Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [96]
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