'A 'stranger?' Walker is a murderer who has been attacking our people for days!' Greyt corrected. 'Many men are already dead and you insist I call my rangers back-you demand I leave our lands unprotected? I do what I must to stop this killer-for the watch has found nothing but failure.' Unddreth shivered at the barb. 'You protest my methods?'
'Speaker Stonar would have-' Unddreth began.
'Speaker Stonar left us in our time of need!' Greyt interrupted. 'He refused to protect us, either because he would not or could not. He fled to our noble High Lady Alustriel when his countrymen cried out for aid! I can only hope she sees his cowardice or discovers his culpability.'
Confused frowns answered from the crowd and Greyt chuckled.
'Guilt,' he clarified, and the people cheered.
'A bid to rule Quaervarr?' Derst asked skeptically. 'That's not like-'
'I know,' returned Bars. Anger coursed through him. He hated politics and its machinations, but he understood the game. Greyt played the crowd like a yarting. 'Not like the Greyt we know. He hates this city.'
Greyt waited until the cheering died down. 'I cannot believe, however, that Stonar is behind this,' he shouted. 'He is a good and just man, with nothing but noble intentions. I refuse to believe he is anything but ignorant-an unwitting piece of the puzzle.'
Derst and Bars shook their heads. Not a power struggle, then.
'I believe the killer is acting on his own,' Greyt said, 'A lone villain murdering our people!'
'He is no villain!' Unddreth shouted, but his words were lost in the hubbub of frenzied shouting.
'Stonar must be told!' came a shout from the crowd. 'Cast a sending to Silverymoon right away and bring him, along with a unit of the Argent Legion-'
'Impossible,' came a voice that should have been too soft to penetrate the noise of the crowd but projected loudly all the same. At the sound of that voice, the crowd parted around a cloaked figure. Bars and Derst looked and saw a shapely half-elf woman in a leather cloak, flowers laced through her shockingly light hair and feathers adorning the end of a gnarled staff she carried. Though the morning was chill, she wore only a light leather tunic and leggings. Her face, flushed in the cold, was young and smooth, but her eyes were both knowing and wise.
Bars was at a loss for words. 'Who is yon lady?' he asked Derst.
'Now that's a woman,' the knight replied. 'The Lady Druid Amra Clearwater, of the Oak House. Powerful, skilled, and an excellent tumble between the sheets.' The paladin gave him a sidelong, warning look. Derst cleared his throat. 'I mean, so I've heard.'
The beautiful half-elf continued in a light voice. 'Some barrier thwarts our spells, as though a dark moon rises over Quaervarr and shrouds our sight,' she said.
'A magical barrier?' asked Greyt. 'Then our enemy is more powerful than I thought!'
Cheers mingled with gasps of horror. The crowd fixed its eyes on the Lord Singer. The roguish knight and the paladin looked at one another, utterly confused. What could Greyt be thinking? Did he want to start a panic?
Silence, tense and fearful, gripped the square.
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.
'What? ' Greyt mouthed, looking over the suddenly silent crowd.
'Send out riders,' Amra Clearwater called again. 'Speaker Stonar must be informed.'
'My lady, really,' Greyt said as all eyes turned to him. He halted himself, thinking quickly, for the half-elf druid was widely respected and even feared for the powers of Silvanus she commanded. 'We cannot simply go running for help every time-'
'But Geth does not know,' argued Amra. 'Let us assuage his ignorance-give him the chance to do his duty. Let him help!'
Greyt swore inwardly, trapped by his own words, but he saw a way out, one that could turn this to his advantage.
'A rider then.' Greyt said. 'But the Moonwood is dangerous-it is too easy for one of our own to be lost and slain!'
That elicited a gasp of horror from the crowd, but he waved them to silence.
Greyt smiled. 'One who knows the land and its powers. One of your druids perhaps, Lady?'
All eyes turned to Amra, and the half-elf frowned. Greyt knew she could not refuse, not after she had challenged Quaervarr's hero so openly.
'Fine,' said Amra with clear hesitation. 'I shall send one of my own.'
'Excellent,' Greyt shouted with a flourish of his hands. The threat past, he grinned. 'Now, for the rest of you: go back to your homes and rest your heads, safe in your beds. Your hero protects you all, great and small.'
If the cheers had been loud before, they erupted like a volcano now. Hundreds of eyes stared at Greyt in sheer adoration and absolute faith. He was their hero, their master, their shining knight, and he was fully in control of this situation.
Secure in his role, Greyt gave them one more smile, waved, and went back inside his manor to the cheers and shouts of devoted friends.
