Ghostwalker Read Online Free PDF Page B

main plaza. “Ah, the Whistling Stag,” he said as they approached the inn. “At least, so I would assume, by yon hanging, which bears a striking resemblance to Quaervarr’s pennant.”
    The Whistling Stag was a plain but sturdy building of fir and pine, a great hunting lodge that had become a gathering place for travelers and locals alike. The knights heard laughter, jesting, and the clacking of tankards through the windows. Clearly, they had come to the right place for merry-making.
    They dismounted and Bars turned to address the third member of their party. “Sir Venkyr, if you would be so good as to go in with me and reserve rooms, Sir Goldtook will take our noble steeds to the stables.”
    “The horses?” Derst interjected with a look of disgust. “Why me?”
    “Less chance of you swindling the innkeeper that way,” Bars explained.
    Derst started a retort, stopped, then nodded.
    The stout knight turned to their silent companion. “Please, allow me to do the negotiations. You must be tired from our long journey. Pray, get some rest. One of your distincti—”
    The knight laughed, a high, musical sound, and reached up to loosen the helmet’s straps. “Excuse me?” came the melodious voice. “Being a noble, Bars, does not make me helpless.” The helmet came off, and the knight shook out a long mane of dark auburn hair. Gray eyes sparkled above her smile and sunlight danced across her smooth, lightly tanned face. Arya Venkyr was a songbird clad in steel feathers. More than a few passersby caught their breath. “Nor does being a noble lady.”
    “Of course not, lass—I mean, Lady Sir Arya,” Bars stammered. “I said nothing of the sort.”
    “Were you going to say one of those things, perhaps?” She put her hands on her hips and raised one crimson-dashed eyebrow. There was that fiery passion—the defiance well known in Everlund and the reason she was here, in a knight’s armor, rather than at home in a study hall, garden, or drawing room.
    Cursing the demands of chivalry, Bars felt his face becoming a similar burning shade. “You may do all the diplomacy you like, Lady Sir,” he managed, after clearing his throat.
    “I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Arya replied with a roll of her eyes that belied her anger.
    “Yes, Lady Sir.” Bars flinched at his accidental use of the title.
    Arya sighed. She stroked her chestnut mare, Swiftfall.
    “But since you’ve been so kind as to offer,” Arya said, her face amused, “I won’t refuse. Lead the way, Sir Hartwine, if it please you. And draw your coin purse. Sir Goldtook? The horses.”
    “Forth the Nightingale,” the two men said together, without meaning to. It was their battle cry, which referred to Arya’s coat of arms. The synchronization drew a laugh from Arya.
    Grumbling and half-smiling, Bars escorted her into the Whistling Stag. Grumbling and not smiling, Derst escorted the three horses to the stable.
    The Whistling Stag was surprisingly roomy, and the dark atmosphere typical of an inn, with its choking smoke, was absent. Instead, thanks to the open windows, the knights found themselves able to breathe easy and free. Excepting the heads that turned as she entered, Arya admired everything about the common room.
    Tables and long benches, each carved from single shadowtop trunks, were laid out with enough walking space for two people. Stuffed heads of animals, orc and goblin weapons, spears, axes, and broken arrows adorned the room. A glorious tapestry depicting elves hunting deer graced the north wall. Barmaids flitted about, hurrying to clear tables for guests and to set down wide trays of ale tankards. The common room was stuffed with patrons and celebrants who had gathered to observe the coming of spring.
    Arya pushed herself up to the counter next to a loud man who was bragging about his lewd exploits in a slurred voice.
    “Excuse me,” Arya said to the innkeeper, a burly man she gathered from the noise was named Garion. “We are