The Shield of Weeping Ghosts by James P. Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

and robes as he neared the huddled figures who had fallen to their knees
    before the Rashemi warriors. Wrapped in a blanket, Bastun could make out a woman and a man, but as the woman raised her face into the torchlight he paused, stepping back and staring.
    The woman’s mask was elaborately decorated, as most wychlaren masks were, but in the details were the markings of a very different magic: forbidden symbols and runes that only graced the masks of the wychlaren’s bitter rivals—the durthans.
    The fang helped the woman to her feet. Seeing her mask they treated her with all the respect due to a hathran. Her companion, a pale-skinned man with sharp features, hung close by, warily watching their would-be rescuers. Bastun gritted his teeth. Loosening his fingers, he prepared to defend himself, the Weave tingling across his knuckles.
    As the visitors were being led toward shelter Thaena came from the gatehouse, followed by Duras and Syrolf. Seeing the stern glare of the ethran, they halted. Bastun breathed a sigh of relief as Thaena approached, her forearms crossed defensively. She had seen as quickly as he.
    “Hold her!” she commanded. The warriors complied, though hesitantly. “Keep her still. She is not one of us.”
    The durthan stood tall, confident as Thaena studied her.
    “Lady Ethran, I—” the woman began.
    “Your formality is not required, durthan,” Thaena said, ignoring the shocked glances of the berserkers. “We both know that my status among the wychlaren means nothing to you.”
    “Yes, I suppose you are right,” the durthan answered calmly, then added, “I am called Anilya.”
    “Your name is unimportant,” said Thaena, “and your presence here is unsurprising.”
    “Despite our differences we have much to discuss,” Anilya said.
    “I doubt that,” Thaena replied, motioning to Anilya’s captors and the other gathered warriors. “Bring her inside. Disarm her companion. Kill him if he tries anything.”
    The pale-skinned man bristled and bared his teeth, his eyeteeth small and sharp. Anilya shot him a look.
    “Be still, Ohriman!” she shouted. He complied at her withering stare. “Wait for me and do as they command.”
    Anilya did not struggle as she was led by her arms to the gatehouse. Bastun caught her eye for only a heartbeat before Syrolf shoved him behind her. He turned and faced the warrior, meeting Syrolf s steady gaze long enough to let him know that he might not allow another provocation to go unanswered. Turning away slowly, he exhaled and followed the others.
    The durthans companion was shoved against the gatehouse wall, sevetal daggers and a thin sword removed from his belt. They tied his hands for good measure and posted a guard. Slumping against the stone, he sat in the snow, showing no sign of discomfort in the cold. Under the glow of the torches, his green eyes shined and his pupils narrowed to slits.
    A tiefling, Bastun thought, and a durthan. This wasn’t good.
    Inside, Anilya was escorted to the back of the room, cornered and forced to sit with her hands laid plainly on her lap. Bastun resumed his place in his own corner, Syrolf close by, the warrior’s eyes darting between the vremyonni and the durthan. The rest of the fang crouched, on alert, watching the door and listening as Thaena spoke to the unexpected prisoner.
    “Tell me,” Thaena said, “why should I wait for the hathran to lay sentence upon you? Why shouldn’t I have you executed here and save my sisters the trouble?”
    Anilya glanced casually at Duras’s sword, held at the ready, and then to Thaena.
    “That would seem to be a logical course of action,” the durthan said in an even tone.
    “Then you accept your part in what is occurring here?” Thaena asked. “Even for a durthan, allying with the Nar is—”
    “Don’t be foolish,” Anilya interrupted. “I and mine have no part in whatever the Nar are doing here.”
    “I don’t think it’s entirely ridiculous to imagine the durthan making