Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [99]
"Beshaba's bosom, he's dead! And 'e looks like he's been dead days!"
"What? What do we do?" asked Mart in a panic.
"Let's get 'im inside quick, afore someone sees 'im!" Belk hoisted the man's arms and Mart took his legs. Together, they carried the body inside and carted him over to an alley, where they dumped him.
"Where do we take 'im?" Belk's eyes darted this way and that, as though seeing spies hiding in every shadow. "Not to them druids, nor to Greyt's manor."
"We gotta think o' something-"
"But I don't know-"
"Silent as mist."
Belk looked at Mart.
"Aye? What was that?"
"I didn't say nothing," denied Mart.
" 'Anything.' You didn't say 'anything,' you halfwit. Gods, I'm soundin' like one o' the druids, wit' their grammar-ical lessons. An' you did say something, something about-"
"Still as death."
"No, it wasn't nothing like that," argued Belk. "Something about mist-"
Mart opened his mouth to protest then yelped when something grabbed his ankle. Belk's eyes went wide. As one, they looked down, only to be yanked from their feet.
Their heads struck the hard cobblestones and unconsciousness took them.
* * * * *
Shaking off the last influence of his deathlike sleep, Walker wiped his face clean with the fat guard's cloak and stripped the Quaervarr tabard from his chest and the borrowed eye patch from his face. Dressed once again in his comfortable black, he sheathed one of the long swords at his belt. He would carry the other. Lastly, he opened his satchel and pulled out his thick black cape, which he draped around his shoulders. Walker stood, throwing his cloak wide and adjusting the high collar.
He looked over at the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn and nodded. The spirit did not respond, of course, but Walker thought he could feel grim pride resonating from Tarm.
After steadying himself, Walker padded over to the lip of the alley, bracing himself against a rough oak wall. Walker had not yet fully healed-not by his ring or by absorbing the energies of Shadow-but he had no time for weakness. When he reached the main street, he crouched and peered around the edge.
The street lay deserted, but Walker could hear shouts from a mass of people gathered in the main square of Quaervarr, farther up. Flitting between the shadows along the street was a simple matter and, indeed, hardly necessary-no eyes came upon him.
In the plaza, most of Quaervarr's population shouted for the Lord Singer. Guardsmen stood at the edges of the crowd, weapons drawn as though to ward off attackers, but their attention was just as fixed upon Greyt's door as were the eyes of the gathered hunters, trappers, traders, and families. Walker could see three dressed in the robes of druids wearing expressions of worry and undisguised anger. Walker noted the distinct absence of Captain Unddreth and Amra
Clearwater. He wondered what had become of them. Perhaps Greyt had removed them, for they were well-known as his enemies.
Then the doors to Greyt's manor opened and Walker's thoughts flew away in a wave of overwhelming hatred.
Resplendent in a full suit of golden mail, with a deep purple cape billowing out behind him and golden hair falling to his shoulders, Lord Singer Dharan Greyt stepped out beaming. His skin seemed to glow and the gray in his hair had disappeared. His golden yarting sang under his talented fingers, projecting chords of triumph and magic over the crowd.
Much of the crowd was stunned at his glorious appearance, and all-even the druids who looked at him with suspicion-fell silent.
"Welcome, friends!" shouted Greyt. His voice was loud and booming, and carried over the crowd to where Walker stood in the shadows. "You have come to my door questioning and concerned, but you will leave with answers well earned!"
Walker felt bardic magic resonate from the yarting and the Lord Singer's voice, Walker fought, exerting his will against Greyt's own, to keep the image of Greyt-his most hated foe-as the monster he had seen little but knew too well. The Dharan Greyt Walker knew was not the bold, self-assured hero