The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  The shadows disappeared, retreating through the east wall as a profound silence filled the void left by the Creel’s instruments. Duras released Syrolf as all attention returned to the doors and whatever lay outside. A chilling presence passed through the chamber and clung to all it touched.

  Anilya stepped out of the shadows where she had waited out the possessions. With a word she melted the ice encrusting a small window near the doors and stared out upon the west wall. Thaena stepped toward the durthan and then stopped, glancing back at Bastun. Her eyes darted between Syrolf and Duras as if choosing.

  “Syrolf, come with me,” she said, and the warrior reluctantly complied. Though he was no longer manipulated by ghosts, they truly had only exacerbated what he already carried within him. Bastun understood the sentiment and regretted not a word he had said either. Thaena nodded at Bastun and added, “Watch him closely, Duras.”

  The vremyonni shook his head as the big warrior watched after the pair a moment before turning away. Bastun sat against the wall and rested the staff across his legs. Despite everything that had happened, he felt a bit more the exile that he sought to be, closer to freedom of one sort or another. Duras kneeled close by, staring at his bare face in silence for several breaths.

  “Bastun,” he said, his voice low and hesitant, “I don’t know what’s out there or what might happen before morning. But we were friends once, and I feel bound by honor to respect that friendship.”

  He paused, clearing his throat and coughing as if the words were stuck. Bastun’s eyes narrowed as he waited. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear what Duras had to say. Growing weary of the past and secrets, one more reminder of why he had chosen to leave Rashemen might have proved one too many.

  “There’s something you need to know, something I have to say—”

  Bastun held up a hand, cutting him off. “Keep it, Duras,” he said, staring at the floor. “I don’t need to know and you don’t have to say it.”

  “No, I must—“”

  “I’m finished with Rashemen, with the vremyonni, and with the past,” he said, coming to tenuous terms with the decision. “I may not have made any peace with it, but I’m leaving it. You should, too.”

  The big warrior’s shoulders slumped. He sighed and stood again, clearly frustrated, but respecting his friend’s wishes.

  Left in relative peace for a moment while Thaena, Syrolf, and Anilya assessed what lay outside in wait for them, Bastun closed his eyes. The images remained, though the words were garbled and slurred, the language making no more sense to him than before. It was the names that he contemplated—and the history of Shandaular’s fall as learned by vremyonni scholars.

  The history claimed that the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos, eager to complete his empire and expand to the far south, laid siege several times to Shandaular. The final time he sent Serevan Crell, his youngest son, and the attack succeeded in breaching the city walls and the defenses of the Shield. Most of the citizens escaped through the city’s portal before it was shattered.

  It had been surmised that Athumrani, Magewarden of the Shield, had accompanied the people through the portal in the king’s stead. Bastun rested his hand on the Magewarden’s journal and recalled the fear Athumrani had written about. Shandaular’s people had found themselves in the savage land of the Shaar, far to the south, and called themselves Arkaiuns in honor of their king’s sacrifice.

  All of this Bastun had little reason to doubt save for one detail—Athumrani never left the Shield.

  The Breath lay at his side, heavy against his leg. The mind that had taken him over and responded to Thaena’s questioning had identified itself as Athumrani. He had taken the Breath from hiding and fought his way through friend and foe alike to reach the Word. He had betrayed his king’s secret and left Shandaular an ice-encrusted wasteland of rubble and broken shadows. For what reason he had taken such action, Bastun could not discern. Bile rose in his throat as he imagined what could occur if he were forced to wield the weapon again, if Athumrani’s presence overcame him completely.

  He picked up his mask and returned it to his face, fearing that his thoughts were too visible, too transparent without the familiar protection. It was a crutch he was content to live with a while longer as he prepared himself to face the demons which had driven Athumrani to suicide—and the devils that laid in wait beyond the stones of the Shield.

  Punctuating his thoughts, the Creel drums began again, echoing through the night air.

  Just outside the northwest tower torches flickered in the wind, their light a stark contrast to the darkness within the open doors. Thaena watched and listened for long moments, growing anxious for the Creel or their master to reveal themselves. The drums played the rhythm of her growing expectation, but no one appeared to satisfy it.

  Tearing herself away from the window, she placed a hand on Syrolf’s shoulder, moving him from between her and Anilya. The durthan stood motionless, her sellswords separated from her by the fang, as she awaited Thaena’s attention. The ethran was of two minds concerning Anilya and Bastun and had no easy answers that she would readily employ against them. The matter was trivial but crucial, as the impending threat of time worked against them all.

  The durthan had said nothing yet of Bastun’s alleged attack upon her. With arms crossed and narrowed eyes, Thaena approached Anilya, studying her as she broke their silence.

  “He tried to kill you?” she asked, keeping her tone firm but neutral.

  “He tried, yes,” Anilya answered.

  “And do you know why?”

  “No, I do not, though I stopped questioning the murderous intentions of Rashemi upon joining the durthan,” she said. “Such age-old enemies rarely need reasons to spill each others blood.”

  “One might do well to remember that,” Syrolf grumbled over his shoulder. Thaena took a breath to admonish the warrior, but exhaled calmly instead and let the statement stand. The durthan needed some reminding that their truce was temporary and that she stood on ground claimed by the wychlaren.

  “Then you accuse the vremyonni of nothing?” Thaena asked.

  “Only of the attempt on my life, he—”

  “Threatening the life of a durthan is a trifling thing for a Rashemi to be guilty of, Anilya,” she said, interrupting the durthan. “As you said yourself, age-old enemies, correct?”

  “And what of his secrets? The words of the spirit beneath the wall?” Anilya asked quickly—a little too quickly to Thaena’s mind. “Do you suspect him of nothing, despite his knowledge of this place?”

  “What I suspect or believe has no bearing on this discussion,” Thaena said, “and I am disinclined at the moment to share counsel with a durthan.”

  “You doubt me, despite all,” Anilya said, crossing her arms and staring out the window. Tired of the durthan’s flippancy, Thaena squared her shoulders and stepped toward her. Anilya could not help but meet the ethran’s burning gaze, so near were their masks.

  “As much as I might doubt him,” she said and held the stare for a moment before continuing, “you will now join your men and await your orders. If you are displeased with my leadership, then I will fulfill your expectations of the Rashemi and our savagery. Am I clear?”

  “Quite,” Anilya said. She turned toward her sellswords with a leisurely step, far more calm than Thaena would have liked.

  “That ought to take some fire out of you,” she heard Syrolf whisper at the durthan’s back.

  Looking once more out the window, she studied what she could see of the tall northwest tower. Recalling the feel of the dagger in her hand made her fingers numb and brought a knot to her throat. Glancing at Duras, who stood watch over the vremyonni, she knew she would have killed him if the spirits had swayed her any farther. Stronger than Rashemi firewine those shadows were—and well more traitorous where her emotions were concerned.

  For the briefest of moments as she looked upon her guardian, her lover, she regretted being of the wychlaren. The necessities of leadershi
p were tearing them apart, testing them as never before. However, she knew her duty and felt she had been too soft in its application. Between Duras and Syrolf, she decided that Duras might not accept the decisions she would have to make. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps his secret was all the sin he suspected it to be. For years she’d barely been able to convince him otherwise. The child he had been still lived on in the man he’d become, ever since the day Bastun had been taken away to the Running Rocks.

  Shaking her head and focusing on the situation, she took a cleansing breath and approached Syrolf’s shoulder.

  “You have watched out for my interests well, Syrolf,” she whispered to him. “Now you must watch them more carefully. If either of our charges does anything more to make you suspect they are working against us, then …” She let the unspoken order hang on the air for a moment, noting his solemn nod of acknowledgement, then added, “Make it quick.”

  The drums outside halted and again left them all in silence.

  From across the room she caught Bastun’s eye, his mask staring at her as if hearing her words. She hoped that somehow he had.

  The doors were stiff with ice, but they creaked open much easier than they should have. There were scars in the stone already where the Creel had recently forced them open. Winter wind breezed into the chamber and engulfed the minor warmth that torches had supplied. The Ice Wolves gathered near the opening, eager to see their enemy on the wall. Thaena watched stoically and Duras stood by ready to lead the charge.

  Bastun peered over shoulders and betwixt the warriors in front of him, trying to catch a glimpse of the northwest tower. He was surrounded in the rear of the fang, along with Anilya and her sellswords. Syrolf’s ever-present scowl watched their every move, Thaena’s order likely on the forefront of his mind. Bastun mused that the warrior would rather slay a vremyonni in exile over the Creel. Killing Anilya as well would only be a benefit.

  He chided himself as the group began moving forward, knowing he might have been miles away from the Shield by now if he’d had any sense. Here he faced unceremonious execution, a duplicitous and beguiling durthan whose skills they still needed, and an unknown number of ignorant barbarians following what could prove to be just a recurring nightmare of the Shield itself. That nightmare, the prince of old Narfell, concerned him the most as he stepped out of the tower and viewed the length of wall ahead of them. Advancing into the unknown with swords drawn was practically a Rashemi tradition, but though they marched forward he feared they moved backward in time with each step.

  “This borders on suicide,” Anilya whispered at his side.

  “Really? I thought this is what you wanted,” he said.

  “I prefer subtlety and surprise, this Rashemi courage is sickening and foolhardy,” she said, looking in all directions for some sign of an ambush or trap.

  He had to agree, though he did not say so out loud.

  “Do you suppose he is really in there?” she asked, a playful tone in her voice. “Prince Serevan of Dun-Tharos, withered and half-rotten, to reclaim his lost prize?”

  “We both know he is,” he answered, glancing sidelong at her, “though whether ghost or corpse I could not say.”

  “Then how do you rate our chances?” Anilya’s eyes fairly smiled through her mask.

  For a moment he was at a loss for words, having this conversation with a woman who had tried to kill him, seduce him, and frame him all in the space of less than a day. She acted as if this were merely normal course and seemed not the least bit bothered. He realized she was, on some level, having fun.

  “I already told you I believe we’ll kill each other in the end,” he said, his gaze drifting to the north of the wall, the mist parting occasionally to afford him a view of the ruined city and the first of several concentric circles of ancient ice. “Besides, Serevan has fought this battle before … in one form or another.”

  The group ahead stopped, and Bastun heard the crunch of boots on snow from the doors of the tower. The figures that appeared, stepping into the light of torches set to either side of the door, were unmistakably Creel, but their condition was wholly unexpected.

  They were alive, a fierce stare of battle in their eyes, but their bodies seemed too pale, their gaits weaker than their muscles might imply. Dark circles hung beneath their eyes, and a slight rime of frost coated the edges of their armor and weapons.

  “What trickery—?” he heard Thaena whisper from up ahead, but he had already begun to surmise what had happened. The pale skin and frost had similarly graced those of the Ice Wolves during the battle as the bleakborn fed on their life’s warmth. These Creel seemed to have been fed upon as well, but not slain, being overly long in the presence of such a creature. Without a steady supply of warmth, a bleakborn would lay dormant until approached by the living.

  The Cold Prince, Bastun thought, recalling the words of the children in the library.

  “Well,” Anilya said, “apparently not a ghost.”

  “They followed him to the only place he would have any use for them,” he whispered. “Serevan did not drag an army in his wake. He brought a feast.”

  chapter twenty

  The strident blast of a horn sounded from between the pale blue lips of a Creel.

  The Rashemi needed no order from Thaena to charge and meet their enemy at the wall’s center. Their boots churned snow and negotiated ice expertly. Weapons sang from their sheaths and were echoed by the singing of ancient battle hymns. The Creel, despite appearances, were quick to advance, driven by their own cries and songs of steel. The first of them met in the center and the battle was joined, blood gracing snow and stone.

  Though all of the fang pushed into the fray, more Nar still came from the darkness within the northwest tower. Each of them bore the same drained appearance and fierce light of fanaticism in their eyes. Bastun summoned his axe and advanced in the rear, unconcerned about the Creel’s advantage in numbers. The wall limited the effectiveness of such a force, and the Rashemi battle rage was far more legendary than any among the tribes of Narfell.

  Thaena held back with Bastun and Anilya. She kept Syrolf close, though he shook with bloodlust, awaiting his turn in battle. They edged forward slowly, spells and sword at the ready for any Nar unlucky enough to break through the Rashemi press.

  With each step closer to the tower, Bastun felt the tugging at his gut and tried to ignore it, focusing on the mass of swinging swords and shouting warriors—images mirrored by those Athumrani’s spirit sought to force into his mind. The battle spread, the two forces twisting around one another like oil and water. The first of the Creel laid eyes upon them and snarled, his fury such that he was beyond words or oaths. Though several of his kinsmen lay dead already, he charged and Syrolf rushed forward to meet him.

  Others broke through as the fight shifted, berserkers close on their heels to protect the ethran. Thaena and Anilya summoned flames and ghostly blades, cutting down those that came too near.

  Bastun met another with his axe, locking blades and witnessing firsthand the madness in the Nar’s eyes. He kicked the man away, swinging wide with his axe and muttering arcane words. With a gesture he set the Creel’s weapon aflame, the metal heating to a deep red. Burning quickly through the leather glove, the man dropped the sword with a cry. Leaving it to hiss in the snow, he charged Bastun.

  Reversing his swing, he scored a deep wound in the Creel’s shoulder but could not slow the man. The Creel ignored the injury, reaching for Bastun’s throat. Thrown off-balance, axe knocked from his hands, he struggled against the madman’s strength. The battle rage stirred within him, and he suppressed the urge to give it voice. He had no wish to lose control, not so close to the tower of the Word with Magewarden Athumrani’s will all too ready to supplant his own.

  Pushed back against the battlements, blood streamed down the Creel’s arm, making it slick and hard to keep from his neck. Bastun punched and kicked viciously, though any effect it had on the man was fleeting and unnotic
eable. Rough hands wrapped around his throat, and it was all he could do to keep the pressure at a minimum. He pushed back, finding the man’s neck and squeezing in turn. Bent back over the wall, his vision swam as he forced air past the Creel’s grip.

  The battle blurred around them. The Creel hissed and spat, wide-eyed and bleeding. A smell of leather, sweat, and faint decay assaulted Bastun’s senses. No one would come to his aid; none would know the danger that would lie unprotected with his body. From the corner of his eye he could see the silhouette of the city behind and far below him. The cold touch of the Magewarden’s memories stirred as he sought to break free.

  Another battle from another time sounded in his mind, echoing across Shandaular in screams and the crackle of flames. Phantom fires traced buildings that no longer stood, trailed behind torches set to burn at the Nentyarch’s order. Those left behind, running to a portal, an escape that no longer existed, were mercilessly cut down by soldiers.

  His eyelids fluttered. Athumrani’s spirit grasped him with a chill he felt creeping nearer with each strangled breath. Choking, he pushed back harder, the Creel’s pale face and the tall shadow of the tower looming over him. Staring at the flickering windows above, he knew he might die alone and unnoticed, but that he would not be alone for long. He managed one last breath before letting go, his face flushed and warm as his arms fell wide. He gave in to it all just a little—just enough.

  Where is your breath?

  Exhaling, he whispered, his voice strained and hoarse, his hands grasping at threads of the Weave as he summoned the spell he needed. The Creel seemed to recognize his purpose and shook him all the harder, screaming senselessly as he tried to crush the life from the masked wizard. Bastun closed his eyes and concentrated past the burning in his lungs and the phantom flames of ruined Shandaular, past the screams of the Creel and of those long dead in the streets far below. A wispy scent of smoke curled past his nostrils as the past crept closer to claim him.