#corunir

32- ransom

“What will you give for this one?” the spirit above him demands. By their speech they're Trév Duvárdain; by what remains of their dress, they lived recently.

“The Trév Gállorg do not deal with faithless shades,” Cána spits, but a ghostly hand reaches down and she twitches as to strike.

“Don't,” Corunir rasps, and shudders as the chill of the Dead settles deeper in his lungs. “You can't trust-” He wheezes on the next inhale and something in her expression gives. “No-”

“I will have all my people returned to Aughaire,” she says. “Speak the price of your ransom, spirit.”

92- terror

A dozen watchstones stand between the gates and the castle of Carn Dûm and another half in the throne room itself, bent creatures of twisted stone that more resemble transmuted flesh. Their weight is nearly physical, bowing him down and down at the foot of the throne.

He doesn't hear feet approach, but the hem of blood-red robes falls before his eyes.

“This is the one you found near the cells?” a voice asks from within a helm. “What were you looking for, Ranger?” Corunir glances up as the wraith beckons to someone behind him. “This, perhaps?”

Chains rattle.