Duras frowned, before finally looking Bastun in the eye. “Seemed as good a topic as any,” he said, then added, “considering.”
“Considering.…” Bastun said even as he felt the weight of an awkward silence looming in the conversation. “Yes, I suppose so.”
The silence settled in faster than he’d expected, and he regretted his words. Both of them looked around, listening to the wind as it whistled through the shadows of the city. Thaena glanced once at the pair with what Bastun assumed was disapproval, but she said nothing and returned to watching for Syrolf. Bastun wondered what it would have been like to take this final journey, just him, Duras, and Thaena.
For a moment the wind slowed, and its whistling stopped. In the silence that followed a second sound echoed through the fog, far away, and yet there was no distance great enough to hear such sounds from: moans and cries of anguish, muffled screams, and shouts of anger. No living throats could have made the sounds. Bastun stood to get closer to the break in the wall, but the wind returned stronger than before, drowning out the distant voices of the dead.
Bastun stepped back toward the rock, disappointed and looking forward to his next opportunity to study an odd pattern he’d heard in the voices.
“Why are we here, Bastun?” Duras asked, his voice hoarse and suddenly very serious.
Any true answer might have taken far longer to explain than they had time for, so many answers seemed obvious at the moment. Obvious to him at least, for Duras could not know what it was like to be taken away from everything he knew. Bastun stared again at the faint scar on the staff in his hand.
“We are here to say goodbye, Duras,” he answered at length. “That and to hope that memory holds us true to one another.”
Duras was quiet, and Bastun hoped that it was answer enough. Despite what his emotions might scream he had no real malice toward his old friend, nor to Thaena. Circumstance had driven him to live apart from things that had once given him joy. The lack had left its mark, and all he had left were the memories and the pretending. Looking to Thaena—at her balled fists and constant stare after Syrolf and the scouts, her chin held high to maintain an air of composure despite the now hidden voices of the dead—he decided that most of them were pretending in one fashion or another, perhaps all of them.
Duras nodded slowly and stood again, walking to rejoin the ethran and leave Bastun to his thoughts.
A quiet thunder, muffled by clouds heavy with snow, crackled above, breaking the vremyonni’s darker line of thought and heralding the return of Syrolf and his scouts. All of the scouts kept their weapons drawn as they approached Thaena and Duras. The look on Syrolf’s scarred face caused Bastun to edge nearer to hear their report.
“What have you found?” Thaena asked Syrolf.
“The wychlaren’s paths have been compromised, ethran,” Syrolf answered matter-of-factly, his gaze drifting once toward Bastun before returning to Thaena. “Many of the markers still stand, but others have been defaced or scratched out completely. There were no signs of anyone else—anyone living—in the area that we searched.”
Not a weapon in sight lacked a ready hand upon it. The dawning realization that their simple mission had just become more complicated was evident on every face and in every steaming breath exhaled into the wind.
“What is your will, ethran?” Duras asked, his voice breaking the heavy silence.
Everyone looked to Thaena then. For a moment, Bastun feared his long-awaited exile would have to wait.
“We will push on to the Shield,” she said. “The hathran there will see the vremyonni and then see him exiled to the lands of the west. As by tradition and the othlor’s order.”
Duras nodded, as did Syrolf. The pair began gathering the rest of the fang into a defensive formation for the trek through Shandaular. Few orders were needed, each warrior instinctively aware of their place among the others. Bastun was anxious to see the ancient Shield, to match the reality of it to his studies. Keffrass had often spoken of its history and importance, though he had remained haunted by his visit. Thaena appeared beside Bastun, watching the fang being readied for the march.
“You will stay close to Duras and I,” she said, “I’m sure I do not have to explain why.”
“Of course, ethran,” he replied, then added, “And no, an explanation is unfortunately not necessary.”
Thaena looked as if she were about to say something else, but merely nodded and joined Duras at the head of the group. Bastun followed. Half the number of the fang, about fifteen warriors, led the way through the break in the wall and into the deeper fog. Their torches made spheres of flickering light in the thick mist, providing scant, but still helpful, illumination for those behind. Syrolf was at his back once more, only now his sword was unsheathed.
A curving street led northwest through heavy fog. Shadowy buildings loomed on either side—far more intact than Bastun had expected. Ornate arches, cracked and charred, framed stone doors. Columns depicting unnamed beasts and faceless figures crouched at every corner or lay broken in dark alleys. Odd symbols and runes squirmed beneath the thick ice that crusted the many arches, a familiar theme that made navigation of the maze difficult.
At the center of Shandaular lay the first archway, a mysterious portal connecting the city to another Shandaular in the far south—yet another ruin left to rot. Though both cities were old, their portals were far older, created by an ancient magic that few understood and even fewer had learned to use.
Occasionally Thaena would call a short halt to inspect small obelisks along the sides of the winding path. Each was firmly rooted in the ground, strong stone brought from Rashemen. Engraved with a single sigil, their magic kept the path free of the city’s spirits. Only now the sigils appeared ruined and smeared with ash. Thaena knelt and whispered to them, trying to detect the magic they held.
A light snow began to fall. The wind increased, whipping the cloaks and the long braids of the Rashemi warriors. The fog stirred, combining with the swirling snow to obscure the path ahead even more. Venturing into the tighter streets of another district, the group slowed, wary of every corner and shadow. The distant sounds of the dead became more noticeable after crossing the boundary of the low inner wall. As the city had expanded, concentric rings of walls, three in all, were left in place and kept fortified as their enemies grew bolder. During siege, the citizens would retreat behind the inner wall for protection in the shadow of the Shield and close to the central portal-arch.
Blackened stone and shattered walls replaced much of the discernible architecture. Thick ice filled the cracks and clung to the standing structures like malformed gargoyles. Bastun eyed these warily, his thoughts drifting to his studies of the Shield as the torches revealed blurred skulls and shadowy bones buried in the ice. Here in the inner city, in Shandaular’s last moments, death had taken its greatest harvest.
A loud wailing arose a few blocks away, echoing against the buildings and through the narrow streets. Others seemed to answer it, and Thaena ordered the warriors to a halt. The tortured voices of unseen spirits carried far over the ruins, issuing from the doors of hollow buildings, moaning with the wind as they slowly trailed away. Bastun strained to hear the nuances of the spirits’ cries, sensing some missing note in the rhythm.
The cries drifted north, growing fainter, and many held breaths were quietly exhaled as Thaena waved the fang onward.
Bastun caught himself looking left and right, his eyes darting at every imagined movement. Shadows lengthened and disappeared as the torches passed, surrounding them with phantom enemies. The faces of fantastic beasts leered from stone columns, given life in the flickering flames to taunt those intruding upon Shandaular’s lingering misery.
Several warriors reached into pouches at their belts to pull out pinches of soil which they kissed and sprinkled on the snow as they passed. Bastun imagined these offerings to Shandaular’s spirits might not be well-accepted in a place so far from Rashemen, but the effort was a testament to the
fang’s respect for the dead. Even so, more than a few rubbed the flat of their blades with the remaining soil on their palms, a request for strength against evil and a preparation for fighting those dead who would not so respect the living.
Duras moved closer to Thaena, leaning his tall frame to reach her ear.
“Have you attempted to contact the Shield’s hathran?” he whispered just loud enough for Bastun to hear. She nodded, her eyes never leaving the path ahead.
“Only silence greets me,” she answered, then held up her hand to signal the location of yet another obelisk. Kneeling, she studied the ash and markings defacing its warding sigil. Bastun edged closer to observe the mark himself. Thaena started as he approached but allowed him to continue. He heard her whisper a quiet spell, attempting once again to summon any magic left in the stone, but she shook her head afterwards, finding nothing.
“It’s the same each time, as if the magic were drained,” she said. She stepped back as Bastun kneeled closer.
Narrowing his eyes he studied the ashes, disturbed by the wind and smeared across the original marking. Removing one glove he felt the smooth stone, feeling the slight imperfections caused by some powerful strike, likely with a sharp stone or edged weapon. Touching the sigil with his fingertips he stained them with the ashes and rubbed them between his thumb and index finger. Raising them to his mask he sniffed them, two small holes in the mask allowing him room to breath.
“The ashes are moist—some form of oil—and they smell of brimstone,” he said, tilting his head and pondering the mystery.
“This means something to you?” Thaena asked.
“Possibly. Perhaps we may find one with the ashes in a more discernable shape to study.”
Thaena nodded and gestured for him to rejoin the formation. As the group moved on, Bastun sniffed his fingertips again, still feeling the oily moisture clinging to them, and noted that they did not frost despite the cold. Different oils could be used in several spells he was aware of, but the odor of the brimstone dominated this one’s scent. The combination nagged at his memory, and he looked forward to the next obelisk as the path wound northward around a rubble-filled mound of destroyed buildings.
The song of the rusalka, the dream-like lyrics of the Firedawn Cycle, played in his mind over and over again. The power in the Cycle had been born in an age when the wychlaren were few. It carried the legacy of Raumathar into a new era. Because of it, most knew of the battle that had destroyed Shandaular, of the Nentyarch’s desire for the city’s portal. Few pondered why the Shield remained standing or why the city’s cursed spirits refused to go near the fortress—except the vremyonni. He hoped that those vremyonni secrets had remained safe and well-hidden for Rashemen’s sake.
On the northern end of their path around the wall of rubble, Thaena signaled the place of another obelisk. This time she waved Bastun along with her to inspect the stone, eliciting a frustrated sigh from Syrolf. Thaena seemed not to hear the warrior, but Duras glowered at him as Bastun moved to accompany the ethran.
He noted that the stone did indeed bear a stronger marking of ash over the original sigil and he studied the odd symbol from several angles trying to discern its meaning. Duras approached from behind to look as well, but after a moment he returned his gaze to the end of the street.
“There’s some sort of clearing up ahead,” he remarked to Thaena, squinting through the fog.
“Yes,” Bastun said, not looking up from the obelisk. “If memory serves, it should be an old merchant square.”
“I’d like to take the lead group to scout the area.”
“Of course, Duras,” Thaena said, also involved in Bastun’s observation. “We shall be along shortly with the others.”
Bastun’s mind flew through the tomes of history he had studied among the vremyonni, trying to place the odd smearing of ash, the vague shape that just barely escaped his memory. Duras led the lead warriors toward the clearing, leaving Syrolf in charge of the fifteen in the rear. More of the oddly quiet thunder rumbled, and the snow came on in larger flakes as Bastun tried to shield the symbol from being obscured. The sound of the warriors’ boots crunching through the snow was powerfully loud, amplified by his mask, and he tried to shut out the world around him.
The Firedawn Cycle still tugged at his mind, keeping a rhythm he could not shake from his thoughts. Sighing in consternation, he caught himself humming the tune and looked back at the the sigil from the opposite side of the obelisk. His mind refused to recognize it.
At the distant end of the street he heard Duras’s group stop, their voices low as they discussed something they’d found. Shutting out their voices, Bastun drew closer to understanding what he was seeing. Thaena had backed away, watching the bobbing light of the torches through the snow with concern.
“Is this supposed to be here?” Bastun heard them say, a slight echo among the close buildings of the merchant square.
It clicked in his mind: an ancient book on ancient and extant languages of the north. An arch here, a straight line there, the pattern matched well. He remembered the page, a listing of ancient arcane alphabets in the surrounding regions of Rashemen. His eyes widened in alarm and his quick intake of breath drew Thaena’s attention.
“It looks like the path has been blocked,” Duras’s voice said, a note of caution echoing in Bastun’s ears.
“Call them back!” he said and faced the distant clearing. “The symbol is of the Nar!”
chapter three
Running toward the open square, Bastun yelled through the fog. Dulled thunder rolled through the clouds. The wind picked up, obscuring his warnings. Syrolf shouted behind him, running to stop him, but as the wind shifted Bastun could already hear the sound of taut bowstrings straining against the curve of bows. He spun around, seeing Syrolf several paces back, and waved his hand.
“Get down!”
Arrows whipped through the fog, cracking against buildings on the eastern side of the road. Several found their marks. A few warriors dropped to their knee with arrows embedded in shoulders and legs or long cuts where the missiles had grazed exposed skin. Bastun rolled in the snow, diving behind a nearby column for cover. Shouts erupted from the square down the street, a similar attack taking Duras by surprise. The Rashemi acted quickly, scattering and spreading out so they would not be such easy targets. Syrolf and a few others formed a semi-circle around Thaena, who began casting.
Bastun watched and waited as Thaena wove a spell of protection against the bows. The energy she summoned made tiny ripples in the Weave that he could feel, tempting him to call upon his own magic. He gritted his teeth, breathing slow and even.
The attackers loosed another volley of arrows, this time at Thaena, but her spell held strong, knocking the missiles from the air to land useless in the snow.
Rocks shifted from the ruin on the western side of the road, and with a fierce war cry the Nar burst from their hiding spots, brandishing axes and long-handled swords. The fang answered that cry with a call every bit as fierce, growling as they summoned the famed rage of the berserkers. Up the street, Duras and the rest of the warriors howled their own call to battle and formed a line to close the square into a killing ground.
Bastun gripped his staff. The warriors to the south prowled forward, baring their teeth and hunched low to the ground, ready to spring. Duras to the north did much the same, backing out of bow range to force their attackers to come forth and face them. Though slightly greater in numbers, the Nar were more than evenly matched. Thaena held her staff low, respecting the stand-off and ready to add her magic to the battle. The guards that protected her were ready to lay down their lives in her defense and eager to lay down many more Nar lives in doing so.
No one looked for Bastun. No warrior came to fight at his side or even glanced his way. Under normal circumstances Bastun would have preferred this, but under normal circumstances his hands would not be so tied by wychlaren law.
The Nar poured down the fog-shrouded rubble. Fur cloak
s flowed around their broad shoulders, their bare arms riddled with tattoos. Bows had been left behind in favor of the vicious heavy blades they bore with ease. As they reached the base of the pile and continued their charge across the snow, they shouted battle cries. The Rashemi charged back, closing their spread line and raising their voices in unison.
Steel rang against steel, and the Nar cries dissolved into grunts and challenges. The Rashemi continued growling, losing themselves in an animal fury that grew with each strike. Thaena cast globes of crackling black energy into the fray, taking at least one screaming Nar to the ground where he writhed for long moments before laying still. Bastun heard Duras’s voice from the north, but he could only see the faint glow of dropped torches on the ground. Blurry silhouettes danced, flickered, and disappeared in the fog.
Biting his lip, Bastun fought to maintain his calm. He was forbidden to cast any magic until safely away from Shandaular’s borders. He knew the wychlaren could not have suspected the Nar would enter the city so brazenly, and for a heartbeat he wondered how the Nar had accomplished such a feat in the first place. Peering south again, he saw the Nar had not been prepared for the berserkers and had backed up several paces to defend themselves against the assault. To their credit, the Nar maintained a fierceness that was impressive.
Syrolf slashed again and again in wild abandon, seeming possessed as he bore down on yet another foe. Finding the proper opening, he swept the thick-bladed short sword behind his opponent’s knee, lifting high and laying the Nar on his back to be hacked apart before he could rise. Cries of victory spurred the others on and they called out their kills, competing with one another even in combat.
Thaena’s circle of guards had joined the rest of the fang to better face their attackers. The ethran stood her ground fiercely, shattering a Nar blade with a gesture and swinging her staff into his jaw. Before his broken teeth had time to disappear into the snow, she was casting again. She spun and sang words of magic, a vision of Rashemi myth and legend leaving her foes in ruin.
The Shield of Weeping Ghosts Page 3
