Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [1]
"We have a job to do, and we shall do it." He flipped his rapier idly in the moonlight. "One blow at a time. Don't worry about killing him-'tis my ring. Death won't spoil our fun, or his pain. Let us hear him sing."
Mocking, lyrical words…
"Aye," said the woodsman, "me first."
The axe came down and Rhyn screamed as it cut into his shoulder.
"Then me," the thin man said before the bearlike one could speak. The rapier pierced Rhyn's arm, bringing with it razor-sharp pain.
"My turn!" the bear man spat.
The boy prayed he was far enough gone that he would not know pain, but when the spiked ball of the man's weapon slammed into his chest, he felt every shattering rib.
Rhyn moaned as darkness closed in. Blood trickled from his mouth.
"Good work," the leader said. Somehow, Rhyn could still hear. A rapier gleamed golden in the moonlight. "Now, let us teach him a new song."
The boy stood over Rhyn, his eyes filled with fire. Anger? Rage? Indignation? Rhyn had thought there was softness there…
Then he passed out, whether for a moment or an eternity, he did not know. He felt someone reach down and pull the silver ring from his finger-the ring whose magic had kept him alive through this torture.
"A horde of good it will do you now," said a soft voice.
Arguing broke out in the darkness. Lord Greyt was angry. "That was never our bargain!"
Whispers.
"Damned if you will have this boy!" Rhyn heard someone shout.
A cold finger ran down his cheek-the touch of death.
Then a sharp pang ran through his chest, a blade pierced his throat, and he started back into the world of misery.
"Let's hear you sing now," the soft voice said.
Rhyn opened his lips, as though to oblige, and only a bloody rattle emerged.
Angry shouts erupted and a scuffle ensued. Something small and metal, like a tear, fell against his left cheek and rested next to his eye.
"Whether you will it or no," whispered another voice in his ear.
The world went black.
CHAPTER 1
24 Tarsakh, The Year of Lightning Storms
(1374 DR)
Shivering, the courier pulled her cloak tight around herself, warding off the chill of the Moonwood night. At least the stinging drops no longer slapped down on her-the forest canopy caught much of the rain. She rode slowly down the road to Quaervarr so her mare could avoid stumbling on unforeseen rocks and sticks. Her parents told her spring was coming, but it was definitely taking its time. Chandra Stardown couldn't stand the cold, and she prayed to Mielikki and Chauntea that the warmth would come soon.
She clutched the leather case strapped around her stomach protectively, just to reassure herself it was there. This was not Chandra's first assignment, so negligence or jitters would not be excused. Grand Commander Alathar had said this message was important, so it wouldn't do to lose it en route. If she wanted a promotion, perhaps even membership in the famous Knights in Silver, she could not fail.
As she rode deeper into the shadowtops and firs of the Moonwood, the storm passed. The cold, however, grew no gentler. Chandra longed for the Whistling Stag, where she could order a room and a long, hot bath with the silver her father had loaned her.
Abruptly, Songbird, Chandra's mare, neighed and tossed her mane. She stopped all forward motion and pranced in a circle.
"What is it, girl?" Chandra asked, running a soothing hand along Songbird's mane. "Did you see something?"
Chandra looked around, but didn't see anyone. The trees loomed forbiddingly beside the trail like towering mountains hiding unseen dangers in their heights. She looked up, wary of an ambush by gnolls or even elves, and clutched her silver short spear tightly. Even though the real threat of the Moonwood-the People of the Black Blood, a cult of werebeasts-had been chased away months before, Chandra's father had wanted her to be prepared. The courier was far from a capable fighter, but any werewolf would think twice before it charged onto a silver spearhead.
There was something out there, something