'Why should we trust you?' Syrolf asked.
'I should think there is little choice,' she answered, her eyes glancing between them and the icy barrier.
'And even less time to debate the issue,' Thaena said. 'Get everyone inside the guard tower.'
Syrolf did as the ethran ordered, ushering the fang back as the durthans sellswords, down to only four, approached their employer. Duras went on ahead, leaving Bastun to edge along slowly and listen as the two women spoke.
'I'll raise another barrier when you are all inside,' Anilya said, producing a small vial of brown liquid from her belt. 'It should give you a bit more time.'
'We'll gather the blades,' Thaena replied, staring after the fang. 'I should be able to make enough of them potent against the wraiths.'
'Provided they get past me,' Anilya said, a dangerous humor in her voice.
'Yes,' the ethran said. 'I don't know why-'
'Let's not waste time, Thaena,' Anilya said. 'Do not place any thought of nobility or honor in my actions. We do what we must for our own reasons.'
Bastun looked over his shoulder at the durthan, narrowing his eyes as he turned her words over in his mind. Thaena did not reply, the moment broken as steel cracked against ice from the other side of the wall. The pair parted in silence, Thaena toward the guard tower and Anilya to her men. Serevan thrashed against the ice in front of them, his blurry shape slashing and pounding at the barrier with inhuman force.
Anilya did not flinch, and to their credit the sellswords simply stretched weary muscles and readied their weapons. She looked back after Bastun before he finally turned away and he wondered if, despite her intentions, he had misjudged her character after all.
The doors slammed shut behind him. Swords were laid out before the ethran, who whispered and mumbled in a trance of magic. Her voice strained as she struggled to call upon what power she could from faraway Rashemen.
Bastun paced to the back of the chamber, lost in thought and staring at the packs and possessions of these who might not survive until morning. chapter Tuueoty-ooe
Tiny imperfections, lengthening and growing darker with each blow, danced just underneath the surface of the ice. Anilya watched them, wondered at the hands that swung the blade on the other side. This forgotten prince, bound in frozen flesh, had orchestrated with cruel precision each trapped spirit in the City of Weeping Ghosts. He ruled here just as his ambition had demanded-now slave to his own folly and a day long since passed. Anilya had broken his day, if only for a few short moments, had denied him his meeting with the vengeful Athumrani. Now, his purpose lost he turned his rage against the ice that kept him from replaying his fate.
She turned around as the tower doors were shut, and she hurled the vial. The liquid splashed against the doors and the stone, seeping into each as it stained and set roots of magic. Tiny shoots appeared at first, growing at an unnatural rate, spreading into massive trunks and clinging vines. Thorns sprouted on every surface as arcane foliage engulfed the western side of the tower. She observed her work for a moment, making sure that all was in order before turning back to the barrier of ice.
Her warriors watched her expectantly, as if waiting for some plan to be revealed. She told them nothing, unconcerned and confident that they were sufficiently drugged to maintain a semblance of morale. With a whisper, her vision rippled, changing the world that she saw. The spectral realm overlaid reality as a cobweb of images. Smoke drifted by, and she saw Shandaular illuminated by flames. Denied the prize he sought-the city's most unique portal-the Nentyarch had ordered everything burned to the ground. It was to be a message for any who would deny him. Though he had intended a monument of ash, one traitorous son had managed a cursed ruin of ice. In the midst of such destruction, its secrets kept by ghosts, hidden by thick mists and short memory, was left only the Shield.
'As enduring as the magic wrought within its walls,' she muttered, remembering the quote from something she had once read. Trying to recall the exact text, her hand drifted to the satchel at her belt and found it gone. Glancing over her shoulder at the guard tower, she sighed and shook her head, 'Ah yes. Time is truly our enemy now.'
'What is the trick, lady durthan?' The warrior that spoke eyed the ice nervously as did his companions. 'Are we to make a deal? A trade perhaps?'
She looked at him, smiling despite herself.
Not as much wine in them as I'd expected, she thought.
'No,' she answered. 'Though these Creel are dead or dying, more will come, and my sisters will not allow any incursion of the Nar close to Rashemen.'
The warrior, a middle-aged nomad of the Cold Road, glanced between the two barriers that sealed them all upon the wall. The long-handled blade in his hand wavered as he considered their limited options.
'Then what are we to do here?' he asked, a note of genuine confusion in his voice-the aftereffects of a steady dosage of thrallwine still hampering his wits. An edge of frustration was making its way to the surface as survival instincts overcame drug-induced bravery. 'Our blades are nigh useless if those wraiths return, and your damned prince there, by your own word, isn't likely to take to a grave anytime soon! We're trapped on top of this wall, and your precious sword is in the hands of that wizard. So what do we do now?'
Smiling behind the mask, she turned as if considering his question. The wall was bereft of phantoms now. Shandaular's day was coming to yet another end. Stars flickered and winked overhead, some disappearing completely as the wraiths slowly remade themselves. A split appeared in the ice-the tip of Serevan's blade piercing the frozen barrier.
'Now?' she said, crossing her forearms and reaching out to the Weave with her will. It was a minor spell she cast, common house-magic for witches of the north dealing with harsh winters. The ice crackled as a spider web of imperfections spread beneath its surface, making it brittle and awaiting the prince's next shattering blow. 'Now… we must die.'
The first moans of the returning wraiths echoed above as magic swirled at her fingertips.
Time was broken. The uncomfortable rift between what was happening and what should have happened loomed in Bastun's mind. The Breath, out of balance with the memory of itself, hung heavy at his side.
In the past, either Athumrani or Serevan had wielded the blade and opened the black door to the Word. Of the two, he could not decide who would have desired such destruction more. Between the prince's ambition and the Magewarden's hate and sorrow, both might have fulfilled the Word's purpose-and both were surely very close when it occurred.
The thought of ambition made him consider Anilya, and though he wished otherwise, he was unable to trust the durthan's act of noble sacrifice. He listened closely for the sounds of inevitable battle outside, wondering what end she might make for herself-if indeed she truly expected to die at the Cold Prince's hands.
He shook his head and smirked beneath the mask, carrying no illusions that she would die an unlikely hero for the sake of Rashemen. For that alone he almost admired her tenacity.
A scream cut through the doors. The dull clash of steel rang in muted tones and the floor shook slightly. The sounds of battle returning his focus to the moment, Bastun tried to appear casual as he scanned the scattered piles of extraneous gear left by the wall.
In the light of a nearby torch, a familiar satchel, unceremoniously tossed among the effects of the Rashemi, caught his eye. He glanced at the others. Thaena sprinkled consecrated soil over the gathered swords before her, casting magic upon them that would sharpen their edges against threats not in the world of the living. The fang waited, respectfully silent and echoing the prayers sent to the Three as they observed their own traditional rituals. Duras and Syrolf stood across from each other, the rivalry between them evident, though muted in the face of the true enemies they would soon encounter.
Taking the moment, Bastun knelt and grabbed the satchel, turning his back to the others and shielding it from view. Waving a hand over its simple latch he detected only minor spells had been put in place to deter prying eyes. It spoke volumes about Anilya's confidence that she would trust such protection among other spellcasters.
Or, he thought, it means she keeps nothing more inside than cheap wine and dried food.
Trusting his instincts and curious to discover what secrets of the durthan he could, he disarmed the latch's cantrips and reached inside. He pulled forth two large books. The first was likely the durthans spellbook bound in a dark cover, the latch on its side fairly humming with protective wards, and he set it aside carefully. Even among
