Ghostwalker Read Online Free PDF

a larger city, but rarely cobbled, as in Silverymoon or Everlund, maintaining the rustic atmosphere. Moon elves lived in the southern fringes of the Moonwood and existed in a state of benevolent neutrality with the human town, allowing it to stand as a symbol of peace and cooperation between the races.
    In the recent past, Quaervarr had been a fort, plagued by the werebeasts of the Black Blood, but no more, not since adventurers and soldiers of the Argent Legion had driven the cultists out. These days, travelers could always find a welcoming smile, a warm bed, and a hearty mug of ale at Quaervarr’s renowned inn, the Whistling Stag.
    With the Greengrass festival fast approaching, however, room vacancies were at a premium. The end of winter and the beginning of spring demanded celebration, and excitement was in the air. Hundreds of men and woman scurried every which way, making preparations.
    The three Knights in Silver were acutely aware of the unusually bustling activity in the peaceful town, and the leader hoped they might find any room at all.
    Heroes by appearance alone, the knights attracted smiles and shouts from running children, who hopped alongside the horses as fast as they could. The lead knight, slim of build, looked down at each one with a smile barely hidden behind a silver-inlaid helmet. A lance stood up from the rear of the saddle, and a fine Everlundian long sword hung next to it. A shield with a star and nightingale was on the knight’s arm. The two others—much less elegant in poise and carriage—rode approximately level with one another, exchanging bemused glances. They were engaged in quiet banter, as always.
    “I say, Bars, that didn’t seem very wise to me,” one of the knights, a slender man in mail, said to the other. An ornate long sword hung from his saddle, but he looked too small of stature to have much use for such a heavy blade.
    “Eh?” his companion, a hulking man in plate, replied. His voice was a growl.
    “The watch at the gate,” the slender man said. “They let us through unchallenged. What if we’d been monsters in disguise, or brigands, or Malarites, or Zhents, or lycanthropes, or, worse, Sembians?” He shuddered. “They could be allowing truly dangerous men freely into their town. You’d better hide that voice, or you’ll be mistaken for a werebear for sure.”
    “Derst,” the burly knight rumbled. Two light, flanged maces hung from his saddle, and his hand rested on one. “You’re going to have to watch your tongue. No right-minded citizen of the Silver Marches would mistake you for a werebear, but your shape is right for a wererat.”
    “What does that have to do with my speech, pray tell, Sir Hartwine?” Derst asked.
    “You’re being quite flippant, Sir Goldtook, and only a fool would be flippant, and a wererat would be a fool to wander into Quaervarr, disguised as a Knight in Silver,” Bars said. “Since you are being flippant, you are definitely a fool, ergo, you might be a wererat.”
    “Ah, but could I not be a thief disguised as a Knight in Silver?” Derst asked. “As you often remind me, brother paladin, I am quite the rogue. Besides, you used a lot of words there that you probably shouldn’t—dangerous ‘logic,’ too. After all, what if some suspicious citizen overheard and questioned you, or reported you to the watch for ‘thinking?’ I would have a difficult time explaining all that back hair you seem to cultivate—”
    “When did we lose the right to be logical?” Bars asked. He glared at Derst. “And leave the hair alone.”
    Derst grinned behind his silver faceplate. “More to the point, when did we lose the right to be flippant?” he asked. “My life would be a complete waste of air if I found myself without that right. I mean, I wouldn’t be able to speak at all—”
    “Bless the Morning Lord,” the burly knight bellowed. “Were it ever so!”
    Derst glowered at him for a moment, but perked up when they entered Quaervarr’s