Waiting for him, arms crossed and standing beside the hearth, was the giant man with the painted face.
“How did you…?” Tarlak began, mouth dropping open. He had a dozen various alarms cast all across his tower. Should a man try scaling the walls, digging through the floor, breaking down the door, even flying through one of the windows, he’d have known.
“Simple enough,” said Ghost. “I walked right in.”
Tarlak extended his right hand, palm outward, and shot a bolt of lightning straight for Ghost’s chest. The thunder of its casting echoed throughout the lower floor and hurt Tarlak’s ears. Amid the flash, Ghost dropped to his knees, and come the return of Tarlak’s vision, the man was gone. Tarlak stood there frozen, baffled. Seconds passed, and he heard nothing, saw nothing.
“I’m losing it,” Tarlak said, staring at the blackened scorch marks above the fireplace where his bolt had blasted into the stone.
“Not quite.”
He whirled, deadly shards of ice growing on his fingertips, but it was too late. A meaty fist greeted him, and then all was darkness and stars.
When Tarlak came to, he lay propped against a wall, hands bound behind his back. His head throbbed, and when he opened his mouth to groan, he tasted the coarse dirt of a gag wedged between his teeth. Vision tilting as if he’d just spun in a circle for several minutes, Tarlak shut his eyes and waited out the distortion. His stomach felt as if he’d eaten a vulture’s meal, and as for his fingers, they were tied so tightly, they’d gone numb. A precaution against any spellcasting, he knew. At least Ghost hadn’t gone the full distance and just chopped them all off.
“You’re awake,” he heard Ghost say.
Tarlak opened his eyes, and this time the world did not tilt back and forth. Ghost sat opposite him on a wooden chair. The chair from his study, he realized. To his left was the fireplace, his right the door to the tower, which was now shut. Tarlak wondered how much time had passed. If he’d been out for a few hours, perhaps Brug might return. Even the slightest distraction might be enough for him to pry his hands free …
“I want you to listen carefully,” Ghost said, rising from the chair and crossing the carpet. When he reached Tarlak, he knelt down so they might stare eye to eye. At such distance, he could easily see the white paint smeared across the man’s face … only it didn’t seem like paint anymore. It looked like scarred flesh.
“Your hands are bound, and bound well,” Ghost continued. “Now, I know there are some spells you can cast using just your words, but I’m going to risk this. Just ask yourself which will be faster, your tongue or my swords?” The man ripped the gag from Tarlak’s mouth. “Trust me, few men who doubted my speed have ever lived.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Ghost,” Tarlak said, and he swallowed. It made his stomach gag, but he needed the taste gone from his mouth. “You’re looking as cheery as ever.”
Ghost walked back to the chair and sat down. As if to purposefully contradict Tarlak’s words, he frowned all the deeper. He said nothing, though, just stared. Tarlak would hardly describe his situation as comfortable, but that stare certainly didn’t help matters. So, he did what he normally did when faced with awkward situations: he rambled.
“Sorry about burning you like I did,” he said. “Not that I had much choice, since you seemed pretty bent on killing me and Brug. Glad you’re all right, though. You nearly killed me and failed, and now I’ve nearly killed you and failed. So, let’s just call this whole thing even. Sound good?”
Ghost’s left hand drifted to the sword at his hip, and he gripped the hilt hard enough to whiten his knuckles. For the first time, Tarlak noticed how pale the man’s skin had become. He looked unhealthy, there was no denying that, yet the man also had a cold sweat breaking out across his face and neck.
“I have no true desire to kill you,” Ghost said, ignoring his earlier rambles.
“That so?” Tarlak asked. “You have a unique way of showing it.”
“The first time, you were merely in my way,” said Ghost. “A potential interference to my hunt for the Watcher. I’d not dueled a wizard in years, and I must admit, I was eager to test my abilities. You were a worthy foe, so when I say I am glad you survived, you must understand I speak the truth.”
“Comforting,” said Tarlak, still clueless as to where the conversation was going. “Is that why you gutted Senke, too? He was in the way?”
This seemed to affect Ghost far more than Tarlak expected.
“The Watcher called me a monster afterward,” Ghost said. “Do you think that is true?”
“If you’re trying to argue you’re not, you’re going about it a pretty piss-poor way.”
Finally, Ghost laughed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand across his bald head.
“I argue nothing,” he said. “Monsters. Aren’t we all monsters? You wield fire with your bare hands and summon lightning from your palms. Tell me, would men not quake in fear of you should you bring your wrath upon them?”
“Anyone afraid of me will deserve whatever wrath that befalls them,” Tarlak said. “I don’t kill the innocent.”
“Innocent?” Another laugh. “An odd way to call men and women you know nothing about. I doubt anyone would call you innocent, Tarlak.”
“Is that why you tried to kill us the second time?”
Ghost shook in his chair, and it made Tarlak all the more nervous. Something was terribly wrong with the man. He looked ready to explode, yet at the same time, it seemed he clung to consciousness by a thin thread made solely of pure stubbornness.
“I don’t have a choice,” he said. A smile flashed on his face, vanished. “Not anymore. Right now, it’s your life or mine, Tarlak. Would you blame me for killing you when forced into such a situation?”
“Honestly?” asked Tarlak. “I think you look like a man who doesn’t care whatsoever about what I have to say. Nor do you look like a man who can be forced to do anything, not even when threatened with his life. So, if you’re going to kill me, please, for the love of Ashhur, just go ahead and kill me.”
Ghost stood, and now both hands clutched the hilts of his swords.
“Or we can continue chatting,” Tarlak offered.
“All my life,” Ghost said, slowly walking toward him. “All my life, I denied being a monster. I embraced people’s fear. I painted my face and grinned at their prejudice and unease. That fear was their own failure, not mine. The color of my skin gave them their anger, not my own self. No matter what, because of my skill, my strength, I was free. I was dangerous and proud. But now?”
He drew a sword and placed the edge against Tarlak’s neck. Tarlak tensed, and he refused to look away from Ghost’s bloodshot eyes.
“And now,” said Ghost, “all I can feel is a need to cut your throat. It doesn’t matter, my desires, my thoughts. That need is there, an ache, an addiction. I’ve been made into a monster, wizard, and my heart rebels against it with every last vestige of my pride.”
“Then fight it,” insisted Tarlak. “No one can make you into a monster, Ghost, only show you the way.”
The blade quivered at his neck. Ghost’s eyes narrowed, his obsidian skin considerably paled. Tarlak could hear his breathing, and he swore he could even hear the hammering of the giant man’s heart.
Ghost let out a scream, turned, and drove his sword with all his strength into the floor of the tower. Back to him, the man stood there, shoulders rising and falling as he gasped in air. His hands were clenched into fists, and they trembled.
“The man I killed,” Ghost said. “Senke … was he a friend of yours?”
Tarlak swallowed down a sudden knot in his throat.
“Yes,” he said. “A good friend.”
Ghost turned his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes firmly locked on the floor. “I long told myself it was because of the job, but it never was. I killed because I could, because I thought it elevated me beyond all others. But when the choice is taken away … when it’
s still my hands…”
“You’re sorry,” Tarlak said, and he rose to his feet. His hands were still tied behind him, and he pulled against them as he felt his own rage growing. “You’re sorry? Good for you, you bastard, but I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. Senke was my friend, but he was a brother to Delysia, and you butchered him like a piece of meat.”
Eyes still on the floor, Ghost opened his mouth to speak, but instead, he collapsed to his knees … and then seemed to sink into the very floor. Tarlak’s mouth dropped open, baffled by the sight. Letting out a slow groan, Ghost pushed himself back up through it, his feet setting back atop the floor with a heavy thud before he collapsed onto his hands and knees. Boils shimmered across his arms, rising, popping, and vanishing without leaving a trace beyond the faintest of scars.
“Delysia,” he said, and he sounded feverish. “She’s … she’s the priestess that was with you. Your sister?”
“Yes,” Tarlak said. “You nearly killed Senke once, but she saved him, brought him back. And then you stabbed him again, except this time, she wasn’t there, and you know why? Because I made her stay behind. I wish she’d have just blamed me like any normal person, but she never did. Just herself for not ignoring me, for not coming with us. You killed him, and she carried the guilt instead of you. I don’t want your damn apology. I just want you out of my life. I want to stop thinking about how if I’d only been stronger, if I’d only turned you to ash before you ran into Leon Connington’s mansion…”
His voice trailed off, unable to finish, too angry, too hurt.
“If that’s what you want, then so be it,” Ghost said. Retrieving his sword, he slipped it into the sheath strapped to his thigh, then slowly rose to his feet. He wobbled, grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. His back was to Tarlak, and he looked over his shoulder to ask his question.
“Where is your sister?”
Tarlak glared at him.
“Why do you care?”
“Because of Senke,” he said. The white paint began to run down his neck as if it were melting. “I have to tell her. I have to know.”
It made no sense. Why would he even ask? Did Ghost truly think he’d just reveal Delysia’s location?
“I won’t tell you,” he said. “Kill me if you must, but I’m not putting my sister’s life in danger.”
He’d thought Ghost would be upset or threaten him, but doing the expected appeared to be the last thing the giant man intended.
No, instead, he laughed.
“Threaten?” he asked. “Threaten? Look at me, wizard. Look at the fever in my face. Look at the rot in my flesh. Death comes for me, not your sister. I just want to talk. You say she carries the guilt, so let me absolve her of it. That’s all. Can you do that? For her?”
It was insane, Tarlak knew. Absolutely insane. Every part of his mind told him to lie, but deep in his chest, he felt something insisting he speak the truth. Haern would be at her side, and he’d have to trust them to be strong enough to endure whatever it was Ghost had planned.
“She traveled west months ago, toward the Stronghold,” he said. “I don’t know how long it will be until she returns, but if she does, it’ll be by the main road.”
“Thank you,” Ghost said, swallowing heavily. His eyes closed for a moment, opened again. Blood had pooled in them, washing away the white with red. “Thank you.”
With that he was gone, leaving Tarlak standing there by the wall with his hands bound behind his back.
“What in the world did I just do?” he wondered aloud. Hurrying to the stairs, he climbed up to Brug’s room, where there were more than enough sharp instruments scattered about the workplace for him to cut into the rope binding his hands. Once they were free and he felt the feeling returning to his fingers with each painful throb of his heartbeat, he looked to the roof and shook his head.
“Keep an eye on her,” he said to Ashhur. “Because if something happens because I just told that lunatic where she is, you better be hiding when I enter the golden lands for myself.”
CHAPTER
27
Their travel back to Veldaren was somber, despite Delysia’s best attempts otherwise. It wasn’t as if Haern never laughed or smiled when she joked, or that he did not stay close to her come nightfall. With Thren no longer around, Haern was comfortable enough to remove his hood, and at one of the larger towns, he bought a plain shirt and breeches so he might appear as any other commoner during their walk. But the clothes never seemed to fit just right, and his smile was always temporary, his laugh an ephemeral thing. Whatever joy she’d known in him, it seemed to have left that night he’d spoken with his father.
“Are you all right?” she’d had the courage to ask him only once, after they’d crossed the rivers and into the land of Omn.
“I will be,” he said, and she trusted him enough to let the matter remain at that.
Every night, when she closed her eyes to sleep, she prayed that Haern would find a way to move on. And every night, she listened for the quiet footsteps she knew she’d never hear, those of Thren Felhorn sneaking into their camp to do away with the scars of his past. As week followed week, it seemed neither would come to pass.
They bought their rations at the trading towns they came across, ate them in quiet meals, and traveled the miles with comfortable silence. Sometimes, Haern left her to hunt, but not often. Their rations, wrapped cakes, were more than enough to last until the next town, and so long as they foraged whenever they came upon a patch of berries or fruit hanging from low branches, they managed to keep themselves from ever feeling hungry.
“It’s my turn this time,” Haern said as they prepared to set up camp for the night. “You tend the fire and let me scratch up my arms picking through the thorns.”
He referred to a patch of blackberries they’d passed only minutes before, a patch for which Delysia had insisted they sacrifice a few more hours of travel to pick for dinner.
“If you insist,” Delysia said, casting her eyes about in search for proper kindling. “I’m better at it than you, though.”
“Yes, but you have such delicate baby skin. A single scratch would be a great travesty.”
She rolled her eyes, and he laughed.
“Just don’t be long,” she said. “I’d hate for my pretty little head to start feeling worried during your absence.”
He bowed comically low, sweeping an invisible hat off his head while doing so. The simple gesture left her smiling. For the first time in quite awhile, Haern appeared to be himself again. Perhaps because they were so close to home, or he was finally free of his father’s gloomy presence, but the reason hardly mattered so long as he was smiling.
Delysia hummed to herself as she collected the slender twigs for the fire. They were not far off the well-traveled road to Veldaren, which was only forty miles away by Haern’s estimate, just enough so that when they built their fire, they might have some measure of privacy and safety from anyone who might be prowling about the night with ill intentions. All about were the widely spaced trees of a forest, casting comfortable shade and making it easy pickings for her firewood. The moment was so peaceful, so serene, she felt betrayed by the sound of another person’s voice.
“At last. I thought he’d never leave.”
The sound of that voice sparked a dozen memories, none of them good. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she turned, a bundle of twigs still in her arms. Standing there in the forest, between her and the road, was a specter from the past who should have been long dead. He towered before her, obsidian skin even darker in the shadows, his painted face seeming to glow. She remembered when he’d bound her while waiting to ambush Haern, how he’d mocked her as Senke bled out before her eyes. The only differences now were that his frame looked lankier, drained, and his face bore thick scars that seemed to meld with the very paint across his face.
“Hello, Delysia,” said Ghost.
“Stay back,” she said, dropping her bundle and lifting her hands before
her. Defensive spells ran through her mind, and she nearly froze trying to pick one. His swords remained sheathed, and he stood there with an arm braced against a tree, supporting his weight. If he was to attack her, he certainly didn’t look ready for it.
“I’m not here to…” he said, then stopped. It seemed the very words caused him pain. His eyes closed as he grimaced, and she watched his arm sink into the wood of the tree, vanishing as if he were not real, only a memory.
Light shimmered across Delysia’s hands as she pulled power from Ashhur into her being. He may not seem ready to attack her, but the man was dangerous and clearly ill. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he pulled his hand from the tree, his skin seemed to shimmer like morning fog atop a lake.
“Haern killed you,” she said as he stood there, unmoving. “How did you survive?”
“Not now,” Ghost said. His voice was heavy, and so very tired. “I don’t have time for that, Delysia. That I’m here … I can hardly believe it, either. It’s been so long waiting … so long…”
Delysia looked beyond him to the road, and she wondered how long Haern might be. If only he could come back and find her, perhaps help her subdue Ghost before he drew his blades. As she watched, the giant man took a single step, pushing himself away from the tree. As he did, the skin of his face began to bubble beneath the white paint, and all across his arms she watched burn marks appear without reason.
“Waiting?” she said, trying to stall, to keep the man talking. “Well, you’ve waited, and here I am. If you have something to say, then say it.”
“I’m sorry.”
That was it. He said it with such finality, such weight, she found herself speechless. Her head tilted to one side, and she looked at him as if he’d tricked her.
Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts Page 35