The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [88]
Bastun sympathized with his friend's worry, but he could find little fear for the ethran.
"You love her," he said solemnly, the words slipping out.
"I am-" Duras began, then paused, sighing in the awkward silence that followed before continuing, "I am her guardian."
The answer stung, it tore at Bastun's insides like nothing else had, but it was what he'd needed to hear. The weight of lost time on his shoulders lessened, though it settled in more comfortably-more permanently. Neither of the pair spoke, listening to the cadence of axes and swords on ice and wood. It was as if something had broken, a divergence between what was and what should have been.
"Perhaps I should go back for her," Duras said at length, hand resting on the hilt of his long sword.
"She'll be fine. Thaena can-" Bastun stopped, noticing the quick glances of several among the fang. They looked at him and at Duras, then to Syrolf, who shook his head derisively at the pair. The wedge that was being driven between Duras and his warriors was becoming painfully apparent. Their leader's loyalty to an old friend threatened to make a bad situation worse, and Bastun rethought his words. "I think you should do as she does, Duras. Do as you damn well please, ignore common sense, and leave me out of it."
The coldness in his voice was heard by all, being more for the fang's benefit than that of Duras. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the change in the air as Duras regarded him with sudden shock and anger. Syrolf squared his shoulders and glowered at the vremyonni.
"Watch your tongue, exile," he said. He looked as if he were about to say something else when Bastun whipped around, ignoring him as a deep and ominous sound echoed through the hall. The mask carried the noise to his ears alone at first, but soon that sorcery was no longer needed. Something big voiced its displeasure in a disjointed growl that seemed constructed of several dozen beastly throats singing as one.
"Syrolf! With me!" Duras's sword leaped into his hand as he swiftly took command. He pointed at the berserkers. "Keep at that door! Do not stop until we return!"
Syrolf clapped two of the fang on the shoulders, and they fell in behind him. Two of the sellswords also followed as Bastun stood and followed Duras's long-legged run through the maze of bodies. The Rashemi and the sellswords alike stared after them a moment, then redoubled their efforts at freeing the doors.
They jumped over bodies and climbed over icy hills of the fallen army. Visages frozen in horror passed beneath Bastun's boots as he summoned his axe blade, imagining a myriad of unholy beasts rising amid the piles. A massive silhouette shifted just beyond the next pile of bodies and burst into view, a charging blur of pale flesh and bones.
Duras cursed and dodged as the thing hurtled past. Syrolf was thrown aside like a rag doll, and Bastun fell as the shape turned and snarled. Raising his axe, he began chanting, repulsed as the beast entered the light. The wolflike head flinched at the illumination at first, then fixed on it.
The head was as long as a man was tall and more than half as wide. Odd knots and malformed protrusions revealed a patchwork construction of various bodies and parts. Arms and elbows formed the angry brow. Fingers gripped bone along a jaw made of broken ribcages, the ribs sharpened into vicious fangs. Legs, torsos, and faces rippled and writhed through the neck, flanks, and limbs of the creature which had no body of its own save those that made up its macabre anatomy. Ice clung to its white, hairless flesh as it bared a maw of jagged yellow fangs and prowled toward him.
A red flash of energy left Bastun's palm and sizzled across the thing's snout. Flames sprouted and guttered, steaming as ice melted and rotten flesh burned. As it shook away the offending fire, Bastun scrambled back to his feet, eyes scanning the area for any sign of the durthan or Thaena.
As he summoned another spell, berserker blades hacked at the hound's frost-rimed