Ghostwalker (28 page)

Amra contemplated pulling her dagger across his throat. She had never killed anyone in cold blood, but the scout certainly deserved it for the murder of Peletara and the other couriers. Amra suspected that the arrogant and violent Meris was also guilty of plenty of other crimes she could hardly imagine. Few would miss him, and those who might—Lord Singer Dharan Greyt, just as conceited and foul a man as his son—did not warrant Amra’s mercy.

All these things passed through the druid’s head—and, more to the point, her heart—and she knew she could not pass that kind of judgment. If she let her personal distaste for Meris prompt her knife, that made her no better than him.

Instead, assuring herself that he slumbered soundly, she chanted the words to a simple spell. Vines sprouted from the undergrowth surrounding Meris’s limp form and wrapped themselves around his body. Since he was not awake to struggle, they found a perfect grip that did not constrict or cause harm. Thus entangled, he would not be able to move if he woke. She even cast a spell of healing to stabilize his body until she could return to claim him. It would stave off death, but he would probably never walk again, not with the way his spine had cracked against the tree.

Amra considered that fitting justice for the atrocities he had committed.

She stood up and almost fell. The blow to her head left her dizzy and sick to her stomach. Struggling not to gag or deposit her breakfast in the helmthorn, the druid steadied herself against a nearby tree trunk. The forest spun crazily and the colors blurred.

Amra felt at her satchel for the scroll written in her own hand—under Unddreth’s dictation—signed and sealed by the captain of the guard, which she would deliver into the hands of Geth Stonar or, failing that, those of Lady Alustriel herself. She called weakly for her horse. The noble animal neighed in reply from the path where it waited.

The message bore urgent news: Unddreth and his soldiers could not overwhelm Lord Greyt’s forces and they needed aid. The Captain of the watch was probably dead or in Greyt’s dungeons even now, and Amra said a prayer that her apprentices at the Oak House had escaped Greyt’s long arm as well. The druids could defend themselves, she hoped, until she could return.

As Amra put her hand on her horse’s neck, she became aware of another sensation, one that did not have its source in her muddy head.

Even as she shivered with a nameless fear, she felt everything around her grow cold and empty. It was as though the very life she held sacred bled slowly out of the forest. Ferns seemed to shrivel and die as trees rotted and petrified from the inside. A quick, bewildered look confirmed that none of the surrounding plants had changed—her connection with the life around her was what was under attack. Silvanus’s power faded and died, as though nature itself had choked to death in the space of a few breaths.

“Oakfather help me.” Amra stammered. The plea came out in a wisp of mist. Her steed whinnied and threw its head in terror, eyes rolling.

Pretender, a ghostly whisper accused in her mind. Weakling. Disgrace.

Amra whirled, but she couldn’t see anyone there. She staggered back from the horse which, unattended, bolted in panic. With the horse gone, Amra could see a gray mist flow up from where it had stood. In that mist, gold and crimson mingled in a pair of burning eyes that bored into Amra’s soul.

“Wh-who are you?” the half-elf druid asked. She tried to draw her dagger, but her hand shook too violently.

One who knows the power you spend your meager life seeking, the mist said to her without speaking. One who knows you for the destroying scourge you are, you and your human blood. One who knows your heart and the deception there, lies told to the very nature you pretend to serve.

“Stay away from me,” Amra stammered. She tripped and crawled away, keeping her eyes fixed on those burning points.

I am your power and your purification, your doom and your redemption, your darkness and your spirit. The mist swept closer. Tiny winds snapped at Amra’s hair and pulled her toward the burning eyes. I am your enemy and your only hope.

Then recognition dawned upon her. “Gods,” Amra stammered. “But the Order—they turned you away a century ago! They destroyed you!”

The ghostly whisper became a horrible laugh that left Amra screaming soundlessly and clutching at her ears in vain. Her mind felt as though it were bleeding.

I am a force of nature, Gylther’yel said in Amra’s mind. I cannot be destroyed. Not until I rid the world of every last one of your wretched human kin.

Amra felt cool earth swallowing her, but it was unlike any druidic spell she had ever felt—rather, this was the power of the ghostly itself, as much the power of unlife as her power was of life. She could not muster the power to fight against it except to cry out vainly to her god, Silvanus the Oakfather.

Then darkness took her, cutting off her scream.

Gylther’yel stretched, causing a ripple through the Ethereal. The shadowy trees bowed in her presence and spirits ran from her, terrified. A warm, yellow-orange life beat before her, that of the half-breed she had just defeated and imprisoned.

The ghost druid’s eyes narrowed. She hated nothing more than humans except two things: their crimes against nature and those humans who pretended to worship the natural order. Amra Clearwater, with her elf heritage and her faith, was both. Even so, the ghost druid hesitated to kill her. She did not wish to wet her hands with the blood of the true people, even when it came from a half-breed—a half-human—such as Amra Clearwater.

Gylther’yel decided to keep the druid alive for the time being. Perhaps she would find a more suitable use for her in the future.

Then she became aware of a second, fainter life beating beneath a shadowy tree a ways from where she stood.

Gylther’yel stepped fully into the Material. Colors became more vibrant and the shadows disappeared. The glare made her squint, but only for a moment. Smells and the sounds of birdsong returned, but Gylther’yel paid them no mind. Instead, she crossed over the soft forest turf toward the faint pulse of life.

“Ah, my poor little Wayfarer. You’ve wandered too far.” She smiled.

Meris, wrapped in vines, made for a helpless target. His body did not move, but the Ghostly Lady could tell that he yet lived. She wondered if either of those observations would change if she drew on more of her ghostly power and lit those vines with shadowy flame.

She reached one lithe, deceptively delicate hand down to pour her power into the vines that entangled Meris’s chest…

Even as she was about to do it, the ghost druid thought better of burning the boy alive. Instead, she drew herself up and craned a pointed ear. Something caught her and she turned away from Meris, threw her gray cloak wide around her thin gold body, and shifted into a ghostly raven. The bird leaped into the air and took wing into the gathering storm.

If Meris had been awake, he might have heard a lonely wolf’s howl.

30 Tarsakh

Lightning cracked and torrential rain tore the grassy earth to muddy ruin. It was noon, but it might as well have been midnight for all the hidden sun’s power to pierce the thick storm clouds. A lonely, unmarked grave stood in the center of Walker’s grove. The blood had finally run out of the stream, but pockmarks filled with crimson fluid remained, and scars from blades and scrambling footfalls rent the earth, turning the peaceful glade into a battlefield. Three bodies—one crushed and the other two dead of wounds from which the knives had been removed—lay twisted and staring at nothing.

A terrible silence gripped the grove. The doe and fawns that often visited the tranquil glade were nowhere to be found. The birds and even the crickets had ceased their singing. Occasional peals of thunder rent the deathly stillness, but there was not a sound of life to be heard.

A lone spirit—that of Tarm Thardeyn—haunted the grove. He paced a circle around the grave, silent as always, pacing as he had for half a day. Finally, he looked up to the heavens, as though he heard a ghostly voice from on high. He knelt, threw his arms wide, and turned his face upward, letting the rain fall through his spectral body.

Perhaps he was praying to the god of justice he had served in life. Perhaps he was locked in a moment of silent, necessarily private thought.

Or perhaps he was merely waiting.

Then a rare smile brightened his middle-aged features and he mouthed a word of thanks. Tarm put his hand down toward the earth, as though reaching to help someone up.

A single sound answered: a lone wolf’s howl, a sound of despair, anger, loss, and…

Vengeance.

A left hand burst from the ground, its clawlike fingers covered in a mixture of blood and clay. The muck obscured even the silver ring on the fourth finger, but not the single sapphire that burned brightly in the storm light. It met Tarm’s outstretched hand and paused for a moment, as though it felt the spectral flesh.

Then, passing through it, the hand scrabbled along the ground. It achieved a hold. Corded muscles wrenched an arm encircled by a dull steel bracer up out of the loose earth. Then another hand joined the first, then another arm. Together, the arms strained and pulled.

Into the rain and death, Walker hauled himself from the grave. His tunic hung in tatters around his pale shoulders and chest, where a long puffy ridge and mouthlike scars had joined the others. His sword belt hung around his waist but his sword was gone, as were his throwing knives. His hair lay matted with blood and his face was stained with tears, filth, and gore, but his eyes burned as fiercely as his ring’s eye shone. Lightning cracked.

Walker pushed himself to his feet, clutching his arms around himself, and took a tentative step toward the tiny waterfall on the north end of the grove. He fell immediately, slamming his face into the dirt. Rain pounded his back and tore at his hair, even as his body shook with a coughing fit that threatened to tear him apart. He waited long, agonizing moments as the retching passed.

Then, when his coughing was done, Walker looked up. The spirit of Tarm Thardeyn stood on high, reaching down as though to lift him up. The old spirit’s face was encouraging. Walker reached up for his hand—a hand he knew he could not touch. He thought he felt something, though—something of Tarm’s spirit, a gift from beyond the veil.

It was a touch that gave him strength.

In firm silence, Walker levered himself up again, only to fall a second time after two steps. Stoically, burning with resolve, he rose and fell a third time, then a fourth, and a fifth, covering about twelve steps. The sixth time he stood, his legs finally fully supported him and he managed to limp toward the fallen shadowtop that made a natural waterfall in the creek.

When he arrived, he sank down beside the small pond and reached a shaking hand toward the water, as though to splash his face. He plunged his hand and arm into the freezing water and searched the bottom of the pool for a moment. His fingers closed on something hard and he pulled it up and out of the water. It was a simple wood box sealed with wax to render it waterproof. With a grimace, Walker broke the seal and pulled it open. Eight throwing knives gleamed up at him.

Loading them into wrist, belt, and boot sheathes, Walker gazed about the grove. His eyes lit upon Thin-Man’s corpse. He hobbled over to it and gestured to the air.

A mortal observer would have thought him mad, but only because he lacked Walker’s ghostsight. In truth, Thin-Man’s spirit lingered over the corpse, caught in a state of confusion.

“Be free,” said Walker. “Free as the wind through the glittering aspen leaves.”

Thin-Man gave him a smile and dissipated like mist caught in a stray sunbeam.

Rain dripping from his nose, Walker inspected the body, but not for weapons or armor, which he knew would be gone. He did not even notice the stench of a body dead for half a day. He appraised Thin-Man’s shoulders and chest and shook his head. Too small.

He moved on to One-Eye’s corpse, dismissed that spirit in similar fashion, then scanned the man’s huge body. He frowned. Too large.

“What are you doing?” came a sonorous voice from behind him.

Walker closed his eyes but did not turn. “Making ready,” he said.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“To Quaervarr.” He removed One-Eye’s eye patch but otherwise left the body alone. He rose and went to Red-Hair.

“Why?” Gylther’yel asked. “You are not recovered enough yet to go, and it would not matter. I have planted the seeds that will lead to Greyt’s downfall. Your revenge will happen anyway. All is done.”

“Revenge is not why I go.”

When Gylther’yel did not reply, Walker turned to look at her. In her shadowy gown, untouched by the rain that drenched Walker, the sun elf looked radiant in the half light—a creature of beauty that did not belong in a scene of such misery and destruction.

He noticed that, surprisingly, the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn had not fled at her approach. Instead, his father stood calmly next to his grave, saying nothing. Walker took strength from his courage.

“You would not understand,” said Walker. “I will go.” He started toward Red-Hair.

With a growl, Gylther’yel caught Walker’s arm and held it with the strength of an enraged grizzly bear.

“You will not,” she said, her face drawn in rage and her eyes glowing crimson in the storm’s light.

The ghostwalker looked back at her, his eyes wide with surprise. Since when had she touched him? To his knowledge, she never had.

He felt visions coming to him, flowing from her touch. Her psychic resonance, showing him her memories…

A dark night, laughter—the night of his death. Words… “Whether you will or no.”

As though remembering herself, she released Walker’s arm and backed away. Her face was calm, but her eyes remained furious.

“I forbid you to go.”

What vision had he seen?

“You have no control over me any more,” said Walker without emotion.

“I am your master and you are my champion,” argued Gylther’yel with steel in her voice.