The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [96]
For the briefest of moments as she looked upon her guardian, her lover, she regretted being of the wychlaren. The necessities of leadership were tearing them apart, testing them as never before. However, she knew her duty and felt she had been too soft in its application. Between Duras and Syrolf, she decided that Duras might not accept the decisions she would have to make. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps his secret was all the sin he suspected it to be. For years she'd barely been able to convince him otherwise. The child he had been still lived on in the man he'd become, ever since the day Bastun had been taken away to the Running Rocks.
Shaking her head and focusing on the situation, she took a cleansing breath and approached SyrolPs shoulder.
"You have watched out for my interests well, Syrolf," she whispered to him. "Now you must watch them more carefully. If either of our charges does anything more to make you suspect they are working against us, then…" She let the unspoken order hang on the air for a moment, noting his solemn nod of acknowledgement, then added, "Make it quick."
The drums outside halted and again left them all in silence.
From across the room she caught Bastun's eye, his mask staring at her as if hearing her words. She hoped that somehow he had.
+ + + + +
The doors were stiff with ice, but they creaked open much easier than they should have. There were scars in the stone already where the Creel had recently forced them open. Winter wind breezed into the chamber and engulfed the minor warmth that torches had supplied. The Ice Wolves gathered near the opening, eager to see their enemy on the wall. Thaena watched stoically and Duras stood by ready to lead the charge.
Bastun peered over shoulders and betwixt the warriors in front of him, trying to catch a glimpse of the northwest tower. He was surrounded in the rear of the fang, along with Anilya and her sellswords. SyrolPs ever-present scowl watched their every move, Thaena's order likely on the forefront of his mind.
Bastun mused that the warrior would rather slay a vremyonni in exile over the Creel. Killing Anilya as well would only be a benefit.
He chided himself as the group began moving forward, knowing he might have been miles away from the Shield by now if he'd had any sense. Here he faced unceremonious execution, a duplicitous and beguiling durthan whose skills they still needed, and an unknown number of ignorant barbarians following what could prove to be just a recurring nightmare of the Shield itself. That nightmare, the prince of old Narfell, concerned him the most as he stepped out of the tower and viewed the length of wall ahead of them. Advancing into the unknown with swords drawn was practically a Rashemi tradition, but though they marched forward he feared they moved backward in time with each step.
"This borders on suicide," Anilya whispered at his side.
"Really? I thought this is what you wanted," he said.
"I prefer subtlety and surprise, this Rashemi courage is sickening and foolhardy," she said, looking in all directions for some sign of an ambush or trap.
He had to agree, though he did not say so out loud.
"Do you suppose he is really in there?" she asked, a playful tone in her voice. "Prince Serevan of Dun-Tharos, withered and half-rotten, to reclaim his lost prize?"
"We both know he is," he answered, glancing sidelong at her, "though whether ghost or corpse I could not say."
"Then how do you rate our chances?" Anilya's eyes fairly smiled through her mask.
For a moment he was at a loss for words, having this conversation with a woman who had tried to kill him, seduce him, and frame him all in the space of less than a day. She acted as if this were merely normal course and seemed not the least bit bothered. He realized she was, on some level, having fun.
"I already told you I believe we'll kill