Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [5]
Shaking, the guard thrust blindly into the shadow.
To his surprise, the blade sank home, drawing blood, and the phantom staggered and fell to the ground. The guard's blade went with it, red fluid leaking around the sharp steel.
The clouds chose that moment to release their rain.
It took the younger guard twenty breaths to steady himself. He was too terrified to be ashamed, shaking like a goblin before a dragon.
The other guard, recovered from the stranger's attack, slapped him on the side of the head. "Oaf!" he shouted at the boy. "Ye didn't 'ave to kill him! How're we going to explain this? A drunk wanders up after the party an' ye spit him? Are ye stupid?"
"But…" the youth stammered as his scarred companion knelt to examine the body. He had never killed a man before. "I didn't mean-"
"Oh, 'tis sure ye didn't mean," the older guard mocked. He felt at the dark man's throat. "Damn. 'E be dead." He reached out and punched the youth's thigh. "Idiot! At least help me dispose o' the poor bastard, aye?"
Together, they hoisted the dark figure up and dragged him to the alley near Drex's house, where they unceremoniously dumped the body. The youth started off, shaking, but remembered and reclaimed his short sword, yanking it from the dark man's belly. The blade made a sickly squishing sound coming out of the flesh. The youth wiped it on the dead man's cloak.
Not much blood. The man didn't seem to bleed much, now that he was dead.
The older guard drew the man's silvery sword and stuck it in the hole in his side. The handle was bitterly cold, and the blade seemed almost translucent in the moonlight, prompting both guards to make the warding gesture of Silvanus.
An accident, a passerby would think, with Tymora's blessing. Lord Singer Greyt would be another matter, but he need not know.
"C'mon." The scarred guardsman spat at the youth. "Come, afore someone be seein' us."
They left the body slumped in the alleyway and hurried away.
The rain chilled to the bone.
* * * * *
Walker waited until they were gone before opening his eyes. The sword-his sword-in his side hurt, but Walker was used to pain. He grasped the sword hilt and pulled the weapon out. The wound began to mend, thanks to his ring. He rubbed the silver wolf's head with its single sapphire eye and empty socket. At least the guards had not noticed the shine of silver and taken the ring from his cold, "dead" finger.
"Still as death," Walker said quietly as he sheathed his sword.
He had almost achieved his goal. The wall of the house of Drex was not an arm's length away.
Closing his eyes and laying his hands upon the stones, Walker allowed himself to slip into the Ethereal, where he existed but could barely feel his body. Only the heat of his hate differentiated him from the icy darkness. The world became dusky, shapes and objects mere blurry masses, and the moonlight turned into a soft, muddy radiance. He let his body relax, felt his weight lighten, and he could feel a gentle tug, the pull toward somewhere else…
Walker tapped into powers few could understand and even fewer dared touch and walked into the wall.
And through the wall.
In a heartbeat, he was inside Drex's mansion. He let the ghostly power slide from him but maintained his focus. His body became heavier and he could feel the air around him. He sensed the warmth radiating from a distant hearth, where a fire still smoldered. He was tempted to move toward that heat, but he put the ache aside.
He would not fail in this. He could not fail.
He moved through the hallways as a black fish moves through a dark stream. Two servants passed, carrying a basket of woolens and a platter of empty plates and tankards respectively, and Walker did not hinder them, hiding against the wall with ease.
As Walker turned a corner, a guardsman carrying a candle almost ran into him. "Wha-" the man started.
Walker's sword was out, darting for the guard's life. Light from the spilling candle flashed along its mithral surface,