The faint image of Ulseta still hung in the back of his thoughts, his long-lost sister haunting him once again. It felt strange that he had forgotten what she'd looked like. In some way he had the rusalka to thank for reminding him. It was shortly after Ulsera's funeral that he had been taken to the vremyonni and hidden away among the Running Rocks. No rusalka dream-song could lull him to rest by summoning memories of that time in his life.
The western shore, though still a few hours away, was just visible on the horizon. The Firward Mountains rose to the north, giant silhouettes in a deeper black against the night sky. Dark clouds hung over the horizon, harbingers of the winter storm that had stirred the waters of the Ashane. He could make out no details of that shoreline, but he could imagine them. Broken walls, hollow buildings marked by char and ice, and the lonely streets winding through ancient ruins walked only by the dead. Shandaular's conquest had solidified the rise of the Narfell Empire over two millennia ago. It was left abandoned and forgotten by most, much like its conquerors.
Bastun was curious to see the city himself, to witness the towers of the Shield, though he would have little time before the hathran that watched the citadel made good on his recent request. The trial seemed like a lifetime ago-as did the events that had preceded his being questioned. His master had handed to him the staff he carried just moments before succumbing to mortal wounds. It was there, sitting in the snow somewhere on the edges of the Ashenwood, feeling more alone than he had since Ulsera's death, that he had made his decision.
Quiet now, the journey continued uninterrupted. Those enchanted by the rusalka were already being clapped on the back and teased about their longing for the water maidens. The nearness of Shandaular, however, kept their jests and challenges short. All of them felt the shadow on the horizon and the prayers returned, whispers and folk-magic to ward off the attentions of evil spirits. Shandaular, the City of Weeping Ghosts, was no place to forget one's faith.
It had been his master, Keffrass, who had taught him the secrets of Shandaular and inducted him at a very young age into the brotherhood of the vremyonni. Bastun promised himself that he would see the city, at least once, before sentence was passed. The wychlaren, having founded an outpost at the Shield, once called Dun- Tharyn, used it for purposes such as this. The trial was long over, and Bastun had been given a choice. It had always been so in Rashemen that there were two choices for a male who found the path of the wizard-go to the vremyonni, shut away from society at the Running Rocks, or accept exile.
Bastun had chosen the latter, eventually.
Now that self-imposed exile was mete hours away. For all the choices he had made, he would never look upon Rashemen again.
He could not shake the nagging details of their encounter with the rusalka. Perhaps it was coincidence, merely the proximity of his thoughts to a particular location, and perhaps not-but out of all the hundreds of lyrics and stanzas of the Firedawn Cycle… the rusalka had sung about the Shield. Pondering this, he settled back into his seat, pulled his hood low and his cloak tight, and awaited the ship's imminent arrival with a troubled mind.
Chapter Two
Ruined and forbidding, the walls of Shandaular rose through the fog. Snow covered most of what Bastun could see. The rest lay hidden in shadow and mist. Lanterns at the bow illuminated a landing of ancient stone columns bridged by a wooden dock only a few years old. Several warriors prepared a plank and the ropes to tie down the felucca. The last steps of Bastun's Rashemi life stretched through the abandoned city, and he was anxious to put those steps behind him.
Winter's chill was as cold here as it had been on the journey across Lake Ashane, but it pierced far deeper than any cloak or armor could protect. Wind moaned through the broken walls, making sounds that could have been breeze or voice.
Led by Thaena and Duras, the fang disembarked, one warrior staying close by Bastun the entire length of the dock. Gathering on shore, hands on weapons, they took in the sight of the city walls, blackened by the ancient fires of the Nentyarch's army. Bastun's boots crunched on a packed layer of ice and snow. The warrior following shoved him as he passed, sneering, the man's face covered in runic scars. The vremyonni took a shuddering breath, remembering the teachings and meditations of Keffrass, and relaxed before sitting on a piece of broken wall to await the next step.
Thaena and Duras stood barely a stone's throw away, looking toward a collapsed watchtower just to the north along the wall. Smoke and glowing embers steamed in the bowl-like impression of the tower's collapse-a good location for a signal fire that seemed to have burned itself out.
'Syrolf,' Duras said to the runescarred warrior, 'take some men and scout the wychlaren's path. Do not go too far and report back anything you find.'
Syrolf nodded, grumbling as he passed the vremyonni to select a group of scouts. They disappeared through a break in the wall, barely disturbing the thick fog as they prowled into the city streets like a pack of hunting wolves. The wychlaren warded the paths to the Shield to protect them from the hordes of spirits wandering the city
Looking back to the smoldering remains of the signal fire, Bastun decided that caution was likely a prudent decision, and he endeavored to keep a careful eye on their surroundings. Shandaular was no place to let down one's guard. Adventurers from across Faerun had avoided the city's dangers. Despite how the others might have felt, Bastun had no cause or desire to trust the wychlaren. They had been warned by the vremyonni several years ago against using the Shield as an outpost for watching Rashemen's western borders. The fact that they had chosen to ignore that advice didn't surprise him in the least.
The rest of the fang stood alert, some pacing, their eyes never leaving the break in the wall where Syrolf and the others had entered. Much like the wolves they revered, the warriors were sure and silent. Each carried a long sword and a curved short sword, the traditional weapons of the Ice Wolf fang, though several also wielded wicked hand axes. The longer the warriors waited, the more they took on a lean and hungry look.
The sound of footsteps in the snow brought Bastun's attention to the approach of Duras. Absently he brushed the mask over his face, feeling safe in the confines of the familiar covering, and looked away. Duras leaned against the stone that Bastun had found and crossed his arms, casually watching the walls and the sky as well.
'Could be snow soon,' the warrior said, scanning the dark clouds.
Bastun shook his head slightly. 'Yes, I suppose so.' Duras merely nodded.
'Is that it then?' Bastun said. 'Nearly twenty years we haven't seen each other-practically our entire lives-and we end up sitting on a rock talking about the weather?'
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
