Ghostwalker

Chapter 6

26 Tarsakh

Walker strode away from the alley, his mouth set in a frown. He did not have far to go-Quaervarr had perhaps five dozen buildings and only three main streets. Few would be out of their homes after nightfall, and none would spot him as he glided between shadows.

Not that he would have cared even had he been watched. He was thinking of the woman with the auburn hair.

He had come upon the struggle in the alley by coincidence as he stalked through Quaervarr, and any other day he might have passed by without interference. Why had he saved her? He had no idea who she was. He'd never seen before, but that was not surprising. Strangers often came through Quaervarr; he himself was a stranger, in a sense.

Had he acted out of a sense of justice? Walker scowled. Justice was antiquated and meaningless-he had only to think of the murder of his father, a devotee of Tyr, for evidence. Still, the choice had not felt random; it had not been whim. Had the sight of the woman sparked feelings in him, feelings long since buried? His pulse quickened.

Walker turned to the spirit of Tarm for guidance, but his father's face was impassive. Whatever answers Walker was going to discover would come from within, where he was empty.

Using techniques perfected over long years of practice, Walker put it as far as he could out of his mind. His memory of the auburn-haired woman remained vivid, and it burned, almost indignantly, from its place in his subconscious, but he paid it no attention. He focused his attention on the task at hand-Torlic, the warrior known in Quaervarr as the "Dancing Blade."

Walker's hand went to his arm, where an old stab wound throbbed.

Torlic's was a large townhouse, built in the early days of Quaervarr and expanded later. Over the last twenty years, Torlic-a razor-thin half-elf with a penchant for the rapier-had built himself a substantial base in the Quaervarr watch, thanks to Dharan Greyt. Torlic was first lieutenant to Unddreth, though not because of his personality or any friendship with the hulking captain of the Watch. Torlic was also known for his paranoia and regularly posted his underlings to guard his own house, rather than to patrol the streets.

There were no guards that night, though, Walker observed. It seemed unlike a man such as Torlic to be unprepared, so Walker was wary. Mithral sword in its scabbard, the ghostly warrior stalked toward the house on a roundabout path, through the shadows, just in case any guards were watching from behind the darkened windows.

Leaving the front entrance behind, Walker slid along the worn logs of the outer wall and searched for a back entrance.

He could have tapped into the ethereal and walked through the barrier, but he preferred to reserve his powers for an escape, if necessary.

As Gylther'yel had done, Walker questioned the timing of his attacks. He was not worried about one of his targets overwhelming him, but fighting more than one was risky. His success depended, to an extent, on surprise, but his foes would become increasingly paranoid as they died one by one. It seemed like a tactical error, allowing them to build defenses as they grew suspicious, and as time passed…

Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to show them that all their paranoia and preparation would not save them from cold vengeance. Or perhaps he wanted them to stop him. For in the end, what could be awaiting him but the logical conclusion of his task?

He looked over at the mute spirit of his father, Tarm, who hovered three paces to the right. The man was wearing a sad, distant expression unsuited to his face. Why was he always so sad? Walker wondered. Did he hold a secret of some kind, something he could not share?

Walker doubted the spirit would aid him in his struggle, considering how deeply Tarm seemed to disapprove of his task. And, besides, for all Walker knew, Tarm might not be able to speak. Pity, since he would have appreciated scouting before he walked into potential ambushes.

Walker found a rear entrance, which was, of course, locked. Not a thief by trade, Walker had no skill in opening locks, but he had come prepared. Opening a belt pouch, he carefully extracted the contents-a small leather-wrapped bundle: a gift from Gylther'yel. Delicately, he unfolded the wrapping until an orange-red acorn stood out against the black leather of his glove.

He pondered it for a moment-a beautiful piece of nature, to be used in such an unnatural thing as murder. Gylther'yel had taught him all his skills and abilities, true, but was his course in keeping with what she held sacred? The Ethereal was as much a part of the world as the physical, but was he going too far? Was his talent, his very existence, unnatural?

For that matter, would that not make her unnatural as well?

Again, Walker looked at Tarm but, as always, the spirit gave him no answers, merely the chance for Walker to ask questions of himself.

Was Walker an abomination?

After a moment, he found that he did not know and, when he was honest with himself, he found he did not much care. In a few days, it would no longer matter at all.

Walker held the acorn against the lock and handle on the door. "Eat away the works of man," he rasped quietly in Elvish.

In response, the acorn shuddered and sank into the metal. Where it touched, ripples of red spread outward, rusting and corroding the lock and handle. The metal groaned in helpless protest, but the rust did its work.

The handle was red dust before it hit the mud.

The hinges creaked only slightly. He saw no guards or servants in the dark house. Walker calmly walked inside.

His nonchalance was, of course, an act. Walker had to assume that Torlic was ready for him; his task was too important to risk carelessly.

Walker heard a faint ringing, as of swords clashing far away, and he fell into readiness. The differences in Walker's carriage were subtle, such that only a skilled swordsman could detect them; to the rest of the world, he remained relaxed.

Walker found himself in a rear entry hall, with benches around the walls and hooks for cloaks and other garments. The place was sparse. There was little furniture to sit upon and the walls were stark. A few cloaks, mostly the black ones with the green lining of the Quaervarr guard, but that was it. The tapestries that usually adorned the homes of the wealthy were absent. Torlic's home was simple, with small, uncomfortable rooms-that of a soldier.

In the entrance room, Walker saw double doors leading deeper into the house and a pair of doors on either side. He explored the side doors first, opening them a crack to peer through. One led to a kitchen, the other to a storeroom, and neither was occupied. A pot sat over a long-cooled fire in the kitchen, and knives and small cleavers hung overhead where servants could reach them. Bundles-most likely containing bread and other slow-perishing items-sat on wooden shelves, untouched. There was a larder in the corner of the kitchen as well. The storeroom contained weapons, armor, saddles, and part of a wagon.

The door to the main room beckoned and Walker answered the call. He listened at it briefly, long enough to ascertain that the noises of the swords were coming from behind it, and put his hand on the latch. Tarm fixed him with a supplicating gaze, as though begging him to turn back, but when Walker met those eyes, the spirit turned away and walked through the wall.

Walker nodded.

His father may never speak, but his guidance was still there.

Greyt was startled as Meris stormed into his study, throwing the doors wide. He tore a black cloak from his shoulders.

"Back so soon, son?" Greyt asked, looking up from the scroll upon which he was inscribing his latest ballad. Next to him rested some neglected correspondence he had meant to send to Stonar's desk when he got around to it-perhaps sometime later this year. "Claudir hadn't announced your presence, but I see time was of the essence."

"He didn't get the chance," Meris said curtly. Behind him, the gaunt steward rushed in, red-faced, apologizing over and over for the intrusion.

Greyt waved him away. "A bad day?" he asked. "Didn't find sport to your liking, eh?"

Meris stomped over to the Singer's desk and slammed down a black leather bundle. It clattered on the thick oak. "Tell me he's just a shadow now," he said angrily. Then he whirled and strode out, his feet pounding the creaking wood under the carpet.

"I need to get that fixed, it seems," Greyt said of the floor as the door slammed.

The words trailed off as he looked at the leather pouch Meris had deposited on his desk. He wasn't about to touch it, but it consumed a moment of his attention.

He went back to making notes, but the rhymes would not come. He was forcing the ballad and, like all art, it could not be demanded. Greyt threw the ink quill down on the desk.

A disgusted frown twisted his face and he seized the bundle, wincing when something within scratched him. Ignoring the blood that welled from his finger, he ripped it open, threw the contents down on the desk, and drew back in shock.

It was the snapped blade of Drex Redgill's wood axe. There was a bit of blood on it, where the jagged edge had torn through the leather and cut his finger.

Torlic spun back and around, bringing his rapier singing up to parry his opponent's blade. The glittering blade snapped down and thrust under Torlic's guard, but the nimble half-elf simply twisted his rapier around and sent the thrust out harmlessly wide.

The blond watchman Narb, Torlic's opponent, slashed right to left, and the half-elf picked off the attack with a neat, almost casual parry. An attack high followed by a thrust low met similar fates, parried with quick flicks of Torlic's wrist. Narb lunged-a strike Torlic easily dodged-and faltered. Torlic sidestepped Narb and slapped him twice on the backside with the flat of his blade, making a "tsk" sound in his throat. Torlic covered his yawning mouth with one dainty hand.

Angry, the youthful watchman lunged at Torlic, but the half-elf leaped back, spinning to land on his toes. The dancing half-elf flicked his sword back and forth, tempting his opponent.

"Try harder, Narb," Torlic said. "I haven't broken a sweat yet."

The two fought in Torlic's training room. It was a wide, open square with walls lined with weapons and practice dummies. Members of Quaervarr's Watch used this training arena for dueling and for working on their sword skills. Most of them took instruction from Torlic himself, whose sword's sharpness was surpassed only by his tongue. If fencing was his hobby, criticism was his habit.

Narb, shaking his golden mane, growled a negative. "Sorry, Captain," he said. He turned away and took a few steps. He limped from where Torlic's blade had slapped his thigh. "Me bed's callin' me louder than your sword."

Narb was handsome and young, and it was clear that Torlic had picked him for exactly those traits. The vain half-elf loved the company of men he found lovely-and enjoyed proving his superiority over them even more. Narb fingered the scar running down his otherwise flawless face, remnant of a recent rapier wound.

"Tired, are we?" Torlic asked. "Too warm? Or perhaps you're not properly motivated. Do you need another scar?" He cut his light rapier through the air, then stretched his arms.

Narb's face paled.

"It's a little too warm, I agree," said Torlic. He turned to open the window, letting in the cutting chill of the breeze.

The young watchman was walking away when Torlic cleared his throat.

"Narb, you work for me, remember?" he asked without looking back.

At the door, the watchman stopped. "Yes, but-" Narb started.

"Put up your guard," Torlic said. "I'm not done with you yet."

As he turned, Narb opened his mouth to protest then staggered away, gaping.

As though he had stepped out of the air itself, Walker stood between them, the fringes of his cloak rustling in the breeze from the window. Spikes of hair shifted around his face. His arms were hidden inside the black cloth of his cloak. His cold eyes-beautiful in the way that thunderstorms are-were fixed on Torlic.

"Your replacement seems to…" Torlic started, but his voice trailed off as the crushing weight of the ghostwalker's will fell upon him. His knees felt weak and the rapier in his hand grew heavy.

"Send him away," Walker rasped.

Torlic seemed to gather his senses again. "Go," he said to Narb without taking his eyes from his new opponent. "This is a duel between me and the dark gentleman."

"Should I call Unddreth?" Narb stammered, trembling with exhaustion and fear.

"Yes," Torlic said. He flicked his eyes toward the watchman. "There will be a corpse to cart away when I'm done."

Walker said nothing, but a hint of a smile might have creased his mouth-behind the high black collar.

Narb wasted no time in leaving, and the two listened to his rapid footfalls and the outer door slamming shut as he dashed off. Torlic tossed the rapier from hand to hand, cutting it through the air in practice moves.

The man in black did not move.

"So, Walker-if I may call you so, lovely boy-how long would you guess we have?" Torlic asked. His voice was almost lewd. "It's a disorganized Watch, and Unddreth is a heavy sleeper-"

"How soon do you wish for your death?" Walker asked.

"How about not at all?" Torlic asked with a whimsical smile. "How soon do you wish-"

Walker stepped aside as Torlic's blade flashed past.

Faster than the eye could follow, the half-elf had darted forward and thrust, thinking to end the battle right then. Walker swept a silvery long sword out of the folds of his cloak and knocked the rapier to the right, then parried to the left when Torlic tried to reverse his strike. Walker leaped away, his cloak swirling around him, and brought the blade left to right, low to high, throwing the rapier up wide when Torlic thrust a third time.

As the half-elf danced back, his offensive momentum spent, Walker continued his spinning attack. Eyes popping wide, Torlic barely got the sword up in time to knock the blow high enough to keep it from taking his head from his shoulders. Walker's mithral blade screeched against the rapier and Torlic pulled his weapon away as quickly as he could. He leaped back and wove his blade through the air to distract and ward off his opponent.

The warrior in black charged, ignoring the whipping blade. Torlic dived aside of the slashing long sword and turned a somersault on the floor, coming up with a main-gauche in his left hand, drawn from his belt.

Walker slashed in with the long sword, and Torlic hooked it on his rapier's basket hilt. He pulled his left arm back to jab, but Walker's fist was faster. The half-elf went tumbling backward, his face stinging, but he kept a firm hold on his weapons.

That was fortunate for him, since Walker was right there, slashing again.

"My lady, what…?" asked Garion. The voice trailed off as Arya shot the innkeeper a burning look. She would clearly brook no delay. The blows to her head had left her dizzy but intent.

She had to find the man in black, the mysterious Walker she had heard about in whispers. She felt almost desperate to see him again. He frightened her, but he intrigued her; thus, he frightened her all the more.

Arya threw open the door to her room and darted inside, ignoring the snoring bodies of Bars and Derst in the middle of the floor. Apparently, they had both tried for the bed but neither had made it.

Arya knew she didn't have time to don her plate armor, so she grabbed her shield and long sword before rushing down the stairs.

Arya heard hooves stomping by outside the door just as she reached for the handle. She threw open the door and leaped out to intercept the horsemen.

There were perhaps a dozen, dressed in the green and black of the Quaervarr guard, about twenty paces up the cobblestone street. Riding on unarmored horses, they carried spears, shields, and long swords. The horses were moving at a brisk pace, so Arya was certain something was afoot.

Arya dashed in front of the approaching horsemen, causing them to rein in. "Hold, in the name of Lady Alustriel and the Silver Marches!" she shouted, brandishing her sword high.

"Out of the way, wench!" one of the guardsmen, a young, handsome man with a scar running down his face, shouted at her. "We almost rode you down!" He drew his sword and pointed it at her. "Don't interfere-"

"Stand down, Narb," a deep, growling voice came. "Can't you recognize a Knight in Silver?" The boy seemed to shrink in his saddle, and the sword went back in its scabbard.

Arya turned. The lead watchman, a huge man on an even more tremendous stallion, addressed her. A hammer sprouted from his fist. Powerfully muscled, he might have been wider than the length of the warhammer he carried, his shoulders broader than Arya's sword was long.

"Hail," he rumbled. "Who are you who wears the colors of Silverymoon?" He indicated her blue cloak and distinctive brooch of office.

"I am Arya Venkyr, knight-errant of Silverymoon," she said, resolute.

"Well met, Sir Venkyr, Nightingale of Everlund," the commander said, with a slight nod, sparking murmurs from the other watchmen. Arya winced to see her name recognized, but the murmurs were only about a Knight in Silver, not about Arya Venkyr.

The captain pulled his hood back. Underneath, he had a blocky face with stone-colored skin, and the gemlike eyes and distinctly chiseled features of an earth genasi. "I am Unddreth, Captain of the Watch."

"Sir Unddreth," Arya greeted him. "What business takes you at such a dark time of night?"

"Narb reports that Sir Torlic-of the watch-has been attacked by some darkly clad intruder who appeared out of the shadows," he said. "We go to his aid."

"I'm coming with you," Arya said.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but you are not mounted," Unddreth observed.

"Horses are hardly necessary, if it's in town," Arya said, fingering her sword.

"There may be a chase," Unddreth rumbled. He flicked the reins of his huge war-horse. "We need the speed."

The rest of the guardsmen kicked their steeds and trotted down the cobbled streets. "I appreciate the offer of aid, but we cannot delay longer."

"My horse!" Arya shouted to the stable boy, who was peeking out the stable door at the commotion. Unddreth bowed his head slightly, turned his steed, and made to trot away.

"Don't bother," a voice came from the side. Arya whirled, and Meris was there astride his stallion, dressed in his distinctive white leathers. "I'll take you."

When Meris appeared, Unddreth stopped and looked at him warily. "We don't need your help, Wayfarer." The surname was a condemnation, akin to calling Meris a bastard directly.

Though the edge of his mouth twitched slightly, Meris ignored the genasi as though Unddreth's voice, the crashing of boulders, were but the breeze. He extended his hand. "Come."

Arya took a step back. "My thanks, but I'd rather ride with Unddreth," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"That brute's horse can barely carry him," Meris said. He smiled, an expression that might have been pleasant had Arya not known him better. "Let me make amends for my rude behavior earlier."

Arya hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand. She didn't want to take it, but it was a seemingly good-hearted offer. The code of knighthood, to which she had sworn, would not permit a personal bad sentiment to interfere with duty. Unddreth was watching and weighing her; Arya knew the significance of her decision.

The stable boy appeared then, leading Arya's horse, Swift-fall, fully saddled. The crimson mare neighed in friendly recognition, but quieted when it saw Meris's black stallion.

"Oh look," Arya said pointedly. "My horse."

Meris sneered. "Suit yourself," he spat. He turned abruptly, dug his heels into his stallion's flanks, and burst away.

Unddreth nodded to her, a slight smile on his blocky features, and rode off.

Arya, not weighed down by armor, easily vaulted into her saddle and followed them. The stable boy ducked out of the way just in time, and the knight-errant was away, racing down the street to the house of Torlic.

The long sword came down over his head, and Torlic barely deflected it with both weapons. The black-clad warrior was deceptively slender-his frail build belied strength equal to even Unddreth's might! Torlic was on the defensive, constantly retreating, keeping his weaving blades moving to ward off Walker's blade.

"Is this it?" Torlic sneered. "You call this skill?"

Walker slashed diagonally, and Torlic parried, but the warrior in black slid the sword down the rapier and main gauche, locking the hilts on his own. He gazed into Torlic's eyes with something akin to fury. Torlic took that as a good sign.

"Having some trouble?"

No reply.

"What are you, mute?"

"Silent as the grave," Walker said calmly.

"That's not polite, my lovely boy," Torlic mocked.

Walker did not reply but gritted his teeth.

Torlic peered harder at his opponent. Walker was younger than he had seemed at first. "Impressive entrance, frightening dress, but no skill," Torlic said. "You have no business fighting a real man."

Walker smiled. Then he threw Torlic tumbling back with a heave of his shoulders. The half-elf rolled, blades held wide, and went into a crouch. He came up slashing, but Walker had not followed.

Rather, the dark warrior stood, eyes burning, in the center of the room once more. The only difference between now and when he had first appeared was that he held his mithral sword outside of his cloak, pointed down at the floor. The blade was touched with translucence, making it appear almost ghostly. Torlic felt the weight of Walker's presence once more, only now it seemed sharper, more focused.

"That's a shatterspike blade, is it not?" the half-elf asked. He looked at the nicks it had left on his rapier. "Interesting," he continued when no reply was forthcoming. "Come dance with me, boy, whoever you are," Torlic said, weaving his blade before him. "I wasn't careful before, and you caught me. It won't happen again. I'm through toying with you." He pointed his blade at Walker's eyes. "Dance with me, boy: I'll be the last thing you ever see."

Even as Torlic spoke the words, he could feel the heat bleed out of the room and Walker's stance become even firmer. It was almost as though the half-elf had just thrown down his blade and admitted defeat. Above it all, though, Walker seemed to pulse with an icy resolution that set the ever-confident Torlic back on his heels.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Torlic asked, noticeably flustered. "Some fool I chased out of town? Some angry merchant I swindled? Some jealous, cuckolded husband? Lover? Some pretty thing I scarred?"

Walker was silent.

"You know, it doesn't matter." Torlic shifted his grip, turning his knuckles skyward. His blade flashed in the dim light. "Or, at least, it won't matter in a moment."

Torlic thrust forward, rapier flashing out like lightning and dagger whipping, ready to block a counter attack. Walker leaped at the last moment, seeming to fly back and under the blade. His trailing foot caught Torlic's wrist and knocked the blade harmlessly high, and his other foot struck the half-elf in the chest, knocking him back. As though not exerting himself in the least, Walker rolled backward in the air and fell to his feet. His cloak flowed behind him.

Torlic staggered back, righting himself with effort, only to find Walker standing before him, that same stoic expression on his face.

Impressed, Torlic slashed right, and left, then right again, but Walker dodged each blow. Whirling, Walker knocked the rapier away, but Torlic allowed the parry to spin him the same way, and his dagger shot out. The half-elf sneered, thinking this to be a deadly strike.

Walker continued spinning as well, and, to Torlic's astonishment, he floated into the air. With matchless grace, Walker leaped over the chest-level thrust. The shatterspike slammed down, and Torlic barely managed to block it. The blades sparked and the half-elf staggered back.

When he looked up, blades held low, Walker landed and faced him, nonchalant, his sword held down.

Torlic was shaking with anger. "Enough," he snapped.

With a furious snarl on his lips, the half-elf came forward in a rush, low to the ground, balancing on the balls of his feet. As he ran, Torlic waved his weapons around him in a whirlwind flurry, faster than any but the greatest duelist could follow. As he came on, he jumped, rolled, cartwheeled, and twirled through the air, in a confusing and dizzying charge.

This devastating acrobatic rush, seemingly reckless but actually tight and controlled, was an elf technique Torlic had used to slay his greatest enemies in his adventuring days. No ore chieftain, no fencer, no knight, no swordsmaster had ever been able to stand against it.

Leaping headfirst, Torlic lunged at Walker, both weapons before him. The ghostly man took a single step back and swept his sword as though to parry. As he flew through the air, Torlic snapped back then forward with his right arm, bringing his rapier just out of line with Walker's parry and punching it forward again. Walker's sword swept through the seemingly vanishing rapier, making no contact, and Torlic threw the main-gauche wide, as though deflected, to disguise his feint.

The rapier, pulled and thrust just in time to avoid the parry, darted for Walker's chest.

Torlic gave a triumphant cry as the blade drove through Walker, lancing his heart and punching out his back.

Arya spurred her horse ahead, but the guard's horses crowded the road and so she arrived at Torlic's townhouse with the last of the guards. When she arrived, several of the soldiers were already milling around the door and two were slamming their shoulders against it. Meris had dismounted and was standing among them, snapping at the watchmen pounding on the locked door.

"Swords inside," a watchman shouted as Arya pulled up next to them. "I hear steel!"

"Mielikki's scowl. We need a battering ram!" another cursed.

"Stand aside!" Arya shouted.

Protests on their lips, the watchmen turned toward her, but then their eyes went wide in shock and they leaped aside. With a pump of her legs, Arya's reddish mare slammed both hooves into the shut portal. The door caved in with a crash and its hinges snapped.

"Battering horse," Arya explained to the staring watchmen. "Just as good."

"Inside!" Unddreth ordered, leaping out of his saddle.

With a short cheer to the Nightingale of Everlund, the watchmen rushed inside. Arya slid off her steed, right in front of a startled Meris. She flashed him a quick, wry smile, drew her sword, and ran after them.

Meris's eyes smoldered.

They stood, Walker transfixed on the half-elf's sword, for a long moment, Torlic smiling with his offhand held artfully back and Walker with his eyes shut. The ghostwalker seemed almost translucent, as though the blade had stolen his very essence.

Then Walker's eyes opened. Torlic looked at him, confused.

The ghostwalker stepped to the right and became clearer, as though he had been but an illusion and was only now taking on solid matter.

The mithral long sword swept between them, cutting Torlic's sword neatly in two. Walker continued the spin, his left hand going out.

Too late, Torlic saw steel glinting in the ghostly man's hand. The dagger jabbed into his ribs. All the strength went from Torlic's legs and he collapsed.

The broken sword hilt tumbling from his shaking fingers, Torlic looked up at his opponent in astonishment. Walker shook his cloak, and the rapier blade swayed with it. The blade had gone right through his ghostly body and done no damage. Walker's body had only become material once the blade was outside his flesh. Now, it was stuck through fabric. Walker pulled it free and the blade came out sparkling clean.

Torlic saw, even as his vision swam in a sea of red, half a dozen guards rush into the room behind his attacker. He also could have sworn he saw a sad face flickering at the edge of his vision-the face of an old man mourning a loss.

Torlic had nothing at all to say as Walker slashed down with the shimmering mithral sword, angling for his head.

"You! Halt in the name of the Silver Marches!" Arya heard Unddreth shout from within as she ran into the house. The clashing of swords and more panicked cries followed the shout.

She rushed through the open door into the training room but pulled up short, along with three other guards in Quaervarr watch uniforms. They watched the spectacle before them, stupefied expressions on their faces.

Walker whirled among the guards as a dervish, his sword darting right and left to parry blows, whipping back and forth like a leaf in a hurricane. Three watchmen, including Narb and the hammer-wielding Unddreth, were hacking at the black-clad warrior, who stood over a corpse Arya could only assume had once been Torlic.

Rapier in hand, Narb lunged from the right. Walker leaped to the side, his cloak trailing in a circle as he spun away. Narb's rapier sparked off Unddreth's shield, causing the genasi to shout and falter in his low attack. Leaping over the swinging hammer, Walker whirled in the air, batting the third guard's sword out of the way and snapping up an elbow to strike the back of Unddreth's blocky head. With a confused grunt, the genasi staggered forward and fell bodily against Narb. They went down together in a heap.

Without hesitation-without even losing a beat-Walker stepped forward to engage the third guard, a ruddy-cheeked man whose movements had suddenly become much more frantic.

"What are you waiting for?" the cruel voice of Meris shouted almost in her ear. Turning, Arya saw the wild scout with a sword in one hand and a hand axe in the other. "After him!"

"Begging your pardon, Sir," one of the guards said. They had entered the room but hung back warily. "What good can we do against-"

Meris swung his axe around and lodged it in the doorframe with a thunk. He reached over and ripped the light crossbow from the watchman's belt. "Must I do everything?" he asked as he took aim.

"But ye'll hit Delem!" the soldier protested. He reached out to knock the weapon away, but not before Meris fired.

As though he sensed the projectile coming, Walker spun, but not out of its path. Rather, as it streaked for the hapless Delem's head, Walker shot out his arm to intercept the bolt. The ghostwalker scowled as it clanged off his left bracer, and the impact sent him stumbling away from Delem, shattering his momentum. The young guard, oblivious to the attack, seized the advantage and pressed after Walker.

"You see?" Meris said. He reclaimed his axe-and a chunk of the wall in the process. "Break his focus, and you win the battle. He's ours now." Then he charged into the fray, leaving the hesitating guards scrambling to catch up.

Arya took a step forward, but no more than a step, for she was immediately on her guard.

Walker, who had been retreating before Delem's press all the way to the rear wall, suddenly leaped over Delem's low slash, kicked off the wall, and flew over his head. Delem's sword slashed in, but instead of finding Walker's flesh, it cut into a thick oak beam supporting the wall and ceiling. Ignoring the stuck watchman behind him, Walker rolled and came up in a rush toward the exit-right into the thick of the oncoming guards.

Meris, charging at their head, hurled his axe with a flick of his wrist and pulled his sword back to slash. Walker's mithral blade snapped around, as though of its own accord, and batted the axe aside. It sailed, end over end, to lodge itself in the wall near Delem. Meris slashed, but Walker dived over the sword, rolled, and came up running, leaving a startled wild scout behind.

The other guards came against Walker, but hesitated under the intensity of his gaze. He knocked aside one half-hearted attack, spinning to his right, and knocked the second guard's blade away with the same swing. This guard staggered back, stunned at the speed of the parry, and Walker kept spinning. As he came up again, he punched the third guard in the face, knocking him down, and continued his spin, his shatterspike coming around…

To spark and lock against Arya's drawn blade, low to the ground.

His momentum spent, Walker settled to his feet and stood against her. He had expected she would give way as easily as the guards, but she did not. Instead, she remained in place, determined, the last obstacle standing between Walker and freedom.

Their eyes met, her steely orbs standing firm against his fierce, dark gaze. There was danger, there was threat, there was resolution, but Arya did not flinch. Exerting her full strength, she held his blade in place, a hand's breadth from her face. They battled, a contest of wills that both knew was of deathly importance.

Of a sudden, Arya realized Walker's eyes were blue. The blue was obscured, hidden beneath the darkness, but definitely there. Her heart leaped and her breath caught.

Then, just like that, Walker pulled away, whirling back in exactly the opposite direction. Meris had reversed his charge and was coming back, but Walker made no move to meet him. Instead, he bounded toward a dark corner and melted away, as though into the very shadows.

No sooner had Walker vanished than Meris's throwing dagger imbedded itself into the wall where he had gone. The wild scout, deprived of his opponent, whirled and searched, but there was no one to be found, except for groaning and disoriented guardsmen.

"Beastlord's bloody-" cursed Meris. Then he stopped, seeing Arya looking at him in shock.

Meris sheathed his sword slowly and deliberately, and retrieved his thrown axe and knife. Without a word to Arya, he shot her a vicious glare and stamped out into the night.

Finally, the knight remembered to exhale.