Free Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie Page B

panting for breath on the grass. “Now, let us teach him how to sing,” it said.
    He knew one without seeing his face, the one he would kill last.
    The thought and sight of his ghostly enemy pulled him from the ghost world. Before he returned to his body, though, there was one more vision, just a flash.
    The boy… the boy with the dark eyes and ebony curls…
    There was something significant about that boy… there was pain in those eyes.
    No matter, though. Walker had to complete his vengeance— his thirst would permit no less. It was all that had driven him for as long as he could remember.
    Then Walker opened his eyes in the Material world.
     

     
    “Well met, my lady,” Walker said in perfect Elvish.
    “Well met,” a rich, sonorous voice replied in kind. There was a bit of laughter in its tone. “How did you know I was here?”
    “I am at peace,” Walker said. “And I am always at peace when you are near.” He looked.
    Standing before him was a diminutive woman with sparkling gold skin and gleaming hair that flowed to her waist. Her eyes glittered a majestic hazel with crimson motes and her lips were brushed with the slightest touch of frost. Resplendent in her partial gown of leaves—leaf-shaped pieces of leather stitched in intricate patterns and wound around her slim frame in a manner as wild as it was beautiful—she crossed her arms over her breast and smiled.
    Gylther’yel, the Ghostly Lady of legend.
    She smiled thinly. “That does not mean I cannot attempt to catch you unawares,” Gylther’yel said. “Your abilities grow stronger by the day.”
    “Abilities you taught me.”
    Gylther’yel accepted the compliment without a twitch.
    “You are not ready,” she said. Walker felt a stab of irritation.
    “We have spoken of this before,” he rasped, his tone flat in warning. “You tell me the same thing every year—that I am not ready.”
    “I am not about to question your methods, or even your need for revenge,” Gylther’yel said. “I only question your timing. Perhaps another year of training—”
    “My training is complete. I have struck the first blow,” Walker said. “I have delivered my warning. My task is a matter of speed now, and I cannot stop.”
    “I understand, but why now, of all seasons?” Gylther’yel asked, her voice tranquil. “The snows are falling away and the sun is returning, but Auril still holds sway. The winter is not over.”
    “All the more fitting for my vengeance,” said Walker. “Let them feel fear colder than the snows around them. I am at my strongest when a chill wind blows.”
    “And I am at my weakest,” Gylther’yel countered. Indeed, Walker knew that the ghost druid was most powerful with her fire magic. “The cold is anathema to my powers.”
    “My deathday approaches—less than a tenday,” Walker said. “It is a fitting time.”
    She continued despite his reply. “You are my guardian, my champion—what if they were to follow you back here? I have not raised you to bring danger to my doorstep….”
    Walker smiled. “I did not realize you were so humorous, Gylther’yel,” he rasped. Walker had watched the Ghostly Lady hurl fire and call down lightning to smite adventurers who strayed from the paths. He turned away. “Anyone foolish enough to challenge you deserves to feed the earth with his ashes.”
    Gylther’yel did not nod, but a hint of a smile crossed her golden face. “Still, I warn you against allowing your vendetta to harm my woods.” Her face grew stormy. “If you fight here, you will be on your own, and if you fall, so be it. I will not interfere with the will of nature—”
    “The strongest and fittest will survive, I know,” Walker said. “But fear not. Even the fiercest wolf leads the wild boar away from its den—and family.”
    His silver wolf ring gleamed as he stood. Its single sapphire eye radiated a calm but dangerous light. It was silent, stoic, and resolute; like Walker himself.
    “You speak true,” the