The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  Though the Breath drove his search, their mention of the Word intensified it.

  “He’s gone.”

  Syrolf strode across the room, sidestepping Duras and Thaena as he drew his sword. Following his gaze, the ethran’s eyes narrowed as she realized her mistake. Bastun had disappeared.

  “Search the walls!” she commanded, suspecting the vremyonni’s knowledge of the Shield had allowed him to slip away through some secret passage. The fang responded instantly, though Duras stayed at her side, the expression on his face unreadable.

  “Are you surprised he left?” he asked.

  “Not entirely.”

  “He did nothing wrong, Thaena. If Syrolf had his way—”

  “He’d have killed him,” Thaena replied coldly and found herself somewhat unmoved by the fact. The look of shock on Duras’s face caused her to look away, unable to deal with his loyalty to an old friend in light of the death that surrounded them. “Bastun was selfish. He might have stayed and helped us against the Creel. He could have helped us protect Rashemen and take at least that much dignity with him into exile.”

  Stepping away from Duras, she watched the fang tear down tapestries and drag them over the bodies to better inspect the columns and walls. The tapestries, maintained by simple cantrips, depicted scenes of Shandaular’s founding and daily life. Bright colors and the woven history of a hopeful past hid faces of the dead in a grim present. Somehow the image haunted her, and a pang of fear stabbed through her heart, almost like the memory of a dream.

  “So you think Syrolf is right, that Bastun is a murderer and a traitor?” Duras said from behind her.

  Turning, she saw the confusion in his eyes. Despite his strength and ferocity in battle, there was an innocence in the big warrior that had drawn her to him. An innocence that was infuriating at times.

  “What has he done to prove Syrolf wrong?” she asked.

  “Bastun has nothing to prove. We both know that.”

  “Do we? What do we really know about Bastun? He’s been gone from both of our lives for so long, you can’t possibly know that he can be trusted now. Why do you defend him?”

  “Because no one else will,” he answered, and she could see the fire in his eyes. “The othlor would have executed him if he were guilty of the charges, but she did not! And we both know what happened to Ulsera.”

  Thaena held up her hand, silencing him as she looked around. No one seemed to be listening. Bastun’s sister had been slain in the Urlingwood, a sacred ground of the wychlaren, forbidden to anyone not of the secretive sisterhood—under pain of death. She gave him a meaningful look, pleading with her eyes for him to understand.

  “I am sorry, Duras,” she said, softening her voice. “I cannot be of two minds on this. I cannot allow the past or old friendships to affect my judgment. Not this time.”

  The fire left his eyes. Duras would uphold the law, she knew. His dedication to Rashemen ran deeper than any warrior she had ever known, but he walked a narrow path and she had joined him there. Though they hadn’t seen or heard from Bastun in years, he had been a constant presence between them, an unspoken name in their tightest embraces and, at times, an awkward silence. Duras would protect his friend, just as she had protected Duras from himself.

  “Lives are at stake,” she said, “and an exile suspected of treason has gone missing, likely of his own accord. I must lead in this.”

  Duras nodded and crossed his arms, but he would not meet her eyes.

  “Just remember, Thaena”—he gestured toward the fang—“where you lead, they will follow.”

  She heard the innocence in his voice fade. She was their ethran. What Syrolf believed, if she believed it, would become law. What the others might suspect, if she spoke aloud, they would act upon. Words—her words—could cost an innocent man his life.

  Only one question remains, she thought as Syrolf approached. Is Bastun truly innocent?

  “The exile has escaped,” Syrolf reported smugly. “There is a passage behind one of the columns that extends for some distance into darkness. Do you wish us to pursue him?”

  Thaena stared at the walls and the ceiling, imagining the size of the Shield and the myriad of places Bastun could be. She cursed him for making things far more complicated than they already were. She swore at herself as well, for believing she might be able to trust the vremyonni despite evidence to the contrary. He had betrayed what trust she had given him, and no matter his motives, she had to assume the worst—that Syrolf might be right.

  “No,” she said. “Though we will consider the vremyonni a threat until proven otherwise. For now the Nar must take precedence. What is the status of the western corridors?”

  “No sign of the invaders,” Duras answered, looking at the floor, his tone edging on anger. “The central tower seems mostly ruined, but there are stairs ascending into the north wall.”

  “My scouts reported lights flickering in the northwest tower.” Anilya strode forward casually. “I suspect our uninvited guests will be found there.”

  Thaena nodded, considering the distance involved through unwarded sections of the Shield. The hathrans used only the central-most walls and towers from which to scry and watch upon the western lands. The rest of the citadel had been observed and debated over, but no direct solutions had yet been decided upon. Though she was concerned about the Shield’s curse, as one of the wychlaren she was bound to deal with the Nar and the spirits they would disturb.

  “We will make our way there,” she said. “Guard towers along the wall may serve as safe points should we run into trouble.”

  Anilya left to prepare her men.

  “I doubt the Creel will give us much trouble,” said Syrolf.

  “No,” Thaena said. “I fear the Creel may be the least of our worries.”

  Syrolf nodded, spat in the durthan’s direction, and went to assist the others with the bodies. The fang would follow her, but they knew the rumors of the Shield and would feel the borders of hathran wards as they crossed them. Syrolf, second only to Duras, spoke for them all, their readiness to do what must be done for Rashemen. Thaena was not particularly fond of the runescarred warrior, but she saw in his arguments a troubling logic that she was loathe to accept.

  She rested her hand on Duras’s shoulder, and they shared a look of brief understanding—a truce until they might be alone. She walked into the western corridor. Wild winds whistled through tall windows on the north wall, carrying snow and a chill that felt comforting after the stifling warmth of the entrance hall. The sky outside remained a solid gray wall of thick clouds, a storm front heralding the first of many more freezing days to come.

  Leaning into the window she breathed in and enjoyed the freezing air as only a Rashemi could. Laying her hands on the stone, she lowered her head and prayed to the Three for forgiveness of her decisions and victory in battle against the Shield’s invaders. Ice and snow on the stone numbed her hands and sent an odd sensation through her forearms. Her first instinct was to pull away, but as her heart began to hammer in her chest she thought of all she had seen in the last few hours, and she pressed her hands harder against the cold.

  She spent so much time suppressing what she felt, in order to appear cold and emotionless, wise and infallible, doing it for the sake of the fang. Her mind filled with images of battle, of wielding a sword and losing herself to the bloodlust of a berserker. All this time she had spent trying to react and lead as a wychlaren suddenly seemed such a waste. The Ice Wolves were berserkers, hunters that respected strength. She should have ordered Syrolf to slit Bastun’s throat, should have executed Anilya without question. Her breathing turned ragged and throaty as she recalled missed opportunities for all the blood she should have spilled—could be spilling now if she hadn’t been so weak at the sight of one of her own dead on the floor.

  Bile welled in her throat in disgust as Duras’s words echoed in her mind. Her lover’s hypocrisy seemed boundless, defending the vremyonni, the exile that could be meeting even
now with the Creel and plotting their deaths. Duras had wanted to die before, years ago when he had confided in her. He had asked her to do it, to end his guilt, and she had stupidly refused, already in love with him. She imagined cold steel in her hands, a white-knuckled grip as she plunged the blade through Duras’s gut for his sins.

  Thaena choked at the thought, blinking and shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to pull away from the window, but something held her fast. Looking down she found thin, shadowy fingers laced through her own—long black claws of inky blackness encircling her wrists.

  She stumbled back, ripping her arms away from the window and staring wide-eyed as the ghostly hands melted into shreds of smoky mist and curled away. Rubbing feeling back into her hands she approached the window cautiously, looking farther down the hallway for any other disturbances.

  Wind howled past the window as before, snow fell thick and silent, but nothing seemed amiss. She gripped her stomach, the image of Duras spitted on a blade embedded in her mind. A knot formed in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Collecting herself and catching her breath, she looked upon the stone around her as if it were alive, watching her weakness and studying her vulnerabilities. Hearing voices near the door, she took a breath and stood up straight, meeting the eyes of Duras as he led the others. The mask saved her, hid the ordeal that might’ve shown on her face, but Duras knew her better than the others. His brow furrowed in question and she shook her head.

  Syrolf followed just behind, the fang armed and ready to meet their enemies after dealing with the dead. Bloodlust filled their eyes, and in her heart she mirrored that thirst for battle, but could not shake the fear that something in the stone walls—something long dead—was spying on them.

  The two groups gathered, barely forty strong. Anilya walked confidently toward Duras and Thaena, seemingly unaware of the troubling stares between them.

  “We are prepared?” Anilya asked.

  Before Thaena could answer, Syrolf appeared at the durthan’s shoulder. “Where is your dog, durthan?”

  “What?” Anilya turned to Syrolf.

  “Ohriman,” Duras said and stepped between Thaena and the durthan. “Where is he?”

  Thaena eyed the Rashemi and the sellswords, once again noticing the dangerous tension that had sparked between them. She raised her head and spotted tiny motes of shadow growing like bits of mold on the ceiling. They squirmed over everyone’s heads as if tasting hate on the air and feeding from it.

  “I sent my guide”—Anilya glared at Syrolf—“to examine the eastern corridors and to discover what became of your lost vremyonni. I trust you might see the wisdom in that, yes?”

  Syrolf grunted and stepped back, casting a meaningful glance at Duras before rejoining the rest of the fang. Tensions calmed somewhat. The tiny shadows shrank and crawled back into their stones. Thaena shuddered, the memory of their touch still burning in her hands.

  The ethran nodded at Duras, turned, and began their journey to the northwest tower. The others fell in step, scouts taking the lead ahead of her and Duras. Her head ached as she thought of the variables that surrounded her—threats on every side, strife that might erupt at the slightest misunderstanding, Bastun missing, and the Creel entrenched in her sisters’ outpost.

  One of the men lit a torch as they turned away from the windows and deeper into the Shield’s mysteries. Shadows danced and flickered on the walls, and Thaena swore she could hear them whispering.

  chapter ten

  The sound of pages rustling as he turned them, the smell of dust and dried leather bindings—all brought Bastun back to his time among the vremyonni. Though the books had calmed him, he was growing frustrated, and time did not seem to be on his side. Not finding what he sought, he shelved another tome and searched for another that might have withstood the test of years. Faint auras of magic drew him toward several tomes. The minor spells kept the pages from growing brittle and disintegrating.

  Pulling another book down he carefully flipped through its pages and recalled the late nights, reading alone in the caverns of the Running Rocks. Master Keffrass had encouraged him to socialize with the other apprentices, but Bastun only found the company distracting. He far more enjoyed having the great library to himself. During those years after Ulsera’s funeral, after being taken away and hidden with the other wizards, he found little use—or success—in forging relationships with others. Fortunately, Keffrass kept him in some practice in regards to conversation and social skills.

  Frustrated, Bastun shelved the book and stood back, taking in the image of the Shield’s library. Torn and yellowed pages littered the floor, dust and cobwebs hung between the shelves, and tiny cracks webbed through the stone beneath his boots. He felt transported into his own mind, a past corrupted by decisions gone awry, left alone to sort out what went wrong. Sighing, he continued the search, finding yet another shelf that caught his eye.

  Leaning at the end, small and bound by leather straps, were two worn journals. Lifting one gently and blowing away the dust on its cover, he found the imprint of a coat of arms. Much of the image was worn away, but he could make out runic writing on the edge of an ornate shield and within that the unmistakable shape of Shandaular’s portal-arch—the standard of the Shield. Carefully he unwound the cracked and dried strap and opened the book to the first page.

  The writing was faded and in a language he could not readily identify. The other book bore the same coat of arms and a similar writing style. They both had regular entries in a script that bespoke of an acute skill for conveying specific symbols and shapes. He narrowed his eyes and looked around, scanning the shelves once more before gambling on the pair. Deciding quickly, he brought them to a stone bench and laid them flat.

  Setting aside his staff, he summoned the words to one of the first spells he had learned. Speaking clearly, he intoned the magic while resting his fingertips on the first journal’s cover. There was no flash of light, no glow or any of the effects that other apprentices had clamored for when time came to gain more magic for their fledgling spellbooks. Bastun had seen the spell for what it truly was: a key to the knowledge in all the other books of the vremyonni library.

  Opening to the first page again, the writing changed as he viewed it, the language becoming his own, and he read that page with no small amount of relief:

  The Personal Writings and Musings

  of Athumrani Zukar

  Magewarden of Dun-Tharyn

  and Counsel to King Arkaius

  of Shandaular

  Picking up the journal, he sat upon the bench and began to read, turning pages gently but quickly, searching for any mention of the Breath or where it might be hidden. He knew clues were the best he might find. If the Breath had been used, what they had actually unleashed would have been clear to all. What had been intended as a weapon of defense, the stories said, was made a horrible force of destruction by the inclusion of the Ilythiiri magic they had gleaned from the portal.

  Details of daily life abounded. He found notes concerning research, news from other lands, minor shortages of resources, and trade routes becoming more dangerous. Exotic creatures and spices were brought from Shandaular’s sister city in the far south, the portal causing a remarkable mixture of cultures that drew merchants and scholars in droves. Soon though, trade from neighboring villages stopped altogether. Caravans were attacked and burned, left as warning for any who might defy the rule of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos. The world around Shandaular grew smaller and smaller as Narfell crept toward its doorstep and demanded submission.

  Though Bastun yearned to sit and read until as much dust covered him as the shelves surrounding, he pressed on, scanning quickly.

  Athumrani’s writing was precise and to the point, making Bastun’s reading all the easier. As he neared the end, he feared he had indeed wasted the valuable spell. The last few pages, however, gave him a glimpse of what he had been waiting to see. Athumrani’s script became more erratic
and hurried, the words more urgent.

  After months of waiting we have seen the results of Arkaius’s work, and while it is a marvel of ambition and talent, his creation is monstrous. His control was tenuous at best. Even he was surprised at what he unleashed. My hands shake as I write this, and the walls still seem to hum with its power. The Word was all that we had expected and more. Far more than we could—or should—ever use. The secrets of the Ilythiiri must remain forever as they are: secrets.

  The Arkaius of Bastun’s studies matched the sensibilities of the man described by Athumrani. He was by all accounts a good king with good intentions, but in the last days of Shandaular he had grown desperate as Narfell’s attacks became more determined.

  The Nar grow bolder each time they assault us. Nentyarch Thargaun has sent all of his savage sons with armies to break our defenses, but to no avail as of yet. I have evidence of spies among us. Even now, I cannot trust my own advisors. They have taken so much from us. From me. The Nentyarch has one last son to send, and the roads have been silent for nearly a tenday. I have studied the Breath and the Word to the extent of my abilities. Frost forms on the walls no matter how many torches we light or spells we cast to warm the citadel. Terrible cold haunts me every day. With time I feel I could unmake these terrible weapons, but the Ilythiiri magic is persistent, almost alive in the way it clings to even fragments of the runic patterns. I find it hard to concentrate on the greater good and the lives of the many, when it is all I can do to not think of her. I have no more time. The Breath must be hidden and the portal destroyed, though I fear it may not be enough. My despair is unending of late, and I question Arkaius’s decision to trust me with this thing he has wrought. I shall miss our Shield, as I will our king. And my daughter …”

  Several sketches followed this last entry, and Bastun tried to make sense of them, but could only identify pieces of what appeared to be an intricate map. He feared the true map was only in Athumrani’s mind, and this drawing, though possibly accurate, was only a two-dimensional representation of what could be stairs up or down here, a tower or perhaps empty space there. The most he could decide upon was direction. The rest could be a network of arcane traps and dead ends.