopped. A flash of memory came to him, but he pushed it aside. “Ludicrous. If those guards killed a man, his body would still be there. And there are no assassins in Quaervarr. Whose death is worth the expense?” He shrugged dismissively. “Pay it no mind.”

  “They said he was a demon,” Meris said. His voice was calm but his tone was intent.

  “I said to pay it no mind,” Greyt said again. “I’ll not have you chasing after a shadow or a dream, like all the other young fools in the Marches.”

  The youth shrugged. “As you say.” The look on his face, though, told Greyt that Meris was not so pleased.

  Let the boy fume for a while—it would teach him proper respect.

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Meris’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, but Greyt waved at him. “Enter,” he called.

  The Greyt family steward—a gaunt man by the name of Claudir—entered with a neutral expression on his face. Greyt was unsurprised and from his son’s scowl, he reasoned that Meris was wondering how he had known the knock would be Claudir.