Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [94]
She ran her fingers over the faded inscription carved into the door. The curving marks were Elvish, a language she had never learned to read. She could make out only two words: "hero" and "Evermeet." A wry smile lifted one corner of her lips. Offhand, she couldn't think of any two words that were less applicable to her life.
Still, her hand lingered on the engraving that framed these words-a representation of the moon phases with a full moon framed by outward-facing crescents.
A faint whicker sounded behind her. Sharlarra whirled, then staggered back against the wooden door.
Before her stood a tall white horse, a beautiful creature with a luxuriant mane and tail so long they nearly swept the ground, and a face that was both intelligent and strangely expressive. The horse regarded her wistfully with long-lashed, silver-blue eyes that glowed like living moonstone.
These eyes were the horse's most substantial features. The rest of it was cloudy, almost translucent. Sharlarra could make out the shape of trees behind it.
"A ghost horse," she whispered.
Yet there was nothing of menace in the apparition's manner. If anything, it seemed delighted to see her. The ghost pranced a couple of steps closer, tossing its head in what looked suspiciously like a beckoning gesture.
Curiosity began to elbow fear aside. Sharlarra pushed herself away from the door and forced her shock-benumbed legs forward. She gingerly laid one hand on the horse's neck. To her vast relief, her hand did not sink into the insubstantial form. She stroked the ghostly horse. Its coat was silky, and cool to the touch.
The creature let out a soft whicker that sounded for all the world like a contented sigh. It nosed Sharlarra's shoulder and shifted around to present its left side.
"You want me to ride you," the elf woman said in disbelief.
The look the horse gave her left little doubt of its opinion of those who stated the obvious.
Sharlarra held her own hands in front of her face, turning them this way and that. Yes, they were still solid flesh. Her waking death spell had successfully faded. The horse was responding to her, not to a fellow ghost.
She considered the horse for a long moment. Curiosity defeated caution, and she vaulted onto its broad back. Immediately the ghost horse launched into flight.
After the first startled moment, Sharlarra realized that they had not actually left the ground. So swift and silent was the horse's stride that it had the sensation of flight. The elf relaxed one knee slightly, and immediately the ghost horse veered off in that direction.
A wild scheme began to take shape in Sharlarra's mind. "Can you jump?" she asked the horse.
In response, it soared over a mossy statue depicting a trio of long-dead soldiers. Sharlarra grinned and urged her mount toward the eastern wall.
A hollow, echoing battle cry sounded behind her. She shot a look over one shoulder. Her eyes widened in panic as three ghostly soldiers roiled out of the statue. They lofted swords that looked far too sharp and solid for her peace of mind and came after her at a run.
Sharlarra leaned low over the horse's neck, urging it onward. They dodged through tombs and monuments, evading pale grasping hands that thrust up from the ground. Soon the east wall was before them. She urged the horse on, praying that the ghostly horse was equal to the eight-foot stone barrier. It might pass through unscathed, but she'd be left on the wall like a toad squashed by the wheels of a trade caravan.
An open grave yawned before them. Sharlarra screamed, and the horse leaped into flight.
Time stopped, and the moment between one heartbeat and the next seemed to last a Northman's winter. Then the horse's front hooves touched soundlessly down, and they began their eastbound flight across the meadows surrounding Waterdeep.
An inquiring whinny rose from the ghost horse and danced off on the rushing wind.
"I'm Sharlarra," she responded. "I don't suppose you could tell me your name."
The horse's pace slowed just slightly,