Free Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie Page A

dark, true, but the ghost world had never held evil: only peace, and his task.
    Face calm as it blurred in the Ethereal, Walker took a taste of the peace that surrounded him. Today, almost fifteen years after his first visit, the ghost world was more familiar to him than the living world.
    He sensed a presence and turned. A hulking warrior raised its axe to slash at him.
    Drex spat upon him. His woodsman’s axe gleamed. His growl was that of a beast.
    Walker shook his head. Drex was dead. A glimpse of his spirit, that was all he saw.
    Ghosts hovered all around him, spirits of those who had passed away: rangers, humanoid creatures who had wandered into the forest and died, and adventurers slain by the forest’s dangers. The souls, barely aware and wandering, were the remnants of humans and all those races akin to them—orcs, goblins, and even dwarves. Some spirits, pleasant and dancing around, were those of elves and the fey, rare and joyous things that took comfort in their perpetual, ethereal existence. Many were servants of the Seldarine, but a few tragic ones, the only ones to whom Walker paid any mind, wandered around, unsure of their purpose and without a patron.
    The strength of a spirit’s passion dictated the vibrancy of its shade, and some seemed truly alive before him. He could only tell they were dead because they lacked the telltale glow of life. Some—the younger and more confused spirits—reached out supplicating hands to him, begging for help, reassurance, or comfort, but Walker did not reply.
    There was only one spirit who never talked to him, and Walker only spoke to that one.
    “Father,” he said softly. “Tarm, my father.”
    As if in reply, the spirit of the middle-aged man turned to him. Dark, wavy hair fell to his shoulders and soft brown eyes peered at Walker. Tarm was dressed as he had died, in the priestly vestments of Tyr, the deity of justice he had served. As always, the spirit was silent, allowing Walker to speak to himself, to allow his thoughts to reflect back in his own ears.
    “Father, I have slain one of them, one of our murderers,” said Walker. “Justice has been done at long last.”
    Tarm’s spirit only looked at him with that same sad expression. Then, as though unhappy with Walker, the spirit turned away and disappeared into the trees.
    Walker might have felt wounded, except that he knew this feeling all too well. His father never approved of the deaths he inflicted, even those that were necessary. He was always there, except when Walker killed. At those times, Tarm would leave to walk on his invisible path, toward what, the ghostwalker did not know.
    Walker turned back to the spirits crowding around him, begging for his attention. Another memory came then, unbidden—a flash of the past Walker could not decipher. A spectral laugh, that of the shadows themselves.
    As always, though, Walker ignored their pleas. Many of the weaker spirits did not even see him as distinct—his life-force was so in touch with the ethereal. He was, as in material life, merely an observer, existing on the fringes of the world. He could not have accepted or met those pleas even had he tried and he could not fully join in the ghost world, because something held him back, something that was fiercely material and could only be satisfied in the world of the living.
    Vengeance.
    He had a thirst to punish those who had wronged him—who still wronged him. He lived for his revenge. It was his task, the task that was his only purpose. And when that task was done—
    Blurred memories—a laughing face, covered with his blood, looming over him. Drex… the warrior with the woodsman’s axe. Other faces… other men, four others beside Drex. He did not know their names yet, but he would find out
     
    A smile gleamed in the moonlight above him.
    No, that wasn’t true. He did not have to find them all anew.
    That mocking smile. Those lips that had spoken such kind words leveled a curse at him instead as he lay