The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  Not waiting for the attack to come, Bastun bounded down the stairs, casting as he did so. The growls became a roar, a chilling gale that shook the walls. The lesser of the spirits gave chase, rushing like black water across the stone and reaching for his robes and his hair. They hissed and whined as he swung his staff at them, the illumination briefly keeping them back.

  At the bottom of the stairs he whirled, completing the spell. A sphere of searing light shot from his hand, hovering in the stairwell and burning any ghost that neared it. Searching quickly, knowing the sphere would only hold them back for so long, Bastun studied several doorways until he found the vremyonni mark. As he rushed toward it, the shadows screamed. Their smallest had disappeared, no longer leading Bastun through the Shield.

  A wooden door blocked his path, and he found it locked. Not hesitating, he summoned his axe blade in mid-chop, hacking and kicking at the door until it flew open. Another short flight of stairs led him still deeper into the citadel. The sphere of light flickered out, and a wave of darkness crashed into the wall. At its center, chains reached and pulled, propelling the spirits toward him.

  Jumping down the stairs, he kept the glowing axe held high. Curving walls led him south to an open door. Ten strides away he started chanting, seeking a more permanent solution to the spirits. They grew closer, scratching at the walls, rattling chains and shrieking in demonic voices that no child’s throat should have possessed.

  He tossed his axe ahead of him into the chamber, gripped the doorframe with both hands, and shouted the last of his spell. Glowing energy flashed and spread outward, tracing the walls and floors in an ever-widening circle. The chains disappeared, the shadows faded away, and furious voices became the quiet weeping of scolded children before they silenced altogether. This last caused him a pang of sudden guilt, imagining the pained face of the little girl among their number.

  He waited, searching the stairwell, but they were gone. Staring a moment into that darkness, he wondered at his concern for the long-dead and helplessly mad children. Resigning himself to his task he knelt to retrieve the axe-staff.

  Raising the axe’s light high, he found himself in a round chamber, eight large doors lining the walls. Carved into the floor and each door was the arch-within-shield standard of Shandaular. The nearest of those doors stood open, and he could see spears leaning against the walls, arrowheads scattered on the floor.

  “An armory,” he whispered.

  Searching the room, he spied the vremyonni rune softly glowing above the fourth door on his left. Approaching cautiously, he studied the floor for footprints in the dust. Nothing—but such things could be obscured by those with the knowledge or magic to do so. He knelt to examine the marked door’s lock and curved handle. No markings lay upon either, nor corrosion for that matter—an addition made by the vremyonni. The lock appeared simple and almost ornamental, though the fact that it seemed unengaged gave him a jolt of fear. Bashing it in like a berserker was practical, but patience and spells might have told him much more. Reaching for the handle he took a deep breath.

  As his fingertips brushed the door a spark of heat caused him to flinch. A moment later the door exploded in a flash of white. Stumbling backward, tiny particles of ice scoured his mask and stung his eyes, blinding him. Wind, snow, and ice blasted the area around the door, but his entire body felt awash in flames.

  When it finally ceased he eased his eyes open carefully. The floor around him was covered in white from the blast, but not a single flake of errant snow was left on his robes. Mystified, he brushed at his sleeves, a slight dampness becoming a steamy mist, drying as he watched. The Ilythiiri-runed ring upon his finger caught the light of his axe, and he eyed it curiously—protection against the Shield’s ice traps?

  A creaking sound drew his attention to the door, now opened just a crack. He wasted no more time on his miraculous lack of injury and entered the dark room beyond. Bronze and iron reflected his light. Swords, axes, spears, daggers, and shields hung on every surface and covered the floor. Many were bejeweled and carved with silver runes, some made of precious metals. He ignored them, bait left simply to misdirect those foolhardy enough to hunt for treasure. The real treasure, if he was not too late and the scrolls were to be believed, lay elsewhere.

  A tiny mark in the center of the room, the vremyonni symbol, summoned him forward and down to his knees. The floor stone was small and cut like every other, save for the mark only those of his order could see. Keffrass had described the Breath to him, and he had marveled at the tale. Still he wondered at the path that had led him here, to the place his master had always spoken of in fear and awe.

  Reaching down, he wedged his fingers around the edges of the stone and lifted it carefully up. He set it to the side. Placing his hand inside the hollow beneath he felt the leather-wrapped handle of what he had sought and pulled it free.

  Covered in dirt, the wavy blade bore intricate symbols and crude markings. Holding it in both hands he inspected the sword with a mage’s eye. Sharp to the touch, it was nothing like the weapons that surrounded him. Forged by wizards and enchanted by King Arkaius of Shandaular himself, the Breath was the key to the Shield’s most powerful weapon—the Word, a weapon that had marked the end of the city.

  To Bastun’s knowledge, Keffrass had been the last person to lay hands upon the sword before the wychlaren had laid claim to the Shield as their outpost. He had always meant to return, to study the altered runes of the Ilythiiri and try to dismantle them, but his responsibilities in the Running Rocks prohibited it. In the meantime, the Breath remained hidden, buried, and spoken of only to the othlor and those hathran deemed worthy. And Bastun.

  Bastun’s knowledge of the Shield’s secrets had been his greatest treasure for many years, a gift from an old man who had seen something in him that no one else ever had—potential.

  Holding onto the Breath for a few moments longer, satisfied of its safety, he dipped the point of the sword back into the hole. With the blade halfway in he felt the floor shake, and the walls shook. Eyes wide, he froze and listened. Dust fell from the ceiling, and he could hear the edges of tiny cracks popping as they grew in the stone. Alarmed, he turned around, raising his staff.

  A thin cloud of dust filled the outer chamber, and a crash from above sent more spilling from the ceiling. He stood, the Breath in one hand, his axe-staff in the other, as the sound faded to faint and distant rumblings. In the brief silence that followed, a second sound reached his ears—the scuff of a boot on loose gravel.

  A silhouette appeared outside the room. Bright eyes regarded him through the fog of dust, and he could make out the sound of a slow, measured breath—the breathing of a thief on the prowl or an assassin before a kill.

  “Ohriman,” he said, his earlier relief fading in the face of reality. He felt foolish for indulging his fears—and even more so for believing, however briefly, that he had been alone save for ghosts and memories.

  “Vremyonni,” the tiefling replied. He stepped into the light, a thin blade held at his side.

  “How did you follow me?” Bastun asked, stalling for enough time to prepare a defensive spell. Ohriman seemed in no hurry, though his cat-like eyes did wander to the ceiling more than once. “The haunting in this place is quite formidable.”

  “Yes, the ghosts,” Ohriman said, standing his ground in the center of the room. He appeared casual save for the sword. “Terrible little fiends, aren’t they?”

  The walls shook yet again. This impact felt closer. Larger chunks of the ceiling fell, and stones the size of walnuts bounced in the dust. Bastun didn’t answer, raising his staff as he lowered the Breath to his side. He took one long, cleansing breath, preparing himself for the next few moments. Ohriman raised an eyebrow and smiled as he surveyed the growing cracks above them.

  “Well, no matter to me. Your witches have a knack for keeping little beasties like that quiet and out of the way. I like having them around, long as they’re paying me no attention.” He held out a hand. The
glove upon it was of a black cloth and held a barely perceptible nimbus of shadow. “Now, I suppose I can guess your answer, but considering the reputation you have among your friends upstairs, I’ll ask anyway—”

  “I will not give you the Breath,” Bastun said.

  Ohriman nodded, smirking as he did so. “Have your own game to play?” he said, eyes narrowing. “I can respect that.”

  The tiefling lunged, his blade lightning-quick. Bastun parried the strike with his axe blade and swung the Breath in a wide arc. Ohriman skipped backward, spreading his arms and smiling as he gave the vremyonni space to join him in the central chamber.

  Accepting the pause, Bastun stepped out from the weapons room, quickly surveying the tenuous integrity of the ceiling and detecting movement to his right. A deep darkness leaked into the room, crawling at the edge of his light. As soon as the Breath crossed the threshold, the returning spirits whined and growled. He ignored them and circled the tiefling. Ohriman snarled and came again.

  They traded quick blows, and Bastun struggled to match the tiefling’s speed. He didn’t dare drop the Breath to free a hand for spellwork, so he was limited to what lay within the axe-staff. Calling upon the power he had, he managed to trap Ohriman’s sword in the curve of his axe. Bright blue-white sparks leaped from the weapon, singeing the tiefling’s hand, and Bastun slashed the Breath at Ohriman’s legs. He cursed as Ohriman jumped nimbly out of the way, freeing his blade.

  Though the shocking spell had done little damage, he pressed the slight advantage, bringing his axe to bear again. As another thunderous impact shook the room, Ohriman kicked the flat of the axe away and tumbled backward, dodging a large chunk of stone. Dust, rocks, and ice showered from the newly made fissure.

  The tiefling rolled into a crouch, licking the back of his singed hand with an obscenely long tongue. Steam rose around his lips and he smiled.

  Bastun circled around the cloud of dust, considering his options. The exit was several strides away, but he had no way of knowing how much damage had been wrought to the tower. As if mirroring his thoughts, the spirits drew closer, circling the pair, though their shining eyes remained fixed on the Breath.

  “Walls falling down, little ghosts sneaking up from behind.” Ohriman smirked and stood, his head low as he moved forward. “You’ve got more skill with a blade than I gave you credit for, wizard. But you can’t hold out for much longer.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Bastun said. He regarded the Breath and the cloud of dust flowing around his feet, then resumed his battle stance. “Then again, perhaps I can hold out just long enough.”

  Ohriman charged, blocking Bastun’s axe to the side and aiming his attacks at the vremyonni’s sword arm. Fresh pain lanced Bastun’s forearm as a strike pierced through his defense. He fell back, maintaining focus, but hard pressed by the tiefling’s furious assault. Close to the wall he turned his axe toward Ohriman, keeping the Breath behind him. Shadows on the wall peeled away as the ancient blade neared them, the ghosts screeching to escape its presence.

  An ominous crash resounded from above. Bastun compromised his own defense, yelling as he thrust his axe at Ohriman’s chest. The tiefling’s sword sliced into his shoulder, just under the leather guard beneath his robes. Bastun ignored the wound and rolled to the side. A massive stone block broke away from the ceiling and smashed into the place where Bastun had stood. The sound was deafening, the dust blinding, and he fell on his injured shoulder. Pushing himself up, he had only gotten to one knee before Ohriman kicked him in the back.

  Down again, he choked on dust, fighting for air. A boot crushed his wrist. Shadows screamed in his ear as the Breath was pried from his fingers. Growling, he rolled and swung his axe, but the nimble Ohriman easily leaped out of the way, the Breath in his possession.

  Amidst crumbling walls and howling spirits, Bastun got to his knees, shaking with fear and pain. More of the ceiling crumbled as Ohriman dodged left and right, making his way to the only exit.

  Where is your breath?

  His master’s lesson took on a more ominous meaning as he raised his hands and began casting. The magic came quickly, calming his nerves as he resolved himself to what must be done. His hand shot out, emerald energy gathering as he aimed for the ceiling above the doorway.

  A thin green line of light shot from his fingertips, cutting through the stone and destroying any support it had left. Bits of debris fell first, giving the tiefling pause before the ceiling disintegrated and caved in. Ohriman fell back as rock and dust covered the path, sealing them inside. He turned around, madness in his eyes at the realization that they were trapped, then spied the open door behind Bastun.

  Bastun followed the desperate logic: the smaller room might provide some protection from the collapsing ceiling of the armory. He didn’t pause in his casting to consider that safety just yet. The Weave flowed around him as he took up his axe and stood before the small room. One way or another, the Breath would remain buried.

  Ohriman charged, intent on bowling him over, but Bastun’s spell finished first. Several chunks of stone floated from the floor around him, spinning and whirling. He sent the first flying toward Ohriman’s legs. The tiefling dodged, but the movement slowed his rush to safety. Before he could recover, Bastun hurled the rest all at once, his will directing their flight.

  One smashed into Ohriman’s temple, bloodying his face. The next slammed into his shoulder, spinning him, but he continued to move forward. Then one struck his chest, and another his stomach, knocking the wind from him and doubling him over. The tiefling stumbled forward, gripping his stomach and baring his teeth as he drew closer.

  The ceiling between them buckled with another impact, but Ohriman kept moving. Seeing the Breath so near again, Bastun allowed himself a brief moment of hope and gambled on an idea. Straining, he focused his spell on a heavy stone. Lifting it into the air, he sent it flying in a wide circle, slamming into Ohriman’s back. The tiefling fell just before the crack in the ceiling gave way.

  Amidst the chaos of noise, Bastun noted the loudest of the stones’ grumblings yet. The entire structure shook, and it seemed only a few scant breaths remained before they were buried. Crashing to the ground, Ohriman’s grunt of pain was lost as a shower of stones thundered into the chamber. Dislodged from the tiefling’s grip, the Breath clattered to the floor near Bastun’s feet. Scooping it up quickly, Bastun backed away as Ohriman leaped to his feet. With the last of his spell, Bastun closed the door to the weapons room and leaned against it. Hearing the latch click, he stood resolutely as Ohriman closed the distance, sword flashing barely a stride away. Bastun held his breath and reached back to brush the door handle.

  The trap sprung as quickly as before.

  Freezing cold burst around him, showering Ohriman in shards of ice and bone-chilling wind. Cuts split the tiefling’s face, and he raised his hands against the spell, dropping his sword and slipping to the ground where the magical cold formed thick ice around his legs. The mysterious fever burned across Bastun’s flesh, painful but protecting him against the ward’s icy breath.

  Pushing the door open, he ducked inside the room as the ceiling buckled with a final groan of weakening rock. Ohriman fought to free himself, frozen to the floor as the tower gave in to collapse.

  The old metal door slammed shut, and Bastun pressed himself against it, keeping as close to its frame as possible. Tons of stone thundered down in the central chamber, crashing against the door and rattling his teeth. Weapons shook from the walls, clanging to the floor. Cracks appeared to either side of him and he shoved the Breath into his belt.

  Reaching into his pouches he retrieved a pinch of sparkling dust. Whispering the spell quickly, he felt his skin harden and grow thick. A gray discoloration spread over his hands and arms, giving them the look of iron.

  The entire room shook, and he prayed to the Three as the stone above him split. Debris bounced off his shoulders and arms, the spell protecting him for now, but he hoped the magic would not have
to contend with much more.

  The back of the room collapsed in a cloud of dust and the door broke from its frame, leaning against the ruin outside. Stones and rock fell for what seemed like forever, until the light from his axe-staff was all but completely obscured. An image flashed through his mind—himself lying buried for years in rubble, clinging to the Breath as he was dug free. Screams hid behind the chaos of destruction and, thinking of the spirits, he feared he might actually witness his own exhumation.

  The rumbling faded, walls groaning as the structure adjusted to the collapse.

  Laying against the door, he stared up into a new darkness. The chamber outside was gone, the weapons room half-buried, leaving him in a small space filled with dust and rock. He listened to each creak and pop in the settling stone, waiting to be crushed at any moment. His shoulder suddenly ached, the wound remembered after the chaos.

  Afraid to move, he endured the pain a little longer, resting his aching body, and took slow breaths as the dust settled, waiting to see if the Shield would bury him as it buried all its secrets.

  chapter thirteen

  What did you do to her?”

  “What had to be done.”

  Thaena’s head hurt. Noises seemed too bright and, as she tried to open her eyes, light seemed too loud. Duras was a blur, leaning over her, holding her shoulders. She heard his voice, knew his touch. Her relief was bittersweet as she remembered where they were.

  “She’s coming around,” she heard Anilya’s voice from somewhere to her left.

  “Thaena,” Duras said, “can you hear me?”

  She coughed. Her throat was dry and aching from the cold. Duras pulled her up slowly. Her head swam, as if she were still swaying and turning in the fangs of a giant skull. He held her in a sitting position as she waited for the nausea to subside. His grip was strong, fierce, and warm.