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 durthans 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
