The battle blurred around them. The Creel hissed and spat, wide-eyed and bleeding. A smell of leather, sweat, and faint decay assaulted Bastun's senses. No one would come to his aid; none would know the danger that would lie unprotected with his body. From the corner of his eye he could see the silhouette of the city behind and far below him. The cold touch of the Magewarden's memories stirred as he sought to break free.
Another battle from another time sounded in his mind, echoing across Shandaular in screams and the crackle of flames. Phantom fires traced buildings that no longer stood, trailed behind torches set to burn at the Nentyarch's order. Those left behind, running to a portal, an escape that no longer existed, were mercilessly cut down by soldiers.
His eyelids fluttered. Athumrani's spirit grasped him with a chill he felt creeping nearer with each strangled breath. Choking, he pushed back harder, the Creel's pale face and the tall shadow of the tower looming over him. Staring at the flickering windows above, he knew he might die alone and unnoticed, but that he would not be alone for long. He managed one last breath before letting go, his face flushed and warm as his arms fell wide. He gave in to it all just a little-just enough.
Where is your breath?
Exhaling, he whispered, his voice strained and hoarse, his hands grasping at threads of the Weave as he summoned the spell he needed. The Creel seemed to recognize his purpose and shook him all the harder, screaming senselessly as he tried to crush the life from the masked wizard. Bastun closed his eyes and concentrated past the burning in his lungs and the phantom flames of ruined Shandaular, past the screams of the Creel and of those long dead in the streets far below. A wispy scent of smoke curled past his nostrils as the past crept closer to claim him.
An impact shook them both, and the hands around his throat loosened. Opening his eyes, he met the shocked expression of the Creel. Inhaling again, renewed strength flowed through his arms and he brought them together, clapping the sides of the man's skull with as much force as he could muster. The man shuddered at the blow, his arms went limp and he stumbled backward. Bastun pushed away from the battlements, skin flushed and tingling as air filled his lungs.
A quick punch sent the Creel spinning, revealing the axe buried in his back. Bastun kicked the blade deeper, holding his would-be killer face down in the reddening snow.
The old anger churned in Bastun's stomach, though he kept it in control. Reaching out he gestured to the axe, his spell shaking the weapon free and bringing it to his awaiting hand. Though Athumrani still held sway in his mind, he managed to keep the spirit's influence in check. The Breath seemed to squirm at his side, and he resisted its pull even as he eyed more of the Creel approaching.
Wading into the fray, he became a whirling dervish of dark robes and flashing axe. Though only Creel faced him and fell before his blade, he could feel the cobwebs of the older battle playing around him. Warm blood hissed on the snow and stained his mask as the cold, misty spray of ephemeral wounds splashed across his skin from the ghosts of Nar soldiers. Walking a tightrope between the Weave and wild emotion, he kept his senses sharp.
Cutting down another of the Nar, he noted the growing number of them fallen around the wall. Less than a dozen of the fang lay wounded or dying despite the Creel ferocity. Pulling his axe free and kicking the body to the ground, he backed away from the quieting battle. Duras put another down, as did Syrolf, both warriors suffering only superficial injuries. Once down the Creel hardly struggled. Wounds that slowly bled were allowed to bleed. Swords and axes that might have been wielded, even while injured, were left untouched.
"This has been too easy," he muttered and strained to hear voices speaking that even his mask had difficulty detecting. Fearing that Athumrani's memories were taking him again, he sighed in relief as he identified the Common language drifting from within the darkness of the tower. The faint whispering held a solemn rhythm, like a prayer or ritual. He made out the words "fallen brothers" as Duras faced down the last of the Creel. The rest of the fang allowed their leader the kill, forming a semicircle and finishing off those that still groaned. Two quick strokes, one ringing with steel, the other muffled by armor and flesh, finished the battle as Bastun heard the whisperer simply utter "sacrifice."
The parting warriors, breath steaming in the evening air, made way for their ethran. Thaena strode among the fallen, leading her men to the tower. Bastun edged forward, hearing nothing more of the scratchy whisper and peering into the thick shadow of the open doors.
Fleeting and brief, he saw the face and shoulders of a withered old man moving within the dark. Heavy robes enshrouded the figure. The old man disappeared, but a second presence took his place. Night's chill intensified, though the wind had actually calmed. Thaena's steady stride slowed as a white web of frost crawled across the iron-braced open doors. The wave of ice spread and grew thicker-as did the air in Bastun's lungs. Guttering torches were reduced to nothing more than wind-tossed embers and dwindling smoke.
The second face that appeared from the darkness was youthful and sharp. Pale skin bearing a faint flush of warmth graced the handsome, cruel visage. With noble features and a regal bearing he strolled from the tower. His eyes seemed formed of solid ice, bright blue and staring down the length of the wall as if waiting for something. Bastun shivered, not from the cold, but something stirred within him at the sight of the man. He knew that this would be no imposter, no Creel masquerading in the guise of an ancient prince of Narfell. This was Serevan Crell, last son of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos and the destroyer of Shandaular.
Bastun felt himself being pulled forward, and this time he did not resist. Whereas Thaena had backed away nervously, Bastun advanced and called spells to mind. The complacent Serevan leaned over the battlements, staring out across the city as if surveying the ancient siege. The sigil of the Nentyarch, faded and torn, twisted and turned in a breeze on Serevan's cloak. The prince paid no mind to the ethran or the warriors arrayed behind her.
Bastun's approach felt weighted down, as if time itself were freezing. The compulsion to attack seemed an agreement between himself and the spirit of the Magewarden. The Breath calmed its nervous squirming at his side with each sluggish step.
The phantoms' battle of the past had also slowed to a standstill, save that Serevan's men were left standing and the Shield's defenders had been killed to a man. Those ghostly soldiers turned their heads lethargically as Bastun moved toward them. No swords were raised nor violence threatened. They parted to let him through, though he had no intention of playing the Magewarden's traitorous role in the city's curse. As the first syllable of a spell crossed his lips, Serevan turned to face him, the first indication that he was aware of anyone on the wall.
The lips of the prince moved, yet his voice was only a scratching whisper of sound as he stood straight and placed a hand on his blade.
"Athumrani," he said, his voice curling coldly in Bastun's ears, as if his very breath could steal life and soul from a body.
The vremyonni paused, spell lost as hatred flashed through his mind. The Magewarden swore in his head, shouting oaths of damnation upon Serevan and the empire he stood for. Bastun fought to catch his breath in the thick air, shocked by Athumrani's reaction.
"Not a traitor," he whispered, incredulous and only slightly relieved. "Then why-?"
Time returned in a rush. Bastun exhaled, heart pounding in the cumbersome cold, though Serevan was still some distance away. A weak voice chanted from within the tower. Arcane mutterings became a surge of commanding power and the darkness there writhed violently. A scent of death wafted over them as the tower's blackness tore itself apart, becoming individual pieces that moaned and fell into a military order before the prince.