The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [53]
"It's them," she said, feeling her own thirst for vengeance rise to the surface as if all the dead from downstairs stood with Syrolf, pointing and crying out for justice.
"Or it's a trap," Anilya said, approaching from behind, then added as she looked to Duras, "I thought the central tower was too damaged."
"The lower floors, from what I could judge, yes," Duras replied, "but the upper floors could very well be strong still."
Thaena considered this a moment, noticing the durthans sudden cold stare despite her earlier conviction.
Perhaps it is a trap, she thought, or something Anilya does not want us to find-or both.
"We will treat it as a trap then," Thaena said, deciding upon a course of action. "Anilya and I shall lead. Our magic can give us a degree of protection and destroy the Creel's element of surprise. Agreed?"
Anilya glanced once to the western wall exit, the look speaking volumes to Thaena, though it answered few direct questions. The durthan then nodded and joined Thaena at the edge of the bridge.
The fang formed up behind them, the sellswords alongside. The group began a careful march toward Syrolf who smiled grimly and stood aside to take his place behind the ethran. The cold wind sweeping across the bridge bit fiercely, a wintry beast of icy teeth and claws of snow.
Making ready for whatever lay ahead, spells ordered themselves among Thaena's thoughts. Though far from Rashemen, her magic was still formidable.
An arched doorway appeared through the snow, a blot of darkness within which the weak light of a flame burned. The bridge ended upon a circular landing, a large chamber visible through the open arch. Warriors formed up on either side of the door-the steaming breaths and fierce visages of the Rashemi on one side, the calm assuredness of professional sellswords on the other.
Slowly, she and the durthan entered the tower, forearms crossed in front of them, palms down in a spellcaster's stance. A few steps in they both stopped, scouting every inch of the chamber. The wychlaren had not yet breached the central tower. Tattered threads of tapestries hung from rusted hooks. Pieces of furniture lay crumbled to splinters and dust, leaving only corroded bits of metal intact. The windows here were high above, numerous and smaller than in the previous tower. The torch that had drawn them burned in an old wall sconce and illuminated the only other exit from the room-yet another darkened doorway.
Thaena breathed out in frustration.
"There is nothing here," she whispered, but kept her stance all the same.
"Someone lit that torch," Anilya said. "Perhaps your vremyonni friend?"
Thaena did not answer, merely continued through the room toward the door. Anilya kept pace, and Duras led the others inside.
Beyond the door a dark hallway extended through the tower's center. Thaena suppressed a shudder, her imagination creating shapes moving through the shadows. She shook her head and blocked these out, sure enough that reality would craft far more convincing things for her to see in time. The passage widened, and she could make out a faint light in the distance.
The glow of more torches lit the chamber beyond the hall. Sweeping stairways curved along the walls from the balcony she stood upon, down into a once grand feast hall or meeting place. Bones lay scattered across the floor, representing enough bodies for her to envision the battle that must have once taken place here. Nothing moved. Shadows danced and climbed the walls and stairs in the light of torches across the way. Even the air smelled stale and lifeless.
At the other end of the room, matching stairways rose and wound toward a second balcony almost a full level higher. Thaena squinted into the pits of darkness at the edge of the torchlight. No other exit was visible. The opposite balcony was very near the ceiling, and swallowed in darkness. Duras stood behind her and pointed the fang toward both sides so that they could secure the stairways on either side of the lower balcony.
"I don't like this," he whispered.