Ghostwalker (The Fighters) by Erik Scott De Bie

Author:Erik Scott De Bie [De Bie, Erik Scott]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786956807
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2010-03-25T00:00:00+00:00

Greyt grinned. “Fear not, though, for the danger has passed,” he said. “Thanks to my efforts, the killer is in our hands and we shall question him to find—”

“He escaped!” Bars shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “The killer escaped!”

“Dolt,” Derst cursed under his breath, turning his head so as not to be recognized.

Greyt swore inwardly, angry at this news. He had no doubt it was true. He had ordered his men to take Walker alive or dead but at all costs to take him. Incompetence and failure vied for his greatest frustration.

He moved to rub his gold ring, but found he had taken it off. Around his finger was a shallow indentation, reminding him of the first ring he had worn there, the ring that had inspired his seal.

His mind snapped back to the situation at hand. Walker’s escape snarled Greyt’s carefully laid plans. He was momentarily unsure how to proceed. His criticism of the watch would not carry the same weight if his own men could not capture Walker. And, loose, the murderer could talk to Unddreth, Amra, or even Stonar himself, and all would be lost.

Then the solution presented itself. The Lord Singer’s quick mind found a way to approach this news that simply delayed his plans and, perhaps, even strengthened them.

“A testament to the power arrayed against us. Surrounded by attackers, cut off from the Marches … For all we know, there could be a war brewing just outside our borders!”

The crowd gaped.

“Save us, Lord Singer!” came a shout, a call that was quickly picked up throughout the crowd. Shouts of his nickname, “Quickfinger,” and praises of his heroism reverberated around the square. “Save us!”

Greyt smiled and bowed. “The killer was in my hands, but he escaped. He will not escape again.” He drew his rapier in a flourish and held it above his head. “Thirty years ago, I took up this sword against the giants of Fierce Eye, when the Raven Claw band was first formed. Know this now and know it true: mine every breath shall shield you!”

As he sang the last few words, rhyming poorly, but it did not matter with such simpletons, Greyt seemed to grow: a trick he managed by standing up straight, where he had formerly bent his knees. A bit of bardic magic set his sword blazing with fire and illumined his face. The crowd was in awe.

Time for the final touch.

“I promise you, people of Quaervarr: as I was your hero then, so am I your hero now!”

With that, he released the illusory fire and the blade seemed to explode in flames, sending sparks flying over the crowd. These vanished before they struck flesh or clothing, and the people gaped in astonishment. They burst into cheers and shouts, calling for Lord Dharan “Quickfinger” Greyt, the hero of Quaervarr. The Lord Singer basked in the adulation and praise, his heart rushing despite himself.

Ah, the thrill of heroism … how he had missed it!

“Send out riders!” came a call above the crowd, and the thrill died like a snuffed candle flame.

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