The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [97]
The group ahead stopped, and Bastun heard the crunch of boots on snow from the doors of the tower. The figures that appeared, stepping into the light of torches set to either side of the door, were unmistakably Creel, but their condition was wholly unexpected.
They were alive, a fierce stare of battle in their eyes, but their bodies seemed too pale, their gaits weaker than their muscles might imply. Dark circles hung beneath their eyes, and a slight rime of frost coated the edges of their armor and weapons.
"What trickery-?" he heard Thaena whisper from up ahead, but he had already begun to surmise what had happened. The pale skin and frost had similarly graced those of the Ice Wolves during the battle as the bleakborn fed on their life's warmth. These Creel seemed to have been fed upon as well, but not slain, being overly long in the presence of such a creature. Without a steady supply of warmth, a bleakborn would lay dormant until approached by the living.
The Cold Prince, Bastun thought, recalling the words of the children in the library.
"Well," Anilya said, "apparently not a ghost."
"They followed him to the only place he would have any use for them," he whispered. "Serevan did not drag an army in his wake. He brought a feast."
Chapter Twenty
The strident blast of a horn sounded from between the pale blue lips of a Creel.
The Rashemi needed no order from Thaena to charge and meet their enemy at the wall's center. Their boots churned snow and negotiated ice expertly. Weapons sang from their sheaths and were echoed by the singing of ancient battle hymns. The Creel, despite appearances, were quick to advance, driven by their own cries and songs of steel. The first of them met in the center and the battle was joined, blood gracing snow and stone.
Though all of the fang pushed into the fray, more Nar still came from the darkness within the northwest tower. Each of them bore the same drained appearance and fierce light of fanaticism in their eyes. Bastun summoned his axe and advanced in the rear, unconcerned about the Creel's advantage in numbers. The wall limited the effectiveness of such a force, and the Rashemi battle rage was far more legendary than any among the tribes ofNarfell.
Thaena held back with Bastun and Anilya. She kept Syrolf close, though he shook with bloodlust, awaiting his turn in battle. They edged forward slowly, spells and sword at the ready for any Nar unlucky enough to break through the Rashemi press.
With each step closer to the tower, Bastun felt the tugging at his gut and tried to ignore it, focusing on the mass of swinging swords and shouting warriors-images mirrored by those Athumrani's spirit sought to force into his mind. The battle spread, the two forces twisting around one another like oil and water. The first of the Creel laid eyes upon them and snarled, his fury such that he was beyond words or oaths. Though several of his kinsmen lay dead already, he charged and Syrolf rushed forward to meet him.
Others broke through as the fight shifted, berserkers close on their heels to protect the ethran. Thaena and Anilya summoned flames and ghostly blades, cutting down those that came too near.
Bastun met another with his axe, locking blades and witnessing firsthand the madness in the Nar's eyes. He kicked the man away, swinging wide with his axe and muttering arcane words. With a gesture he set the Creel's weapon aflame, the metal heating to a deep red. Burning quickly through the leather glove, the man dropped the sword with a cry. Leaving it to hiss in the snow, he charged Bastun.
Reversing his swing, he scored a deep wound in the Creel's shoulder but could not slow the man. The Creel ignored the injury, reaching for Bastun's throat. Thrown off-balance, axe knocked from his hands, he struggled against