'Ye little rat, I'll be killin' ye!' slobbered the barbarian.
'And I'll be remembering you,' said Walker, feeling at his chest. There was steel in his voice, and resolve shone so coldly from his eyes that Bilgren shivered despite himself.
As Bilgren strained to wrench the gyrspike free, Walker pounced, head over heels, his cloak flying. The chain on the flail snapped, Bilgren lurched forward, reversed, and brought the sword down as the ghostwalker landed behind him.
Walker parried the blow and threw Bilgren back as though the barbarian possessed all the strength of a child. Walker strolled a little ways away and beckoned the barbarian to attack. Bilgren slashed again, but again Walker parried, pushing the blade up and over, creating an opening for him to stick a third dagger in the barbarian's torso.
Bilgren blinked, his berserk fury shaken, then roared all the louder. With both hands on the gyrspike's handle, he slashed the blade at Walker as though it were a two-handed sword, but the ghostwalker dodged or parried each attack, slashing Bilgren slightly here and there, wearing him down. As the barbarian lost more and more blood, his fury increased to greater and greater heights. Regardless, though, of how much strength Bilgren gained from pumping adrenaline, Walker always slipped, snakelike, in and out of his reach, knocking the broken gyrspike aside with no more than a scratch on his cloak to show for it.
Finally, as Bilgren foamed and raved beyond the realm of sanity, Walker staggered back over a rock, bending down. The barbarian roared, thinking his triumph coming, and hammered his sword down, once, twice, then up on Walker's blade. The final blow tore the sword from Walker's hand and sent it flying away, and the ghostwalker spun to the right with the force.
Bilgren lifted his blade high, salivating at the thought of the death to come…
Then he blinked down at the long sword jammed through his ribs. Facing away, Walker had drawn his second sword from under his cloak during the turn, and jabbed it backward. Bilgren had never had a chance to parry.
The barbarian tried to bring the gyrspike down anyway, but his limbs would not obey his mind's commands. With agonizing slowness, he sank, limp, to the ground.
'Rest, peaceful as the grass in the meadow, my murderer,' Walker whispered over his shoulder as he drew the sword out from between the barbarian's ribs. He recovered his throwing knives, wiped them on Bilgren's hide armor, and slid them into their sheathes.
Only one murderer left-one last haunting face that chilled him at night, one last sword to face, one last heart to still.
Then a sphere of cold energy crackled around him, and Walker froze.
The black-cloaked Talthaliel descended before Walker's eyes and smiled at him. Memories of pain and hatred fled from the ghostwalker, replaced by an oath for being distracted, and he realized that the one who killed him did not have to be one of his hated enemies.
'We meet, Spirit of Vengeance,' said the moon elf. 'For the first-and last-time.'
Chapter 21
30 Tarsakh
Walker hacked his borrowed long sword into the bubble of force that contained him-a slash that would have split Talthaliel's head-but the barrier held firm. The throwing knife he had palmed fell, bouncing off the crackling sphere and sliding down to Walker's feet as though down the inside of a bowl.
In the face of this black-cloaked mage, Walker's supernatural determination vanished and he felt his strength and endurance fleeing. This was not one of his enemies, and that left him at a severe disadvantage. He chopped and slashed at the bubble again and again, but the sword rebounded from the force each time and vibrated in his hand enough to numb his entire arm. He saw the spirit of Tarm outside the bubble, but he knew calling to the spirit would do no good.
'Do not trouble yourself, Rhyn Thardeyn,' came a voice from outside the bubble. 'My magic is quite impenetrable.'
The ghostwalker lowered the battered sword, and stared into Talthaliel's eyes.
'Interesting,' the seer said, as though he had just observed something and was probing to see if Walker had as well. 'Ah, well. It is not relevant.' The diviner shrugged. He continued, putting aside whatever he had found interesting. 'I regret interfering with your quest, Spirit of Vengeance. You have fought valiantly, as befits your training and skill, but your fight against the Lord Singer is over.'
'Your master deserves death,' Walker said. 'Release me.'
'Please; the Lord Singer is not my master.' The tiniest flash of irritation crossed his face, but Talthaliel's words remained even and solid. Walker felt a tiny chill-he had rarely met one who could suppress his emotions so forcefully. 'Regardless, you are right. But, for the moment, I do his bidding, and that bidding means your defeat.'
'Then you have me,' said Walker. 'My quest is at an end.' He lowered his head. 'Kill me then-if you serve such a villain.'
Talthaliel didn't flinch.
'Actually, I have a different plan for you.'
Walker met the elf's gaze, his eyes confused.
Talthaliel shrugged. 'All is occurring as I have foreseen. I have but to borrow a few moments of your evanescent time, then we will escape the Lord Singer's clutches together, though we shall never meet again in this world.'
Walker furrowed his brow, but accepted without fully understanding. He felt, rather than saw, that the diviner meant him no harm-even encouraged his quest.
Hope flickered, but not at the thought he might defeat Greyt. Rather, this meant he might see Arya again-
Sitting, Walker folded his legs beneath him and closed his eyes.
'In the next moments, would you like me to tell you of your past life? What I have seen and you cannot remember?' asked Talthaliel. 'This may be your only chance.'
After a long moment, Walker shook his head. 'Rhyn Thardeyn died fifteen years ago,' he said. 'Whatever you would tell me of the past would mean nothing to me now.'
Talthaliel nodded.
'One thing only,' he said.
Walker inclined his head to hear.
'Your voice was beautiful,' the seer said. 'For that of a human.'
Walker almost smiled.
Greyt thrust at his son, but Meris stood with a flourish, brought the shatterspike from right to left, and cut the golden blade neatly in two.
Greyt watched, stunned, as Meris continued into a spin and brought the blade snaking around, only to plunge the point between the Lord Singer's ribs.
When Greyt looked at his son in shock, the wild scout spat out a chicken heart and a small flow of blood trickled down his chin. That was why his voice had seemed odd. Greyt's bracer knife had merely pierced flesh-no vital organs.
'I have learned many habits from you,' said Meris. 'Gloating is not one of them.'
Fighting the agony, Greyt tried to stab at Meris with the blade in his gauntlet, but the scout slapped it aside with his axe. Then he twisted the sword, wrenching a gasp from the Lord Singer. The shatterspike burst from Greyt's back.
Greyt slumped to his knees, the blade through his body, and fiery pain spread through him. Words came from his lips, along with a trickle of blood.
