James Davis - The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

"Quite," Anilya said. She turned toward her sellswords with a leisurely step, far more calm than Thaena would have liked.

"That ought to take some fire out of you," she heard Syrolf whisper at the durthan's back.

Looking once more out the window, she studied what she could see of the tall northwest tower. Recalling the feel of the dagger in her hand made her fingers numb and brought a knot to her throat. Glancing at Duras, who stood watch over the vremyonni, she knew she would have killed him if the spirits had swayed her any farther. Stronger than Rashemi firewine those shadows were-and well more traitorous where her emotions were concerned.

For the briefest of moments as she looked upon her guardian, her lover, she regretted being of the wychlaren. The necessities of leadership were tearing them apart, testing them as never before. However, she knew her duty and felt she had been too soft in its application. Between Duras and Syrolf, she decided that Duras might not accept the decisions she would have to make. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps his secret was all the sin he suspected it to be. For years she'd barely been able to convince him otherwise. The child he had been still lived on in the man he'd become, ever since the day Bastun had been taken away to the Running Rocks.

Shaking her head and focusing on the situation, she took a cleansing breath and approached SyrolPs shoulder.

"You have watched out for my interests well, Syrolf," she whispered to him. "Now you must watch them more carefully. If either of our charges does anything more to make you suspect they are working against us, then…" She let the unspoken order hang on the air for a moment, noting his solemn nod of acknowledgement, then added, "Make it quick."

The drums outside halted and again left them all in silence.

From across the room she caught Bastun's eye, his mask staring at her as if hearing her words. She hoped that somehow he had.

The doors were stiff with ice, but they creaked open much easier than they should have. There were scars in the stone already where the Creel had recently forced them open. Winter wind breezed into the chamber and engulfed the minor warmth that torches had supplied. The Ice Wolves gathered near the opening, eager to see their enemy on the wall. Thaena watched stoically and Duras stood by ready to lead the charge.

Bastun peered over shoulders and betwixt the warriors in front of him, trying to catch a glimpse of the northwest tower. He was surrounded in the rear of the fang, along with Anilya and her sellswords. SyrolPs ever-present scowl watched their every move, Thaena's order likely on the forefront of his mind.

Bastun mused that the warrior would rather slay a vremyonni in exile over the Creel. Killing Anilya as well would only be a benefit.

He chided himself as the group began moving forward, knowing he might have been miles away from the Shield by now if he'd had any sense. Here he faced unceremonious execution, a duplicitous and beguiling durthan whose skills they still needed, and an unknown number of ignorant barbarians following what could prove to be just a recurring nightmare of the Shield itself. That nightmare, the prince of old Narfell, concerned him the most as he stepped out of the tower and viewed the length of wall ahead of them. Advancing into the unknown with swords drawn was practically a Rashemi tradition, but though they marched forward he feared they moved backward in time with each step.

"This borders on suicide," Anilya whispered at his side.

"Really? I thought this is what you wanted," he said.

"I prefer subtlety and surprise, this Rashemi courage is sickening and foolhardy," she said, looking in all directions for some sign of an ambush or trap.

He had to agree, though he did not say so out loud.

"Do you suppose he is really in there?" she asked, a playful tone in her voice. "Prince Serevan of Dun-Tharos, withered and half-rotten, to reclaim his lost prize?"

"We both know he is," he answered, glancing sidelong at her, "though whether ghost or corpse I could not say."

"Then how do you rate our chances?" Anilya's eyes fairly smiled through her mask.

For a moment he was at a loss for words, having this conversation with a woman who had tried to kill him, seduce him, and frame him all in the space of less than a day. She acted as if this were merely normal course and seemed not the least bit bothered. He realized she was, on some level, having fun.

"I already told you I believe we'll kill each other in the end," he said, his gaze drifting to the north of the wall, the mist parting occasionally to afford him a view of the ruined city and the first of several concentric circles of ancient ice. "Besides, Serevan has fought this battle before… in one form or another."

The group ahead stopped, and Bastun heard the crunch of boots on snow from the doors of the tower. The figures that appeared, stepping into the light of torches set to either side of the door, were unmistakably Creel, but their condition was wholly unexpected.

They were alive, a fierce stare of battle in their eyes, but their bodies seemed too pale, their gaits weaker than their muscles might imply. Dark circles hung beneath their eyes, and a slight rime of frost coated the edges of their armor and weapons.

"What trickery-?" he heard Thaena whisper from up ahead, but he had already begun to surmise what had happened. The pale skin and frost had similarly graced those of the Ice Wolves during the battle as the bleakborn fed on their life's warmth. These Creel seemed to have been fed upon as well, but not slain, being overly long in the presence of such a creature. Without a steady supply of warmth, a bleakborn would lay dormant until approached by the living.

The Cold Prince, Bastun thought, recalling the words of the children in the library.

"Well," Anilya said, "apparently not a ghost."

"They followed him to the only place he would have any use for them," he whispered. "Serevan did not drag an army in his wake. He brought a feast."

The strident blast of a horn sounded from between the pale blue lips of a Creel.

The Rashemi needed no order from Thaena to charge and meet their enemy at the wall's center. Their boots churned snow and negotiated ice expertly. Weapons sang from their sheaths and were echoed by the singing of ancient battle hymns. The Creel, despite appearances, were quick to advance, driven by their own cries and songs of steel. The first of them met in the center and the battle was joined, blood gracing snow and stone.

Though all of the fang pushed into the fray, more Nar still came from the darkness within the northwest tower. Each of them bore the same drained appearance and fierce light of fanaticism in their eyes. Bastun summoned his axe and advanced in the rear, unconcerned about the Creel's advantage in numbers. The wall limited the effectiveness of such a force, and the Rashemi battle rage was far more legendary than any among the tribes of Narfell.

Thaena held back with Bastun and Anilya. She kept Syrolf close, though he shook with bloodlust, awaiting his turn in battle. They edged forward slowly, spells and sword at the ready for any Nar unlucky enough to break through the Rashemi press.

With each step closer to the tower, Bastun felt the tugging at his gut and tried to ignore it, focusing on the mass of swinging swords and shouting warriors-images mirrored by those Athumrani's spirit sought to force into his mind. The battle spread, the two forces twisting around one another like oil and water. The first of the Creel laid eyes upon them and snarled, his fury such that he was beyond words or oaths. Though several of his kinsmen lay dead already, he charged and Syrolf rushed forward to meet him.