The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [37]
Bodies lay strewn across the floor. Most still gripped the great axes favored by warriors of the Bear Lodge. Bastun viewed each with a grief that bordered on anger. He kept to the edges of the chamber, kneeling here and there to peer at scuff marks in the dust and the scratches on stone. He took note of all entrances to the hall. Aside from the main entrance and two side passages, there seemed to be no other way in-nothing obvious, at least. None of these could accommodate the force that must have been fought here, not in such a manner as to slay so many and leave none behind to lie alongside the Rashemi.
More torches were lit as warriors filed past the dead, each performing their own rites of farewell to brethren lost in battle. Thaena approached the center of the bodies and knelt before a prone form that stood out starkly among the others.
The dead hathran's ornate robes were singed and torn, her mask split down its length by a charred crack, the face beneath still hidden in death. Beside her, in pieces, lay her whip-a weapon that marked the hathran as much as the axe marked her fang. Thaena gathered these as she prayed and swore to make right what had gone so horribly wrong. Bastun quietly echoed that oath, though he wondered how he might go about doing what had to be done.
Anxious, his eyes crawled across the walls, imagining the chambers and corridors and ruin that separated him from one of the key components in Shandaular's destruction. The Breath was buried, of that he was sure. Finding its grave would be a matter of memory and luck. He shuddered at the thought of it in Creel hands.
Wind and pale morning light heralded the entrance of Anilya and her warriors. Ohriman scowled at the scene that greeted them, but Anilya's eyes found Bastun first, and again he sensed the mind of a kindred spirit. Kneeling, he stole away from her gaze to study more closely the body of a nearby warrior. He listened as she ordered her men to help secure the hall.
The body was unmarked save for a few shallow gashes along the arms and neck. No blood had flowed from the wounds. In fact he could see no sign of blood anywhere. The cuts were jagged and puckered, their edges a pale white. He resisted the urge to inspect them further. Eyes followed his every movement and he did not wish to attract any more attention than he already had.
He watched Thaena, quiet and solemn, wanting to sit beside her, to tell her of his fears and what needed to be done, but he also feared his own motives for doing so. To confide in her could revive whatever sense of trust had been lost, but it could also push them even farther apart and endanger her and all who'd accompanied them to the Shield. There was also the durthan to consider, and the odd truce the two had forged. In the end, it didn't matter-the oath of secrecy he had given to Keffrass contained no exceptions, no conditions under which he might impart his knowledge to another unless it were a fellow vremyonni.
Thaena glanced up at him, torchlight reflecting in the dampness of her eyes, and he felt himself break. He stepped forward, his heart racing. The thought of speaking to her filled him with dread. He hesitated, torn between duty and hope.
Deliberating, he looked up as Duras approached from behind the ethran. Releasing a held breath, Bastun felt relieved for the brief reprieve and watched. The tall warrior laid a hand upon Thaena's shoulder. She slowly stood and they embraced one another.
Duras rested his cheek upon her hair as she pressed closer to him.
"Lady Ethran," he said. "Guardian," she replied.
Guardian. The word struck Bastun in the chest and he found himself speechless, his mind clear save for the image of his old friends in an embrace that spoke of far more than friendship. The bond between one of the wychlaren and her chosen guardian