The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (6 page)

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” the durthan answered calmly, then added, “I am called Anilya.”

“Your name is unimportant,” said Thaena, “and your presence here is unsurprising.”

“Despite our differences we have much to discuss,” Anilya said.

“I doubt that,” Thaena replied, motioning to Anilya’s captors and the other gathered warriors. “Bring her inside. Disarm her companion. Kill him if he tries anything.”

The pale-skinned man bristled and bared his teeth, his eyeteeth small and sharp. Anilya shot him a look.

“Be still, Ohriman!” she shouted. He complied at her withering stare. “Wait for me and do as they command.”

Anilya did not struggle as she was led by her arms to the gatehouse. Bastun caught her eye for only a heartbeat before Syrolf shoved him behind her. He turned and faced the warrior, meeting Syrolf s steady gaze long enough to let him know that he might not allow another provocation to go unanswered. Turning away slowly, he exhaled and followed the others.

The durthans companion was shoved against the gatehouse wall, sevetal daggers and a thin sword removed from his belt. They tied his hands for good measure and posted a guard. Slumping against the stone, he sat in the snow, showing no sign of discomfort in the cold. Under the glow of the torches, his green eyes shined and his pupils narrowed to slits.

A tiefling, Bastun thought, and a durthan. This wasn’t good.

Inside, Anilya was escorted to the back of the room, cornered and forced to sit with her hands laid plainly on her lap. Bastun resumed his place in his own corner, Syrolf close by, the warrior’s eyes darting between the vremyonni and the durthan. The rest of the fang crouched, on alert, watching the door and listening as Thaena spoke to the unexpected prisoner.

“Tell me,” Thaena said, “why should I wait for the hathran to lay sentence upon you? Why shouldn’t I have you executed here and save my sisters the trouble?”

Anilya glanced casually at Duras’s sword, held at the ready, and then to Thaena.

“That would seem to be a logical course of action,” the durthan said in an even tone.

“Then you accept your part in what is occurring here?” Thaena asked. “Even for a durthan, allying with the Nar is—”

“Don’t be foolish,” Anilya interrupted. “I and mine have no part in whatever the Nar are doing here.”

“I don’t think it’s entirely ridiculous to imagine the durthan making alliances with the Nar,” Thaena said. “I do not hold traitors to Rashemen by any high moral standards.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the fang at her words. Anilya met Thaena’s cool gaze, their masks so much like night and day that Bastun briefly imagined the sun arguing with the moon.

“Traitors to the wychlaren perhaps. Not Rashemen. Never the land.”

“However you wish to view it,” Thaena said. “You will be taken to the Shield and dealt with by its hathran. Bind her hands, Duras.”

Duras sheathed his long sword, drew a dagger, and reached for a coil of rope at his hip.

“I’m afraid you’ll find the hathran is in no condition to pass judgment on anyone,” Anilya said, giving Duras pause to consider her words and look to the ethran.

“What are you saying?” Thaena asked, her hands curled into fists. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” the durthan answered. “But the Nar have been here for some days, and they have already breached the Shield.”

Bastun’s eyes widened. The grim faces of the fang were all focused on Anilya, but none of them could know the concern that Bastun felt.

“You’re lying,” Thaena said. “You’re trying to trick me into something.”

“Haven’t you yet wondered why a durthan and a single swordsman approached a full fang of warriors, their ethran, and a vremyonni without raising a single blade or casting the most minor of spells?” Anilya said. “I came here to meet with you, to bring a proposal that would benefit us all.”

Thaena stared hard at the durthan as Duras stood by with the rope. At length, she gestured Duras back.

“Speak quickly,” she said.

Anilya leaned back into her corner, keeping her hands visible, and told of the durthans’ watch over Shandaular and the lands of the west.

“We spied the Nar, members of the Creel tribe, riding east. As they neared Shandaular we grew curious, but my sisters did not deem it worthy enough to investigate further. I disagreed. Strangely though, I was unable to find the Nar by magic. Some presence among the Creel tore my spells apart. So I found a tracker—Ohriman, my companion outside. He and his band accompanied me into the city.

“We found the wychlaren’s paths destroyed by magic—old magic—just as you no doubt have discovered. Sounds of battle drew us further into the city. Though we saw no evidence of a struggle, we drew close enough to the Shield to know for certain that no Rashemi stood guard to stop us.

“While deciding what to do, we were attacked by the Nar, as you were. We escaped, evading the spirits of this place until we found shelter. We heard your battle, and I decided to come here and speak with you.”

“Why?” Thaena asked. “Why would you even care what happens to the wychlaren?”

Bastun thought the same question, though his eyes were more open to the bigger picture. He did not entirely trust the durthan, but he understood their point of view well enough to see their reasoning.

“Honesdy?” Anilya said, then added, “I don’t. Although my sisters and I have no use for the wychlaren, we do hold Rashemen itself precious and have no desire to suffer a Nar presence anywhere near it.”

Thaena was silent. The durthan had made a good point. Though wayward, hostile, and steeped in darkness, the durthan did profess to a certain allegiance to the land that Bastun knew might resonate with the Rashemi. They would never trust her, would fight her or her sisters on any other occasion to defend the rule of the wychlaren, but against a common foe like the

Nar… Bastun shook his head, sensing what was to come next and fearing the consequences.

“Just what is it you propose, Anilya?” Thaena asked, her tone less accusing than before.

“A truce,” the durthan replied. “Temporary of course, but long enough that we might use our combined strength against the Creel before they become too entrenched in the Shield to root out.”

Bastun sighed, drawing an odd glance from Syrolf, whose hand never strayed from the sword at his side.

“And you feel that we cannot defeat these invaders without your help?” Duras asked, the coil of rope still in hand ready to bind the durthan at Thaena’s slightest gesture.

Anilya answered unfazed and as confident as before. “Not at all. The Creel are great warriors, but the berserkers of Rashemen are far greater.”

“Then why would we agree to fight alongside a durthan and her motley band of sellswords?” Thaena asked.

“Because of whomever, or whatever, leads the Creel,” Anilya said. “Whatever it was that brought them into the City of Weeping Ghosts—ruins they would never normally even risk a glance at—wields a power that evaded the attentions of the wychlaren and the durthan. It is something to be reckoned with, something that requires magic and as much steel as can be gathered.”

Thaena nodded and Bastun’s hopes faded.

“Syrolf,” the ethran said. “Escort the durthan outside to wait with her companion.”

The runescarred warrior complied and took Anilya by the arm. Once the door was closed, Thaena turned toward the fang and looked them each in the eye. Duras stared at the unused rope in his hands.

“Are you truly considering this, Thaena?” Duras asked. “Will we accept this proposal?”

“Pribeda, otvor vorta,” she said, quoting an old Rashemi

proverb. “Trouble is already here, Duras. We might as well open the gates and face it.”

She held her head high as she addressed the fang.

“This is our only hope to protect the Shield. If any of you find fault in this truce, let it be known now. I will force no one to fight alongside an enemy. The felucca is ready to sail for those who wish to leave.”

None of the fang met her gaze, but neither did any rise to leave or voice any objection. They would follow their ethran to their deaths if they must, despite the company she chose to march alongside them. Bastun could hear the whispering sigh of relief that Thaena let out behind her mask, and he found he did not envy her position.

She and Duras began preparations for the march to the Shield. The fang gathered their supplies and rechecked their bandages in relative silence. Thaena approached Syrolf and the warriors outside with the same decision moments later. Though Syrolf balked and grumbled more than the others he did not leave. For this, Bastun found himself thankful for Syrolf’s presence, even when the warrior came to collect the vremyonni once again under his watchful eye.

The snow had thinned outside to only a light dusting of small flakes, but lightning still flashed silently though the clouds. Anilya and Ohriman led the procession toward the sellswords she claimed were waiting for their return. Bastun was eager to be on their way to the Shield. If what Anilya said was true, he would have to assume that the worst was likely to occur. Though the wychlaren venerated the Shield as a well-placed outpost from which to guard Rashemen’s borders, there was another power to the Shield that was a secret even among their numbers.

Fire and Narfell may have broken the city, but ice and what lay in the Shield, unnamed, had destroyed it.

He stared after Thaena, wondering how he might gain her trust. He imagined possible conversations full of explanations

and memories of their old friendship. To gain her trust again might mean the difference between life and death for the fang. In his heart though, he wanted her to look upon him as she once had, to see understanding in eyes that time lost had forged into an almost mythical beauty. His pace quickened slightly. For so long he had discounted the thought that he might be in love with her as the fantasy of a young boy, or the foolish musings of a man out of touch with reality. But if she could be made to see him as he truly was…

Shaking his head, he smirked, intrigued to find those longings still alive and well within him. Since the trial he had foregone hope of anything meaningful in Rashemen, and he kept his focus on a new life in exile. The life of a criminal.

Though no solid evidence linked him to Keffrass’s death, he had felt the rage cast flames through his hands, found the dying body, smelled the smoke and burned flesh. The staff, wordlessly handed to him, bore the scar of his guilt.

And the scrolls of Shandaular… missing, or had he destroyed them?

Slogging through the snow, he pulled his cloak tight around him. Lost time rested on his shoulders like a perching dragon, the coils of its long tail squeezing his chest and silencing his futile protests. He could almost feel Syrolf’s breath on the back of his neck, and he increased his speed again, pushing through the snow.

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called themselves the Swords of the Cold Road, warriors of various nationalities who’d drifted to the Great Dale and Narfell to find bloody work on the trade road running north and south through both lands. Bastun stood waiting for some treachery to be unveiled by the durthan and her twenty-odd henchmen as the two groups met outside a half-destroyed temple to an unknown deity. The Ice Wolf fang kept to themselves, staring down Anilya’s sellswords as Anilya and her men approached quietly, weapons sheathed and packs ready for travel.

Bastun wished they would do something obvious to justify his suspicion. The fact that they took half the road as agreed by Thaena and Anilya, trading only a few threatening stares with the Rashemi, unnerved Bastun even more. The fang who wished nothing but to be rid of him were on his right and a band of lawless cutthroats on his left. In the center, he trudged along.

Moving carefully through the ruins, they took several alternate paths to avoid possible ambush points. It was not long before they reached the edge of the first wall, the original defensive wall of a young Shandaular. The chill that Bastun detected as he passed beyond the rubble of that wall crackled in the Weave—and it had little to do with winter.

Few buildings could be seen in the destruction that greeted

them in the inner city. Bare foundations lay cracked and half-buried by crumbling stone. Architectural style was lost to the ravages of war and time. Trapped in the ice were bits of bone, hair, and scraps of cloth. Shandaular here was a maze of winding streets, piles of rubble, and the occasional discernable structure that had somehow survived and been left to stand as mute testament to a past that had once been civilized.

Ancient maps of the vremyonni, held together only by cantrips and wishful thinking, laid themselves out in Bastun’s mind. He reconstructed street corners and old fountains in his head as they wound steadily northeast past the worst of the ruin.

The feel of fragile parchment between his fingers had been one of the quiet joys of his life among the vremyonni— though many of those scrolls and maps had been stolen less than a tenday previous. Syrolf had noted their theft among Bastun’s list of crimes, but truly he had no need to steal them. Keffrass had been one of the first to examine Shandaular and the Shield and had taught Bastun as much as he had wanted to learn.

He wished Keffrass were here now, though were that possible Bastun would have had no reason to come—at least, not as soon perhaps. The Shield had its secrets, secrets Keffrass had long protected and only after many years had passed on to Bastun.

The night of the theft and the murder seemed a lifetime away.

The fog thickened and progress slowed. Runners moved back and forth between Thaena and the lead warriors, taking directions and making reports. “Strange movement in the fog,” they reported, and at least one scout’s face was as white as the snow when she spoke with Duras. Bastun closed his eyes briefly and whispered a word of command, activating magic embedded in his mask to witness any manipulation of the Weave in the vicinity. When he opened his eyes again he gasped.

A ripple of energy flowed around them, swirling with the fog and forming into shapes that glowed dully with magic. Faces and dim silhouettes streamed past them, crowds of spirits rushing along in a silent drama. As Bastun maintained the spell, the visions grew more intense. Dull colors of blue and black trailed behind the spirits as they appeared beside him and ran through those in front of him. He could make out a whisper of sound, snippets of an ancient language in a dialect he did not understand, and faint screams of anguish echoed in his ears as if from far away. The ghosts of fallen Shandaular.