Bastun felt his heart skip a beat, the Creel’s words turning his concerns into grim reality.
“The Breath,” he whispered, “Where? Do you—?”
His shoulder popped and he cried out as the Creel slipped away. Bastun stumbled backward, his shoulder limp and arm dangling. In pain, he dimly heard the shaman hit the stones below, a fleeting comfort as he contemplated the man’s last words.
“No time,” he muttered. “No time now.”
Kneeling, he retrieved his axe, pinned his hand under the shaft with his boot, and gripped the dislocated shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he pushed.
The white-hot pain of his shoulder snapping into place brought stars to his eyes. Awkwardly he stood and leaned on the edge of the tower. A rousing cry erupted among the berserkers as the scouts returned and joined the battle. Sighing in relief, Bastun slumped and crawled back to the ruined end of the wall, edging his way down carefully.
The warriors’ blades made little more than writhing parts of the bleakborn. They kicked the pieces away from one another, spitting in disgust while at the same time muttering prayers of peace for their cursed brethren.
As Bastun rested, he noticed a change in the eyes of the fang. They gathered and made signs of warding. A handful of the sellswords stood at the edge of the enclosure, staring blankly into a distant nowhere. Bastun recalled hearing the durthan’s dark spell and looked upon the mindless dead she had made of her own men.
“Abominations!” Thaena shouted.
“Perhaps,” Anilya countered. “But abominations that tipped the odds in our favor.” Several of the bleakborn lay smashed at the zombies’ feet.
“This is not our way,” said Thaena. “To win at any cost, inviting evil such as this to darken our doorstep!”
“And our alliance?” Anilya replied, crossing her arms. “Is one cost more acceptable than another?”
“We will make allowances for the living as need dictates,” the ethran said, “but we will not resort to fouling the laws of nature. Shandaular bears curse enough without your help.”
The ethran turned back to the fang, pointing at the Shield’s doors.
“Get those open,” she ordered, then faced Anilya again, gesturing at the undead. “Burn them.”
Their masks, night and day, displayed a conflict far beyond the mere use of necromancy. Anilya broke the stare, glancing sidelong at her creations.
“Fine,” she said calmly, then added before turning away, “But in the future you might do well to consider the costs of defeat.”
Ohriman followed the durthan, lighting a torch and descending to the courtyard behind the walking dead.
Looking west Bastun searched through the fog, now growing lighter as dawn neared. High above in the northwest tower he spotted a faint pinpoint of flickering light, like an earthbound star dying and choking in Shandaular’s misty cloak.
“Old blood,” he muttered, recalling the shaman’s words. The Creel had indeed come with some knowledge of the Shield’s secrets. Briefly Bastun wondered if it had been they who had invaded the Running Rocks, stolen the scrolls, and slain old Keffrass. Even with the scrolls, the Breath’s location was a mystery, known only to a select few among the wychlaren and vremyonni, but his sense of urgency was nonetheless jolted by the thought. He started as the doors creaked open behind him.
The smell of smoke drew his gaze to the durthan on the steps below, the dead standing at mute attention as they were set aflame. They did not move, feeling no pain as their cold flesh charred and fell away, slowly revealing skull-grins and emptied sockets before falling one by one to the ground. He caught the durthan’s eye, her mask aglow in the flames’ light.
Troubled by the connection in that stare, he turned toward the opening doors, away from the smell of burning flesh and the flashing eyes of Anilya.
Burning cinders floated through the air around Anilya, but she paid them no mind. The vremyonni was a far more intriguing subject than the wasteful destruction of perfectly good bodies. He turned away from her and she smiled, wondering how the presence of this exile could be used to her advantage.
Steam hissed from the snow as Ohriman tossed the torch away.
“This ethran is a fool, Anilya,” he said. “The zombies would have made excellent shields if the Creel choose to attack again.”
“True enough,” she answered, “but they were a mistake. A useful one to be sure, but not one I shall repeat.”
“This alliance you’ve forged for us is teetering on a very precarious edge. We should have gone on without the Rashemi or killed them when we had the chance.”
“No, Ohriman.” She turned to face him. “The Rashemi may be dangerous, but they are loyal to the wychlaren above all else. They will prove useful in time.”
“What of these swords-for-hire?” he asked, glancing toward the men at the top of the stairs. “How can we be sure they’ll follow through with this? Mere coin cannot buy that kind of loyalty.”
“Their rations and wine are drugged,” she said. “A derivative of Theskian thrallwine. It will keep them under control and, fortunately, not very bright.”
“And the vremyonni? He knows something, I can taste it in his scent.”
Anilya did not answer right away, though she was concerned about Bastun’s knowledge as well. Looking back up the stairs she could see the tops of the Shield’s doors opening. She could imagine what they might find inside. Dealing with the wychlaren was a nuisance. She despised their xenophobic views of the outside world. Rashemen was a land of power and the wychlaren merely caretakers until someone with more lust for battle came along to take it from them.
A shower of sparks and steam rose as another of the zombies collapsed into the snow to smolder and pop.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said at length, looking at the flickering window in the northwest tower. “Keep a close watch on the exile. Do not let him out of your sight.”
“You think he knows?”
“He is vremyonni,” she said. “Musty old tomes and ancient knowledge are their lives.”
“Pity for them,” he replied. “No wonder he’s leaving.”
“People abandon their homes for many reasons, Ohriman,” she said quietly, more to herself than the tiefling, as she studied the high walls and towers of the Shield. “Not the least of which is the idea of returning … to make it stronger than it was before.”
Ohriman raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “You haven’t drugged me, have you?”
Her hand shot out, gripping his neck, but quickly turning to a soft caress as she pressed her body against his.
“If I had, you wouldn’t have asked.”
She placed a finger across his lips as the smoke and ash of the dead swirled around them.
And Narfell rose, by demon’s crown, to ruin Ashanath,
An empire born, Thargaun’s glory, in ash of Shandaular,
But the Nentyarch’s prince, cold and cruel, the youngest of his heirs,
Remained within the broken Shield, his battle not yet done.
The walls were drowned in blood and ice; the towers filled with bones.
Soldiers slain, forgotten names, to die for their king in vain,
As Narfell’s prince marched through the halls to search among the dead.
Within the walls, inside the halls; to steal the
Breath, to seal the Death
Of the Shield and speak the Word.
Of the Shield and speak the Word.
—excerpt from the Firedawn Cycle, canto XI
chapter eight
Bastun entered the hall of the Shield cautiously, taking in the high columns and their arching tops, the intricate stonework that had escaped the magical cold outside, and finally the grim scene of death that lay upon the floor. Few spoke as the Rashemi filed inside behind their ethran. Those that did whispered quiet prayers of peace for the dead. Thaena stood as still as the columns that lined the old hall, unmoving and resolute.
Bodies lay strewn across the floor.
Most still gripped the great axes favored by warriors of the Bear Lodge. Bastun viewed each with a grief that bordered on anger. He kept to the edges of the chamber, kneeling here and there to peer at scuff marks in the dust and the scratches on stone. He took note of all entrances to the hall. Aside from the main entrance and two side passages, there seemed to be no other way in—nothing obvious, at least. None of these could accommodate the force that must have been fought here, not in such a manner as to slay so many and leave none behind to lie alongside the Rashemi.
More torches were lit as warriors filed past the dead, each performing their own rites of farewell to brethren lost in battle. Thaena approached the center of the bodies and knelt before a prone form that stood out starkly among the others.
The dead hathran’s ornate robes were singed and torn, her mask split down its length by a charred crack, the face beneath still hidden in death. Beside her, in pieces, lay her whip—a weapon that marked the hathran as much as the axe marked her fang. Thaena gathered these as she prayed and swore to make right what had gone so horribly wrong. Bastun quietly echoed that oath, though he wondered how he might go about doing what had to be done.
Anxious, his eyes crawled across the walls, imagining the chambers and corridors and ruin that separated him from one of the key components in Shandaular’s destruction. The Breath was buried, of that he was sure. Finding its grave would be a matter of memory and luck. He shuddered at the thought of it in Creel hands.
Wind and pale morning light heralded the entrance of Anilya and her warriors. Ohriman scowled at the scene that greeted them, but Anilya’s eyes found Bastun first, and again he sensed the mind of a kindred spirit. Kneeling, he stole away from her gaze to study more closely the body of a nearby warrior. He listened as she ordered her men to help secure the hall.
The body was unmarked save for a few shallow gashes along the arms and neck. No blood had flowed from the wounds. In fact he could see no sign of blood anywhere. The cuts were jagged and puckered, their edges a pale white. He resisted the urge to inspect them further. Eyes followed his every movement and he did not wish to attract any more attention than he already had.
He watched Thaena, quiet and solemn, wanting to sit beside her, to tell her of his fears and what needed to be done, but he also feared his own motives for doing so. To confide in her could revive whatever sense of trust had been lost, but it could also push them even farther apart and endanger her and all who’d accompanied them to the Shield. There was also the durthan to consider, and the odd truce the two had forged. In the end, it didn’t matter—the oath of secrecy he had given to Keffrass contained no exceptions, no conditions under which he might impart his knowledge to another unless it were a fellow vremyonni.
Thaena glanced up at him, torchlight reflecting in the dampness of her eyes, and he felt himself break. He stepped forward, his heart racing. The thought of speaking to her filled him with dread. He hesitated, torn between duty and hope.
Deliberating, he looked up as Duras approached from behind the ethran. Releasing a held breath, Bastun felt relieved for the brief reprieve and watched. The tall warrior laid a hand upon Thaena’s shoulder. She slowly stood and they embraced one another.
Duras rested his cheek upon her hair as she pressed closer to him.
“Lady Ethran,” he said.
“Guardian,” she replied.
Guardian. The word struck Bastun in the chest and he found himself speechless, his mind clear save for the image of his old friends in an embrace that spoke of far more than friendship. The bond between one of the wychlaren and her chosen guardian was unbreakable, a relationship of tale and song. The girl—nay, the woman—he had known, had thought about since that cold, rainy day of Ulsera’s funeral, was gone. He shook his head, gritting his teeth as he corrected himself—she had never existed, not the way he had imagined her. Despite all, he found himself smiling, amused at himself and the boiling rage that churned within him. The heavy years rested upon his shoulders again, heavier for the realization that came over him.
The Breath waited for him somewhere within the Shield, and he needed to begin his search. The Rashemi could deal with the Nar and watch the durthan. He had to make sure the Shield and its secret were safe and secure, and he had to do it in the manner to which he had become accustomed. Alone.
Duras and Thaena shared a quiet look before parting.
As he managed his emotions toward more useful purposes, Bastun knelt and looked again at the body of the dead warrior, at the sightless eyes. He needed no hathran ritual to exile himself and had no intention of waiting for another to arrive. His countrymen had no want or need of his presence, though he chuckled to think of their talk once he was gone.
Even now Syrolf was planting poison in the ears of some of the others. Warriors looked from the dead to the vremyonni and made the signs, the whispers against the evil and misfortune that had plagued them. Bastun met their eyes, each one in turn, and burned those faces into his memory.
This is what I leave, he thought. This is what is left for me here.
Duras gathered several warriors to him, including the ever-watchful Syrolf. More than a few still cast glances at Bastun. He tensed, wondering if his old friend had finally taken to Syrolf’s suspicions, but Duras motioned the warriors toward the western doorway. The group turned and nodded solemnly to Thaena who returned the gesture as they made their way out of the hall.
Bastun stood and made his way to a column at the far end of the chamber. Arcane symbols lined the tops of each column and the portal-like arches between them. The reminder of the portal kept his gaze sweeping through the hall as faded maps scrolled through his mind. There ought to be another door.…
Leaning against the column, Bastun edged slowly toward the wall until he found a spot of shadow. He paused there as he contemplated what he was about to do. Anilya approached Thaena slowly, looking once toward Bastun and joining the ethran beside the body of the hathran. The pair spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, and he felt a flash of alarm at the sight.
He felt his window of opportunity closing. Duras would not be gone long, and Bastun knew he could not escape notice forever. Struggling with the decision for a moment he cursed and slipped into the shadow, leaving his friends to their choices. He had his own to deal with.
His hand found the edge of a hidden space, cleverly concealed by the column, and he slid through the gap into a dark, narrow passage. Listening, he made sure his absence was not noticed before feeling his way down the corridor. He followed the wall for several paces, sliding his hands along the icy stone. His heart raced, though he couldn’t help but taste freedom on the cold air.
Stiff cobwebs encrusted with frost and dust broke and fell as he passed. The hidden passage seemed to extend forever into the dark. Angling downward as he went, he tried to maintain his position on the map in his mind, but without proper measurements he could not be exactly sure of where he was. His hand brushed against the wall and he pulled away, feeling something cold squirm beneath his glove.
Falling back, he summoned a pale light to the top of his staff. It caught the trailing edge of an unidentifiable shadow disappearing into the black. The sensation of being watched crawled over him.
There were warded places in the Shield, protected against the strange hauntings that frequented the old fortress—this was not one of them. Nor was he likely to find many havens in the deeper corridors he sought.
Forging on more carefully, he held the light high and avoided touching the walls. The passage opened behind another column and he stepped into a larger hallway. Looking left and right he saw nothing but more ice and dust. Thin light leaked in through tall windows lining the corridor. A winter morning dawned over the Shield. Ice, snow, and stone walls were all that he could see—a world of silence, a ghost of time.
The back of Bastun’s neck prickled and he spun. The hall was as empty as before, though the silence was broken by the faint sound of breathing. A cold breeze blew through the window,
whistling slightly and stirring the hem of his cloak. Unnerved, he walked south along the corridor, seeking the path to the library he knew should be somewhere close by.
The breathing grew louder. He held his staff tightly, walking faster even as unintelligible words began to form on the breeze. Dark shadows swirled along the walls, avoiding the edges of his light. They were small and swift, haunting his every step with whispering laughter and wheezing sobs.
Something brushed against his leg. He spun, pointing his staff and breathing heavily. Nothing but the empty hallway.
“Bastun.…” a voice said in his ear, a cold breath blowing on his neck.
He cursed and swung his staff. It passed harmlessly through the air. Spells formed in his mind as he turned and waited. His heart and mind raced.
A glint of light just around the bend in the hallway caught his eye, and a childlike face peered at him, its eyes bright and piercing before disappearing around the corner.
Cautiously, he followed. The whispering voices continued, growing louder and harsher. Somehow, he felt he had done this before, like a past dream unfolding in waking life.
A narrow passage appeared, and he just caught sight of the misty edge of what seemed to be a tattered dress disappearing into the darkness. Weeping, screaming, and whispering, the voices pressed in upon him. They touched upon his thoughts, his emotions, and he felt theirs, a forced empathy that blurred his vision as unchecked rage blossomed within him. He ran.
Spells became tattered remnants of arcane passages that he tried to grasp, but they slipped through his thoughts like grains of sand. The direction of the path felt right, though he did not recall it on any of the old maps. The voices sought entrance to his mind, and he cried out as he approached the edge of the corridor. Cursing the limitations of his memory, he stepped into the passage.
The voices stopped, leaving him light-headed. His hands still shaking, he breathed a sigh of relief.
The Shield of Weeping Ghosts Page 9
