Ghostwalker (8 page)

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.