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.Gylther'yel decided to keep the druid alive for the time being.Perhaps she would find a more suitable use for her in the future.Then she became aware of a second, fainter life beating beneath a shadowy tree a ways from where she stood.Gylther'yel stepped fully into the Material.Colors became more vibrant and the shadows disappeared.The glare made her squint, but only for a moment.Smells and the sounds of birdsong returned, but Gylther'yel paid them no mind.Instead, she crossed over the soft forest turf toward the faint pulse of life."Ah, my poor little Wayfarer.You've wandered too far." She smiled.Meris, wrapped in vines, made for a helpless target.His body did not move, but the Ghostly Lady could tell that he yet lived.She wondered if either of those observations would change if she drew on more of her ghostly power and lit those vines with shadowy flame.She reached one lithe, deceptively delicate hand down to pour her power into the vines that entangled Meris's chest.Even as she was about to do it, the ghost druid thought better of burning the boy alive.Instead, she drew herself up and craned a pointed ear.Something caught her and she turned away from Meris, threw her gray cloak wide around her thin gold body, and shifted into a ghostly raven.The bird leaped into the air and took wing into the gathering storm.If Meris had been awake, he might have heard a lonely wolf's howl.CHAPTER 1830 TarsakhLightning cracked and torrential rain tore the grassy earth to muddy ruin.It was noon, but it might as well have been midnight for all the hidden sun's power to pierce the thick storm clouds.A lonely, unmarked grave stood in the center of Walker's grove.The blood had finally run out of the stream, but pockmarks filled with crimson fluid remained, and scars from blades and scrambling footfalls rent the earth, turning the peaceful glade into a battlefield.Three bodies—one crushed and the other two dead of wounds from which the knives had been removed—lay twisted and staring at nothing.A terrible silence gripped the grove.The doe and fawns that often visited the tranquil glade were nowhere to be found.The birds and even the crickets had ceased their singing.Occasional peals of thunder rent the deathly stillness, but there was not a sound of life to be heard.A lone spirit—that of Tarm Thardeyn—haunted the grove.He paced a circle around the grave, silent as always, pacing as he had for half a day.Finally, he looked up to the heavens, as though he heard a ghostly voice from on high.He knelt, threw his arms wide, and turned his face upward, letting the rain fall through his spectral body.Perhaps he was praying to the god of justice he had served in life.Perhaps he was locked in a moment of silent, necessarily private thought.Or perhaps he was merely waiting.Then a rare smile brightened his middle-aged features and he mouthed a word of thanks.Tarm put his hand down toward the earth, as though reaching to help someone up.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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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