The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Chapter Four

Tracks in the stone gatehouse were encrusted with ice unaffected by torches or the gathering warmth of so many bodies inside the lowest level. The stone had charred, but not so much as the structures within the third wall, the ones closest to the Shield where demons had swarmed among the flames and screams.

Every few moments, when wind stirred the fog, the faint silhouette of the distant fortress appeared. Bastun marveled at the endurance of such a monument-hidden for so long, forgotten by the world-and shuddered at the thought of what lay buried inside.

In a corner of the room, through a small arrow slit, he stared outside and listened for the voice of Thaena. She had taken a chamber upstairs to confer with Duras and Syrolf. It had been left to the rest of the fang to keep watch over the vremyonni while binding their wounds and using wychlaren salves to staunch bleeding. Their eyes, when they found him, left little to the imagination. They were Rashemi and Bastun had chosen not to be; the berserkers were rarely open-minded on the subject of loyalty. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, close to a sizeable crack that reached from foundation up to the ceiling and beyond. The voices of the ethran and her warriors whispered through his mask.

"Most of the fang will be fine," Duras said, "and they shall be more than ready should we encounter a second ambush."

"That is one thing I think we can be sure of," Syrolf said. "For all we know they could be on their way here now."

"No," said Duras, "I don't think they would brave pushing past the spirits we encountered to attack an enemy in a fortified position. At least, not until dawn."

"We will not wait for dawn," Thaena said, her voice firm. "These Nar have moved too close to Rashemen. They threaten our outpost at the Shield."

"Is that not the least bit coincidental?" Syrolf asked. Bastun could hear him pacing as he continued. "That the Nar are here? Now of all times?"

No one answered, and Syrolf stopped pacing. Bastun strained to hear, curious to know if these three knew something he didn't-or more importantly knew something that they shouldn't.

"What do you mean?" Thaena asked.

"Considering recent events and decisions made in-"

"Just get to the point, Syrolf," Duras said, an edge in his tone.

"The vremyonni," Syrolf answered. "No, I mean, the exile."

"You are suggesting that Bastun may be responsible for the Nar attack?" Thaena asked. "Ridiculous," Duras said.

"You haven't even considered the notion yourself?" Syrolf said. "On the ship we were attacked by rusalkas-in the presence of an ethran, no less! Now here we find Nar tribesmen and our safe paths compromised by their magic? Go downstairs and see for yourself. Not a soul down there hasn't considered that the exile is behind whatever is going on."

"There's no point!" Duras said. "What could Bastun possibly gain?"

"It is not my business to think like an exile or a murderer," Syrolf answered, "but I have some experience in trusting my gut… and keeping a sharp eye on one who has made it clear that his loyalties do not lie with Rashemen."

SyrolPs words hung in the air. Bastun fought the scream building in his chest, the pressure of his frustration almost too much to bear as he pretended to doze against the wall.

"Bastun is not a murderer," Duras said at length, his voice low, but Bastun could hear a menacing tone behind the words. He could imagine the burning stare between the two.

"And you know this for sure?" Syrolf said. "As I heard the tale, the evidence at the vremyonni's trial told an uneven tale. The theft of several scrolls? He didn't have them, but he knew what was in them. I heard they spoke of Shandaular. The death of Keffrass? No solid evidence, but he was the only one there. He stood at that trial, with the sole possession of his dead master in his hands, and requested to be exiled. A sentence traditionally carried out here in this place. He knew exactly where he would be taken."

"Do you question the judgment of your superiors, Syrolf?" Duras's voice rose further.

"Should I even bring up what they say about his sister-?"

"Enough!" Thaena snapped, and the pair fell silent.

Bastun gripped his staff tighdy in trembling hands, his thumb resting in the weapon's narrow scar as he counted his heartbeats one by one until they slowed. Though Syrolf had said little of the details, Bastun's thoughts raced with memories of the past.

"I apologize, ethran," Duras said. '

Syrolf said nothing. Thaena walked toward the wall closest to Bastun, just above him. He imagined she looked out over Shandaular from th? arrow slit there just as he had. She could surely feel as well as he that something was amiss in the fragile order the wychlaren had established in Shandaular. The Weave was strong in the city, but wild and wavering, as if it were reacting to some old wound. Their spells had worked well enough, but the taste and feel of the magic was different. Like a warning.

"We have little reason to suspect Bastun of any involvement with the Nar," Thaena said.

"I disagree, ethran," Syrolf said. "We should-"

"But," Thaena continued, quieting the warrior, "he has chosen his exile, for whatever reason, and cannot be viewed as loyal to Rashemen because of it. It is not in my nature to trust such a man or to respect his choice, but I will also not place blame on him every time I stub my toe. Our mission was to bring him to the Shield for examination by the hathran and then to see him away to the west, never to return.

"That still is our mission, but we must also work to eliminate any threat to Rashemen by discovering why the Nar are here and what they have done. If my sisters are threatened we are dutybound to assist them. We will have no summary executions unless the charges are backed by solid evidence. But we will also not be lax in our observation of the exile."

Thaena let her words sink in. Neither warrior responded.

"Am I understood?"

Bastun could only assume they agreed quietly, for the conversation ended. He opened his eyes and looked once again into the fog outside. He had to keep watching, for the faces of Ulsera and Keffrass were there when he closed his eyes. There had been fog on the day of Ulsera's funeral. It had been the last time he'd seen his parents. On the day of Keffrass's funeral he had been alone.

With ghosts and shadows residing in his mind, it took a few moments to realize that something was moving outside. He blinked and sat up, watching two faint figures stumble and push through the snow.

Guards outside the gatehouse called a warning and hailed the approaching figures. Several of the fang jumped to their feet and grabbed weapons as they rushed outside. Unwatched for the moment, Bastun got up and followed after them.

The wind whipped at his braided hair and robes as he neared the huddled figures who had fallen to their knees before the Rashemi warriors. Wrapped in a blanket, Bastun could make out a woman and a man, but as the woman raised her face into the torchlight he paused, stepping back and staring.

The woman's mask was elaborately decorated, as most wychlaren masks were, but in the details were the markings of a very different magic: forbidden symbols and runes that only graced the masks of the wychlaren's bitter rivals-the durthans.

The fang helped the woman to her feet. Seeing her mask they treated her with all the respect due to a hathran. Her companion, a pale-skinned man with sharp features, hung close by, warily watching their would-be rescuers. Bastun gritted his teeth. Loosening his fingers, he prepared to defend himself, the Weave tingling across his knuckles.

As the visitors were being led toward shelter Thaena came from the gatehouse, followed by Duras and Syrolf. Seeing the stern glare of the ethran, they halted. Bastun breathed a sigh of relief as Thaena approached, her forearms crossed defensively. She had seen as quickly as he.

"Hold her!" she commanded. The warriors complied, though hesitantly. "Keep her still. She is not one of us."

The durthan stood tall, confident as Thaena studied her.

"Lady Ethran, I-" the woman began.

"Your formality is not required, durthan," Thaena said, ignoring the shocked glances of the berserkers. "We both know that my status among the wychlaren means nothing to you."

"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.