Against his polished white leather, Meris's dusky features seemed especially exotic, and for a moment, Greyt had not recognized him as his son.
Coolly, the Lord Singer crossed to the sideboard and took two glasses, into which he poured the remainder of the elverquisst he carried.
"Talthaliel told me you would come," Greyt said. "That my son would come to kill me, but that he wouldn't defeat my mage."
"Did he?" Meris asked. He hefted the ghostly shatterspike and his hand axe. "Sorry, but he's indisposed at the moment. Outside. Fighting Rhyn-er, I mean Walker."
Eyes widening, Greyt tipped over the glass in surprise. He barely managed to throw his aging body out of the way to dodge Meris's thrust.
"Traitor elf!" he shouted as he whipped his golden rapier out of its scabbard and fell into a fencing stance almost as though it were second nature. His old muscles protested, but he was glad-for the first time-that he had continued sparring practice.
Standing a few paces away, Meris laughed and waved the shatterspike mockingly.
"Wonderful scheme, father," he said. "You were to become the hero of Quaervarr-a fifth time over? Gods! How much do you have to do? Has any level of brainless worship ever been enough for you? Who are you trying to convince-them, or yourself?"
"Bastard!" Greyt shrieked. He lunged at Meris.
The dusky scout casually parried his sword aside. "Indeed, but that's beside the point," replied Meris. "The point is, when I go outside next, they will all hear how I killed Walker, how I killed the renegade knights, and how I killed the 'mad Lord Singer.' I will be their hero, not you. You're just a murderer, and a mad one at that."
"You treacherous little bastard," spat Greyt.
"You keep calling me that. Sounds more like an insult to you than to me." Then he laughed. "Amazing how history repeats itself-this reminds me of fifteen years ago when you killed your own 'mad' father."
"You knew about that-you were with me the night Rhyn Thardeyn died, the night we murdered your grandfather and the others!" protested Greyt. "Rhyn-you killed him! You took the ring off, in your youthful ignorance-"
"No, Father," said Meris. "Purpose. I hated him and I wanted him dead. And I did it. Perhaps I didn't understand at the time, but I do now, and I don't regret it."
Greyt was horrified. He remembered that night, when he had taken Rhyn into the forest to frighten him, to chase him away. To have Lyetha to himself, to remove any reminder of Tarm Thardeyn, the priest he had killed years before. Meris had removed the healing ring before Greyt's scarring blow, and Greyt's wolf's head ring had been lost in the following argument.
And now… now he knew it had been no accident. Meris had been murderous even then.
"Foul creature!" he shouted. "How can Quaervarr accept you, once they know that you are just as great a monster as I?"
The Lord Singer thrust at his son again, but Meris was ready. He knocked the blow aside with his hand axe and lashed out with the shatterspike, tearing a neat red line down Greyt's left arm. The Lord Singer gasped and fell back, though he kept the golden rapier up.
"Correction, father," Meris said with a grin. "I am a greater monster than you will ever be. And, as for Quaervarr-well, who will believe you, a madman?"
"Spoiled brat, I am their hero!" Greyt asserted. "They will believe me, and my magic will persuade them even if they do not!"
Meris shrugged. "Then I guess I'll have to ensure that you don't live to persuade them."
With that, the wild scout charged in, launching a reckless offensive with his two weapons whirling, and Greyt pumped his arms, desperately fending off the attacks.
Outside, in Quaervarr's main plaza, where the crowd had dispersed in terror at the battle unfolding, Walker struggled with his own attacker.
Attackers, actually, for there were two: the raging barbarian Bilgren, his gyrspike whirling like a zephyr of blade and flail, and a dark-robed mage floating far above, weaving threads of magic into deadly bolts of fire and lightning. Walker prayed Lyetha had fled, so at least he would have only his own safety to worry about.
It would be quite enough.
"Ye escaped me once, with the aid o' thy little fox," spat Bilgren, his mouth foaming in his rage. "Not again-this time, ye're mine. All mine!"
"Romantic," mused Walker. He realized with a start that it was something Arya might have muttered in this situation. The thought brought a twinge of anger. He had to get to her!
Walker parried blows from the gyrspike, swatting away the flail like a ball and slapping the blade wide so that it would not find his flesh, all the while dodging bolts of power the mage rained down upon him.
Bellowing, Bilgren swept the flail at Walker's legs, but the ghostwalker leaped over the blow, kicked off Bilgren's chest and rolled away, just in time to evade a bolt of lightning that slammed into the earth between them. Momentarily stunned by the blast, Bilgren staggered back, howling like a wounded animal.
"Talthaliel, watch where ye be aiming, ye lout!" shouted the big man.
Walker seized the opportunity to hurl two of the daggers from his belt at the barbarian. Bilgren caught one with the shaft of his gyrspike, but the other buried itself to the hilt in his thick stomach. The hulking man took one look at the tiny fang in his flesh and roared, more in anger than in pain. He ignored the blood that began to leak down his rothe hide armor.
Meanwhile, Talthaliel completed another spell and sent down a volley of magical bolts. Rolling, Walker dodged to the side, but the projectiles veered even as they were about to meet the ground and struck him instead, slamming into him with incredible force. Walker gritted his teeth but kept moving.
Bilgren was back, running at Walker with the gyrspike spinning over his head. The ghostwalker ran as well, toward a bakery at the edge of the plaza, keeping the distance equal between himself and Bilgren. As he ran, he tossed two daggers up at the wizard, but Talthaliel waved them aside like irritating gnats.
Walker did not have to look to know that Bilgren was almost upon him. Running full out toward the wall, Walker leaped, kicked off the log wall at chest height, and flew backward. Bilgren's flail exploded into the wall, sending a shower of wood chips flying, just missing Walker's toes. The ghostwalker flipped over the barbarian's head, landed behind him, and slashed Bilgren across the back.
The cut might have been deeper but for the thick rothe hide. The guard's sword was too dull to penetrate fully, but it was enough to drive the barbarian deeper into his berserker frenzy.
The gyrspike came around in a withering slash, as though it possessed a mind of its own. Walker ducked the high flail and parried the sword blade, but the force of Bilgren's swing spun him around. Disoriented for a moment, he managed to duck the flail coming from behind him, and threw himself into a tumble to avoid a burning ray, which cut a precise line along the ground where his head had been a breath before.
He turned back to Bilgren and had to twist to the left as the gyrspike sword swept up. The flail followed it, and Walker twisted to the right to avoid it. Plying his skill with the curious weapon, Bilgren ducked forward and brought the gyrspike spinning over his shoulders. Walker ducked to avoid being beheaded, and parried the flail as it swept lower. The chain wrapped around his sword, and Bilgren howled in joy, ripping it from Walker's hand. The blade skittered among a pile of crates.
Walker did not, however, stand shocked as the barbarian disarmed him. Slipping a dagger into his hand, he thrust with all his strength, stabbing the tiny blade deep into Bilgren's thigh. The barbarian roared in pain and kicked Walker's midsection, sending him tumbling away. His flying body splintered the crates and he slammed against the store wall, only to slump down.