asked as he adjusted the angle of his axe, edging forward and determined to discover if he faced a simple barbarian or something more sinister. “Why have you come?”
The Creel’s answer was a string of arcane syllables, summoning a smoky darkness that enveloped his hand. Bastun charged, muttering a curse. With a quick spell he
might have killed the shaman, but he needed answers. He dodged left, skirting the edge of the wall as a ribbon of darkness shot past him. It grazed his arm, searing as it passed through robes and flesh. Growling through the pain, he darted forward, ducking beneath another bolt of shadow, and shoved the Creel backward.
A dagger flashed in the shaman’s hand, but it proved no match for Bastun’s axe. Wincing at the pain in his arm, he separated the Creel from the dagger, taking several fingers in the process. Reversing his swing, he cracked the butt of his staff into the screaming man’s jaw.
The shaman, his pain-filled screams cut short, toppled back to the tower’s edge, but Bastun caught the front of his robes. Dazed, hanging over the long drop, the Creel’s head rolled back, smeared with blood and spitting teeth.
“Why have you come here?” Bastun yelled, shaking the man and threatening with his axe. His injured arm burned with the weight, but he managed to hold on as the dangling man coughed and laughed weakly.
“You are… fool… witch-wizard,” he replied in a broken Common, blinking and trying to focus on his ruined hand.
“Why? Why am I a fool?” Bastun asked, his arm aching with strain.
“Old blood… is come here.” The shaman’s eyes cleared, madness shining in them as he glared in fury. “He put… house back in order… his Breath… to end you!”
Bastun felt his heart skip a beat, the Creel’s words turning his concerns into grim reality.
“The Breath,” he whispered, “Where? Do you?”
His shoulder popped and he cried out as the Creel slipped away. Bastun stumbled backward, his shoulder limp and arm dangling. In pain, he dimly heard the shaman hit the stones below, a fleeting comfort as he contemplated the man’s last words.
“No time,” he muttered. “No time now.”
Kneeling, he retrieved his axe, pinned his hand under the shaft with his boot, and gripped the dislocated shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he pushed.
The white-hot pain of his shoulder snapping into place brought stars to his eyes. Awkwardly he stood and leaned on the edge of the tower. A rousing cry erupted among the berserkers as the scouts returned and joined the battle. Sighing in relief, Bastun slumped and crawled back to the ruined end of the wall, edging his way down carefully.
The warriors’ blades made little more than writhing parts of the bleakborn. They kicked the pieces away from one another, spitting in disgust while at the same time muttering prayers of peace for their cursed brethren.
As Bastun rested, he noticed a change in the eyes of the fang. They gathered and made signs of warding. A handful of the sellswords stood at the edge of the enclosure, staring blankly into a distant nowhere. Bastun recalled hearing the durthans dark spell and looked upon the mindless dead she had made of her own men.
“Abominations!” Thaena shouted.
“Perhaps,” Anilya countered. “But abominations that tipped the odds in our favor.” Several of the bleakborn lay smashed at the zombies’ feet.
“This is not our way,” said Thaena. “To win at any cost, inviting evil such as this to darken our doorstep!”
“And our alliance?” Anilya replied, crossing her arms. “Is one cost more acceptable than another?”
“We will make allowances for the living as need dictates,” the ethran said, “but we will not resort to fouling the laws of nature. Shandaular bears curse enough without your help.”
The ethran turned back to the fang, pointing at the Shield’s doors.
“Get those open,” she ordered, then faced Anilya again, gesturing at the undead. “Burn
The Creel’s answer was a string of arcane syllables, summoning a smoky darkness that enveloped his hand. Bastun charged, muttering a curse. With a quick spell he
might have killed the shaman, but he needed answers. He dodged left, skirting the edge of the wall as a ribbon of darkness shot past him. It grazed his arm, searing as it passed through robes and flesh. Growling through the pain, he darted forward, ducking beneath another bolt of shadow, and shoved the Creel backward.
A dagger flashed in the shaman’s hand, but it proved no match for Bastun’s axe. Wincing at the pain in his arm, he separated the Creel from the dagger, taking several fingers in the process. Reversing his swing, he cracked the butt of his staff into the screaming man’s jaw.
The shaman, his pain-filled screams cut short, toppled back to the tower’s edge, but Bastun caught the front of his robes. Dazed, hanging over the long drop, the Creel’s head rolled back, smeared with blood and spitting teeth.
“Why have you come here?” Bastun yelled, shaking the man and threatening with his axe. His injured arm burned with the weight, but he managed to hold on as the dangling man coughed and laughed weakly.
“You are… fool… witch-wizard,” he replied in a broken Common, blinking and trying to focus on his ruined hand.
“Why? Why am I a fool?” Bastun asked, his arm aching with strain.
“Old blood… is come here.” The shaman’s eyes cleared, madness shining in them as he glared in fury. “He put… house back in order… his Breath… to end you!”
Bastun felt his heart skip a beat, the Creel’s words turning his concerns into grim reality.
“The Breath,” he whispered, “Where? Do you?”
His shoulder popped and he cried out as the Creel slipped away. Bastun stumbled backward, his shoulder limp and arm dangling. In pain, he dimly heard the shaman hit the stones below, a fleeting comfort as he contemplated the man’s last words.
“No time,” he muttered. “No time now.”
Kneeling, he retrieved his axe, pinned his hand under the shaft with his boot, and gripped the dislocated shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he pushed.
The white-hot pain of his shoulder snapping into place brought stars to his eyes. Awkwardly he stood and leaned on the edge of the tower. A rousing cry erupted among the berserkers as the scouts returned and joined the battle. Sighing in relief, Bastun slumped and crawled back to the ruined end of the wall, edging his way down carefully.
The warriors’ blades made little more than writhing parts of the bleakborn. They kicked the pieces away from one another, spitting in disgust while at the same time muttering prayers of peace for their cursed brethren.
As Bastun rested, he noticed a change in the eyes of the fang. They gathered and made signs of warding. A handful of the sellswords stood at the edge of the enclosure, staring blankly into a distant nowhere. Bastun recalled hearing the durthans dark spell and looked upon the mindless dead she had made of her own men.
“Abominations!” Thaena shouted.
“Perhaps,” Anilya countered. “But abominations that tipped the odds in our favor.” Several of the bleakborn lay smashed at the zombies’ feet.
“This is not our way,” said Thaena. “To win at any cost, inviting evil such as this to darken our doorstep!”
“And our alliance?” Anilya replied, crossing her arms. “Is one cost more acceptable than another?”
“We will make allowances for the living as need dictates,” the ethran said, “but we will not resort to fouling the laws of nature. Shandaular bears curse enough without your help.”
The ethran turned back to the fang, pointing at the Shield’s doors.
“Get those open,” she ordered, then faced Anilya again, gesturing at the undead. “Burn
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