"What was that explosion we heard?" Duras said. "I thought I heard you screaming."
Thaena looked away from the writhing shadow, blinking as the situation came into focus.
"The Creel destroyed the entrance hall," she said, recalling the newly open pit behind them and the bridge beyond. "We're trapped."
The shadow slammed into the ice wall again, this time followed by several smaller impacts. The tiny shadows of arrows could be seen embedded in the ice.
Thaena pictured the tower in her mind. The lower levels a ruin, the path to the bridge now a gaping well of stone and ice created by a Nar woman's sacrifice.
These Creel are mad, she thought.
"And they are trapped as well," she said aloud, then to Duras, "Prepare the fang. Be ready when that ice falls."
He held her gaze for a moment. All that could be said was understood as he turned to join the berserkers on the stairs.
"Your strategy?" Anilya asked when they alone stood on the balcony.
"They are ready to die," she said and crossed her arms to match the durthans stance. "That's why they're here. We should be prepared to do the same."
"Fair enough," Anilya replied, flinching as the beast thudded once again against the wall, then she added, "But if we don't have to? Are you prepared to do what is necessary?"
Thaena found herself staring at Duras, sword in hand, ready to charge down the stairs. His dark eyes turned to her, and she could not bring herself to think of not looking into those eyes again. She turned to the durthan, heart thumping in her chest, anger in her throat, and fear creeping through the back of her mind. In the end she found the decision surprisingly available-almost easy.
"Do what you must," she said coldly.
"For the good of Rashemen," Anilya said, a dark smile in her eyes as the ice wall split down the middle and began to crumble.
Yellowed fangs burst through the ice, revealing the skull of some fiendish beast at the end of a whiplike neck of bones. A row of spines lined the thing's jaw and long horns swept back from its equine head.
Thaena fell back as the thing lunged and crushed the balcony's railing between its teeth. Anilya had her back to the wall, her voice summoning things that the ethran did not wish to contemplate. Thaena's own hands began to twist and turn as she cast, her voice echoing in the space between stone and ice.
Arrows flew from the opposite balcony and through the hole in the ice, but clattered harmlessly to the floor. The Creel archers would be useless unless their creature opened the wall further. The bone-beast thrashed against the ice, pushing its way through as it unleashed a rattling growl from the bones in its throat. Finishing her spell, Thaena opened her mouth to roar back.
Her voice rose in a powerful scream, the sound amplified by magic into a thunderous roar. Everyone covered their ears, the warriors backing away from the ice wall as it cracked and fell, shaken apart by the ethran's shout. The wave of sound produced rippling spasms through the undead beast. Bones fell away and broke apart in midair-only to be pulled back into the serpentine form's interlocking pieces.
Anilya completed her spell, and a black swirling cloud appeared over the head of the beast. As the last of the ice wall crumbled, the berserkers led the charge down the stairs with a war cry. The sellswords loosed arrows up into the higher balcony to slow the bows of the Creel and keep their wizard busy.
The durthan spun her hands with the growing cloud, her head rolling on her shoulders. The darkness took shape and groaned with monstrous voices. Lurching forward, the beast's head swung back and forth as it faced Thaena. Studying the swaying bones and the fanged skull, she began another spell.
It lunged again and she rolled to the side, whispering magic. The massive head crashed into the floor of the balcony, cracking the stone where she had stood. Rising to one knee Thaena threw her hands out, releasing a fan of flames to engulf the skull and neck of the bone-serpent. Fires leaped to life among the dried bones, but the beast merely drew back to strike again.
From above, bits of Anilya's cloud broke away. Shreds of darkness, shaped into floating robes and gnarled claws, moaned as they flew through the chamber. Yells and curses echoed from below, the pile of bones at the base of the undead beast producing grasping arms and biting skulls. The fang hacked at the bones even as half-formed skeletons surrounded them. Thaena could not see Duras among them.
Glancing quickly at the serpent, she ran down the stairs, casting as she neared the bottom. The whoosh of flames and the rattling of bones followed her descent. Heat pressed through her cloak as the skull neared and she completed the spell. A shimmering shield of force appeared over the warriors even as another volley of arrows rained down from the Creel's balcony.
The arrowheads flashed as they touched the shield, most of them deflected by the enchantment, but many still found their marks. Several sellswords and berserkers cried out as they were struck and then pulled down by the swarm of bones and skeletons. Before Thaena could react, bone jaws clamped on her legs and hips, lifting her into the air. Floor and walls fell away as she was lifted higher and shaken like a rag doll. Pain erupted in her left hip, a fang pressing her hard against a blunted tooth in the bottom jaw.
Smoke entered her lungs and flames licked at her skin. Her stomach turned as the chamber swam before her eyes, blurring as the beast shook her from side to side. Crackling Are and screams filled her ears as she fought to conjure a spell.
Her vision filled with spots of blackness, the pressure making her nauseous and dizzy. She struggled to breathe in the smoke and heat. Between one bone-jarring shake and the next she felt certain she would die here in a room full of bones. Anger gave her a measure of renewed strength. She gripped her hands together, her left holding tightly to a small pearl ring on her right as she fought to mouth the words of a spell.
The serpent raised her high, bones rattling and turning in its neck as the fangs opened wide to get a better grip. She fell, rolling to the back of its throat, screeching the last of her spell. The pearl crumbled to dust that became a large, cloudy gray sphere of swirling air. Obeying her will, the sphere slammed into the skull, shattering teeth and bone as the jaw closed. Darting left and right, the sphere demolished everything it touched, snuffing out flames and breaking the bone-beast apart.
Broken pieces of the jaw continued to bite and snap ineffectually. Thaena held tight to bones inside its throat as the bone-beast reared and shook. She could see the floor far below as she fell forward, clinging to a broken tooth. Concentrating on the sphere's flight of destruction, she watched as half the skull was ripped apart into flying shards. The neck collapsed, bones clattering against the walls of the chamber as the sphere of wind hurled the bone-beast's bits away from the whole.
The grasping limbs and skeletons below faltered as the sphere tore apart the magic that had created them. Many melted back into the serpent's body as it attempted to maintain its shape, but the berserkers destroyed them. A few arrows still fell among the warriors, but far fewer than before and with much less accuracy. A shuddering rattle passed through the undead form, a tide of snapping bone that pulled painfully at the ethran's shoulders and elbows.
She slammed against the stairs, fresh pain erupting from the wound in her side. Her fingers slipped from the tooth and she fell as the undead-serpent disintegrated around her. She hit the stone floor, and the wind was forced from her lungs. Bones rained to ground, burying her legs. Choking for breath, her vision fading, she tried to raise her head to find Duras. The berserkers still fought, advancing up the stairs as bloodcurdling screams echoed off the walls.
Pain flooded Thaena's senses, and her head fell back even as Anilya appeared over her, kneeling down with outstretched hands, her dark eyes glittering behind her mask.
Beyond the durthan, high above, shadowy wraiths swarmed around the ceiling and dived one after the other into the Creel's balcony. Each dive preceded a scream, and though bile rose in Thaena's throat at the method, she relished the sounds of her enemy's fear and p
ain.
Anilya's voice whispered words of magic, her mask and dark hair merely a blot to Thaena's half-lidded gaze. The durthans spell mingled in the cacophony of noise as the ethran's haze of pain drew her into oblivion.
Chapter Twelve
Gleaming eyes peered at Bastun. Tiny hands, dark and translucent, reached out and caressed his robes, brushing against his skin. Bastun shivered, each touch carrying the chill of the grave, but he did not resist. He kept moving forward. Ghostly chains rattled from their wrists. The manacles left scars that only the dead could bear. These he observed carefully, wincing at each chill-inducing touch. Their spectral bonds seemed familiar, but he had not yet placed the memory, and without knowing what they were, dealing with them could be dangerous.
Glimmers of light drew him to an open room, the light from his staff reflecting on walls coated in ice. Steps measured and slow, he made no quick movements lest the spirits become angry. He indulged their curiosity with feigned complacency. Anything to keep their voices-and their painful intrusions into his private thoughts-at bay.
He counted seven of them, these childlike ghosts embedded in the walls of the Shield. In their quiet pleading whispers he detected bits of their language, words in ancient Nar that provided some insight as to their origins, but little else.
Through long halls and dark stairways he marched, surrounded by the spirits, studying them and being studied by them. The smallest slipped around corners just ahead of him. Her bright eyes kept a constant watch as he followed the vremyonni markings on the walls. He had tried to speak to her, but this had angered the others. A long, very tangible cut on his right arm was a testament to the pain they were capable of dealing. Spells lay but a whispered word away, and he was growing weary of the constant presence of the spirits. If their previous encounters held true, their curiosity could only last so long before madness once again set them upon him.
Stepping out of the hallway, he breathed deeply as the space between himself and the walls opened up. A flight of descending stairs lay at the opposite end of the room. Moving toward them he kept his head down and his eyes up..
The spirits withdrew, keeping to the shadows of the hallway as Bastun widened his stride, noting the vremyonni mark on the top step. The significance of the spirits was secondary to his pursuit of the Breath. Taking the first step, he heard their cries and growls become louder, more agitated. Looking over his shoulder, he saw their forms churn at the edges of his light. They hovered just inside the previous hall. At their center stood the largest, an older boy with dark brown hair and eyes of smoke.
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?"
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