The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  An impact shook them both, and the hands around his throat loosened. Opening his eyes, he met the shocked expression of the Creel. Inhaling again, renewed strength flowed through his arms and he brought them together, clapping the sides of the man’s skull with as much force as he could muster. The man shuddered at the blow, his arms went limp and he stumbled backward. Bastun pushed away from the battlements, skin flushed and tingling as air filled his lungs.

  A quick punch sent the Creel spinning, revealing the axe buried in his back. Bastun kicked the blade deeper, holding his would-be killer face down in the reddening snow.

  The old anger churned in Bastun’s stomach, though he kept it in control. Reaching out he gestured to the axe, his spell shaking the weapon free and bringing it to his awaiting hand. Though Athumrani still held sway in his mind, he managed to keep the spirit’s influence in check. The Breath seemed to squirm at his side, and he resisted its pull even as he eyed more of the Creel approaching.

  Wading into the fray, he became a whirling dervish of dark robes and flashing axe. Though only Creel faced him and fell before his blade, he could feel the cobwebs of the older battle playing around him. Warm blood hissed on the snow and stained his mask as the cold, misty spray of ephemeral wounds splashed across his skin from the ghosts of Nar soldiers. Walking a tightrope between the Weave and wild emotion, he kept his senses sharp.

  Cutting down another of the Nar, he noted the growing number of them fallen around the wall. Less than a dozen of the fang lay wounded or dying despite the Creel ferocity. Pulling his axe free and kicking the body to the ground, he backed away from the quieting battle. Duras put another down, as did Syrolf, both warriors suffering only superficial injuries. Once down the Creel hardly struggled. Wounds that slowly bled were allowed to bleed. Swords and axes that might have been wielded, even while injured, were left untouched.

  “This has been too easy,” he muttered and strained to hear voices speaking that even his mask had difficulty detecting. Fearing that Athumrani’s memories were taking him again, he sighed in relief as he identified the Common language drifting from within the darkness of the tower. The faint whispering held a solemn rhythm, like a prayer or ritual. He made out the words “fallen brothers” as Duras faced down the last of the Creel. The rest of the fang allowed their leader the kill, forming a semicircle and finishing off those that still groaned. Two quick strokes, one ringing with steel, the other muffled by armor and flesh, finished the battle as Bastun heard the whisperer simply utter “sacrifice.”

  The parting warriors, breath steaming in the evening air, made way for their ethran. Thaena strode among the fallen, leading her men to the tower. Bastun edged forward, hearing nothing more of the scratchy whisper and peering into the thick shadow of the open doors.

  Fleeting and brief, he saw the face and shoulders of a withered old man moving within the dark. Heavy robes enshrouded the figure. The old man disappeared, but a second presence took his place. Night’s chill intensified, though the wind had actually calmed. Thaena’s steady stride slowed as a white web of frost crawled across the iron-braced open doors. The wave of ice spread and grew thicker—as did the air in Bastun’s lungs. Guttering torches were reduced to nothing more than wind-tossed embers and dwindling smoke.

  The second face that appeared from the darkness was youthful and sharp. Pale skin bearing a faint flush of warmth graced the handsome, cruel visage. With noble features and a regal bearing he strolled from the tower. His eyes seemed formed of solid ice, bright blue and staring down the length of the wall as if waiting for something. Bastun shivered, not from the cold, but something stirred within him at the sight of the man. He knew that this would be no imposter, no Creel masquerading in the guise of an ancient prince of Narfell. This was Serevan Crell, last son of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos and the destroyer of Shandaular.

  Bastun felt himself being pulled forward, and this time he did not resist. Whereas Thaena had backed away nervously, Bastun advanced and called spells to mind. The complacent Serevan leaned over the battlements, staring out across the city as if surveying the ancient siege. The sigil of the Nentyarch, faded and torn, twisted and turned in a breeze on Serevan’s cloak. The prince paid no mind to the ethran or the warriors arrayed behind her.

  Bastun’s approach felt weighted down, as if time itself were freezing. The compulsion to attack seemed an agreement between himself and the spirit of the Magewarden. The Breath calmed its nervous squirming at his side with each sluggish step.

  The phantoms’ battle of the past had also slowed to a standstill, save that Serevan’s men were left standing and the Shield’s defenders had been killed to a man. Those ghostly soldiers turned their heads lethargically as Bastun moved toward them. No swords were raised nor violence threatened. They parted to let him through, though he had no intention of playing the Magewarden’s traitorous role in the city’s curse. As the first syllable of a spell crossed his lips, Serevan turned to face him, the first indication that he was aware of anyone on the wall.

  The lips of the prince moved, yet his voice was only a scratching whisper of sound as he stood straight and placed a hand on his blade.

  “Athumrani,” he said, his voice curling coldly in Bastun’s ears, as if his very breath could steal life and soul from a body.

  The vremyonni paused, spell lost as hatred flashed through his mind. The Magewarden swore in his head, shouting oaths of damnation upon Serevan and the empire he stood for. Bastun fought to catch his breath in the thick air, shocked by Athumrani’s reaction.

  “Not a traitor,” he whispered, incredulous and only slightly relieved. “Then why—?”

  Time returned in a rush. Bastun exhaled, heart pounding in the cumbersome cold, though Serevan was still some distance away. A weak voice chanted from within the tower. Arcane mutterings became a surge of commanding power and the darkness there writhed violently. A scent of death wafted over them as the tower’s blackness tore itself apart, becoming individual pieces that moaned and fell into a military order before the prince.

  Bastun studied the ghostly force. Though they resembled the fallen Creel, their bodies trailed away into misty nothingness below the knees. Fierce eyes of glowing white burned in faces blackened by shadows of their undead state. The ghostly visions of the past had faded, as Serevan Crell’s battle joined the present with the Creels’ grisly sacrifice of their own souls.

  Serevan turned toward the soldiers, seeing only the eager faces of his long-dead countrymen. He spoke again, the language once again familiar, the subtleties lost to time. In his mind though, Bastun understood, hearing all through the Magewarden’s memories, an enduring echo of what had come before.

  “Spare not the mage,” the prince ordered. “Bring me the Breath when he is dead.”

  Though began in a mockery of some marching order, the wraiths quickly swarmed. They took to the air and rushed the Rashemi in a cloud of misty cloaks and spectral blades.

  Tracing runes on the blade of his axe, Bastun muttered incantations for dealing with such spirits. Thaena took up the chant as the fang surged around her to meet the undead.

  She picked up a Creel hand axe, casting much the same spell as Bastun, and glanced at the warriors around her. Bastun intuited the source of her concern, knowing the fang would have little defense against the wraiths. Thaena handed the axe to Duras and summoned another spell, just as the undead met the front of the line.

  The night swallowed all sound as ghostly blades tore through steel that could not withstand their touch. The ghosts fell among the berserkers as a black rain of shadowy blots, like night’s parchment cut into grisly dolls. Occasionally a berserker blade would somehow catch at their forms, tearing them into silky shreds that faded when taken from the whole. Bright bolts of energy flew from Thaena’s fingertips, searing into those that came too near. Their twisted faces writhed and mumbled in pain, but their numbers quelled thoughts of hope or victory.

  Bastun’s axe turned the wraiths’ light forms into melting
bits of nothing, and still they came. He pushed his way forward, chill bits of insubstantial bodies falling from his blade, burning his arms with the numbing cold of a grave before fading away. Fixing his gaze on the wall ahead, he navigated the battle to reach the long-dead and oblivious prince. No more did sounds or visions of the past plague him. It seemed the Magewarden, if indeed a traitor to his king, was no ally of the invading prince.

  Men screamed and fell at all sides, retreating from the life-stealing touch of the wraiths. The warriors gathered near Thaena, encircling their ethran as she called upon the Weave. More of the fang fell back and the circle tightened. Though magic harmed the wraiths, the ethran could not match their numbers. She cried out above the maelstrom of moaning undead and screeching blades. Duras responded and signaled a retreat to the guard tower.

  Bastun ignored the summons. Serevan’s cold eyes burned ahead of him. Should the prince fall, the Shield’s strange curse might be lifted. He had no doubt that the magic forged by King Arkaius would continue its resurrection of Shandaular’s last hours, but he might afford the living a reprieve from suffering a similar fate. As he pressed on, stepping over the fallen, the wraiths seemed to sense his intention and crowded closer to block his path.

  His arms grew tired from swinging at what felt like little more than empty air. As he struggled to keep moving, Athumrani’s will surged, and the Breath pulled at his side. The sight of Serevan through the fray made the will stronger, and Bastun felt pushed through the wraiths. Their claws reached effortlessly through skin and muscle. Their blades flowed through bone leaving only pain. He fought against the Magewarden’s wild emotions, enforcing his will over the entity. His axe rose and fell, growing slower and less accurate.

  Once again death reached with rough hands for his soul, and he made a swift choice. Inhaling slowly, he reached for the spell-rage that laid but a heartbeat away when the piercing voice of Anilya rose above everything.

  Her spell unleashed a torrent of warm air across his back. Harmless and singing with magic, it was barely enough to rustle the hem of his robe, but the effect on the wraiths was instantaneous. Their incorporeal forms rippled. Their faces, straining beyond death’s grip to be known, screamed as the spell’s wind tore them apart. In moments only an echo of their pain was left hanging on the air.

  Falling forward, senses clearing, Bastun forced back the fury in his throat. Less than half the wall remained between him and the prince. Serevan turned, his face twisted in confusion. For the briefest of moments, the prince seemed as a sleepwalker, woken from his dream to a reality that he could not comprehend. He moved forward, his steps unsure as madness twisted his features. The blush of life he had taken from the Creel had begun to fade. Sharp cheekbones stood out as taut skin pulled his face slowly back into the rictus grin of unlife.

  Anilya’s voice rose again. Recognizing the spell, Bastun lurched forward, determined to reach the prince. Tiny motes of ice-blue light danced past him, striking the stone with bright sparks of energy. Where they touched, spikes of ice burst upward, forming a barrier across the wall and keeping him from his goal. Sorrow flooded through his mind as the Magewarden’s will fell apart, torn from the course of time. Bastun placed a hand on the ice, feeling the magic ring’s strange warmth flow through his fingers. The quiet curses that escaped his lips were Athumrani’s, but the desperation he felt was his own.

  Hands grabbed at his shoulders, dragging him back from the ice. He resisted at first, wondering at Athumrani’s path, what sorrow had carried the man past Serevan to the Word—and beyond. Arms weak and aching, he thought of his fallen master, wishing Keffrass were there to tell him what he should do. Together they might have done battle against and discussed the peculiar history of the Shield and its odd curse. For a moment he shared in the echo of sorrow that Athumrani had left in his heart. Overpowered by Duras, he reluctantly complied and turned back.

  “The wraiths are gone only temporarily,” Anilya said to Thaena as the pair approached. “The spell was not enough to destroy them. Get back inside the tower. When they return, I and my men will hold them off as long as we can.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Syrolf asked.

  “I should think there is little choice,” she answered, her eyes glancing between them and the icy barrier.

  “And even less time to debate the issue,” Thaena said. “Get everyone inside the guard tower.”

  Syrolf did as the ethran ordered, ushering the fang back as the durthan’s sellswords, down to only four, approached their employer. Duras went on ahead, leaving Bastun to edge along slowly and listen as the two women spoke.

  “I’ll raise another barrier when you are all inside,” Anilya said, producing a small vial of brown liquid from her belt. “It should give you a bit more time.”

  “We’ll gather the blades,” Thaena replied, staring after the fang. “I should be able to make enough of them potent against the wraiths.”

  “Provided they get past me,” Anilya said, a dangerous humor in her voice.

  “Yes,” the ethran said. “I don’t know why—”

  “Let’s not waste time, Thaena,” Anilya said. “Do not place any thought of nobility or honor in my actions. We do what we must for our own reasons.”

  Bastun looked over his shoulder at the durthan, narrowing his eyes as he turned her words over in his mind. Thaena did not reply, the moment broken as steel cracked against ice from the other side of the wall. The pair parted in silence, Thaena toward the guard tower and Anilya to her men. Serevan thrashed against the ice in front of them, his blurry shape slashing and pounding at the barrier with inhuman force.

  Anilya did not flinch, and to their credit the sellswords simply stretched weary muscles and readied their weapons. She looked back after Bastun before he finally turned away and he wondered if, despite her intentions, he had misjudged her character after all.

  The doors slammed shut behind him. Swords were laid out before the ethran, who whispered and mumbled in a trance of magic. Her voice strained as she struggled to call upon what power she could from faraway Rashemen.

  Bastun paced to the back of the chamber, lost in thought and staring at the packs and possessions of these who might not survive until morning.

  chapter twenty-one

  Tiny imperfections, lengthening and growing darker with each blow, danced just underneath the surface of the ice. Anilya watched them, wondered at the hands that swung the blade on the other side. This forgotten prince, bound in frozen flesh, had orchestrated with cruel precision each trapped spirit in the City of Weeping Ghosts. He ruled here just as his ambition had demanded—now slave to his own folly and a day long since passed. Anilya had broken his day, if only for a few short moments, had denied him his meeting with the vengeful Athumrani. Now, his purpose lost he turned his rage against the ice that kept him from replaying his fate.

  She turned around as the tower doors were shut, and she hurled the vial. The liquid splashed against the doors and the stone, seeping into each as it stained and set roots of magic. Tiny shoots appeared at first, growing at an unnatural rate, spreading into massive trunks and clinging vines. Thorns sprouted on every surface as arcane foliage engulfed the western side of the tower. She observed her work for a moment, making sure that all was in order before turning back to the barrier of ice.

  Her warriors watched her expectantly, as if waiting for some plan to be revealed. She told them nothing, unconcerned and confident that they were sufficiently drugged to maintain a semblance of morale. With a whisper, her vision rippled, changing the world that she saw. The spectral realm overlaid reality as a cobweb of images. Smoke drifted by, and she saw Shandaular illuminated by flames. Denied the prize he sought—the city’s most unique portal—the Nentyarch had ordered everything burned to the ground. It was to be a message for any who would deny him. Though he had intended a monument of ash, one traitorous son had managed a cursed ruin of ice. In the midst of such destruction, its secrets kept by ghosts, hidden by thick mists and
short memory, was left only the Shield.

  “As enduring as the magic wrought within its walls,” she muttered, remembering the quote from something she had once read. Trying to recall the exact text, her hand drifted to the satchel at her belt and found it gone. Glancing over her shoulder at the guard tower, she sighed and shook her head, “Ah yes. Time is truly our enemy now.”

  “What is the trick, lady durthan?” The warrior that spoke eyed the ice nervously as did his companions. “Are we to make a deal? A trade perhaps?”

  She looked at him, smiling despite herself.

  Not as much wine in them as I’d expected, she thought.

  “No,” she answered. “Though these Creel are dead or dying, more will come, and my sisters will not allow any incursion of the Nar close to Rashemen.”

  The warrior, a middle-aged nomad of the Cold Road, glanced between the two barriers that sealed them all upon the wall. The long-handled blade in his hand wavered as he considered their limited options.

  “Then what are we to do here?” he asked, a note of genuine confusion in his voice—the aftereffects of a steady dosage of thrallwine still hampering his wits. An edge of frustration was making its way to the surface as survival instincts overcame drug-induced bravery. “Our blades are nigh useless if those wraiths return, and your damned prince there, by your own word, isn’t likely to take to a grave anytime soon! We’re trapped on top of this wall, and your precious sword is in the hands of that wizard. So what do we do now?”

  Smiling behind the mask, she turned as if considering his question. The wall was bereft of phantoms now. Shandaular’s day was coming to yet another end. Stars flickered and winked overhead, some disappearing completely as the wraiths slowly remade themselves. A split appeared in the ice—the tip of Serevan’s blade piercing the frozen barrier.

  “Now?” she said, crossing her forearms and reaching out to the Weave with her will. It was a minor spell she cast, common house-magic for witches of the north dealing with harsh winters. The ice crackled as a spider web of imperfections spread beneath its surface, making it brittle and awaiting the prince’s next shattering blow. “Now … we must die.”