Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [94]
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