Ghostwalker (26 page)

“No!” Bars managed to shout.

Weak, Bars kicked Meris in the shin, hardly enough to injure him, but enough to ensure that the killing blow was not true. The blade drove into Derst’s shoulder. The wiry knight’s scream was lost in pain. After an agonizingly silent moment, his body fell back and he lay still.

Still, Derst’s chest rose and fell.

With a little smile, Bars did not even resist as Meris’s men hauled him to his feet. They made to slit his throat, but Meris waved them off.

“No,” he said. “He’s earned life for him and his friend, for now.” He flicked blood off the sword. “Not sure why you prefer death by torture, knight, but you’ll have your choice.”

Bars smiled grimly.

The scout slapped him across the face, wiping that smile away. “Back to Quaervarr,” he said. “And the knight carries his wounded friend.”

“I won’t carry him back to be tortured,” said the paladin. “Kill me if you want. I did everything I could.”

Meris clutched at his chest in mock horror. “Oh no, I’m crushed,” he said. “Stubborn knightly honor, eh? Well, if you’re both going to die, the girl might as well die too.” He nodded to Darthan, who drew his blade and started toward where Arya lay senseless. “A pity, really. She was quite lovely—”

“Stop!” shouted Bars, panic in his voice. Darthan stopped and Meris looked at the paladin with a raised eyebrow. Bars cast his eyes down. “I’ll go. Just don’t harm her.”

Meris smiled. “I am a man of my word, after all.” He waved Darthan off and the rangers came forward to bind Bars’s wrists.

The paladin crossed over to Derst and put his hands on Derst’s temples. “Sorry, old friend,” he said. “We have no choice.”

The healing power of Torm, his patron deity, flooded through his hands and pulled Derst back from death’s door. The wiry knight’s face was still sallow and wan, but it was something. As soon as Bars had lifted Derst, the rangers prodded him with their blades and they began to move toward Quaervarr.

Meris went to stand over Walker, whose breath still came in ragged gasps. Meris contemplated him curiously, amazed that he still lived. Never had he met a man who clung to life so tenaciously—especially considering he was a man who seemed to have so embraced death.

He held up the mithral shatterspike and admired its almost translucent gleam in the moonlight. The blade seemed to have cleaned itself. Blood ran like water from its keen edge and he saw no dents or nicks. The blade looked as though it had never been used.

“This is a beautiful sword, Walker,” said Meris. He bent low and repeated himself, so the ghostwalker could hear.

Walker, twitching, looked up at him without understanding.

Darthan appeared at Meris’s shoulder. He pointed a thumb at Arya. “You still want to have a little fun, my lord?” he asked.

Meris regarded Darthan’s lewd sneer. Apparently, he was not the only one who had taken an interest in Arya. It reminded him how far he had sunk, to share base desires with common rabble. The thought caused bile to rise in his gorge.

“No,” he said. “Take her with us.” Darthan’s eyes lit up and Meris added, “But I carry her. You carry her armor. It’ll fetch a fine price.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Darthan bowed, looking more than a little disappointed.

“Three of our men are dead—take their weapons and equipment,” said Meris. “Leave the bodies for the crows. Inform the injured that they will walk back to Quaervarr or they will be left behind.”

Darthan nodded, though he balked a bit at the harsh commands. He walked away.

“Oh, and Darthan.”

The ranger turned back and looked at Meris. Meris was running a finger along Walker’s cheek, contemplating where he had seen those sapphire eyes before.

No matter.

The dusky scout spun, brought the shatterspike high, and plunged it into Walker’s chest. The ghostwalker shook once then lay still.

“Start digging,” said Meris. “Burning is too good for this one. Let the worms eat his corpse. And make it deep.” He wiped the blade off then indicated Walker with it. “Just in case he decides to come back, there won’t be much he can do under the ground.”

He looked back at Walker’s body. “So ends the reign of the Ghost Murderer,” he said.

As Meris scooped up Arya’s limp form, Darthan shuddered and pulled his field shovel out of his pack.

Meris and the Greyt family rangers stalked back into town. The sun was rising but no one could see it through the clouds. It would be a wretched, overcast day, but Meris’s smile was not diminished. In fact, nothing could dampen his spirits.

Meris waved off the guardsmen at the gate—different guardsmen, since the ones of the previous day had not reported to their posts. These guards proved no obstacle to entering Quaervarr, even with an unconscious woman in his arms and Bars and Derst in tow. Now Meris was glad of the uncomfortable uniforms they all wore and that the captives were hooded. It would not do to have to “take care of” another pair of soldiers.

Meris and his group had just barely made it inside when a rider in a forest cloak burst out of the gates, riding south fast. The wild scout narrowed his eyes, but shrugged. Nothing to do with him.

As soon as they were inside the city, he had the knights clapped in manacles and escorted to a certain Pitek’s general store. Grossly fat Pitek, a loyal Quaervarr businessman, had expressed little hesitation about allowing the Lord Singer to use his store as the secret entrance to his dungeons. Pitek had no choice, after all, since the very reason Greyt kept his business in existence was to conceal the secret entrance, and as death would be the consequence of betrayal. There were two other tunnels as well: one to Greyt’s personal wine cellar, and a final one from the ninth cell to Meris’s servant’s chambers in Greyt Manor.

Prisoners kept in the ninth cell rarely survived long.

Meris enjoyed the dungeons. Dark and dank as dungeons should be, hollowed out from preexisting caverns, they lay not directly beneath the manor but beneath the main plaza, deep enough that prisoners would not be heard. Light was nonexistent save for the candles kept lit in the guardroom—darkness was as much a torture as lack of food or drink.

Meris was glad and disappointed at the same time to see that the little pest Derst had survived the journey: on the one hand, he appreciated the chance to torture Derst, though on the other he did not look forward to hearing the man’s snide commentary. Perhaps his tongue would be the first thing to go.

As for Bars… The paladin’s healing touch had ensured the wiry knight’s survival in the forest. Meris made a mental note to break or remove Bars’s fingers.

Regarding Arya, Meris had not yet decided what to do, though he relished a few torments he had dreamed up, most of which he had not tried for lack of a suitably beautiful female subject.

First, however, it was time for rest. After seeing the knights locked away in the dungeon, he made his way through the third secret door, back up to his chambers. As he went, he stripped off his black watchman armor and discarded it, only vaguely aware of its sweaty stench.

For the moment, though, he cared little as he thought about nodding off in the copper bathtub in his rooms. He had left orders to have it filled for him when he returned at dawn, and he was right on time. Meris stretched his back as he walked through the tunnel. The sweat felt cool on his bare skin and the packed earth around him smelled moist and almost metallic. The smell of blood did not dissipate in this place.

A good scent to end a good night, and this had truly been a good night: the courier taken care of, the knights captured, Walker slain… What more could Meris ask for?

The question was answered for him when he found Greyt waiting for him in his bedchamber. The Lord Singer had not even been facing the door—he had been waiting for Meris to come out of the servant’s quarters.

“A productive morning, son?” asked Greyt.

Meris swore inwardly. Apparently, he was not the only one who knew about the third secret passage. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve killed Walker—oh, I forgot his head. It’s buried in the Moonwood somewhere. But I’ve brought you three other presents, who wait down below.”

The Lord Singer was pleased, but Meris hardly noticed.

“As for me,” said the scout. “It’s time for a bath.”

The tub had been filled, as ordered, and steam rose from its surface. Meris stripped off his breeches, heedless of his bare body, and picked up a towel from the dresser.

“Not as such, I’m afraid,” Greyt said.

“Excuse me, father? I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Meris said dismissively as he tested the water with his finger. It was nice and warm.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Greyt with a wave of his hand.

“Do what?” He clutched the edges of the tub and jumped into the water.

Or rather, Meris jumped onto the water with a painful thud and immediately clutched at his smarting bottom. His flesh was cold where it touched the water, water that was now ice.

“Impressive, father,” spat Meris as he snatched up the towel to gird himself.

“There are consequences when you ignore me,” Greyt said with ice in his voice.

“I never thought you much of a wizard, father,” said Meris. “It seems you’ve abandoned the man’s sword for the little boy’s Art.”

“How little you know,” replied Greyt. “In fact, the tub is not my doing.” Meris raised an eyebrow, now curious. “I would not have shown you this—yet, any way—but I have run out of time and it has become necessary. Talthaliel!”

A cloaked and cowled figure stepped out of thin air beside Greyt. Meris gave a shout and reached for the discarded shatterspike, but he found the handle burning hot to the touch. Cursing, he let the blade lie and turned to face his father and the mage.

“Rest easy, Wayfarer,” said the cloaked figure. Talthaliel stood tall and gaunt, even for a moon elf. “The time has not yet come for violence.”

“A secret wizard, father?” Meris asked, the approbation in his voice mocking. “I never would have guessed.” Privately, he thought about all the mysteries that explained.

“You have your secrets, I have mine,” Greyt said. “And now let me share another secret, which is neither of ours. A second courier has been dispatched, who rode from Oak House. She left not long ago and cannot be far yet. I knew the druids could not be trusted.” He growled under his breath. “Unddreth sent this message, but don’t worry—I dispatched Bilgren and six of my best rangers to handle the good Captain.”

“And what does any of this have to do with me?” asked Meris, though he already knew the answer.

“Talthaliel will transport you by magic to the edge of the forest, where you will intercept this courier at all costs,” said Greyt. “My spies report that she carries a document damning and condemning me as the source of the murders and attacks.”

“That’s not true, is it?” Meris could not resist.

The Lord Singer growled. “Of course not, but there are certain other activities we do not want Stonar or the Silver Marches investigating, right?”

Meris shrugged. “Do your own dirty work for a change, old man,” he said. He wiped at his eyes. “I have spent a day and a night running errands for you—I’m tired. Send another.”

“No one else can be… trusted with this,” said Greyt.

He was hiding something, which made Meris more wary.

“Your pet wizard then,” snapped Meris. He had expected to see Talthaliel bristle at the insult, but all he could see on the moon elf’s face was resignation.

“I… cannot,” Greyt replied, shooting Talthaliel a look.

“Why ‘cannot?’” pressed Meris.

Greyt stared at him for a long moment, perhaps fighting the urge to lash out, perhaps worried. Had Meris just found a sensitive point? The dusky scout filed the emotional response away for future use.

“Go yourself, then,” Meris said. “Or must the high-and-honored hero Dharan Greyt, Lord Singer of Quaervarr, keep his yarting fingers dry of blood?”

Greyt took a step toward Meris as though to strike but stopped, as though realizing something. The Lord Singer took a moment to compose himself, then stared murder at Meris.

“You are my pup. You do as I command,” snapped the Lord Singer. “You leave shortly. Ready your gear.” He waved and Talthaliel disappeared. Greyt opened Meris’s door to leave. “For now, I shall go open those presents you brought me.”

“Careful not to open them too much,” said Meris, his tone evoking a wince from Greyt. “Leave some of the fun for me.”

The first sensation she knew was shivering chill. It was dark and bitterly cold, and she found that she was too weak even to huddle into a ball. Manacles encircled her ankles and held her wrists behind her back. Her throat was parched. She could see nothing but blackness. In the distance, she heard something dripping. She hoped it was only water.

Arya found that her captors had stripped her armor and left her in a torn tunic and breeches. Fortunately, she was not damaged beyond rough handling, and for that Arya thanked Torm and Tymora. With her toe, she felt along the wall until she had traced a rough mental sketch of her enclosure. Small and cramped, the room possessed only one entrance: a cell door with thick bars.

A dungeon cell, then.

Ignoring the wet, slipperiness of the stone floor, Arya sat and waited.

Then, after a long time—she couldn’t see the sun, but it felt like half a day—Arya heard a door open with a long, rusty rattle. It slammed shut a moment later. Arya flinched at the bang and her head exploded in sharp aches. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips.

There were footsteps in the dark, and she became aware of a tiny spot of light slowly approaching as though down a long hallway. Arya had no choice but to stay still and try not to suffer any more pain until the light arrived.

When it finally did, she looked up to see a dim lantern held by a gaunt man in Greyt family livery. Arya’s heart fell further when the man swung the lantern a little to the side and illuminated another familiar face, this one wearing a cruel smile.

“Ah, my darling niece,” Lord Greyt said. He turned to the lantern holder. “This is the one, Claudir.” He took the lantern and waved the steward away. Claudir padded off. If the butler felt any unease about wandering back through the lightless tunnels, he did not express it.