Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [33]
As Gylther'yel had done, Walker questioned the timing of his attacks. He was not worried about one of his targets overwhelming him, but fighting more than one was risky. His success depended, to an extent, on surprise, but his foes would become increasingly paranoid as they died one by one. It seemed like a tactical error, allowing them to build defenses as they grew suspicious, and as time passed…
Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to show them that all their paranoia and preparation would not save them from cold vengeance. Or perhaps he wanted them to stop him. For in the end, what could be awaiting him but the logical conclusion of his task?
He looked over at the mute spirit of his father, Tarm, who hovered three paces to the right. The man was wearing a sad, distant expression unsuited to his face. Why was he always so sad? Walker wondered. Did he hold a secret of some kind, something he could not share?
Walker doubted the spirit would aid him in his struggle, considering how deeply Tarm seemed to disapprove of his task. And, besides, for all Walker knew, Tarm might not be able to speak. Pity, since he would have appreciated scouting before he walked into potential ambushes.
Walker found a rear entrance, which was, of course, locked. Not a thief by trade, Walker had no skill in opening locks, but he had come prepared. Opening a belt pouch, he carefully extracted the contents-a small leather-wrapped bundle: a gift from Gylther'yel. Delicately, he unfolded the wrapping until an orange-red acorn stood out against the black leather of his glove.
He pondered it for a moment-a beautiful piece of nature, to be used in such an unnatural thing as murder. Gylther'yel had taught him all his skills and abilities, true, but was his course in keeping with what she held sacred? The Ethereal was as much a part of the world as the physical, but was he going too far? Was his talent, his very existence, unnatural?
For that matter, would that not make her unnatural as well?
Again, Walker looked at Tarm but, as always, the spirit gave him no answers, merely the chance for Walker to ask questions of himself.
Was Walker an abomination?
After a moment, he found that he did not know and, when he was honest with himself, he found he did not much care. In a few days, it would no longer matter at all.
Walker held the acorn against the lock and handle on the door. "Eat away the works of man," he rasped quietly in Elvish.
In response, the acorn shuddered and sank into the metal. Where it touched, ripples of red spread outward, rusting and corroding the lock and handle. The metal groaned in helpless protest, but the rust did its work.
The handle was red dust before it hit the mud.
The hinges creaked only slightly. He saw no guards or servants in the dark house. Walker calmly walked inside.
His nonchalance was, of course, an act. Walker had to assume that Torlic was ready for him; his task was too important to risk carelessly.
Walker heard a faint ringing, as of swords clashing far away, and he fell into readiness. The differences in Walker's carriage were subtle, such that only a skilled swordsman could detect them; to the rest of the world, he remained relaxed.
Walker found himself in a rear entry hall, with benches around the walls and hooks for cloaks and other garments. The place was sparse. There was little furniture to sit upon and the walls were stark. A few cloaks, mostly the black ones with the green lining of the Quaervarr guard, but that was it. The tapestries that usually adorned the homes of the wealthy were absent. Torlic's home was simple, with small, uncomfortable rooms-that of a soldier.
In the entrance room, Walker saw double doors leading deeper into the house and a pair of doors on either side. He explored the side doors first, opening them a crack to peer through. One led to a kitchen, the other to a storeroom, and neither was occupied. A pot sat over a long-cooled fire in the kitchen, and knives