Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [115]
Walker just shook his head. It was all just as he had expected.
As the rangers, standing in a rough line in the middle of the plaza, looked down at their bows as though the weapons had betrayed them somehow, Walker raised his head and continued to stride forward. As he came, they realized they could see through his body; he was translucent, like a ghost.
More than a few of the twenty-four rangers gasped in terror, seeing the vengeful spirit of folk legend, and their limbs shook. The others, old and hardened veterans all, gazed at Walker in doubt and disbelief.
The two dozen men stood in front of the Whistling Stag, which rested across the way from Greyt's manor. Walker nodded. That must have been where Meris had fled.
"I am the Spirit of Vengeance," said Walker. His matter-of-fact words were soft, but they projected throughout the square loudly enough to reach all their ears. "I am the son of the Ghostly Lady of the Dark Woods, who brought the fires of heaven upon Quaervarr a century past. I was born and live in darkness, I breathe retribution, and I sleep to the screams of the damned. I fear no living thing, man or woman."
He paused, waiting while all that sank into his foes, but he need not have bothered. The rangers were trembling.
"I have slain your champions, and one alone awaits me," he continued. "My fight is with Meris Wayfarer, not with you. I offer you this one chance to throw down your weapons and to quit Quaervarr and the Moonwood forever."
Many of the guardsmen looked hesitant and afraid, but the reminder of Meris, their new lord, seemed to snap them out of it. Not that they knew loyalty, but as much as they feared the black specter before them, they feared the cruelty of Meris Wayfarer more. After all, one man could not defeat two dozen men, no matter his power. No ranger threw down his arms-indeed, many fitted more arrows to the string or drew swords.
"Then it seems I have no choice," said Walker, slowly drawing the shatterspike and continuing to walk toward them, "but to kill you all."
Half the rangers replied by aiming for Walker once more, and half tightened their grip on their weapons.
The ghostwalker made no sign of changing his calm walk until the first ranger, two short swords in his hands, lunged at him, screaming the name of the late Lord Singer.
Walker whirled, his blade out and dancing in the breeze. It cleaved one sword in two then snapped against the man's arm, sending him away screaming. A second ranger thrust a long sword at Walker from the other side, a blow that was deflected with perfect timing. The ghostwalker brought the sword up high, then threw the ranger off and continued walking, as though the man had never attacked. This ranger looked at his sword, saw that it was still whole, and swung at Walker's back. At the same moment, the dozen rangers with bows drawn fired upon the ghostwalker.
Unfortunately for the rangers flanking Walker, the arrows passed through the ghostwalker's head and chest as through mist and found resting spots in their bodies.
Screaming, the rangers tumbled down, even as Walker broke into a run toward the bowmen, who now scrambled to set arrows to bowstrings. As he went, he leaped bodily through a ranger who chopped two axes down through nothing and ended up on the ground, confused.
"He's an illusion!" shouted one of the rangers. "He's not even really-"
Then Walker brought his blade down into the man's mocking smile and ended his words.
Even as the rangers milled around in confusion and terror, Walker flew into a dance of death, his sword weaving back and forth, deflecting and shattering weapons even as arrows and swords passed through him. Though his body had no substance, his shatterspike-shimmering and almost translucent-still cut with just as much deadliness as it always had. Only his blade could bridge the gap between worlds and inflict pain in either.
Ironically, Walker carried