Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie

was not finished for the night, and that she would need her blade.

CHAPTER 6
    26 Tarsakh
     
    Walker strode away from the alley, his mouth set in a frown. He did not have far to go—Quaervarr had perhaps five dozen buildings and only three main streets. Few would be out of their homes after nightfall, and none would spot him as he glided between shadows.
    Not that he would have cared even had he been watched. He was thinking of the woman with the auburn hair.
    He had come upon the struggle in the alley by coincidence as he stalked through Quaervarr, and any other day he might have passed by without interference. Why had he saved her? He had no idea who she was. He’d never seen before, but that was not surprising. Strangers often came through Quaervarr; he himself was a stranger, in a sense.
    Had he acted out of a sense of justice? Walker scowled. Justice was antiquated and meaningless—he had only to think of the murder of his father, a devotee of Tyr, for evidence. Still, the choice had not felt random; it had not been whim. Had the sight of the woman sparked feelings in him, feelings long since buried? His pulse quickened.
    Walker turned to the spirit of Tarm for guidance, but his father’s face was impassive. Whatever answers Walker was going to discover would come from within, where he was empty.
    Using techniques perfected over long years of practice, Walker put it as far as he could out of his mind. His memory of the auburn-haired woman remained vivid, and it burned, almost indignantly, from its place in his subconscious, but he paid it no attention. He focused his attention on the task at hand—Torlic, the warrior known in Quaervarr as the “Dancing Blade.”
    Walker’s hand went to his arm, where an old stab wound throbbed.
    Torlic’s was a large townhouse, built in the early days of Quaervarr and expanded later. Over the last twenty years, Torlic—a razor-thin half-elf with a penchant for the rapier—had built himself a substantial base in the Quaervarr watch, thanks to Dharan Greyt. Torlic was first lieutenant to Unddreth, though not because of his personality or any friendship with the hulking captain of the Watch. Torlic was also known for his paranoia and regularly posted his underlings to guard his own house, rather than to patrol the streets.
    There were no guards that night, though, Walker observed. It seemed unlike a man such as Torlic to be unprepared, so Walker was wary. Mithral sword in its scabbard, the ghostly warrior stalked toward the house on a roundabout path, through the shadows, just in case any guards were watching from behind the darkened windows.
    Leaving the front entrance behind, Walker slid along the worn logs of the outer wall and searched for a back entrance.
    He could have tapped into the ethereal and walked through the barrier, but he preferred to reserve his powers for an escape, if necessary.
    As Gylther’yel had done, Walker questioned the timing of his attacks. He was not worried about one of his targets overwhelming him, but fighting more than one was risky. His success depended, to an extent, on surprise, but his foes would become increasingly paranoid as they died one by one. It seemed like a tactical error, allowing them to build defenses as they grew suspicious, and as time passed…
    Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to show them that all their paranoia and preparation would not save them from cold vengeance. Or perhaps he wanted them to stop him. For in the end, what could be awaiting him but the logical conclusion of his task?
    He looked over at the mute spirit of his father, Tarm, who hovered three paces to the right. The man was wearing a sad, distant expression unsuited to his face. Why was he always so sad? Walker wondered. Did he hold a secret of some kind, something he could not share?
    Walker doubted the spirit would aid him in his struggle, considering how deeply Tarm seemed to disapprove of his task. And, besides, for all Walker knew, Tarm