The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [7]
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