Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie Page B

around to it—perhaps sometime later this year. “Claudir hadn’t announced your presence, but I see time was of the essence.”
    “He didn’t get the chance,” Meris said curtly. Behind him, the gaunt steward rushed in, red-faced, apologizing over and over for the intrusion.
    Greyt waved him away. “A bad day?” he asked. “Didn’t find sport to your liking, eh?”
    Meris stomped over to the Singer’s desk and slammed down a black leather bundle. It clattered on the thick oak. “Tell me he’s just a shadow now,” he said angrily. Then he whirled and strode out, his feet pounding the creaking wood under the carpet.
    “I need to get that fixed, it seems,” Greyt said of the floor as the door slammed.
    The words trailed off as he looked at the leather pouch Meris had deposited on his desk. He wasn’t about to touch it, but it consumed a moment of his attention.
    He went back to making notes, but the rhymes would not come. He was forcing the ballad and, like all art, it could not be demanded. Greyt threw the ink quill down on the desk.
    A disgusted frown twisted his face and he seized the bundle, wincing when something within scratched him. Ignoring the blood that welled from his finger, he ripped it open, threw the contents down on the desk, and drew back in shock.
    It was the snapped blade of Drex Redgill’s wood axe. There was a bit of blood on it, where the jagged edge had torn through the leather and cut his finger.
     

     
    Torlic spun back and around, bringing his rapier singing up to parry his opponent’s blade. The glittering blade snapped down and thrust under Torlic’s guard, but the nimble half-elf simply twisted his rapier around and sent the thrust out harmlessly wide.
    The blond watchman Narb, Torlic’s opponent, slashed right to left, and the half-elf picked off the attack with a neat, almost casual parry. An attack high followed by a thrust low met similar fates, parried with quick flicks of Torlic’s wrist. Narb lunged—a strike Torlic easily dodged—and faltered. Torlic sidestepped Narb and slapped him twice on the backside with the flat of his blade, making a “tsk” sound in his throat. Torlic covered his yawning mouth with one dainty hand.
    Angry, the youthful watchman lunged at Torlic, but the half-elf leaped back, spinning to land on his toes. The dancing half-elf flicked his sword back and forth, tempting his opponent.
    “Try harder, Narb,” Torlic said. “I haven’t broken a sweat yet.”
    The two fought in Torlic’s training room. It was a wide, open square with walls lined with weapons and practice dummies. Members of Quaervarr’s Watch used this training arena for dueling and for working on their sword skills. Most of them took instruction from Torlic himself, whose sword’s sharpness was surpassed only by his tongue. If fencing was his hobby, criticism was his habit.
    Narb, shaking his golden mane, growled a negative. “Sorry, Captain,” he said. He turned away and took a few steps. He limped from where Torlic’s blade had slapped his thigh. “Me bed’s callin’ me louder than your sword.”
    Narb was handsome and young, and it was clear that Torlic had picked him for exactly those traits. The vain half-elf loved the company of men he found lovely—and enjoyed proving his superiority over them even more. Narb fingered the scar running down his otherwise flawless face, remnant of a recent rapier wound.
    “Tired, are we?” Torlic asked. “Too warm? Or perhaps you’re not properly motivated. Do you need another scar?” He cut his light rapier through the air, then stretched his arms.
    Narb’s face paled.
    “It’s a little too warm, I agree,” said Torlic. He turned to open the window, letting in the cutting chill of the breeze.
    The young watchman was walking away when Torlic cleared his throat.
    “Narb, you work for me, remember?” he asked without looking back.
    At the door, the watchman stopped. “Yes, but—” Narb started.
    “Put up your guard,”