The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [8]
Duras frowned, before finally looking Bastun in the eye. "Seemed as good a topic as any," he said, then added, "considering."
"Considering…" Bastun said even as he felt the weight of an awkward silence looming in the conversation. "Yes, I suppose so."
The silence settled in faster than he'd expected, and he regretted his words. Both of them looked around, listening to the wind as it whistled through the shadows of the city. Thaena glanced once at the pair with what Bastun assumed was disapproval, but she said nothing and returned to watching for Syrolf. Bastun wondered what it would have been like to take this final journey, just him, Duras, and Thaena.
For a moment the wind slowed, and its whistling stopped. In the silence that followed a second sound echoed through the fog, far away, and yet there was no distance great enough to hear such sounds from: moans and cries of anguish, muffled screams, and shouts of anger. No living throats could have made the sounds. Bastun stood to get closer to the break in the wall, but the wind returned stronger than before, drowning out the distant voices of the dead.
Bastun stepped back toward the rock, disappointed and looking forward to his next opportunity to study an odd pattern he'd heard in the voices.
"Why are we here, Bastun?" Duras asked, his voice hoarse and suddenly very serious.
Any true answer might have taken far longer to explain than they had time for, so many answers seemed obvious at the moment. Obvious to him at least, for Duras could not know what it was like to be taken away from everything he knew. Bastun stared again at the faint scar on the staff in his hand.
"We are here to say goodbye, Duras," he answered at length. "That and to hope that memory holds us true to one another."
Duras was quiet, and Bastun hoped that it was answer enough. Despite what his emotions might scream he had no real malice toward his old friend, nor to Thaena. Circumstance had driven him to live apart from things that had once given him joy. The lack had left its mark, and all he had left were the memories and the pretending. Looking to Thaena-at her balled fists and constant stare after Syrolf and the scouts, her chin held high to maintain an air of composure despite the now hidden voices of the dead-he decided that most of them were pretending in one fashion or another, perhaps all of them.
Duras nodded slowly and stood again, walking to rejoin the ethran and leave Bastun to his thoughts.
A quiet thunder, muffled by clouds heavy with snow, crackled above, breaking the vremyonni's darker line of thought and heralding the return of Syrolf and his scouts. All of the scouts kept their weapons drawn as they approached Thaena and Duras. The look on Syrolf s scarred face caused Bastun to edge nearer to hear their report.
"What have you found?" Thaena asked Syrolf.
"The wychlaren's paths have been compromised, ethran," Syrolf answered matter-of-factly, his gaze drifting once toward Bastun before returning to Thaena. "Many of the markers still stand, but others have been defaced or scratched out completely. There were no signs of anyone else-anyone living-in the area that we searched."
Not a weapon in sight lacked a ready hand upon it. The dawning realization that their simple mission had just become more complicated was evident on every face and in every steaming breath exhaled into the wind.
"What is your will, ethran?" Duras asked, his voice breaking the heavy silence.
Everyone looked to Thaena then. For a moment, Bastun feared his long-awaited exile would have to wait.
"We will push on to the Shield," she said. "The hathran there will see the vremyonni and then see him exiled to the lands of the west. As by tradition and the othlor's order."
Duras nodded, as did Syrolf. The pair began gathering the rest of the fang into a defensive formation for the trek through Shandaular. Few orders were needed, each warrior instinctively aware of their place among the others. Bastun was anxious to see the ancient Shield,