bright eyes that stared into nothing.
'For what reason did you come to the Shield?' she asked, deciding to begin simply.
'By order of the prince we came, through burning Shandaular and fallen portal, to capture the Shield and keep it whole.'
'Of what value is the Shield without city and portal?'
'We do not know,' it replied, then paused, its wheezing breath tortured and deep. 'This one does not question orders. Though there are rumors…'
'Tell us,' she commanded, eager to have her answers and end the spell.
'Secret eyes, a traitor to his king, lead us to a hidden place, a powerful secret-some call it the Word and the Breath. Ambition our prince has for his father's throne. A new master the prince seeks. Our priests speak of it in hushed voices, but we hear'-the scratchy breath quickened as if fearful, the bright eyes rolled in their sockets-'the kiss of Levistus.'
'You fear this? What is the Word and the Breath?'
'Let it be! Let it be!' he exclaimed, 'We saw… watched as children marched… sons and daughters of nobles… took the gates in screaming shadows. They burned and bore madness… forged the path for our army. We know the sorcery that awaits those who displease our prince. Let it be…'
'How did you die here?' Anilya asked, and Thaena resisted the compulsion to hush the durthan. Direct questions as to a spirit's death could disturb the spell, draw forth nonsensical answers or pained ravings, but she too wished to hear his answer.
'Only white… waves of cold and tearing magic… unhallowed beasts and heavy night. Dead, we lay in the quiet… listening as the hound came… feasting upon one then the other… howling and baying. No peace. Trapped until sundown… rooted in stone by cursed magic. We still fight for our prince… over and over…'
'Serevan Crell? He is your prince?' she asked, but the voice kept on, lost in its own unending death.
'Shadows of the children… still playing in the walls…'
Bastun's spirits, she thought, and looked around as if she felt the shadows even now crawling near to twist her emotions into fury again.
'They torment us… boil our cold blood in battle… until our prince returns… to find his Breath.'
'He is raving,' Anilya whispered. 'There's nothing here for us.'
Thaena ignored the durthan, piecing together the fragmented narrative with what Bastun had already told her about Serevan Crell. The vremyonni's knowledge of the Shield seemed accurate, which made his omission of the Breath and the Word more suspect than she was content to leave be. The spirit's voice continued to mutter and ramble as she determined what should be done.
'End it!' said Anilya. 'He cannot-'
The sound of cracking ice in the distance cut off the durthan.
Thaena's eyes widened, looking ahead, searching the dark for some disturbance. She was rewarded by the sound of a faint whimper, like a pained dog. Unseen claws scratched at stone in that black distance between she and her fang. Standing, she made to end her spell when the body's voice stopped her cold.
'Ghosts of wild warriors and strange peoples… witches in masks… asking questions… now you.' The bright eyes faded away after its cryptic rant was finished. She struggled to recall a spell of light even as a low, thundering growl echoed through the tall corridor of the Shield's wall.
Chapter Eighteen
The fang set to work freeing the doors at the end of the hall, pulling stiff bodies away from one another. More torches were lit and laid by the side to loosen the ice.
Looking high into the shadows overhead, Bastun imagined the battles fought above and below the wall, resisting the urge to caress the cold metal of the Breath and bear witness to the ghosts still fighting.
Still fighting, he thought, because of I’ll-conceived magic in the past and wychlaren neglect in the present.
The length of wall they toiled beneath was once known as the Bridge of Wakes, where the wizard rulers of Shandaular were carried upon their passing to the northwest tower. All but the last were cremated at the tower's top, Arkaius's remains being utterly destroyed in his sacrificial attempt to seal the portal in the heart of the city. Troubled by the thought, he recalled there were no solid records regarding the fate of Athumrani.
'See something?' Duras asked and followed Bastun's gaze up into the darkness.
'No, just remembering my studies,' he replied, and returned to watching the progress at the doors. Duras looked away as well, turning back to stare into the dark behind them with a concerned expression. 'We're close now. The tower beyond should be well enough intact if memory serves, and the northwest tower has been-'
'Thaena still hasn't caught up,' Duras said, then added, 'and the durthan is with her.'
Bastun sympathized with his friend's worry, but he could find little fear for the ethran.
'You love her,' he said solemnly, the words slipping out.
'I am-' Duras began, then paused, sighing in the awkward silence that followed before continuing, 'I am her guardian.'
The answer stung, it tore at Bastun's insides like nothing else had, but it was what he'd needed to hear. The weight of lost time on his shoulders lessened, though it settled in more comfortably-more permanently. Neither of the pair spoke, listening to the cadence of axes and swords on ice and wood. It was as if something had broken, a divergence between what was and what should have been.
'Perhaps I should go back for her,' Duras said at length, hand resting on the hilt of his long sword.
'She'll be fine. Thaena can-' Bastun stopped, noticing the quick glances of several among the fang. They looked at him and at Duras, then to Syrolf, who shook his head derisively at the pair. The wedge that was being driven between Duras and his warriors was becoming painfully apparent. Their leader's loyalty to an old friend threatened to make a bad situation worse, and Bastun rethought his words. 'I think you should do as she does, Duras. Do as you damn well please, ignore common sense, and leave me out of it.'
The coldness in his voice was heard by all, being more for the fang's benefit than that of Duras. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the change in the air as Duras regarded him with sudden shock and anger. Syrolf squared his shoulders and glowered at the vremyonni.
'Watch your tongue, exile,' he said. He looked as if he were about to say something else when Bastun whipped around, ignoring him as a deep and ominous sound echoed through the hall. The mask carried the noise to his ears alone at first, but soon that sorcery was no longer needed. Something big voiced its displeasure in a disjointed growl that seemed constructed of several dozen beastly throats singing as one.
'Syrolf! With me!' Duras's sword leaped into his hand as he swiftly took command. He pointed at the berserkers. 'Keep at that door! Do not stop until we return!'
Syrolf clapped two of the fang on the shoulders, and they fell in behind him. Two of the sellswords also followed as Bastun stood and followed Duras's long-legged run through the maze of bodies. The Rashemi and the sellswords alike stared after them a moment, then redoubled their efforts at freeing the doors.
They jumped over bodies and climbed over icy hills of the fallen army. Visages frozen in horror passed beneath Bastun's boots as he summoned his axe blade, imagining a myriad of unholy beasts rising amid the piles. A massive silhouette shifted just beyond the next pile of bodies and burst into view, a charging blur of pale flesh and bones.
Duras cursed and dodged as the thing hurtled past. Syrolf was thrown aside like a rag doll, and Bastun fell as the shape turned and snarled. Raising his axe, he began chanting, repulsed as the beast entered the light. The wolflike head flinched at the illumination at first, then fixed on it.
The head was as long as a man was tall and more than half as wide. Odd knots and malformed protrusions revealed a patchwork construction of various bodies and parts. Arms and elbows formed the angry brow. Fingers gripped bone along a jaw made of broken ribcages, the ribs sharpened into vicious fangs. Legs, torsos, and faces rippled and writhed through the neck, flanks, and limbs of the creature which had no body of its own save those that made up its macabre anatomy. Ice clung to its white, hairless flesh as it bared a maw of jagged yellow fangs and prowled toward him.
