Ghostwalker

Chapter 5

26 Tarsakh

Legs crossed and body stripped to the waist, Walker sat peacefully in the forest glade singing the last, bittersweet lines of a song. His ruined voice-like blood flowing through broken glass-mingled with the warm breezes blowing north.

A chilly brook swirled and danced by his feet, flowing from a waterfall that poured over a fallen shadowtop. The sun was setting, painting the forest canopy with emerald light and seeming to set the reddish bark of the firs afire. The snow had melted from the trees already, and not just because of the druidic charm that kept the grove warm. Spring was approaching, and while the snow would not completely disappear until the summer months, the air was warm.

Walker hardly noticed. He did not see the beauty either, for his eyes did not see the world around him.

The shadowy world he walked in his mind was one of ghosts. Colors were so dim that the world seemed painted in shades of gray, and outlines were indistinct. It was difficult for even an experienced ghostwalker to judge where the ground ended and the trees began. A normal mortal would be completely lost, disoriented, and terrified. On the border of material existence, he walked slowly, taking his time and watching. He saw memories of the past as easily as the present. At times, he could not even tell them apart.

He lay on his back, blood spurting from his mouth with every labored breath. Laughing faces… cruel faces hovered above him. Some faces he recognized, and some he did not.

Walker remembered his first visits to the ghost world, when he had been young-one of the first memories he could recall. He had been terrified and had shone so brightly that he had been swarmed with ghosts. His guide had warned him it would happen, but that had not been preparation enough. He would never forget his terror.

Since then, his glow had dulled, even as the shock of entry faded. Now, Walker was coolly accustomed to the bleak landscape of the Ethereal and the Shadow beyond it. It was dark, true, but the ghost world had never held evil: only peace, and his task.

Face calm as it blurred in the Ethereal, Walker took a taste of the peace that surrounded him. Today, almost fifteen years after his first visit, the ghost world was more familiar to him than the living world.

He sensed a presence and turned. A hulking warrior raised its axe to slash at him.

Drex spat upon him. His woodsman's axe gleamed. His growl was that of a beast.

Walker shook his head. Drex was dead. A glimpse of his spirit, that was all he saw.

Ghosts hovered all around him, spirits of those who had passed away: rangers, humanoid creatures who had wandered into the forest and died, and adventurers slain by the forest's dangers. The souls, barely aware and wandering, were the remnants of humans and all those races akin to them-orcs, goblins, and even dwarves. Some spirits, pleasant and dancing around, were those of elves and the fey, rare and joyous things that took comfort in their perpetual, ethereal existence. Many were servants of the Seldarine, but a few tragic ones, the only ones to whom Walker paid any mind, wandered around, unsure of their purpose and without a patron.

The strength of a spirit's passion dictated the vibrancy of its shade, and some seemed truly alive before him. He could only tell they were dead because they lacked the telltale glow of life. Some-the younger and more confused spirits-reached out supplicating hands to him, begging for help, reassurance, or comfort, but Walker did not reply.

There was only one spirit who never talked to him, and Walker only spoke to that one.

"Father," he said softly. "Tarm, my father."

As if in reply, the spirit of the middle-aged man turned to him. Dark, wavy hair fell to his shoulders and soft brown eyes peered at Walker. Tarm was dressed as he had died, in the priestly vestments of Tyr, the deity of justice he had served. As always, the spirit was silent, allowing Walker to speak to himself, to allow his thoughts to reflect back in his own ears.

"Father, I have slain one of them, one of our murderers," said Walker. "Justice has been done at long last."

Tarm's spirit only looked at him with that same sad expression. Then, as though unhappy with Walker, the spirit turned away and disappeared into the trees.

Walker might have felt wounded, except that he knew this feeling all too well. His father never approved of the deaths he inflicted, even those that were necessary. He was always there, except when Walker killed. At those times, Tarm would leave to walk on his invisible path, toward what, the ghostwalker did not know.

Walker turned back to the spirits crowding around him, begging for his attention. Another memory came then, unbidden-a flash of the past Walker could not decipher. A spectral laugh, that of the shadows themselves.

As always, though, Walker ignored their pleas. Many of the weaker spirits did not even see him as distinct-his life-force was so in touch with the ethereal. He was, as in material life, merely an observer, existing on the fringes of the world. He could not have accepted or met those pleas even had he tried and he could not fully join in the ghost world, because something held him back, something that was fiercely material and could only be satisfied in the world of the living.

Vengeance.

He had a thirst to punish those who had wronged him-who still wronged him. He lived for his revenge. It was his task, the task that was his only purpose. And when that task was done-

Blurred memories-a laughing face, covered with his blood, looming over him. Drex… the warrior with the woodsman's axe. Other faces… other men, four others beside Drex. He did not know their names yet, but he would find out…

A smile gleamed in the moonlight above him.

No, that wasn't true. He did not have to find them all anew.

That mocking smile. Those lips that had spoken such kind words leveled a curse at him instead as he lay panting for breath on the grass. "Now, let us teach him how to sing," it said.

He knew one without seeing his face, the one he would kill last.

The thought and sight of his ghostly enemy pulled him from the ghost world. Before he returned to his body, though, there was one more vision, just a flash.

The boy… the boy with the dark eyes and ebony curls…

There was something significant about that boy… there was pain in those eyes.

No matter, though. Walker had to complete his vengeance- his thirst would permit no less. It was all that had driven him for as long as he could remember.

Then Walker opened his eyes in the Material world.

"Well met, my lady," Walker said in perfect Elvish.

"Well met," a rich, sonorous voice replied in kind. There was a bit of laughter in its tone. "How did you know I was here?"

"I am at peace," Walker said. "And I am always at peace when you are near." He looked.

Standing before him was a diminutive woman with sparkling gold skin and gleaming hair that flowed to her waist. Her eyes glittered a majestic hazel with crimson motes and her lips were brushed with the slightest touch of frost. Resplendent in her partial gown of leaves-leaf-shaped pieces of leather stitched in intricate patterns and wound around her slim frame in a manner as wild as it was beautiful-she crossed her arms over her breast and smiled.

Gylther'yel, the Ghostly Lady of legend.

She smiled thinly. "That does not mean I cannot attempt to catch you unawares," Gylther'yel said. "Your abilities grow stronger by the day."

"Abilities you taught me."

Gylther'yel accepted the compliment without a twitch.

"You are not ready," she said. Walker felt a stab of irritation.

"We have spoken of this before," he rasped, his tone flat in warning. "You tell me the same thing every year-that I am not ready."

"I am not about to question your methods, or even your need for revenge," Gylther'yel said. "I only question your timing. Perhaps another year of training-"

"My training is complete. I have struck the first blow," Walker said. "I have delivered my warning. My task is a matter of speed now, and I cannot stop."

"I understand, but why now, of all seasons?" Gylther'yel asked, her voice tranquil. "The snows are falling away and the sun is returning, but Auril still holds sway. The winter is not over."

"All the more fitting for my vengeance," said Walker. "Let them feel fear colder than the snows around them. I am at my strongest when a chill wind blows."

"And I am at my weakest," Gylther'yel countered. Indeed, Walker knew that the ghost druid was most powerful with her fire magic. "The cold is anathema to my powers."

"My deathday approaches-less than a tenday," Walker said. "It is a fitting time."

She continued despite his reply. "You are my guardian, my champion-what if they were to follow you back here? I have not raised you to bring danger to my doorstep…"

Walker smiled. "I did not realize you were so humorous, Gylther'yel," he rasped. Walker had watched the Ghostly Lady hurl fire and call down lightning to smite adventurers who strayed from the paths. He turned away. "Anyone foolish enough to challenge you deserves to feed the earth with his ashes."

Gylther'yel did not nod, but a hint of a smile crossed her golden face. "Still, I warn you against allowing your vendetta to harm my woods." Her face grew stormy. "If you fight here, you will be on your own, and if you fall, so be it. I will not interfere with the will of nature-"

"The strongest and fittest will survive, I know," Walker said. "But fear not. Even the fiercest wolf leads the wild boar away from its den-and family."

His silver wolf ring gleamed as he stood. Its single sapphire eye radiated a calm but dangerous light. It was silent, stoic, and resolute; like Walker himself.

"You speak true," the sun elf said. "Only your timing-"

He rounded on her. "I saw him, Gylther'yel!" he shouted, suddenly speaking in the Common tongue. His voice shattered and broke in his ears. "I saw the boy! He is important, I know it!"

With that, Walker sank to his knees, his hands over his face, racked by unknown tremors. His cloak billowed in the strong breeze and all was silent.

Gylther'yel moved as though to comfort him, but stopped, her attention turned to another face. Tarm, priest of the Justicar, appeared out of the shadows as though drawn to Walker's grief, trying to speak. She hissed at Tarm and the spirit retreated. His father had always feared Gylther'yel, the only mother Walker had ever known.

The ghost druid stepped back and folded her arms over her breast. "I am sorry, Walker," she said. "I remembered for a moment your sweet voice, wafting on the breezes that breathed through this place, before…" She trailed off.

His blue eyes opened. "Do not remind me of days that are gone," he said, speaking Elvish again. His ragged voice was bitter. "I remember the sword that silenced my song. Now all that remains is vengeance."

"Walker, I remember your song-" Gylther'yel started.

"The only song I sing is the scream of steel, the hymn of the duel," Walker said.

She was silent, bowing to his words.

"Do not fear for your lands," he said, rising. "This place is precious. It is the only home I have ever known. The only one I can remember." He turned away, looking into the sunset.

The Ghostly Lady's thin lips turned up in a bittersweet smile. "I am sorry, Walker," she said. "I did not mean to remind you-"

"It is nothing," he said, interrupting her. There was pain in his voice, pain in the suppression, but Gylther'yel said nothing.

The two were silent for a long moment. The sun dipped fully below the horizon and darkness cast its shade over Faerun.

"Night falls," Walker said. "The third night. Time to return to my task."

"Old green Drake, jolly as the day is long," rang the chorus, hollered at the top of Derst's lungs as he danced upon the table.

"Raids a town, not for food but mead!" Bars responded in his deep bellow. He tried, unsuccessfully, to push Derst off the table, but the roguish knight danced out of the way.

"Carries his booty along-" Arm-in-arm, their voices joined in a raucous disharmony for the last lines of the chorus. "A little drink is all he needs!"

The Whistling Stag was filled with laughter. The knights sang, voices slurred with plenty of the same honey-brew of their refrain, and danced-poorly. The ditty used an old Iluskan folk melody but Amnian words pilfered from Derst's favorite bard of that southern kingdom. The crowd loved it. Bars and Derst, arms locked and feet flying, twirled awkwardly amidst a sea of smiles.

Over at the bar, Arya was careful not to allow her hood to slip and reveal her identity. As it was, she gave a small smile and raised her tankard of weak ale in tribute to the dancing fools.

The two were never more amiable than when they were deep in their cups. All their biting wit and competition vanished, to be replaced with jest and good-hearted friendship. Arya wondered if the two ever clearly remembered their sodden revels, and if they would be embarrassed that their seeming rivalry ended with only a mug or dozen of mead, ale, or elverquisst. Especially elverquisst.

Arya found herself wanting to join them, as a noble lady did not often have the chance to engage in such pursuits-Regent Alusair of Cormyr a notable exception-but she had other plans.

She had retired early, feigning weariness, and emerged without armor or sword, clad in woodsman's garb. In plain, earthen tones, Arya would not leave the sort of impression the daughter of Lord Rom Venkyr of Everlund in blue and silver would strike. Perhaps on this, the third evening, she could finally find some answers to the questions that had brought her to Quaervarr.

Finishing her ale, Arya waited until Bars and Derst were finished with their merry tune about the drunken wyrm. Then, while the crowd clapped and cheered the two staggering singers on, she set two copper coins on the bar and made her exit unobtrusively.

Arya stepped out into the night and pulled her cloak tightly around her slim frame. Her breath crystallized before her face. While the snow that had dusted Quaervarr the previous night was gone, the air was not warmer for it. The street was deserted, and Arya felt a familiar emptiness creeping up on her, as it always did when she was alone, but she pushed it away as best she could and made her way to the other local tavern, the Red Bear.

Unlike the Whistling Stag, renowned throughout the Silver Marches for its fine brew and finer company and visited by almost every adventurer in the north once or thrice, the Red Bear catered solely to Quaervarr locals. The ale was of a lower quality and the conversations were correspondingly less lively. Still, it was an excellent meeting place for hunters, trappers, and frontiersmen of all kinds, providing a common ground where they could come after a day's work and compare tales over tankards of Keeper Brohlm's finest. The old, hardened patrons were the most likely to know about life in the Moonwood.

Thus, they were the most likely to have heard word of the missing couriers.

Arya stepped into the smoky bar, stooping to avoid knocking her head against low-hanging, mildew-stained rafters. With a tiny gasp, she managed to catch herself before she stumbled down the steps into the tavern.

" 'Ware, lass," a gray-bearded man said at her side, reaching to steady her. He forgot to set down his mug and splashed ale over them both, but he didn't seem to notice. "The Bear's not what she used to be." Arya accepted his hand with a nod and a smile and ignored the creeping wetness he had just spilled all over her wool breeches.

Taking her response as encouragement, he launched into an explanation of the rafters and the sunken floor. Local legend had it that the founder of the Red Bear had built the tavern on the finest ground available to compete with the Stag, but the curse of Silvanus on certain disloyal worshipers had caused the ground to soften and brought the tavern sinking down.

"That'll teach us to skip ceremonies for a brew, aye, lass?" he asked with a chuckle.

Arya accepted the tale with an easy manner, though it held little interest for her. It would not hurt her cause to ingratiate herself with the townsfolk. The barkeep caught her eye, and she ordered a weak ale.

"What can you tell me about travelers who pass through the Moonwood?" Arya asked the old man. "Messengers from Silverymoon, mayhap?"

"Well, the one who'd be knowing about that'd be Lord Singer Greyt." The name set his eyes to shining. "He meets all the outsiders and adventurers passing through. E'en wedded a few o' them."

Arya held up her hand. "I'm not really interested in hearing about-"

"Did I hear ye mention the Lord Singer, Elbs?" a particularly buxom serving maid asked beside their table. She was a golden-haired woman of the north with steeper curves than Arya had thought possible on a woman's body.

Arya was about to pipe up, but a huge smile painted her dining companion's face. "Annia… Aye, lassie," he said. "Just telling Goodwoman-"

"Goldwine," Arya said. She reasoned Bars and Derst wouldn't mind if she borrowed their names. "Maid Goldwine."

"Goodmaid Goldwine about Quickwidower's wives," he said.

"Quickwidower?" Arya asked, frowning at the nickname.

"Aye, Greyt can't stay married more than a year or three," said Annia. "Just like any man, if'n ye ask me. Charmin' though-just look at the wives and babes. Though…" A shadow crept across her face. "They was all sickly. Poor babes, only one survived to ten."

"Greyt has separated from many wives?" asked Arya.

"Aye, after a fashion. The lasses tended to meet with accidents," Elbs said somberly. "Greyt's got the rottenest luck with women. Shame, such pretty things. Died, most o' them. Or left town-just couldn't settle down. Hey, that sounds like one o' the Lord Singer's rhymes-"

The barmaid slapped him on the back of the head. "Lord Greyt certainly made that mistake," the barmaid said. "Should've ne'er settled down, but Lyetha was here."

"Lyetha?" Arya asked, wondering what the half-elf woman had to do with this.

"The woman he's always loved," Elbs said wistfully. "Lyetha, heartbroken after her husband and son disappeared. The most beautiful woman in Quaervarr." The barmaid's face turned stormy. Elbs smiled widely and patted her bottom. " 'Cept for me pretty Annia 'ere."

Apparently appeased, the voluptuous woman smiled and moved away.

Elbs turned back to Arya. "Only babe still breathing, though, be that fancy-faced Meris," he said. "Dashing, but something about him I just don't like, ye know?"

"What?" Arya asked.

"I don't be knowing," he replied. "Never talks back to his father-right respectable lad, that Meris."

"You mean respectful," corrected Arya. "They are not the same thing."

"Oh aye," Elbs replied. "Even when Lord Singer goes against Speaker Stonar…"

As he continued, Arya nodded without speaking. She had been thinking about getting up and trying her luck elsewhere, but something about this thread of conversation was appealing. She offered to buy Elbs another ale, an offer he heartily accepted. Arya smiled, thinking that she was already on the right track to the answers she sought.

Nursing his glass of heated wine, Greyt wasn't surprised to find himself alone for dinner. Claudir had set three places with the hope that he might serve his master, mistress, and Greyt's son, but, as usual, it was only Greyt who graced the table with his presence.

The dinner was elegant, Greyt decided, though too simple for his liking. Roast lamb, imported from warmer climes, was a delicacy Greyt could afford and so feasted upon regularly. Despite having lived all his life in the North, the Lord Singer had never developed a taste for the hard rothe meat from the herds that sometimes wandered the plains to the east. Trays of rich mustards and sauces provided pools of myriad colors among the winter flowers spread across the table in crystalline vases.

His preference for decadent dishes, coupled with his obsession for the various fruits and vegetables arranged in sunbursts and crescents around the table caused many to call him a "man of weak stomach." Grey preferred to call himself a "creature of delicacy and culture."

To Greyt it hardly mattered; he was, after all, Quaervarr's hero.

Greyt was disappointed a certain half-elf woman was not there to sit with him, but he was not terribly troubled. He could appreciate silence once in a while, even in his line of work.

As though in response to his thoughts, a door swung open and Claudir stepped inside. "Lyetha Elfsdaughter, the Lady Greyt," he announced.

His forehead suddenly itching, Greyt thought it might serve him best to forbid her entrance. He was about to reply to his steward's announcement when Lyetha swept into the room, almost bowling over Claudir. Greyt had to remember to suck in his breath when he saw her, or he might have berated her then, and the illusion would be spoiled.

A cascade of glowing amber hair fell around Lyetha's shoulders and her eyes blazed with sapphire light. Her face, with its distinct gold tinge, hinted clearly at her sun elf heritage. Slim and perfectly rounded, she radiated beauty in her gown of gleaming black, even as the color made Greyt wince. The frown on her full lips drew her face down, exposing soft wrinkles that hinted at her age, but she was still stunning. Lyetha had aged much more gracefully than Greyt ever would, and while they were nearly the same age, he looked at least two decades her senior.

Greyt had once thought Lyetha an incarnation of Hanali Cenali herself and pursued her with single-minded determination.

Once.

"Ah, my matchless darling," he said grandly as she swept toward him. "Do you find this evening to your liking, Morning Star?" His tone was purposefully poetic.

Lyetha ignored the compliment. She stood a short distance from the table, crossed her arms, and shifted her weight onto her back foot. "Care to explain yourself, Dharan?" she asked, the sarcasm thick on her tongue. Even so, the tone of her voice was rich, with a hint of a melody begging for release.

"I beg your pardon?" Greyt asked. He swept his hand out, gesturing for her to sit, and sipped his wine. "Pray, try some of this vintage. Amnian, I believe-or so Claudir tells me. He's always the one who keeps track. I just tell him which wines I like and which I don't."

Lyetha sat but did not follow Greyt's advice about the wine. She served herself, taking some of the vegetables on the table. After she had filled the plate, she ignored her food. Her attention remained on the Lord Singer.

"You know exactly what I mean," she said. "A bard with your long years of training and experience doesn't falter on a simple lyric, particularly one in a song you wrote yourself and have sung for almost a decade and a half."

"Don't be ridiculous," Greyt said, only half paying attention. "I would never-"

"The song about the children?" Lyetha pressed. "The missed note?"

Greyt was about to dismiss whatever she'd been about to say, but he was knocked off his guard. Of course she would ask about that. After all, it did ring with some importance to her.

"Ah yes," he said. "A minor mishap. Must be getting on in years. Watch out, I might become Elminster before you know it."

"Pausing on Ghar-on that monster's name is a minor mishap?" Lyetha countered. She stumbled over the name of Greyt's father, Gharask. "I could feel a chill, and yet-"

A retort died on his lips and he looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening.

"I'm sorry, love," he said. "Coincidence, and that 'twas a cold night. No man is perfect, right?"

There was silence for a long moment. Greyt, who was purposefully not looking at Lyetha once more, could feel her eyes on him. He took a long time cutting a piece of lamb into tiny pieces and raised the pink meat to his lips. Though it was too hot, he suppressed the wince. Such an expression would not do, not in the current situation.

He noticed again her black dress. Of course Lyetha would be wearing mourning colors near the end of winter. This year made even more sense, being the fifteen-year anniversary of the murders that had claimed the last thing she had loved.

"But that name-" Lyetha started.

"Yes?" Greyt asked impatiently.

She opened her mouth to ask a question.

At that moment, the door from the inner hall flew open and Meris stormed into the room, muttering something. He wore his white tunic, but there was a black robe in his hand. No sword was belted on his hip, but the fierce expression on his face was just as dangerous as any length of sharpened steel. Lyetha started, almost leaping from her chair.

Meris stopped and scowled at her.

"Don't rise, Lyetha," the dusky scout snapped. "I won't be staying."

Greyt stretched lazily. "Meris, sit-eat with us," he offered.

"I'm not hungry." Meris didn't bother regarding either of them. "I'm going out."

"At least offer a kind word to your lady mother," Greyt said. "You've startled her."

Meris stopped in his tracks. He turned his head toward them. "I am under no obligation to show any courtesy to her," he said to the Lord Singer. "My mother was not an elf-get trollop." With that, he looked away and strode through the double doors. They slammed shut behind him.

"No, your mother was Amnian," Greyt mused as he sipped his wine.

After a moment, he became aware that Lyetha was staring at him. He looked over at her, met her cold blue gaze, and shrugged.

"Pay it no mind, dear," he said. "Young men say things without thinking. I've oft thought he needs a cool head to temper him, but I haven't found any worthy woman."

Lyetha sniffed.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then she rose and silently took her leave. She stopped at the door but did not turn.

"Dharan," Lyetha asked, without looking back. "About Gharask… and Rhyn. Is there any doubt that your father killed my son?"

"No, my dear. Of course, no," he replied without turning his head or missing a beat. "No more than scarlet falls the snow."

He took another sip of his wine and pretended to ignore her. It was not difficult.

Lyetha sighed and slipped out the door, seeking the refuge of her chambers.

After spending plenty of silver on drinks for potential informants and learning nothing of import, Arya gave up and climbed out of the tavern. The meaty barkeep Brohlm thanked her and swept up her coins with a flick of his thick wrist.

While the customers of the Red Bear were very knowledgeable about Quaervarr's history and the surrounding lands, they knew nothing of Stonar's couriers. They had told her all about Greyt and Stonar's rivalry-the two seemed at odds over every public issue, but it was a friendly competition, by all appearances. She did not blame them-they were simple frontiersmen-but she found her search's fruitlessness irritating.

Besides, she had heard far too much about her adored step-uncle.

In the cold once more, Arya shivered and adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. The ale stain on her breeches was freezing. Not for the first time, she wished she had sent Derst on this foray instead. He was more adept at gathering information, for pressing into the right threads of a conversation, and for discerning something useful where she found only local history and superstition. Perhaps she would have him go out the following night.

Arya set out through the streets toward the Whistling Stag, where a warm bed and a pair of drunken, invariably laughing compatriots awaited her. She knew she would enjoy the former, but she wasn't especially looking forward to the latter.

Arya turned around a corner and caught sight of the Stag. She shivered and continued on, looking forward to the warmth.

A hand reached out from the alley between two buildings and caught her by the arm.

Arya tried to wrest out of the grasp, but her reflexes were too dulled by the cold. As it was, she inhaled the breath to scream, but a hand pressed itself over her mouth to stifle the sound. She tasted tanned deer hide.

"Wanderin' late at night, are ye, pretty wench?" a growling voice asked in a rough accent. "Not lookin' where ye be-Ah!" His words turned into a gasp of pain as she bit him through the leather glove. She managed to worm out of the loosened grip as he reeled, and brought her elbow back hard, catching him in the stomach. She whirled to face him, instinctively reaching for her sword-which wasn't there.

Arya turned right into a backhand slap, a blow that left her spinning and dazed. The only weapon she carried was a long dagger in her boot, but when she stooped, a knee caught her in the chin and sent her staggering back into the wall. The impact knocked whatever breath she'd been able to recover from her lungs and she sank to her knees.

Her assailant was on her in an instant, catching her by the shoulders. Before she could punch at him, he clutched her wrists with an iron grasp. "Not going to play nice?" His voice had changed, his accent shifting into something less rustic. He sounded familiar, but she couldn't recognize it through the gruffness and the pain.

"No' so intimidatin' with-outta sword, are ye, Sir Serving Wench?" The gruff, broken language was back. It might have sounded slurred, but Arya knew her attacker was not drunk. She was about to ponder the implications when another slap caught her face.

"Who said… I was a… knight…?" Arya managed through swelling lips, though she was painfully aware of the Silverymoon brooch that shone brightly through her open cloak. Blood trickled from her split lip.

"Count thyself fortunate ye harlots disgust me," he said. He held a dagger to her throat but then paused. "Still, I could reconsider, seeing thy face…" He ran a finger down her cheek, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Then a dark shape dropped behind the attacker, silently, with what seemed like wings billowing wide.

The man grunted as the newcomer threw him against the opposite wall. The dagger that had threatened Arya's life skittered into the shadows. The gruff attacker went for another knife, but a gleaming sword point appeared at his throat and the hand froze.

"Inadvisable," the savior rasped. The assailant cringed at his broken voice, and even Arya felt a chill when she heard it.

Arya's vision swam, but she heard the assailant chuckle.

"You not going to tell me to drop the knife?" he asked. "Just that my suit is 'inadvisable?'"

"Your choice," came the reply.

A knife clattered down. "So you're the one they call Walker," the assailant said. His voice was back to normal. It seemed familiar, somehow.

"Perhaps," her savior-Walker, she knew in her heart-replied. His manner was filled with a terrifying resolution.

"You don't seem all that impressive to me," the assailant said. "You fool us all from a distance with your cloak and your silence, but you don't impress me up close."

"Irrelevant," Walker replied. "Yours is the judgment of a coward in a mask."

Arya's vision was just clearing. She saw that Walker had not withdrawn his sword and the unnamed attacker was still standing at the end of the sharp steel. He didn't look cowed at all; rather, his stance was a challenge to Walker. The assailant wore a tattered black cloak and had his cowl pulled low. Even so, his mouth was just faintly visible stretching into a sneer.

"This isn't over, whoever ye be, Walker." He was feigning the drunken voice again and slipping away along the wall. "The People of the Black Blood will have your heart for this."

"I doubt it," Walker replied, though which assertion he doubted, he showed no sign. He kept his blade up until the hooded man ran out of the alley. Walker watched him go for a moment, sheathed the sword, and turned back toward the street.

"Wait!" Arya managed as she struggled to climb to her feet.

Startled, as though he had not noticed her, Walker turned to regard Arya. His collar was pulled up high and his face was half concealed, but Arya took careful note of his features-they were the only things she could focus upon. His pale skin and black cloak contrasted starkly in the moonlight. He was dark in dress and wild of hair, as though he were a demon come to Faerun. Arya, however, could only see the light of his eyes. At first, his presence had been terrifying, but she found that as she looked on him, she became less and less afraid. There was something about him, something that told her he was important, a key to the entire unfolding mystery.

And there was something she could see in his eyes-a call waiting to be answered, a terrible vengeance…

Then Walker's eyes vanished into shadow as he turned away. Arya tried to follow him, but her vision swam. He was gone.

Staggering, off-balance, and with her head splitting, Arya managed to limp back to the Whistling Stag, where she could hear the sounds of raucous laughter issuing from the windows. She ignored it as she pressed through the doors and made her way up to her room.

For Arya knew two things: that her business with the dark stranger was not finished for the night, and that she would need her blade.