"Could be snow soon," the warrior said, scanning the dark clouds.
Bastun shook his head slightly. "Yes, I suppose so." Duras merely nodded.
"Is that it then?" Bastun said. "Nearly twenty years we haven't seen each other-practically our entire lives-and we end up sitting on a rock talking about the weather?"
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, to match the reality of it to his studies. Keffrass had often spoken of its history and importance, though he had remained haunted by his visit. Thaena appeared beside Bastun, watching the fang being readied for the march.
"You will stay close to Duras and I," she said, "I'm sure I do not have to explain why."
"Of course, ethran," he replied, then added, "And no, an explanation is unfortunately not necessary."
Thaena looked as if she were about to say something else, but merely nodded and joined Duras at the head of the group. Bastun followed. Half the number of the fang, about fifteen warriors, led the way through the break in the wall and into the deeper fog. Their torches made spheres of flickering light in the thick mist, providing scant, but still helpful, illumination for those behind. Syrolf was at his back once more, only now his sword was unsheathed.
A curving street led northwest through heavy fog. Shadowy buildings loomed on either side-far more intact than Bastun had expected. Ornate arches, cracked and charred, framed stone doors. Columns depicting unnamed beasts and faceless figures crouched at every corner or lay broken in dark alleys. Odd symbols and runes squirmed beneath the thick ice that crusted the many arches, a familiar theme that made navigation of the maze difficult.
At the center of Shandaular lay the first archway, a mysterious portal connecting the city to another Shandaular in the far south-yet another ruin left to rot. Though both cities were old, their portals were far older, created by an ancient magic that few understood and even fewer had learned to use.
Occasionally Thaena would call a short halt to inspect small obelisks along the sides of the winding path. Each was firmly rooted in the ground, strong stone brought from Rashemen. Engraved with a single sigil, their magic kept the path free of the city's spirits. Only now the sigils appeared ruined and smeared with ash. Thaena knelt and whispered to them, trying to detect the magic they held.
A light snow began to fall. The wind increased, whipping the cloaks and the long braids of the Rashemi warriors. The fog stirred, combining with the swirling snow to obscure the path ahead even more. Venturing into the tighter streets of another district, the group slowed, wary of every corner and shadow. The distant sounds of the dead became more noticeable after crossing the boundary of the low inner wall. As the city had expanded, concentric rings of walls, three in all, were left in place and kept fortified as their enemies grew bolder. During siege, the citizens would retreat behind the inner wall for protection in the shadow of the Shield and close to the central portal-arch.
Blackened stone and shattered walls replaced much of the discernible architecture. Thick ice filled the cracks and clung to the standing structures like malformed gargoyles. Bastun eyed these warily, his thoughts drifting to his studies of the Shield as the torches revealed blurred skulls and shadowy bones buried in the ice. Here in the inner city, in Shandaular's last moments, death had taken its greatest harvest.
A loud wailing arose a few blocks away, echoing against the buildings and through the narrow streets. Others seemed to answer it, and Thaena ordered the warriors to a halt. The tortured voices of unseen spirits carried far over the ruins, issuing from the doors of hollow buildings, moaning with the wind as they slowly trailed away. Bastun strained to hear the nuances of the spirits' cries, sensing some missing note in the rhythm.
The cries drifted north, growing fainter, and many held breaths were quietly exhaled as Thaena waved the fang onward.