The song faltered in his dream. Bastun stirred and opened his eyes, the image of his sister burned into his mind. He sat up, wondering how long he had slept. A heartbeat passed before he realized he could still hear the song.
Alarmed, he looked to the others. The helmsman had slumped at the wheel. The warriors' eyes were closed, but their heads still swayed to the strange tune that filled the air. Thaena's head had drooped to her chest and Duras lay on his side, his face a grimace of anguish as if in the throes of a nightmare. The wind still held strong and ice thumped and cracked at the bow, but another sound had joined the others. Something scratched at the hull, like claws pulling at wood. Something that was not ice thumped at the boards beneath his feet, from under the ship.
Standing carefully and quietly, Bastun peered over the side, scanning the surface of the water for any movement other than the waves. As he did so the helmsman groaned and slid sharply to one side, turning the wheel along with his weight. The ship leaned into the turn, throwing Bastun off-balance but awakening Thaena. Regaining his footing, Bastun met the ethran's confused gaze and watched as she took in the scene. The music drifted in and around the masts and the felucca's passengers like an invisible serpent, its call still tempting Bastun's mind back to the dream. Awaiting him in that dream was Ulsera, staring back at him, and he knew he would not succumb to the insistent charm again.
Thaena stood and rushed to the helmsman, pulling him away from the wheel to lie upon the deck as she righted the ship. Bastun leaned on the railing, staring into the water as Thaena tied the wheel into place. That done she strode to him, staff in hand.
"What have you-" she began, but the scratching grew louder, the thumping on the hull more demanding.
Looking closer in the glow of a hooded lantern, Bastun saw the pale face of a beautiful woman just beneath the surface of the water. Her blood red lips mouthed the words of the song, a mockery of the Firedawn Cycle, as she reached toward him with bone white arms. Yellowed hair haloed her head, drifting with the waves. Other forms became visible, entwining themselves with the first, swimming under and around the felucca. Unclothed, they slid through the water like ghosts singing their beguiling dirge.
Thaena shook Duras awake, whispering a ward to release him from enchantment. He started and sat up. Before he could draw the long blade at his side, one of the warriors had turned and leaned over the starboard rail, reaching for the water spirits below.
"No!" Duras yelled. He grabbed the man's legs and hauled him back to the deck, but the warrior only struggled all the more to reach the singers. The sound of the cry and the struggle awoke more of the fang and they rushed to assist.
Thaena began to chant, brandishing her staff at the water. She called upon the power of the wychlaren, the ancient command of Rashemen's spirits to drive the fey away from their vessel. The warrior roused from his dream and pulled himself to the port rail, his face serene as he looked into the waves. Thaena finished her spell, flourishing the staff to end the mystical attack, but nothing happened. Her eyes widened and she stared at Bastun, a brief moment of vulnerability that spurred him to action.
White hands appeared at the port rail, caressing the face of their victim. The fey, a water spirit known as a rusalka, smiled and cooed as she dragged the man's shoulders further over the rail. Reaching into his robes, Bastun produced a small amulet which he gripped in his fist, willing the magic to come forth and answer his call. His hand flashed with light and a whip of crackling blue energy lashed out at the rusalka, scarring her shoulder and eliciting a shrill scream that burrowed in his ears. Her victim screamed as well, falling back and gripping the sides of his head.
Duras stood and drew his long sword. Those not caught in the song followed suit as more of the rusalka crawled up the side of the boat to grasp at their victims. Another man to starboard slipped past his would-be rescuers and leaned far over the railing. Those nearby caught his cloak and he strained against them, his hands splashing in the waves as white arms reached upward to accept him.
Bastun rushed to starboard, his amulet lashing into the lake and sparking across the skin of the gathered water spirits. They screamed and pulled harder, both groups struggling to hang onto the thrashing warrior who reached for the singing maidens and batted at the hands that had found a grip on his shoulders. The continuous whip of magic slowly broke apart the rusalkas' deadly covey, scattering the fey away from the ship. The final few released their beguiled prey and sank back to the depths of the Ashane.
The man wailed as he was hauled back onboard, his mournful cries fading as his mind slowly returned to him, leaving him shivering and bewildered among his brothers in arms. Breathing heavily, Bastun backed away, his eyes still searching the waves for more of the spirits until he was sure they had gone. The amulet had dug into his palm, drawing a line of blood that dripped from his knuckles. Releasing his grip, he held his hand up and noticed several warriors staring at him, the old look in their eyes. Bastun sighed, about to return to his place at the bow when Thaena's voice stopped him.
"You have been forbidden to cast spells in this company, exile. Have you forgotten?"
Bastun tried to read her eyes behind the mask. Stunned by her accusation, he merely held up his hand and let the amulet swing on its silver chain for her to see.
"It is a mere tool, ethran. I have cast no spells."
Duras walked up from behind her, his sword still drawn and his eyes still watching the lake's surface. "Are they gone, Thaena?"
"Likely," she replied, her eyes on Bastun's amulet a moment longer before turning to the warrior, "though they should not have attacked in the first place."
At this last she angled her head, almost imperceptibly, at Bastun, before returning to her place at the stern. Though her words stung, Bastun couldn't help but see the beautiful young girl he had once known. Duras looked apologetic as he sheathed his blade. Bastun returned the amulet to within his robes.
"She just doesn't understand, Bastun." Duras glanced at the others, shaking his head slightly before continuing. "None of them understand."
Bastun turned away, eager to regainhis place in the shadow of the bow, but looked sidelong at Duras before he did so.
"And you do?"
Duras didn't answer, and they both walked away from the question.
Bastun sat back into the bow's curve and stared westward, even though his thoughts lay just a short distance to the east. He contemplated using his mask to eavesdrop on Thaena and Duras, but decided against it. He had heard enough. It was already decided that the rusalka came for the vremyonni, that the land would reject him at every turn and that not even the ethran could quell the spirits' anger. It was all the same to him, the evolution of an idea that would never lift from his back.
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 had no real malice toward his old friend, nor to Thaena. Circumstance had driven him to live apart from things that had once given him joy. The lack had left its mark, and all he had left were the memories and the pretending. Looking to Thaena-at her balled fists and constant stare after Syrolf and the scouts, her chin held high to maintain an air of composure despite the now hidden voices of the dead-he decided that most of them were pretending in one fashion or another, perhaps all of them.
Duras nodded slowly and stood again, walking to rejoin the ethran and leave Bastun to his thoughts.
A quiet thunder, muffled by clouds heavy with snow, crackled above, breaking the vremyonni's darker line of thought and heralding the return of Syrolf and his scouts. All of the scouts kept their weapons drawn as they approached Thaena and Duras. The l
ook on Syrolf s scarred face caused Bastun to edge nearer to hear their report.
"What have you found?" Thaena asked Syrolf.
"The wychlaren's paths have been compromised, ethran," Syrolf answered matter-of-factly, his gaze drifting once toward Bastun before returning to Thaena. "Many of the markers still stand, but others have been defaced or scratched out completely. There were no signs of anyone else-anyone living-in the area that we searched."
Not a weapon in sight lacked a ready hand upon it. The dawning realization that their simple mission had just become more complicated was evident on every face and in every steaming breath exhaled into the wind.
"What is your will, ethran?" Duras asked, his voice breaking the heavy silence.
Everyone looked to Thaena then. For a moment, Bastun feared his long-awaited exile would have to wait.
"We will push on to the Shield," she said. "The hathran there will see the vremyonni and then see him exiled to the lands of the west. As by tradition and the othlor's order."
Duras nodded, as did Syrolf. The pair began gathering the rest of the fang into a defensive formation for the trek through Shandaular. Few orders were needed, each warrior instinctively aware of their place among the others. Bastun was anxious to see the ancient Shield, to match the reality of it to his studies. Keffrass had often spoken of its history and importance, though he had remained haunted by his visit. Thaena appeared beside Bastun, watching the fang being readied for the march.
"You will stay close to Duras and I," she said, "I'm sure I do not have to explain why."
"Of course, ethran," he replied, then added, "And no, an explanation is unfortunately not necessary."
Thaena looked as if she were about to say something else, but merely nodded and joined Duras at the head of the group. Bastun followed. Half the number of the fang, about fifteen warriors, led the way through the break in the wall and into the deeper fog. Their torches made spheres of flickering light in the thick mist, providing scant, but still helpful, illumination for those behind. Syrolf was at his back once more, only now his sword was unsheathed.
The Shield of Weeping Ghosts c-3 Page 2