The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  A Rashemi runner came again, and the ethran raised her hand and called for a stop. After consulting with Thaena he returned to the front. Anilya stopped her own band and stood by while Thaena spoke with Duras.

  “There is a large structure up ahead and what looks to be a clear road to the Shield’s gates,” she told the warrior. “We should scout for any threats before approaching the castle.”

  “Agreed,” Duras said, and motioned towards Bastun. “Syrolf! You’re with me.”

  Bastun let out the breath he’d almost replied with and watched as Syrolf reluctantly turned over his guard to the other warriors. The pair disappeared into the fog.

  Anilya conferred with Ohriman, drawing a cautious stare from Bastun. Thaena stood on the north side of the road at the base of a ruined wall, and the vremyonni saw his chance to speak with her about his concerns. Glancing at the others, he made his way in as non-threatening a manner as he could manage. He was watched carefully but not stopped by his guards—their distaste for him apparently not as motivated as Syrolf’s.

  “Ethran,” he said, “may I have a word?”

  She nodded, but her eyes remained on the curving path ahead where Duras had gone. Bastun leaned against the wall beside Thaena, choosing his words carefully before speaking. Secrets and difficult subjects seemed to be gathering in crowds since they’d arrived in Shandaular, and words were only complicating matters further.

  “I wanted to speak of Anilya,” he said. “Her presence here—”

  “Is a threat?” she replied, then looked at him. “Yes. I am aware of the threats that surround me.”

  He read her meaningful glance and decided to push the subject further and gauge her response. There was power in knowledge, and he needed to know how much power she had.

  “And the Shield?” he asked.

  “The Shield? Do you consider the Shield itself a threat?”

  “That depends,” he answered, though his thoughts swirled with the answer she had truly given him: that she did not know the secrets of Shandaular—and that he was far more alone than he suspected. Looking at her he wondered what her memory of him had become. “Am I to be executed when we reach the Shield?”

  For the briefest of moments he saw a glimmer of softness in the eyes behind her mask, a hint of caring that made him feel human again, but she looked away. The hardness in her voice betrayed the glance when she answered.

  “The othlor have not passed any sentence upon you,” she said. “This journey—this final journey—was at your request. The only danger you face, that any of us face, is the Nar and whatever they hope to accomplish here.”

  “And the durthan,” Bastun said, motioning toward Anilya and Ohriman.

  “Yes. The durthan as well,” she said quietly, studying the woman who would have been her sworn enemy under normal circumstances.

  Bastun took a breath and said directly what she had not. “And me.”

  She made no show that she had heard him at all. Her eyes remained fixed on Anilya until the durthan returned the stare, then Thaena looked down and returned to her watch for Duras.

  “Yes,” she finally whispered. “You too.”

  Time crawled as they waited for the scouts to return. The wind picked up, stirring the falling snow into a dance of whirling particles in the torchlight. Anilya stood impatiently across the road, looking between Thaena and the direction of the Rashemi scouts. Her warriors grumbled and paced, bundled in heavy cloaks. Ohriman sat crouched in the snow, wearing only his light armor and plain clothing beneath. He did not shiver or show any sign that the chill affected him. He made even the stoic Rashemi look frozen by comparison. Smirking, he winked a catlike eye at Bastun and rubbed quickly melting snow between his bare hands.

  Bastun had met with and studied beings that had been touched by fiendish blood, commonly called tieflings. Ohriman’s ancestry was intriguing in a scholarly sense, but something in the sellsword’s eye, the tiny glint of nearby torches, a gleam of cruelty or amusement—or both—troubled Bastun deeply.

  Unflinching under Ohriman’s scrutiny, Bastun almost missed the faint sound of voices hiding in the wind. Listening carefully, he made out speakers, distant and indiscernible, but different than those of the city’s spirits. In a pause between gusts, the faint ringing of steel on steel clattered and echoed down the path. Both groups stopped their pacing and conversations, taking in the noise and looking to Thaena. The ethran’s reaction was swift and decisive.

  “Quickly! Move!” she shouted, a command echoed by Anilya to her own troop.

  The fang surged forward into the mist, followed by the sellswords. Thaena, Bastun, and Anilya fell in behind the warriors, running sure-footed through the snow. The voices and sounds of battle grew louder as they wound through the ruins, echoing as if from a cavern. Voices of pain and anguish mingled with those sounds, cries of suffering unlike anything Bastun had ever heard before. Turning a wide corner, the edges of a large circle of destroyed buildings came into view, and he surmised their location with dawning horror.

  Here in the center of Shandaular, down curving stairways to a blackened stone square, lay the origins of the entire city and the reason for its destruction—the Hall of the Portal. They ran down the steps, eyeing the fallen columns and piles of rubble that lined the curved walls of the Hall. Bastun had studied the vague references about what lay inside—and the warnings about approaching the site after sunset. Flickering light painted the stone in shades of blue and green. Dancing shadows on the wall followed the forms of Duras, Syrolf, and the warriors they led as well as the gruesome shapes of their foes.

  Clawlike hands scratched and tore at the Rashemi, batting away their swords and hurling grown men through the air to crash against the walls. Eyes that were little more than black pools of viscous, dripping tears dominated their sunken faces. Armor hung loosely on their bodies, rusted and split by time. Their age-worn tabards bore the faded insignia of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos, the first ruler of ancient Narfell—a black tree, stripped of leaves on a circular red field—soldiers cursed to suffer alongside the people they slaughtered as the city burned and the Shield was breached.

  The creatures wailed and cried with monstrous voices. Only a dozen opposed the fang, but their inhuman strength more than made up for their numbers.

  The fang negotiated the cracked and rubble-strewn floors without hesitation, roaring eagerly into battle against foes thankfully more substantial than the city’s spirits. Anilya’s sellswords paled at the sight of the enemy, overtaken by the wracking sobs and groans that echoed within the hall. Several of the sellswords fell to their knees and rolled on their sides, clutching their ears and weeping uncontrollably. The others, led by Ohriman, followed the fang into the fight.

  Bastun stopped just outside, staring at the eldritch glow that swirled and spat in the hall’s center. A maelstrom of energy where no magic should have been left now haloed a blackened patch of ground, once covered by the archway of Shandaular’s portal. The archway itself was shattered, destroyed long ago by King Arkaius, but the fragments glowed with power in defiance of all reason. Bastun nearly fell to his knees as the keening wail of the undead filled his ears. The voices of Duras and Syrolf stood out in the cacophony of sound, shouting in some unknown language that drew Bastun out of his sudden stupor.

  Clutching his staff Bastun half-slid down into the chamber, his eyes on the portal and his mind fighting the pull of the undead’s despair. A warrior screamed in pain and fell back from the fray, his arm steaming and covered in a black smear of the creatures’ tears. Bastun stepped over the man and continued on.

  Anilya hurled bolts of flame, and the undead screamed and wailed even louder. She screamed right back at them as she summoned her spells, her Rashemi spirit evident as she continued her assault.

  Thaena’s staff flashed scarlet, ruining the claws of one creature, then spinning to sweep it off balance. Her casting was lost to Bastun as he neared the portal, voices streaming from the unnatural vortex. Though s
poken in a dialect he did not know, the language sounded vaguely of Nar origins, a version unheard for nearly two millennia.

  A berserker was pushed into him and they tumbled to the ground. An undead soldier moaned as it knelt over them with arms outstretched. Intoning a quick command, Bastun shoved his staff forward into the thing’s chest, producing a burst of blue light that knocked the wheep off its feet. It scrabbled and screamed as it sought to regain its footing again.

  Sitting up, Bastun met the glazed eyes of Syrolf, who seemed not to recognize him at all. An odd light in Syrolf’s eyes turned in rhythm to the spinning power of the portal. The warrior muttered something in Old Nar and returned to the fight. Bastun understood the words “protect” and “portal,” then Syrolf was lost in the battle.

  Standing, Bastun ran to the edge of the portal circle and searched for some idea of how to stop the wild magic of the broken stones. The symbols and runes on the shattered archway were unlike any that he had ever seen before. They glowed with a flickering green-hued light that stung his eyes. Looking up, he squinted and tried to make sense of what he witnessed in the depths of the spinning energy.

  A mass of figures pushed and strained against the edges of the vortex, their faces contorted in madness and pain. A constant stream of babbling escaped their lips. Bastun took a step backward, the noise in the chamber coming into focus. The shouts, cries, and screams of pain mixed with the clash of steel, the smell of smoke, and shadows dancing on broken stone walls. Shandaular, the City of Weeping Ghosts, did not bemoan the fate that once befell it—it relived every moment of it.

  Bastun returned his focus to the portal stones. He knelt and studied the magic written by a cursed race in the deep history of Faerûn. He did not understand the language of the symbols, but there was a sense of a familiar order in certain places. Searching among the runes for some pattern, he pushed away the thought that he was wasting his time. Instinct had drawn him to the portal. Intellect would be forced to solve it.

  A fang warrior crashed to the ground beside him and was knocked unconscious by the fall. Growling in frustration, Bastun turned and prepared to defend himself against the undead soldier. He paused as a green light burst in the soldier’s chest, eating away at the armor and dried flesh beneath until the creature collapsed into a pile of dust. Anilya stood nearby, her hand still glowing with the timely spell.

  She strode forward, glancing at the portal and the vortex above it. Behind her the battle shifted as more of the undead tore themselves from the ice and snow and dug their way into the fight.

  “Can you stop it, vremyonni?” Anilya asked.

  “I can try,” he said, “but I make no promises.”

  “Good enough,” she said and turned to face the hall of raging Rashemi and undead soldiers. Ohriman dashed to her side and slashed at a pair of shriveled arms breaking free beneath his feet. Wielding a wand of pale green wood, Anilya shouted over her shoulder to Bastun, “Do what you can! We will try to give you time!”

  Lacking the time to question the good sense in trusting a durthan, Bastun turned back to the portal and began to trace patterns through the runes. He shook his head as possibilities came and went, discarding one idea after another. The pages of spellbooks flipped through his mind, turning and turning as he tried to find a weakness in the dense net of magic that flowed among the portal’s spells.

  The others struggled against the tide of undead soldiers and made slow progress, though the strange look in Syrolf’s eye haunted Bastun’s sense of hope. The smell of burning bone wafted from the steaming remains of another of Anilya’s targets, her wand flashing a bright emerald light every few moments.

  Growling in frustration, Bastun chose. His fingertips brushed the edges of one rune as he reached for another. He whispered arcane names, quickly trying to identify the symbols even as he called upon their power. For a moment, between the cracks and the squirming magic, he saw a pattern. His eyes widened, seizing upon the two runes he had chosen and managing the last syllables of their names before his breath was stolen from him.

  1369 DR, Year of the Gauntlet

  “Where is your breath?”

  Keffrass’s voice whispered in Bastun’s ear as he concentrated. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled into his eyes, and dripped from his chin. Magic filled his limbs, granting him power—raw power. It was his to master, to control lest it break free. His will and his rage warred inside of him, defying his training and calling upon him to be free, to destroy.

  Slowly, he inhaled, shuddering and shaking, his eyes trying to focus on a delicate glass object resting on the floor within a chalk circle several paces away.

  “There,” Keffrass said, pacing behind him. The vremyonni taught secrets of magic that even the wychlaren did not use, destructive spells forbidden among the wilds of Rashemen. They felt it necessary to push the limits of their knowledge into dangerous places, for one never knew when such secrets might be needed. “Master your breathing, will your pulse to deliver only what the body needs. Keep the mind free. Make a place within yourself to hide from the ravages of anger. Divide your flesh from your mind, but control both as instruments of your will. Now speak the words.”

  Bastun spat, his lips trembling. Pain arced through his body, filling his arms and flooding down to his legs. His fingertips glowed and he gritted his teeth, forcing the magic to subside, to obey his will. He smiled as it did so, tensing his body as if for battle, though his mind cleared as the spell worked its way to his tongue and issued from his lips.

  The glass sculpture rose sharply into the air, spinning wildly. Exhaling carefully, Bastun stopped its motion by degrees until it floated calmly at eye level. It drifted to the right, Bastun’s every breath a matter of pure control as the magic spent itself from him. Bastun directed it to sit within a second circle. The sculpture landed silently and he released it from his control.

  The power fled from his limbs, the Weave reforming itself into natural patterns as he fell to his knees, lightheaded and smiling again.

  “Good,” Keffrass said, then added, “Always remember your breathing, your focus. Master the breath and control the word.”

  Power surged through Bastun’s body, leaching from the portal and skewing his senses. The voices of those in the vortex crowded his thoughts, pressing and shoving to be noticed, to be granted mercy from their torment. Twisting his eyes away from their sickly light he saw the battle flowing around him. Time slowed and showed him the faint outlines of warring spirits, some intertwined with the fang, the proximity of the phantoms’ bloodlust infecting Duras and shining in Syrolf’s eyes.

  Pain flared in Bastun’s head and he shut his eyes, unable to grasp at the strands of magic that held him. The voices, those trapped for centuries, tore at his focus and foiled his attempts at control. The ruined portal could likely never be what it once was, but the magic of those who crafted it would endure. He choked in its grip.

  Where is your breath?

  The memory of his master’s voice forced his eyes open. Slowly he inhaled and touched upon the wild stirrings of the rage within him. The maddened voices faded. He pulled away from the stones, his hands still clinging to the runes. The pattern flickered before him. He could not break it, but he struggled to disrupt it. His body hummed with energy as he exhaled, whispering a spell of disenchantment.

  At the last word pain flared, and he was thrown from the portal stones and slammed on his back. He lay there, measuring his breathing, power still vibrating beneath his skin. Taking up his staff, he watched the runes waver once, but their light resumed unabated. He gaped in frustration, gripping the staff with white knuckles as he turned to the battle.

  Frustration and the sudden need to fight filled him. They were not disappointed. One of the sobbing undead charged him from the right. The axe blade screeched from his staff, and he slashed at the thing’s dripping eyes. It stumbled backward, the sockets of its eyes now joined by a deep wound through its face. It came on still, shrieking as it swiped at his arm. Its
bony fingers tore through his robes and skin, the injury burning as the claw drew back to strike again.

  Ignoring the wound, Bastun slashed, nearly severing the creature’s arm at the wrist. Before the undead could recover Bastun summoned a quick spell. The words flew across his tongue and a wave of energy pulsed from his open palm. Struck by the spell, the soldier faltered and stumbled backward. The wheep’s lifeforce chilled Bastun’s flesh as it drained into him, its eyes ceasing their constant stream of black tears. A single moan escaped the thing before it collapsed and lay still.

  Anilya passed him, nodding her approval as he turned to face the next undead.

  Falling back to call upon another spell, Bastun paused as a wavering sound caught his attention. A ripple of power flashed through the room, silencing all but the wails of the spirits trapped in the portal. The undead soldiers stopped fighting, facing the maelstrom of energy above the portal and whimpering as it began to fade. The fang took advantage of the pause and hacked the soldiers to the ground. Their inhuman cries grew weaker as the portal’s glow flickered several times and went dark.

  Duras shook his head. The strange light disappeared from Syrolf’s eyes. Dazed, the other scouts all fell to the ground. Bastun exhaled and dismissed the axe-blade from his staff, feeling every muscle scream for immediate rest. He gazed in wonder at the portal, dormant once again.

  As the last of the undead were left in pieces on the ground, several Rashemi howled in victory. Ohriman and his sellswords celebrated less vocally and found places to sit and rest their weary sword arms. Thaena attended to the wounded, and no one acknowledged the lone vremyonni or his efforts in their victory.

  Bastun sat near the shattered blocks of the portal archway and studied the relic and the unfamiliar magic carved in its surface. The portal was to have been the ancient Nentyarch’s prize, a gateway to the far south and expansion of the empire, but this portal was only a shadow of that which Shandaular had contained. The roots of the city’s destruction lay in the shattered portal’s dark elven runes, yet the full purpose to which they had been put, the scrolls had hinted, still lay ahead of him, within the Shield’s defenses.