The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  The top of the stairs came into view, the flat expanse confusing him for a moment as he reached for the next step. He looked up and beheld the doorway, the arch carved around the opening and the hybrid magic created by King Arkaius. The weapon forged and sealed away lay open, the famed black door now ordinary iron and rust on ancient hinges. Magic alone held them together, ready to be shut again.

  He blinked and wheezed for breath. The heat of the strange ring had intensified as he neared the top of the stairs. He knew what lay beyond, and he knew its terrible purpose. The Firedawn Cycle, whether by memory or some subtle magic woven into the words, had revealed one of its secrets.

  Weary and determined, he crawled toward the doorway, fighting for each piece of ground he took. Anilya’s shadow paced within, and he looked down to the ring on his finger.

  It seemed there were indeed three artifacts, forged by a desperate king in service to his people, that had worked to seal Shandaular’s fate. The durthan had taken the Breath. She had opened the door to the Word—but he alone had found, and now held possession of, the Flame.

  chapter twenty-four

  There were places secreted among the wilds of Rashemen, where those of the wychlaren and their guardians were taken for burial. Occasionally these places were well known as sacred ground devoted to heroes or champions of the land, favored by the spirits that watched well over their rest. Other places, more secluded and visited only by the wychlaren, held those whom destiny had taken too soon. They would lie in wait for those left behind beneath the boughs of ancient trees, their graves marked only by spots of sunlight and leaves disturbed by the wind. It was the peace of such a place to which Thaena found her thoughts drifting.

  Dirt filled the lines in her palms, found its way beneath her fingernails. Dreamlike she turned them over, studying the stains of Rashemen’s soil, as Duras lay quiet and unmoving before her. The ritual had been instinctual, a simple prayer for the protection of his spirit and the soil to protect his body from the ravages of undeath. Slowly her hands reached for his, to cross them over his chest along with his sword.

  Somewhere nearby a terrible roar thundered. Unhallowed voices whispered through the air as a numbing cold drew mist and steam from the throats of the living. She blinked, her eyes dry and sore, and shook her head as she focused on her task.

  It is my task, she thought. It is what I can do for him—what I could not do before.

  She lifted his left hand. Small and pale, an old scar crossed through his palm, a sign of undying friendship between two young boys torn apart by an untimely death. The death and the funeral thereafter had lived with Duras ever since, had spilled from him years later and helped forge the bond between ethran and guardian that now ached within her breast. He had never let go, crushed by guilt of the boy he’d been—guilt she could not soothe from his haunted memory.

  “What I could not do,” she said. “Give him peace.”

  Something slid across the floor nearby. Shambling footsteps drew nearer. Blearily she looked up into the face of one of her warriors. His eyes were glazed over, mouth agape and moaning as his awkward gate forced air through his lungs with each lurching step. She blinked again and reality found a place in her thoughts.

  Calmly, she completed the ritual. She took up Duras’s sword but did not replace it in his hands. Instead she stood and took a cleansing breath. Members of the wychlaren rarely had use for long blades, preferring simple daggers, staves, or their famed whips, but many were trained in the art of swordplay.

  Her feet slid gracefully across the stone as she raised the sword against the mindless thing that had replaced the berserker. The power in her slash betrayed the calm demeanor that had overtaken her. The blade sank deep into the undead’s neck, and she kicked the weapon free, sending the dead berserker off balance.

  It slipped on a patch of frost and fell onto its back, trying to stand and make its newly disjointed shoulder support its weight. She reached into a pouch and sprinkled a pinch of sulfur over the thing as she walked by, whispering a quick incantation. Flames engulfed the thrashing body, bringing fresh light and heat into the chamber. The wraiths recoiled from the sudden illumination, giving Syrolf and those at his back a much-needed moment of distraction.

  The fire also drew the attention of the prince. Serevan Crell, half-skeletal and turning to face her with quick, snapping movements, shook off bits of ice as he freed himself of the bleakborn dormancy. He cracked his sword against the stone floor, breaking away frost encrusted on the blade. Half-formed brows knitted in confusion as he stared at her. Standing straight, he called out something she could not understand and the wraiths drew away from their battle, hovering toward him in subservience.

  The last of the walking corpses fell to Syrolf’s sword, and he stumbled to one knee. The exhaustion that followed a berserker’s fury was debilitating—and in some cases fatal. As the Rashemi warriors heaved for breath and clung to weapons, Thaena summoned another spell and listened carefully as the prince began to speak.

  “Captain,” he rasped, still staring at the ethran, “tarry no longer with these strange spirits, these tricks of the Magewarden. Secure the central tower and disable the remainder of the Shield’s defenses. Send some of your men to help mind the fires in the city.”

  One of the wraiths nodded, its face disappearing in folds of twisting cloth and dark ether, but its bright eyes focused on the risen prince. The spirits moved to obey, but paused as Serevan continued.

  “If any of my father’s wizards approaches the citadel, kill them and throw them to the flames as kindling. I will attend to matters here. Now go.”

  The wraiths drifted away, flowing past Thaena. She stared after them a moment, then watched Serevan pace in a circle, his body still not completely up to the task of mimicking the life he believed he still had. He ignored her and the berserkers as if he were alone. Finally his gaze rested upon the open doors and the northwest tower.

  “My father wishes a portal?” he said aloud, his thin lips spreading in a rictus of a grin as he took a step toward the long wall. “Then by all means I shall give him one.”

  Syrolf stood on shaking legs, supporting himself on his sword to intercept the prince. The others, though injured and weak, followed suit as best they could. Thaena watched all of it in a daze. If not for the loose-fitting armor and bony claws of the prince, she could almost believe that she was the spirit and he the living commander of an invading army. Blood flowed like a cold river of ice through her limbs. An errant breeze blew from outside, stinging her chapped and cracked lips, drying the tracks of spent tears on her cheeks.

  She looked down, absently searching for her mask. On the floor, it stared at her from beside Duras’s body. Blood smeared its face—her face, since the wychlaren had accepted her request to lead a fang on a relatively safe mission. She felt disembodied, floating from one heartbeat to the next and seeking a purpose to match the unending drive of the dead prince that had slain her lover.

  Staring at his face, a knot of guilt ate at her stomach, and warmth returned for a moment. She dropped the sword, flexing her fingers as she turned away from the body. She felt stripped to the bone, light and drifting on a nightmarish wind as arcane words escaped her. The Weave responded and set power adrift along with her, a building storm to fill the unwelcome void in her chest.

  On hands and knees Bastun crawled into the chamber of the Word, squinting through the haze of power that surrounded him. It roared in his ears, an unfelt wind rushing and turning. Every surface squirmed with Ilythiiri and Nar runes, a shimmering labyrinthine pattern that distorted all he could see. He searched for Anilya through a myriad of dark shapes, most of which seemed only mirage. He pushed farther inside, his presence causing ripples in the torrent running through his fingers and around his legs.

  The fever of the Flame only grew stronger, and he allowed it to wash over him. He accepted the pain, felt deserving of it for what he had allowed to happen—what he might still allow.

  Holes f
ormed in the walls and floor, shimmering open as if the tower were tearing itself apart. Through these he saw glimpses of Shandaular and the outside world. In some the city lay as dead and ruined as he knew it to be, full of shadows and mist. In others it still burned, an eternal pyre of suffering while Narfell’s cruel emissary sought the deadly secrets of King Arkaius. For a moment he wondered which of the two cities truly lay outside the threshold he had just crossed. He felt himself lying on the doorstep of nowhere, in between and hovering in a state of stilled potential—a superposition from which any possibility could occur.

  Movement caught his eye as one of the dark shapes drew closer. Waves of glimmering energy, nearly invisible, rolled and parted before the figure striding toward him. The mask appeared first, darkened eyes regarding him coldly as Anilya approached. She knelt close to him, tilting her head as she studied his weakened state. Blood seeped through his robes from the wound in his side, dripping to the floor and flowing within the runes upon runes beneath him.

  The time and distance between them seemed to stretch for eons, brief and enduring, near and far all at once. His every desire rose to the surface of his mind, and he found it difficult to remain focused in the strange nexus of what was still a dormant magic. He imagined his hands caressing her shoulders, drawing her close—then her face, contorted in agony as he choked the life from her. He screamed and whispered, felt unimaginable peace and exultant anger all in the space of a few moments. The Word enveloped them in its vortex of chaos. To Bastun it seemed this was the space that existed between thought and action, the heartbeat between will and the spell it summoned.

  “You mean to stop me, vremyonni?” Anilya’s voice carried throughout the chamber, echoed and reverberated into a nonsense that was drowned out by the power of the Word.

  He could not form an answer, each breath focused on penetrating the burning aura that boiled inside of him. Sweat soaked his robes and matted his hair to his neck and mask. His bleeding was getting worse with each pounding heartbeat, and his throat was so dry that a simple skin of water would seem a blessing from the gods. He simply stared at the durthan, struggling to breathe and to maintain his focus.

  “I thought not,” she said, and removed her mask. She rubbed at her eyes before returning her attention to the mazelike patterns on the floor. “Though I suspect you shall be less than helpful in unraveling the secret of this puzzle, eh?”

  Puzzle to you, he thought. Nightmare to me.

  She strolled, searching the runes for the pattern’s beginning. Tiny motes of light drifted from her fingertips and struck the floor. Bursts of energy illuminated entire sections of the engraved spellwork. More holes appeared, more ripples and tides of distortion, but little else. Within the disturbance, Bastun caught a glimpse of metal shining through the miasma. He stared at the spot, torn between thoughts of vengeance and any hope of saving those he left behind with Serevan. In the end, both were victorious as he crawled closer to the source of his dread.

  Keffrass had told him, warned him, about this moment, though he could never have known what the choice would be—or where it would be made.

  “You”—he tried to speak and coughed violently, tasting blood and morbidly thankful for the moisture it brought to his lips as he continued. “You mean to go through with this?”

  “Well, it would be an awful waste if I did not,” she said, pacing from one series of symbols to the next, narrowing her search with painstaking precision.

  He kept note of her position, a blot of wavering shadow to his right, as he pulled himself across the floor. She continued speaking and he saw her voice more than he heard it, the sound vibrating on the air around him.

  “A waste, especially, of time. Over two thousand years of secrecy and unrest. The wychlaren actually thought they could hold all of this in check.”

  Closer now to the shining flash of steel that drew him on, Bastun suspected that time had beaten him as well. He could not know how long he had truly been inside the chamber. The unstable nature of the magic King Arkaius had wrought eroded the accuracy of his senses. Steam rose from his body as he crawled, the heat further damaging his ability to think clearly. Somewhere nearby Anilya still spoke, though he could only hear the discordant aftereffects of her words, a gibberish that helped him to maintain, kept him going.

  With each gain of distance he felt time slipping through his fingers, like tiny threads being severed. He felt himself being undone, torn apart and burned alive, made ready for what was to come. There could be no regrets, no sorrow of the Magewarden, no guilt or hesitation. The thing he sought to touch understood few things about mortals and emotion, but it knew weakness and pain—and it knew hunger; it knew revenge.

  It would devour any indecision, any soft thought, and destroy Shandaular anew.

  Arcs of bright energy sped beneath him, Nar runes glowing an angry green while the more dominant Ilythiiri symbols radiated an aura of blackness. The light burned his eyes even as another swath of the pattern writhed and fell away, revealing a window on the dying city outside. Throngs of people ran through the streets, trying to escape the swords of the Nentyarch’s soldiers. Ash and flame showered the crowded masses, cut down in splashes of violence as a massive plume of curling smoke rose from where the portal had been. Arkaius had saved as many as he could and many had escaped the fate of Shandaular, but he could not save them all and his sacrifice was not suffered by him alone.

  “That is the history that will become Rashemen’s future.”

  Anilya stood a few paces away as the window faded back to stone. Bastun pushed himself up to sit on his knees. His head swam as he looked toward the durthan, his arms limp at his sides, though the bright edge of a simple pommel lay shimmering but an arm’s span away. Through half-lidded eyes he watched Anilya pace, the first signs of frustration on her face as she examined more of the patterns. The room’s vortex surrounded them at the center of the chamber.

  “Overrun by its enemies,” Anilya continued, “left to rot. Spent and useless. Created by cowardice to stand only as piles of stone, ash, and ruin.”

  She turned, waving her hands over another stretch of the floor, each step leading her closer to the center of the pattern. Bastun leaned forward, stretching to reach the handle of the sword. His fingertips brushed the pommel, and his breath was stolen as Athumrani’s spirit grasped at his hand. He fought the Magewarden’s spirit, forcing the ghost’s will to obey his own. The leather-wrapped handle was cold to the touch, a respite from the fever of the cursed ring.

  As he pulled on the Breath, its blade scraped against the floor, a hollow screech of steel that disrupted the vortex of the chamber. He heard the durthan pause her low chanting and turn to face him. Fear gave him the energy he needed to lift the weapon and cradle it in his arms.

  Anilya smiled, though a cruel amusement played through her eyes at what she saw. “A sword, is it? Shall you run me through? Is this what you came for?” Incredulous laughter hid behind each syllable. “You should have killed me when you had the chance—and the strength—to do so.”

  He could not defeat her. He knew as much long before entering the Word, had contemplated the moment she would be successful in reaching it. A part of him always knew it would come to this, and that part frightened him more than the Word itself.

  The spell he needed drifted and slid through a haze of pain in his mind. The words, the gestures came slowly, bit by bit. He struggled to ignore the screaming sorrow of Athumrani, the dull ache of his bleeding wound, and the pain of each rattling breath he forced into his lungs. The strength he needed was there—scattered and hiding throughout his body, but there.

  Forcing his eyes to remain open, he watched as if in a dream as shadows gathered behind the durthan. They separated and settled, forming blobs of shifting and blurry darkness, though one appeared as she had in life. The Magewarden’s daughter—her name unspoken in Athumrani’s ravings, lost to time—did not truly look upon him, but he imagined that she saw him through the image of her fat
her. Her lip trembled, her eyes begged him to stop, and he felt his strength wane.

  “Forgive me,” he said, and the words were his own, not the father lost to sorrow and unreason.

  The children faded as he focused on Anilya, saw in her the last fragment of strength he desired. He gathered it to him—all the anger and guilt, to be done with it and court freedom, to spend it all on one choice. On the edge of his own abyss, to stop his enemy, he must grant her desire.

  “Forgive?” Anilya said, confused, and her eyes widened as he reversed his grip on the Breath, the blade angling down, point-first toward the floor. She raised her hands, her voice chanting the first syllables of a killing spell, but Bastun was more prepared.

  The magic leaped from his hand, a simple incantation, but effective. An airy orb surged forward, thrumming loudly and striking Anilya in the chest. She fell backward, her own spell lost in the discordant sound as she slammed to the floor.

  Bastun did not look down, the exact placement of the blade unimportant. Instead he kept his gaze fully on the durthan, his master’s murderer. He fed on the anger that welled in him, grasped it and pushed on the sword, pressing it deep into the stone. The floor shook, and a terrible chill flooded through his hands. His fever was banished, the burning of the ring balanced by an unimaginable freezing.

  Somewhere in the vast reaches of ice that appeared in his mind’s eye, a consciousness stirred. Dull and slowed by centuries of cold, it reached for him and caressed his soul with a limitless evil.

  Bright spots danced at the edges of Thaena’s vision, exhaustion’s harbingers stabbing through her skull. She kept her balance despite all, staggering away from the hungry frost of the dead prince. Her spells—those that might have any effect at all upon the bleakborn—were nearly spent, and Serevan still stood, still stared at her as his face returned to a semblance of life. Syrolf and two others remained standing, their brethren on the ground breathing but unable to go on.