The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [27]
"What are you doing, exile?" he said, his eyes narrow. "Covering your tracks?"
Bastun took a deep breath. "I am trying to discover what happened here and why," he said evenly.
"Ah, I see," the warrior nodded then smiled conspiratorially. "So it wasn't you I saw, here, in this spot, commanding these stones?"
"I managed to stop them, yes," Bastun replied as Syrolf stood and looked down at him.
"Interesting, that," the warrior said as he paced alongside the portal. "You knew just what to do, didn't you? Came to where you'd be needed."
Bastun stood, staff in hand, breathing measured. Syrolf's suspicions were tiresome, and Bastun had no desire to justify them.
"I followed my instincts," he said, realizing that though he kept his hands to himself, his sharp tongue was bound to do just as much damage. "I followed them toward the spells that I could do something about. I didn't think to try bashing away at the dried-out corpses protecting it. How did that work out? You didn't seem quite yourself when we ran into each other."
"Men died in that battle, exile!" Syrolf stepped closer, shoulders squared and jaw clenched. "You would dare disrespect them?"
"No," Bastun answered, matching the warrior's stance. "Not them, just-"
"Syrolf!" Duras interrupted, placing a long arm across the runescarred warrior's chest to separate the pair. "Stand down. I'll leave no more dead here than have already fallen."
"He mocks our dead!" Syrolf fumed, a murderous glint in his eye. His raised voice echoed through the chamber, drawing the attentions of everyone to the argument. "We bleed for a traitor and he uses us for his own ends!"
Syrolf's hand strayed dangerously close to the sheathed sword at his side as he pushed into Duras's outstretched arm.
"You have no right in this Syrolf," Duras said, struggling to keep the warrior back. "You would disobey the ethran? Do not be a fool! Stand down!"
Thaena approached, watching the conflict coolly. Bastun had no intention of fighting Syrolf, but he would not back down. He would defend himself if necessary. As it was few trusted him, but any show of weakness among the Rashemi would only add to his troubles.
"Lack of evidence has been a convenient problem, hasn't it?" Syrolf said and looked at Bastun. "The exile has been surrounded by evidence ever since and before his trial! Nothing good enough to show him for what he is. Now he manipulates this ruin against us, and we are to do nothing?"
"Bastun stopped the portal," Anilya said coldly, standing nearby, her hands folded neatly before her as she stared down the warrior, "and probably saved your life."
Syrolf chuckled low in his throat and swept his gaze across the rest of the fang.
"The durthan speaks for the exile," he said, smiling. "How many among us are surprised at that? A show of hands will do."
The fang shifted and mumbled to one another, none raising their hands, but many nodding their heads in agreement. Thaena approached closer as Duras pushed Syrolf back a pace.
"Syrolf," the ethran said calmly, "let's say I believe you over the durthan. Are you prepared to die in Bastun's place?"
Indignation filled Syrolf's eyes at the question. "Lady Ethran, he is not-"
"If Bastun is guilty as you say, then the hathran will deal with him," Thaena said. "Until he is brought to the Shield and officially declared an exile, he is still vremyonni and only a hathran or an othlor may formally execute a traitorous vremyonni. If he is dead when we arrive, the hathran will demand your sword for his life."
Even the status of a runescarred berserker could not save Syrolf from the judgment of the hathran. If one of the wychlaren demanded the sword of a berserker, that sword would be returned quickly. Point first. To his credit, Syrolf seemed to be weighing the price of his own sacrifice.
He raised his hands slowly, though his eyes stared daggers into Bastun's. He pushed by Duras, passing between him and the vremyonni. He paused.
"The Nar, these Creel, are here because of him," the warrior said. "We were attacked by the