'What is it?' Arya asked, knitting her brows in confusion.
'I apologize for frightening you,' said Walker. 'You were in no danger.' His voice was soft, almost gentle.
It is the curse of quick words-when one shouldn't respond, they come, and when one needs to speak, they are mysteriously absent. When Arya could not form a reply, Walker bowed his head and turned to go.
Arya blinked. What a quandary this man seemed: a creature of darkness, with vengeance burning in his eyes, and yet he had saved her. Arya felt the same conflicting duality as she looked upon him. On the one hand, his cold stare frightened her, and the rage she had seen in his eyes sent chills down her spine. But on the other, he intrigued her, taking her beyond her initial curiosity. And something told her that he hid much behind those blue eyes, beneath that black cloak…
That thought made her blush, but she hadn't meant it that way. Too much time around Derst, perhaps.
Now, Arya realized with a start, Walker was going back into the shadows, but slowly. There was more he wanted to say, she could sense, but he did not have the words. Something about the way he carried himself and the way he moved set her heart to racing.
'Stop!' said Arya without meaning to. She realized she'd stopped him a third time.
Walker turned back, and his eyes appraised her. 'You possess courage,' he said.
It sounded almost mocking, and Arya puffed out her chest. 'Why do you say that?'
Walker may have smiled behind his high collar. 'You do not fear me.'
'Should I?'
Walker's gaze was her only answer.
Arya felt her defiant spirit flaring, and a retort came to mind. Her mouth was moving first, though, before she even considered what was to come out.
'Evil holds no terror for me,' said Arya, baiting him.
'Then you should feel terror indeed, for I hold no evil for you,' said Walker. 'Only vengeance for my foes.'
'Vengeance is evil,' she argued.
'Vengeance is beyond good and evil,' replied Walker.
They were silent for a long moment. Then, leaving it on that cryptic note, Walker turned and walked away.
Arya made to follow him but stopped, a thought having occurred to her. She reached in her pocket and fingered the gold amulet she had accidentally taken from Greyt's manor. She ran the other way down the alley.
Wiping rainwater from his nose, Walker pushed Arya's warning out of his mind as he approached Bilgren's house, though he kept his hand on his sword.
Arya. So that was her name. A beautiful name, for a beautiful…
Growling inwardly, Walker shoved the thoughts aside.
The caravan in front of the decrepit former tavern bulged with crates and bundles of silks from Kara-Tur. He found it odd that merchants would stop in this part of Quaervarr, and even odder that the merchants would leave their wagon, fully loaded and unguarded.
An odd sensation of paranoia crept through him.
Strange. Why should he feel unnerved? Was this merely Arya's warning coming back to haunt him?
He was pondering this when the lids of the crates burst open and soldiers, glittering steel in their hands, poured out into the rainy night around him. These men were dressed in dark leather and carried swords, daggers, and axes, most with a weapon in both hands.
Caught momentarily off guard, Walker barely drew his sword in time to deflect the first slash of a ranger's blade. He twisted aside and winced as the man's dagger scraped past his side. Fortunately, the blow was cushioned by the magic of his bracers and drew little blood. He countered with a vicious punch to the jaw, laying the man low, but two were waiting to take the fallen ranger's place, swords darting for his life.
Walker spun, throwing his cloak up high to distract them, and the blades stabbed right through the thick cloth, one narrowly missing and the other sparking off his left bracer.
Continuing the spin, Walker yanked his cloak hard to the left, and the cloth pulled the swords along with it, dragging the rangers off their guard. He reversed the shatterspike in his left hand, followed the spin, and cut one of the rangers down with an underhand slash. Even as the man fell, Walker leaped backward into the middle of the street, warding off the dozen attackers with his blade.
One came forward, and Walker batted the sword aside, but his counter went to parry the sword of a second, coming from his unarmed side. A dagger snaked in and Walker slapped the man's hand, disarming him, caught the falling weapon, and jabbed it into the first attacker's belly, all in a blur of motion. The man cursed and kicked out, but Walker twisted aside to dodge.
Then white-hot pain slashed across his back, and Walker lost his focus. He ducked under the next slash and thrust his blade behind him. The flanking ranger leaped back with an oath.
Walker rose. The angry-faced rangers, many sporting scars and eye patches, sneered at him. More men came out of the surrounding buildings, until Walker found himself facing thirty men, all armed to face a small army. They did not advance-Walker's aura of deadly resolve kept them at bay for now-but they kept Walker carefully surrounded.
The huge iron doors of Bilgren's tavern home creaked open and two figures came out, one with dark curls, clad in white leather armor, and the other a hulking giant of a man, wrapped in furs and carrying a long weapon with a sword blade extending from one end and a single chain flail from the other. The latter man's thick red moustache quivered as he guffawed loudly.
'Ah, ha ha!' the huge man bellowed. 'Look at the rat me trap has caught!'
'My trap, Bilgren,' said the smaller man. 'My trap. You'd have just fought him alone.'
Bilgren roared with laughter. 'Ye be right, little Meris, ye be right.' He spun his gyrspike before him, blade over chain. 'An' now I'll do the like anyway.'
Meris raised a finger and opened his mouth to speak but then shrugged. 'Whatever you say,' said the dusky scout.
Walker, bleeding from half a dozen small wounds, kept warding the rangers away with his threatening blade and gaze. Then the rangers drew back and lowered their swords, allowing Walker his circle. The ghostwalker stood up as straight as he could, held his blade low, and stared at the huge barbarian coming toward him. Bilgren shouldered his way through the rangers and stepped into the circle with the bleeding ghostwalker.
'Thy race be run, dark man,' Bilgren rumbled, holding his weapon ready. He twirled it in front of him and across to both his sides, then over his head, with astonishing grace given the weapon's size and Bilgren's bulk. He finally snapped it down and held the flail and sword handle in his two huge hands. 'I only regret that a sickly goblin like ye could kill me friend Drex.' He lifted his gyrspike over his head in challenge.
Walker's grim scowl did not waver. He lifted his shatter-spike, accepting the barbarian's challenge.
Bilgren roared and leaped in, attacking with reckless abandon. It was a berserk fury, a terrible blood frenzy Walker had observed many times in animals backed into corners. The rage would heighten Bilgren's strength, speed, and endurance. Against Walker, already injured, the advantage was clear.
The fight would be a quick one, unless Tymora intervened.
Spinning his gyrspike, Bilgren slashed down at Walker's head. The smaller man made to parry, then leaped aside, dodging the blow and the spiked ball that smashed down after it. Working with both hands, Bilgren continued the swing, allowing the sword and flail to slash past the side of his body. For such a huge man, he possessed remarkable speed. Bilgren turned and brought the weapon horizontally right to left, turning the swipe past his side and allowing the flail to swing. Walker managed to whirl away in time, the flail passing within a hand's breadth of his chest.
Meanwhile, a dagger slid into Walker's hand, and he let fly.
Walker landed and went to one knee, one hand low, and his cloak spread out around him. Bilgren gave a gasp from behind, and the ghostwalker closed his eyes as though mourning. The street was silent.
Then a sound broke that silence-a loud, booming laugh.
Walker turned to see Bilgren looming over him, a dagger stuck to the hilt in his right arm. The barbarian looked at the wound idly, then ripped the knife from his flesh with the slightest of winces. He tossed it aside and
