The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [36]
Troubled by the connection in that stare, he turned toward the opening doors, away from the smell of burning flesh and the flashing eyes of Anilya.
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Burning cinders floated through the air around Anilya, but she paid them no mind. The vremyonni was a far more intriguing subject than the wasteful destruction of perfectly good bodies. He turned away from her and she smiled, wondering how the presence of this exile could be used to her advantage.
Steam hissed from the snow as Ohriman tossed the torch away.
"This ethran is a fool, Anilya," he said. "The zombies would have made excellent shields if the Creel choose to attack again."
"True enough," she answered, "but they were a mistake. A useful one to be sure, but not one I shall repeat."
"This alliance you've forged for us is teetering on a very precarious edge. We should have gone on without the Rashemi or killed them when we had the chance."
"No, Ohriman." She turned to face him. "The Rashemi may be dangerous, but they are loyal to the wychlaren above all else. They will prove useful in time."
"What of these swords-for-hire?" he asked, glancing toward the men at the top of the stairs. "How can we be sure they'll follow through with this? Mere coin cannot buy that kind of loyalty."
"Their rations and wine are drugged," she said. "A derivative of Theskian thrallwine. It will keep them under control and, fortunately, not very bright."
"And the vremyonni? He knows something, I can taste it in his scent."
Anilya did not answer right away, though she was concerned about Bastun's knowledge as well. Looking back up the stairs she could see the tops of the Shield's doors opening. She could imagine what they might find inside. Dealing with the wychlaren was a nuisance. She despised their xenophobic views of the outside world. Rashemen was a land of power and the wychlaren merely caretakers until someone with more lust for battle came along to take it from them.
A shower of sparks and steam rose as another of the zombies collapsed into the snow to smolder and pop.
"Perhaps you are right," she said at length, looking at the flickering window in the northwest tower. "Keep a close watch on the exile. Do not let him out of your sight."
"You think he knows?"
"He is vremyonni," she said. "Musty old tomes and ancient knowledge are their lives."
"Pity for them," he replied. "No wonder he's leaving."
"People abandon their homes for many reasons, Ohriman," she said quietly, more to herself than the tiefling, as she studied the high walls and towers of the Shield. "Not the least of which is the idea of returning… to make it stronger than it was before."
Ohriman raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "You haven't drugged me, have you?"
Her hand shot out, gripping his neck, but quickly turning to a soft caress as she pressed her body against his.
"If I had, you wouldn't have asked."
She placed a finger across his lips as the smoke and ash of the dead swirled around them.
And Narfell rose, by demon's crown, to ruin Ashanath,
An empire born, Thargaun's glory, in ash of Shandaular,
But the Nentyarch's prince, cold and cruel, the
youngest of his heirs, Remained within the broken Shield, his battle not yet done.
The walls were drowned in blood and ice; the towers filled with bones. Soldiers slain, forgotten names, to die for their king
in vain,
As Narfell s prince marched through the halls to search among the dead. Within the walls, inside the halls; to steal the Breath, to seal the Death Of the Shield and speak the Word. Of the Shield and speak the Word.
–excerpt from the Firedawn Cycle, canto XI
Chapter Eight
Bastun entered the hall of the Shield cautiously, taking in the high columns and their arching tops, the intricate stonework that had escaped the magical cold outside, and finally the