The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  Bodies. Hundreds of corpses, frozen in the armor in which they died. Some still impaled on the weapons that took their lives, others sprawled on top of one another with no apparent injury save the layers of ice that coated them. He sighed angrily, looking from one body to the next. Nar soldier and Shield defender alike shared the same lack of peace, their only grave a length of stone wall sealed by a simple door.

  “They left them here,” he whispered, and he looked sidelong at the others. Bereft of any kind of proper burial, he suspected each one of the dead still fought through the last hours of their life, had indeed seen them killing one another through the strange eyes of the Breath. Why had the wychlaren not buried them when they first explored the Shield?

  The gaze he finally found was no longer the face of an old friend, no longer the hope of anything except an escape from his own past and the homeland where it was forged. What he saw was only the mask of a wychlaren.

  Taking up his staff, lighting the way, he turned and made his way down into the makeshift graveyard. The grasping arms of the dead, illuminated by his passing, seemed to plead for release. Cautiously Duras followed, leading the others.

  There was no argument that Bastun went in first, as all expected the dead to rise at any moment and put an end to their cursed journey through the Shield.

  Thaena stood in stunned silence as the fang filed past her through the door and into the wall. The berserkers wore looks of trepidation as they descended the steps and eyed the frozen bodies. Anilya stood by while her remaining ten sellswords followed behind the Ice Wolves and then entered herself with nary a word to the ethran.

  Though she observed quietly, noting their passing, Thaena did not move for several moments. Their torches bobbed and swayed through the darkness, revealing ever more of the horrors her sisters had, for some reason, chosen to leave sealed away inside the wall. They had no doubt debated the subject since setting the Shield as an outpost. Rivalries among her superiors had obviously delayed any proposed action.

  She walked among those long dead, glancing upon frozen faces, and felt the shame of her sisterhood laid upon her shoulders. Anger quickly followed shame, that she should endure the accusing stare of Bastun for the indiscretions of a handful of hathrans. Likely the bodies required more than simple burial or burning—or perhaps the spirits of the city were considered the greater threat. The Shield’s ghosts had been pacified for several years while the streets of Shandaular flooded with the souls of restless dead. She found reasoning enough for her sisters in the magnitude of the scene, but could not escape the accusing eyes of the vremyonni. Bastun had looked upon her with a secret in his stare, something far beyond the knowledge of unburied soldiers in the depths of an old castle wall.

  With a whispered word she amplified her sight. She searched for traces of the Weave, hidden or dormant magic, spells of necromancy or dark sorcery. No specific dweomer of any sort presented itself, though a strange aura permeated everything she saw. It throbbed and glowed with a dull light that she found unnerving. The effect appeared to be a constant throughout the Shield, like the background residue of some ancient working that refused to fade away.

  Ahead of her, past the flickering torches of the fang, one light remained steady and strong. Bastun strode confidently among the bodies, pausing occasionally to study some insignia or ancient blade. Duras followed in the vremyonni’s footsteps, and she regretted the silence that had grown between them. Her guardian seemed determined to trust in Bastun for reasons she felt were more self-serving than mere loyalty to old friendship. The secret Duras had kept for so long threatened to blind him, and Thaena worried that she might lose him if he did not unburden himself soon.

  She slowed, allowing the nearest torch to leave her behind several strides.

  “This is no time for confessions,” she whispered and turned in a slow circle, searching the bodies, observing their faces and states of death. “Bastun’s secret is what matters now.”

  “I agree.”

  She spun and raised her hands, a spell rising to her lips before noting the dark mask of the durthan appearing through the shadows. Lowering her hands, though keeping the spell in mind, she was astonished by the durthan’s stealth. Magic could keep one hidden in darkness and hide the sound of one’s footsteps, but Thaena would have seen such tricks like a beacon against the Shield’s muted aura.

  “And what do you intend to do?” Thaena asked.

  “I presume the same as you,” Anilya replied and walked past her toward the body of an older man leaning against the wall. The ice had kept the man in relatively good condition. The durthan knelt close, studying the soldier’s well-made armor and the area around his throat. “To discover what happened here—what might happen again if the vremyonni truly has turned against his homeland.”

  Thaena approached the corpse and looked it over. Anilya had chosen well. With his fine armor, the man appeared an officer of some sort and was among the many physically uninjured. Details of Shandaular’s destruction were sketchy at best, and deeper secrets were known only to the hathrans and vremyonni. She needed to know at least some of what Bastun knew about the Shield, though she dreaded the method of gleaning that information.

  “He will do,” Thaena said softly and knelt beside the durthan. Looking back toward the fang she added, “Wait a moment longer. They already believe this place to be smordanya. There is no reason to feed their superstition with this.”

  “As you wish,” Anilya said, “but it does not change the fact that they may be correct.”

  They sat in silence as the glow of torches drew farther away, leaving them in darkness. Thaena heard the durthan’s robes rustling, and she reached out, touching Anilya’s arm.

  “No,” she said. “I will do this.”

  Receiving no answer, she let her fingertips rest on the hand of the frozen soldier as she whispered the incantation that would give voice to his remains. Time disappeared as she carefully intoned the ritual which was, to the wychlaren, a sacred magic that she felt obliged to cast herself. Her eyes widened in the dark as she chanted, feeling the last words slip past her lips with a quiet shudder. The hand she touched flinched.

  Drawing back, she stared into the place where the body’s face would be, and she shivered as two points of light appeared in its eyes. There was no spirit or soul summoned by the casting, only a reflection of who this soldier was and what he knew. A wheezing breath scratched its way out of a long-unused throat.

  “Who disturbs this one?” the voice said in a hoarse whisper.

  “We do,” Thaena answered, though she was taken aback by a question from a corpse that should have little sense of itself. “There are questions that demand answers.”

  “I pray this one’s answers please you, and quickly.”

  Thaena felt a shiver run down her spine and was thankful for the darkness that blinded her from all but the bright eyes that stared into nothing.

  “For what reason did you come to the Shield?” she asked, deciding to begin simply.

  “By order of the prince we came, through burning Shandaular and fallen portal, to capture the Shield and keep it whole.”

  “Of what value is the Shield without city and portal?”

  “We do not know,” it replied, then paused, its wheezing breath tortured and deep. “This one does not question orders. Though there are rumors …”

  “Tell us,” she commanded, eager to have her answers and end the spell.

  “Secret eyes, a traitor to his king, lead us to a hidden place, a powerful secret—some call it the Word and the Breath. Ambition our prince has for his father’s throne. A new master the prince seeks. Our priests speak of it in hushed voices, but we hear”—the scratchy breath quickened as if fearful, the bright eyes rolled in their sockets—“the kiss of Levistus.”

  “You fear this? What is the Word and the Breath?”

  “Let it be! Let it be!” he exclaimed, “We saw … watched as children marched … sons and daughters of nobles … took
the gates in screaming shadows. They burned and bore madness … forged the path for our army. We know the sorcery that awaits those who displease our prince. Let it be.…”

  “How did you die here?” Anilya asked, and Thaena resisted the compulsion to hush the durthan. Direct questions as to a spirit’s death could disturb the spell, draw forth nonsensical answers or pained ravings, but she too wished to hear his answer.

  “Only white … waves of cold and tearing magic … unhallowed beasts and heavy night. Dead, we lay in the quiet … listening as the hound came … feasting upon one then the other … howling and baying. No peace. Trapped until sundown … rooted in stone by cursed magic. We still fight for our prince … over and over.…”

  “Serevan Crell? He is your prince?” she asked, but the voice kept on, lost in its own unending death.

  “Shadows of the children … still playing in the walls.…”

  Bastun’s spirits, she thought, and looked around as if she felt the shadows even now crawling near to twist her emotions into fury again.

  “They torment us … boil our cold blood in battle … until our prince returns … to find his Breath.”

  “He is raving,” Anilya whispered. “There’s nothing here for us.”

  Thaena ignored the durthan, piecing together the fragmented narrative with what Bastun had already told her about Serevan Crell. The vremyonni’s knowledge of the Shield seemed accurate, which made his omission of the Breath and the Word more suspect than she was content to leave be. The spirit’s voice continued to mutter and ramble as she determined what should be done.

  “End it!” said Anilya. “He cannot—”

  The sound of cracking ice in the distance cut off the durthan.

  Thaena’s eyes widened, looking ahead, searching the dark for some disturbance. She was rewarded by the sound of a faint whimper, like a pained dog. Unseen claws scratched at stone in that black distance between she and her fang. Standing, she made to end her spell when the body’s voice stopped her cold.

  “Ghosts of wild warriors and strange peoples … witches in masks … asking questions … now you.” The bright eyes faded away after its cryptic rant was finished. She struggled to recall a spell of light even as a low, thundering growl echoed through the tall corridor of the Shield’s wall.

  chapter eighteen

  The fang set to work freeing the doors at the end of the hall, pulling stiff bodies away from one another. More torches were lit and laid by the side to loosen the ice.

  Looking high into the shadows overhead, Bastun imagined the battles fought above and below the wall, resisting the urge to caress the cold metal of the Breath and bear witness to the ghosts still fighting.

  Still fighting, he thought, because of ill-conceived magic in the past and wychlaren neglect in the present.

  The length of wall they toiled beneath was once known as the Bridge of Wakes, where the wizard rulers of Shandaular were carried upon their passing to the northwest tower. All but the last were cremated at the tower’s top, Arkaius’s remains being utterly destroyed in his sacrificial attempt to seal the portal in the heart of the city. Troubled by the thought, he recalled there were no solid records regarding the fate of Athumrani.

  “See something?” Duras asked and followed Bastun’s gaze up into the darkness.

  “No, just remembering my studies,” he replied, and returned to watching the progress at the doors. Duras looked away as well, turning back to stare into the dark behind them with a concerned expression. “We’re close now. The tower beyond should be well enough intact if memory serves, and the northwest tower has been—”

  “Thaena still hasn’t caught up,” Duras said, then added, “and the durthan is with her.”

  Bastun sympathized with his friend’s worry, but he could find little fear for the ethran.

  “You love her,” he said solemnly, the words slipping out.

  “I am—” Duras began, then paused, sighing in the awkward silence that followed before continuing, “I am her guardian.”

  The answer stung, it tore at Bastun’s insides like nothing else had, but it was what he’d needed to hear. The weight of lost time on his shoulders lessened, though it settled in more comfortably—more permanently. Neither of the pair spoke, listening to the cadence of axes and swords on ice and wood. It was as if something had broken, a divergence between what was and what should have been.

  “Perhaps I should go back for her,” Duras said at length, hand resting on the hilt of his long sword.

  “She’ll be fine. Thaena can—” Bastun stopped, noticing the quick glances of several among the fang. They looked at him and at Duras, then to Syrolf, who shook his head derisively at the pair. The wedge that was being driven between Duras and his warriors was becoming painfully apparent. Their leader’s loyalty to an old friend threatened to make a bad situation worse, and Bastun rethought his words. “I think you should do as she does, Duras. Do as you damn well please, ignore common sense, and leave me out of it.”

  The coldness in his voice was heard by all, being more for the fang’s benefit than that of Duras. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the change in the air as Duras regarded him with sudden shock and anger. Syrolf squared his shoulders and glowered at the vremyonni.

  “Watch your tongue, exile,” he said. He looked as if he were about to say something else when Bastun whipped around, ignoring him as a deep and ominous sound echoed through the hall. The mask carried the noise to his ears alone at first, but soon that sorcery was no longer needed. Something big voiced its displeasure in a disjointed growl that seemed constructed of several dozen beastly throats singing as one.

  “Syrolf! With me!” Duras’s sword leaped into his hand as he swiftly took command. He pointed at the berserkers. “Keep at that door! Do not stop until we return!”

  Syrolf clapped two of the fang on the shoulders, and they fell in behind him. Two of the sellswords also followed as Bastun stood and followed Duras’s long-legged run through the maze of bodies. The Rashemi and the sellswords alike stared after them a moment, then redoubled their efforts at freeing the doors.

  They jumped over bodies and climbed over icy hills of the fallen army. Visages frozen in horror passed beneath Bastun’s boots as he summoned his axe blade, imagining a myriad of unholy beasts rising amid the piles. A massive silhouette shifted just beyond the next pile of bodies and burst into view, a charging blur of pale flesh and bones.

  Duras cursed and dodged as the thing hurtled past. Syrolf was thrown aside like a rag doll, and Bastun fell as the shape turned and snarled. Raising his axe, he began chanting, repulsed as the beast entered the light. The wolflike head flinched at the illumination at first, then fixed on it.

  The head was as long as a man was tall and more than half as wide. Odd knots and malformed protrusions revealed a patchwork construction of various bodies and parts. Arms and elbows formed the angry brow. Fingers gripped bone along a jaw made of broken ribcages, the ribs sharpened into vicious fangs. Legs, torsos, and faces rippled and writhed through the neck, flanks, and limbs of the creature which had no body of its own save those that made up its macabre anatomy. Ice clung to its white, hairless flesh as it bared a maw of jagged yellow fangs and prowled toward him.

  A red flash of energy left Bastun’s palm and sizzled across the thing’s snout. Flames sprouted and guttered, steaming as ice melted and rotten flesh burned. As it shook away the offending fire, Bastun scrambled back to his feet, eyes scanning the area for any sign of the durthan or Thaena.

  As he summoned another spell, berserker blades hacked at the hound’s frost-rimed flanks, but to no apparent effect. It swiped and clawed, batting them away and snapping at those that got too close. Growls emanated from a collection of mouths along the beast’s neck, humanoid faces twisted in torment as the hound scattered its attackers, separating them from one another. Arcs of lightning leapt from Bastun’s fingertips, sizzling among the conjoined corpses and causing each to spasm and steam. The whole of the monster
shuddered, and it wobbled on its legs, but only for a moment as it pinned a screaming sellsword beneath a heavy paw.

  The other sellsword, a vicious dark-skinned easterner wielding twin axes, hacked at the beast’s snout, and it reared back. Bastun circled, chanting softly and still searching for sign of Anilya or Thaena. A female voice rang out from behind and he turned, energy crackling at his fingertips as Thaena appeared atop a pile of corpses and ice. He ceased his spell as a brilliant white light shot from her staff and pierced the hound with a blazing heat.

  It howled in pain from a score of hideous throats, trembling as the searing hole in its side grew and blackened to ash. The myriad of its tortured faces moaned in unison as they twisted to get a view of the ethran. Legs slipping on the icy stone, it thrashed, an aimless paw crushing the fallen sellsword as it snapped at the easterner. The man was taken screaming into the air. Razor-sharp rib-fangs pierced through armor and furs, gnashing in an awkward imitation of feeding.

  Horrified by the spectacle, Bastun stopped as the screams ceased and the body slid down the throat. Bits of armor, chewed and slashed, fell from in between clasped arms and broken legs. Fur cloak and boots sloughed away as well, discarded as the new body took its place in the mass. In moments the gaping wound in its side had shrunk. The wolflike head rose, focused on Thaena.

  Duras rushed forward, placing himself in the hound’s path. Bastun stepped back a pace, magic sliding down his arms as the beast crouched to pounce. Then his world dissolved into white wind and ice.

  He could hear the clash of steel on bone, the thunderous crash of the creature landing atop ancient bodies, and the chanting voice of Thaena. He fell to his side, thrown across the floor, tumbling against the dead. Chill caressed his skin for the briefest of moments before heat began surging through him. The fever burned like fire in his blood. Snow and ice melted, his long braids were matted to his head and draped across his mask, steaming as he pushed himself up. Heat churned in his gut like a pit of coals, and he cried out, turning with murderous intent to find Anilya.