The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  A small flight of steps descended into the shadow, and he made his way down slowly, searching for any sign of the spirits at the edge of his light. At the bottom, the last step gave way beneath his boot and he stumbled. The sound of stone grating against stone followed him as he fell. His staff clattered away from him as he struck the floor, causing the shadows on the wall to dance as its light spun and bounced.

  Pushing himself up, he reached for the staff and stopped. At the light’s edge stood the translucent form of a little girl, perhaps no older than seven or eight. Her dress was stained and torn, her dark hair blowing in some unfelt wind as she watched him with eyes as bright as new-minted silver coins. The grinding sound of stone stopped, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a new wall blocking the path behind him.

  Flickering shadows brought his eyes back to the staff. The little girl was gone and the light from the staff was swiftly fading, leaving him alone and lost in the dark.

  Thaena stood straight and firm. She issued orders to her men, fortifying the entrance hall as best they could. She kept her eyes focused and full of the steel expected of a wychlaren, but she could not tear her gaze away from the body.

  Though she’d refused to remove the ruined mask, the hathran’s hands—dotted with the first few spots of age and rough with years of grinding spell components—suggested she was roughly ten years older than the ethran. Glimpses of pale skin between cracks in the mask made Thaena’s knees weak and her stomach turn. Absently, her hands reached for the mask over her own face, assuring herself that they could not see, should not see, how frightened she was.

  The mask was the guardian of emotion, demanding respect and submission to the wychlaren rule, but like the hathran before her, it was a target for their enemies. Thaena cultivated the anger that rested in her gut, saved it and nourished it with the scene around her. Fury was the only thing that would keep her standing, keep her moving and leading until the Creel were ousted from the Shield.

  Her gaze betrayed her determination though, constantly returning to the body of her sister.

  She knelt solemnly, drawn to the hathran—as if by seeing every detail, perhaps she could keep it from happening again; as if she could keep death at bay by spying its true nature in the wounds of the dead. Folding her hands across her lap, she bowed her head as if intoning a ritual. It was a show for the berserkers, using what they called the vyrrdi, the mystery of the wychlaren, to allay their fears.

  One of the hathran’s hands rested close her knee, a red scratch running across the wrist, a fingernail broken. The scratch traveled up the arm, growing deeper as it neared the elbow—

  “I once watched over the body of a hathran.”

  Thaena flinched, startled by Anilya’s voice. “I—I have no intention of discussing your—”

  “Not one that I had slain,” Anilya interjected and knelt just behind her. “But one that had taken me under her wing, in Rashemen.”

  “In Rashemen?” Thaena asked. “You were an ethran?”

  “Yes. Many years ago—more than I care to admit.”

  “How did—how did she die?” Thaena asked.

  “We were investigating reports of a Thayan spy near Mulsantir,” Anilya said. “We discovered him, along with others, gathering information about our defenses for the zulkirs. They were prepared for us and fought like madmen. My hathran was cut down by the arrows of Thayan assassins.”

  “I am sorry,” Thaena said and meant it.

  Anilya edged closer to Thaena’s side, looking sidelong at her through her dark mask and its darker covering of sigils. “You could say I’ve moved on since then.”

  Thaena looked back to the body. The scent of smoke lingered in Anilya’s presence, bringing to mind the bodies raised by her magic. She could trust the durthan’s hatred of the Creel, but Thaena knew she was far from trusting the durthan herself.

  “I was to be made hathran soon after that. The othlor would have sent me to the Urlingwood for the ceremony, but I refused. I wished to extract answers from the Thayan spy, make him tell us what he knew, how much he had told to his masters, and use him to strike back against Thay. And they refused me.”

  “So you left?” Thaena asked, though she expected Anilya’s answer.

  “Not right away,” the durthan replied, “but I certainly never made it to the Urlingwood. Not while I thought there was more that could have been done—could still be done—for Rashemen.”

  “Then why the durthan?”

  “Because they know the power that our land holds must be protected.”

  “The wychlaren are quite capable of—”

  “Defending? Maybe, for a time perhaps.” Anilya leaned forward, catching Thaena’s eye. “But for how long?”

  “We have done well enough so far,” Thaena answered, though in the back of her mind her reasoning felt flimsy. She broke the stare, pretending to watch the western doors for the return of Duras.

  “Defense is well and good, but our enemies still exist, still want what is not theirs.” The durthan’s voice was softer but carried a passion that Thaena could not deny. “As long as we tolerate the existence of our enemies we will see no end to useless deaths such as these.”

  Anilya pulled from her belt a small smooth stone and laid it upon the lap of the hathran, whispering quiet words before rising to her feet.

  “Imagine this chamber as the whole of Rashemen, Thaena. Should we defend this meager hall alone and leave all else to barbarians and outsiders? Or do we venture forth and make war before war comes to claim us?” She turned to leave and added, “And what boundaries can one place on war?”

  The scent of smoke remained in the air for several breaths after Anilya had gone.

  Thaena pondered the durthan’s words. Looking again at the hathran, broken and lifeless, all spark of the power she’d possessed gone, Thaena found anger much easier to accept. Of course they would track down the monsters that did this, lay down their bodies alongside the dead they had taken, but she wondered how long before the next attack, the next incursion on wychlaren territory.

  She imagined her own body lying on a cold stone floor, being watched over by an ethran, and wondered what she would say to that young girl if she had power to say anything. Leaning closer to the hathran, she studied the stone Anilya had left with the body. Smooth and oval, colored with flashes of silver and streaks of green, it was beautiful and hauntingly familiar. Her eyes widened as she realized where she had seen such a stone—lying on a shelf beside her mother’s bed. It had been a gift from a passing hathran.

  Where she had been raised such stones, taken from the depths of the River Ashan, were considered precious. The bearer was said to be guarded by Rashemen and those to whom the stone was given were afforded peace among the land’s wilds and waters. She glanced toward the durthan, moved by the unexpected gift from an enemy—a former ethran—and saw her in a very different light.

  Reaching out to touch the stone’s smooth surface and relive the faint memory of listening to her mother sing while cooking, she was startled to hear labored breathing next to her ear. She drew her hand back, flinching, and looked around. No one was there. The hathran lay as still and silent as before. A chill crawled up her spine as a whispering floated through the chamber.

  The shadows near the ceiling seemed deeper and blacker as she scanned the chamber. The whispering quieted and the breathing faded away, but she could not shake the feeling of being watched. She stood and took one last lingering gaze upon her fallen sister, allowing the image to feed her resolve in solving this mystery.

  The Creel were not known for stealth or subtlety, but something very sudden had to have occurred to overcome so many at once. Wards guarded those areas of the Shield in use by the Rashemi, guarded them against the broken spirits that might have committed such a massacre. If those wards had been compromised …

  Thaena recalled the durthan’s mention of the mysterious Nar leader, a wielder of magic that had slipped through their attempts at scrying.
>
  She looked to the walls and ceiling, seeking the source of whatever the Creel had unleashed inside the Shield. Closing her eyes, she sought the Weave around her, its presence ragged around the edges. It was very different here than in Rashemen—more cultivated, but also more chaotic, much like a Rashemi might compare the Shield to a forest. Shaking her head, she opened her eyes slowly, stone walls feeling narrower and confining, as if they would close in at any moment.

  Footsteps echoed dully from the western doors. Duras, followed by Syrolf, entered the room, his face pale and troubled. Waves of relief flooded through her, and she strode toward him as quickly as modesty would allow. He smiled weakly, appearing out of breath as she neared and embraced him. Duras was her anchor, unchanging and steadfast. She clung to his familiarity and strength.

  Though he was warm and assuring in his easy silence, she felt sudden flashes of fear for him as the faint sound of whispering returned and unseen eyes stared cold daggers into her. Her mask was no guardian against that invisible watcher, and she held on to Duras a little longer this time—a little longer than modesty would normally allow.

  chapter nine

  The darkness stretched forever, twisting and turning and destroying every hope that Bastun had of finding light. His staff felt heavy and cold, its magic subdued by the maze. The corridors grew and changed the farther he went, the walls scraping his shoulders at times and echoing his footsteps across what seemed great chasms at others. Though he felt very alone, lost in the Shield, he was crowded by the strange haunting that had found him and that refused to let him go.

  The voices of children whispered behind him. Tiny hands brushed his arms and face, passing through his robes and mask. Their touch was freezing and penetrating, bringing forth anger, fear, and memories that only confused him further. Scant information existed on the specific nature of the Shield’s spirits, and Keffrass had not dwelled on the subject. Bastun could not deny his sense of curiosity, but his sense of self-preservation came first.

  He mumbled, trying to maintain his concentration. A vremyonni sanctuary, a library, lay somewhere nearby—at least he thought so. The distance he had traveled so far would account for much more space than the maps had showed.

  Stopping, he pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to remember every turn. The rough map in his mind spun and readjusted as he attempted to regain his bearings in comparison to the location of the library. It was near. He knew he was close. He felt his robes being tugged at from behind and he pulled back, suddenly annoyed as if at a pestering child.

  “Stop!” he shouted, feeling immediately foolish at having done so.

  They did stop. The whispers hushed, the breathing faded away, and even the air felt less chilled.

  Opening his eyes, he stared blindly into the dark. His mind cleared of intrusion and he quickly worked out an idea of his direction. There was no way to be certain, but it was all he had. Almost as an afterthought he tried his staff and managed a dim glow from the steel tip. Breathing a sigh of relief he studied the walls and turned toward what he hoped was west.

  The walls were rough cut and black as coal, swallowing the edges of what little light he could manage. Taking tentative steps forward he watched and listened for the return of the spirits. After turning two corners without incident he strode more confidently, eager to escape the maze of corridors. If there were any clues to the Breath’s whereabouts, the vremyonni would have them hidden in the library.

  The artifact had been forged as a key in the defenses against the encroaching empire of Narfell, but had been deemed far too dangerous to use even in the saving of Shandaular. It was hidden away, buried and forgotten in secrets and stone. The Ilythiiri magic used in its construction had made it indestructible, so King Arkaius had sealed it away where it would be forgotten. Unfortunately for Shandaular, that secret hadn’t been kept well enough. Bastun could only hope that the Breath, like the Shield itself, had all but been forgotten by the world.

  “Murderer!”

  The voice spoke in his ear and he stopped in his tracks. His hands shook as he turned, finding nothing, just as before. The silence afterward was stifling, and he felt as though he were twelve years old again, catching a loud whisper from across a room of fellow apprentices. His stomach churned at the memory and his hands balled into fists on reflex.

  Gooseflesh rose on his arms and neck. The light of his staff flickered like a weak candle. Nearby stone scraped against stone, growling as the maze came to life again. Shaking off the grasping tendrils of his past, he turned to run—

  But found a dead end where before had been open hallway.

  Something touched his arm and his mind was again flooded by memories of guilt and anger and pointing fingers.

  “Traitor!” the voice said.

  He ran back the way he had come, but found another dead end and another. The voice whispered the words over and over again, each time stabbing into his mind. He could feel the power in the voice and tried to resist it, but it kept speaking and so he kept running. Anger filled him, welled up in his throat and pressed on his chest until he could no longer ignore the spirits’ accusations, hearing himself echoed in the hissing voices, in the empty spaces and shadows that surrounded him.

  No! Those are their words, he told himself. Not mine.

  The whispers responded, growing louder as they took shape, a child’s voice forming within the noise. “But you believe them,” it said.

  It was Bastun who had sent Ulsera to her death, he who had lost himself the night his master was murdered. For both lives he had taken some quiet measure of responsibility. Yet in his heart, where he had always searched for and expected to find grief, he had only found rage.

  “Where is your breath?” it asked.

  In a screech of metal, the axe blade sprung from his staff, shining in the dark. His mind calmed somewhat, but his arms trembled and his jaw clenched.

  “Nothing,” he muttered, standing straighter. “I owe you nothing. Now leave this place!”

  He swung and struck the wall, sending sparks showering to the floor. The voices shrieked in pain as a shadow coalesced on that wall, forming a twisted face. Long arms ending in wicked claws reached for him. The blackness howled in a decidedly unchildlike manner. Stepping back beyond its reach, he ran, now keeping track of each turn even as more of the shadows appeared along the walls.

  He ducked and swung at them with the axe, but he did not stop.

  West, he thought as he rounded another corner and stopped short, the path blocked by a young girl at the end of the hallway. The shadows retreated and the whisperers stopped.

  Older than the girl he had followed into the maze, this spirit’s eyes seemed full of a pain and wisdom far beyond her years. Her dress was little more than sackcloth, and deep wounds encircled each of her pale-skinned wrists. Motes of dust swirled through her translucent form. She stared at him blankly. Just paces away, between him and the ghost, a side passage led south—or what he assumed was south.

  Smelling dust and old parchment on the air, he took a tentative step toward the passage. The spirit inclined her head, her dark hair rippling and settling slowly to her shoulders as if underwater. Leaning forward, she lifted her right foot and the floor trembled as her weight shifted. Unnerved and unwilling to wait for her foot to fall, he ran and dived at the passage.

  The spirit child’s step landed like the stomp of an angry dragon. The stone walls shook, and dust fell as bits of the ceiling crumbled. The floor heaved, and Bastun stumbled into the hallway, the momentum carrying him tumbling and rolling into an open space.

  Falling down a short flight of stairs, he dropped his staff. Something wooden shattered beneath his weight, breaking the fall. His legs crashed against something solid and the sound of falling and ripping parchment surrounded him. Books and scrolls rested beneath his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the quaking stone settled and the dust began to clear.

  Dim light illuminated the rafters of
a high ceiling and a row of shelves to his right. The blue glow of a cloudy morning filtered in from a nearby window. He rested his head on a thick tome, blinking and coughing. Though no shadows followed him and no whispers pushed their way into his ears, he could still feel them—could still see Ulsera’s grave and Keffrass’s burned mask.

  Disentangling his leg from a fallen stack of books, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The splinters of a rotted footstool crumbled beneath his left hand and he thanked the gods. His back ached well enough from the fall without the assistance of newer furniture to crash into.

  “There is no shelter here.”

  He froze, spying the silhouette of a figure in the dimness. The voices had spoken in unison—all very young, some male and some female, shouting, weeping, and groaning. He rose to a crouch, glancing at the floor in a futile attempt to find his staff.

  “What do you want?” he asked, hoping to stall for time. “Why are you here?”

  “The cold prince will find you,” they answered, “will find us all. He will freeze your blood and give Breath to the Word. He’s coming now … again … always.…”

  Watching for any movement from the speaker—or rather speakers—he raised the staff. Light burst from its steel sphere, revealing the source of the voices—

  The statue of an aged man in long robes.

  Bastun looked around, searching for any movement, any sign of the spirits.

  Several moments passed, but the voices did not return. Sweat beaded on his brow. His breath came quickly as he turned his attention to a nearby shelf. Hundreds of ancient books lay before him, most looking ready to fall apart at the slightest breeze. Ignoring the thumping in his ears and the anxious dread that prowled in the back of his mind, Bastun began to scan the spines.

  The ones he sought would be more enduring, as the protected texts of wizards usually were.

  Fear led him from shelf to shelf, book to book, searching for anything that might lead him to the Breath. There was no way to know how long the haunting might leave him in peace. Over and over the spirits’ last words marched in his mind.