Holes pocked the walls, most filled with ice and bits of stone from the blast that had taken the floor. Thaena focused on her hands and her feet, ignoring the long drop that yawned beneath her. At two-thirds of the way she paused, hearing something echo from below. A growl reached her ears, a tiny far away sound. She moved more quickly, looking toward Duras who reached out his hand, ready to grab her.
The growl grew louder, and the walls began to shake.
"Thaena!"
She heard the voice of Duras as if in a dream. She moved her hands along the rope, finding another foothold, then glanced down, beyond her boots. She reached farther, closer to Duras. Her foot, overextended, slipped on a loose stone and she fell.
The ropes held, though they shook with the walls. The stone she had knocked free fell away into the blackness. The growl receded, growing softer and disappearing. The shaking calmed, but Thaena could not reach the remaining ledge. Her fingers barely held as she raised her leg higher. Her right hand slipped.
The moment became an eternity as her weight shifted, her legs dangling. Her eyes looked downward, and she imagined she could see a tiny light down there waiting for her. Something caught her wrist. Her arm jerked straight and the plummet was over before it had begun. Duras had her.
Pulling her up, Duras grabbed her with both arms and rolled away from the pit. She breathed deeply in his embrace before meeting his eyes, seeing him once again from the other side of death's door. They stood slowly, her arms and legs shaking, but sure and strong as she faced the others. The ropes had held to their iron posts, and the worst seemed to be over.
She crossed her arms and dipped her head with true Rashemi pride.
"Who's next?" she asked, the challenge in her voice bringing a smile to the face of Syrolf as he took the ropes and found a foothold.
Flakes of snow drifted into Bastun's light, settling on his robes and slowly melting. The scent of fresh air was both refreshing and alarming. Peering through the crevice just above him, he wondered just how much of the Shield had come crashing down.
Satisfied that the rubble was done with its settling he reached up for the edge of the fallen door and pulled himself toward escape. The others no doubt believed him either far from Shandaular or working against them. The durthan would be awaiting the return of her assassin, and with him the Breath.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled and pushed himself higher. Stone scraped his sides and tore at his robes as he climbed. Keeping the light of his staff ahead of him, he found himself thoroughly buried. Still, flakes of snow managed their way to him, swirling and falling on a distant breeze. Searching the roof of broken and shattered rock, he found what he hoped for. Through a small hole above he could just barely make out a faint gray light.
Trapped in a space far too narrow for his body, he wedged an arm back and fumbled at his pouches. Feeling a cylinder of cold metal he pulled it free and held it up before the light, reading the markings along the side of a silver vial.
"Silver is impractical," his fellow apprentices had said. He uncorked the vial, recalling their jibes.
"Well, it doesn't shatter easily," Bastun had replied.
Pulling his mask up, he tipped the vial to his lips and drank the bitter-tasting liquid within. The magic of the potion coursed through his body, pulsing and rippling through his limbs. His robes and equipment became as light as air, changing along with his body into an amorphous plume of living smoke. Transformations such as this were usually uncomfortable, but the lack of stone jutting into his back and legs was invigorating.
Swimming on the air he slipped through the ruin, flowing through the hole and several others beyond. He was drawn toward the light and soon found himself floating above the massive pile of rubble. The distance upward was quite far. He must have been below the Shield's central tower.
Broken stairways and dangling doors hung from the walls. Large chunks of ice remained frozen to the stone, collecting the snow that fell from above. Voices echoed from somewhere, but he couldn't make them out, the magic of his mask lost in his current state. The potion would not last long enough for him to reach the top. He would have to wait for the effects to wear off.
Somewhere within his shapeless body was the ancient blade, the Breath, now free of its secret grave. The magnitude of such a well-concealed legend on his person was astounding, and he couldn't help but think of the Firedawn Cycle and the lyrics he'd heard once for every year of his life.
… to steal the Breath, to seal the Death Of the Shield and speak the Word. Of the Shield and speak the Word.
Once again the Breath was to be stolen from the Shield and, he imagined, by those who did not understand what they were stealing. Even hcidid not fully understand the relationship between the Breath and the Word-their strange merging of Nar and Ilythiiri magic-only the destruction that the two were capable of. As he considered, shadows gathered at the edges of the rubble, coalescing hands and bright eyes as the child-ghosts observed his spiritlike form. Their clinking chains and faint whispers echoed around him, but they did not attack.
Seven children in chains, he thought curiously.
The Cycle came to mind again, and the ancient lyrics revealed another of the Shield's dark secrets. Pity flooded his being, seeming to carry a palpable weight as the potion wore off. His hands felt the stone beneath him, his knees pressed under the growing weight of his returning body. The Breath pulled at his belt as the song tumbled through his thoughts.
They came at dawn to break the wall, by Seven were they led. To frozen walls and to weary core, Seven cross'd the plain,
To gates of Shandaular, of fallen kingdom, Seven came.
Shattered souls, bound in chains, by Nentyarch's crown, the Seven came.
"Children," he croaked as his throat reformed. He coughed, acclimating his lungs to breathing again. "He sent children to start his war."
The whispers grew louder and more frenzied as the shadowy spirits shifted in and out of the walls. Standing and turning in a circle, he reached for the Breath, wary of the ghosts. He recalled their fear of the weapon below when he was fighting Ohriman, and though he pitied their fates, he would protect himself against their madness if need be.
Coming back around he froze, finding the smallest standing just a few strides away. She appeared as before, pale and dark haired. Her bright eyes regarded Bastun with curiosity and also the same odd familiarity he could not fathom. She reached up and he flinched, her movements quick and hard to follow. Touching her continually flowing hair, she brushed away several errant strands and traced her face.
Reaching up to his own face, he traced the edges of the mask in wonder.
The mask, he thought. They must have known the vremyonni caretaker! How could he have kept this secret? Lived here among them?
Even as the question occurred to him he suspected the source of that secret and sighed in understanding: the wychlaren. They would have guarded the knowledge of anyone succeeding where they had failed.
He kneeled down to her eye level. She shied away from the movement, fading for an instant, but did not leave. She averted her eyes from him, hiding her face behind an ivory hand. The others kept their distance, still agitated and confused by the strange meeting between the living and the dead.
"You were sent here to die," he whispered.
She looked back at him, tilting her head as her eyes widened and her lip trembled. There were no more tears in her-they were left behind with her physical form-but he could see the streaks of those she had cried in life. Pleased with gaining her attention he tried to keep it, to discover why she had come to him.
"You said something before, about the cold prince," he said.
A shudder passed through her and the others rumbled. Their chains clinked and clattered against the walls. Shivering and paler than before, she nodded just enough for him to notice. Her eyes drifted to the Breath at his side, his hand upon the hilt.
The prince, he wondered, from the Cycle?
History lessons tur
ned through his thoughts. Late night conversations with Keffrass came to mind, along with old scrolls and bits of forgotten lore. Narrowing his eyes, he recalled the Creel. The tribe, though often perceived as mere savages, were obsessed with ancient legacies and boasted of powerful bloodlines. The idea was there, on the tip of his tongue, before the realization struck him. When he found it, the name was linked as closely to the history of the Shield and as far away from the present as the ghost that stood before him. "Serevan Crell," he whispered.
Mere mention of the name had an instantaneous effect. The girl disappeared. The others' forms grew and trembled, a thundering growl emanating from the shreds of shadow they had become. The walls shook, and he thought he could hear a scream echoing amid the sound of tumbling stone and rubble. Standing on the largest piece of intact floor he could find, he held his arms out for balance and turned in circles again. He prepared for an attack.
Gradually, the shaking stopped, the growls faded, and though the spirits still hovered at the walls Bastun breathed a sigh of relief. Cautiously he knelt, taking stock of the situation. Staring up to the distant light near the top of the tower, he knew he would have to find Thaena and the others. Anilya would lead them to the Word, likely using them as fodder against the Creel.
For several moments, he contemplated the alternative- taking the Breath as far away from the Shield as possible and abandoning his old friends to their betrayer and the Creel. The long years away were apparent in that he didn't immediately reject the idea. Without the Breath, Anilya couldn't use the Word. Wasn't that what mattered?
Still… having an idea and acting upon it were very different notions. He couldn't abandon the Rashemi.
The low growls and whispers around him became tiny whimpers and fearful noises. The shadows shrank, sinking to the edge of the ruined tower's many floors. Looking around in confusion, Bastun rose cautiously back to his feet.
A cracking sound echoed from above, followed by a crash as shards of ice shattered on the stone. A mewling wail drew his attention to a block of ice on the wall. Something squirmed inside of it-a dark mass of long limbs writhing in an icy prison until a pair of glowing green eyes turned toward him from within. Raising his staff, Bastun flinched as more ice fell from behind him.
Claws scraped against ice, and leathery wings unfurled.
Taking a deep breath, he called upon his axe.
Chapter Fourteen
I374 DR, Year of Lightning Storms
The Running Rocks njoying the quiet and the smell of old books, Bastun stood alone in the center of his small room. Fresh snow melted on his boots and dripped from the hem of his robes. No one had seen him leave. No guards came to witness his return. Two days alone, beyond sight of his fellow wizards and the laws that bound him to remain hidden from the world. Free, more than he'd been in nearly two decades, and he had returned to the Running Rocks.
He was vremyonni, currently the youngest of the Old Ones, and no other place in Rashemen would have him. This was his place. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and lashed out. His knuckles met the stone wall. The familiar sting lanced through his wrist, and his fury subsided for a moment or two, blood welling into old cuts and scratches.
"Welcome back."
Keffrass's voice did not startle him. His master was as much a part of the Rocks as the whistling drafts in the upper caverns or the pages rustling in the library.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No," Bastun answered, then recalled the brief escape. A return to his village under cover of night and magic had shown him more than he'd been willing to admit for many years- that he would have left anyway, in time. "And… yes."
"A good answer," Keffrass said and entered the room, sitting and lighting a candle with a wave of his hand. "There is wisdom in looking back at every regret, every misstep, and realizing the value of tragedy."
"I do not think I am quite that wise just yet," Bastun said and leaned against the wall.
"There is wisdom in that as well," Keffrass replied, his ancient eyes sparkling, though his humor faded. "That mask… it does more than just cover your face."
"Yes," he said quietly, closing his eyes and feeling the second visage. "Though I fear it, what it may become, what it will allow me to do."
They sat in silence, no longer master and student, but colleagues and friends in the same order. Bastun flexed bleeding knuckles beneath his sleeve, the fury he had cultivated within himself always a heartbeat away, a weapon as much a part of him as any spell. Keffrass's teaching had forged that weapon, shaped it from raw emotion and skill, but Bastun had to live with it.
"You're going back, aren't you?" Bastun said, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it all the same. "To Shandaular, to the Word."
"Perhaps, though only the othlor can say for sure." Keffrass stared into the candle. "There is something out there for us all, waiting in the dark for us to discover-and fear." He turned to Bastun, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, full of meaning and wisdom. "We must face it alone, that abyss, in whatever form it takes-beast, guilt, magic… or the past.
"Deny it and it will devour you. Make you forever a part of it." He stood and made his way to the door. "Face it, accept it, and it will become a part of you, inseparable."
"What's the difference?" Bastun asked.
The old man paused, raising an eyebrow and looking sidelong at his former student. "Your choice."
Nightall, I376 DR, Year of theBent Blade
Wings, teeth, and a thrashing barbed tail descended in the wake of burning green eyes.
Bastun snapped his fingers, summoning a burst of light into the thing's face. It shrieked, faltering in its dive, but fell just within reach. He buried the flashing axe blade in hairless gray skin, bringing the struggling beast down to flop and bleed on the rubble.
He had but a moment to study the body before more creatures attacked, but it was enough: nearly the height of a man, emaciated and light bodied, with wings in place of arms.
"Varrangoin," he murmured. He cast another spell, a brief emerald glow surrounding him as the fiend's skin cracked and popped, spraying acidic blood in all directions. Though it hissed and burned on the stone, the blood splashed him harmlessly.
The sound of fluttering wings filled the air, their echoes bouncing off one another in a frenzy. Beyond them lay the only escape-a gray light casting the unnatural flock of varrangoin in silhouette. Bastun's thumb found the worn scar in the staff. Closing his eyes, he felt the weight of his mask, heard the memory of his master's voice, and made a choice.
Exhaling a long breath, control and reason slid away, freeing his mind and sharpening his instincts. Opening his eyes, he was no longer vremyonni, no longer truly himself. He was merely the mask, the axe, the magic, and the crystal clear rage of the Rashemi.
Thrusting his arm at the center of the descending swarm, a bead of light flew from his fingertip. It disappeared among them. He ran across the broken stone, leading them in a circle. Arcane words poured from him, a harsh poetry of magic that blurred his form as he charged into the living mass. Crashing around him, the varrangoin swirled as an explosion rocked the tower, a ball of flame erupting within the flock. The ground shook, debris fell from the walls, and Bastun found himself in the chaos.
Broken bodies and burning blood rained down as he dived into the nearest of the varrangoin. Caustic fumes burned his nose as stone melted. The survivors rallied quickly, and still more broke free of icy prisons above.
Claws raked his arms and scraped at his mask and leather armor, but they brought the varrangoin too close. His blade slipped through their forms, hissing with the blood of one even as it slew another. Stingers struck stone where he'd been standing, claws found only air as he sidestepped. The rage consumed him, filled his body with strength and his spirit with bloodlust. He reveled in the freedom-in the rhythm between steel and magic. He shouted in their fang-filled faces, laughed as they spit streams of acid from glowing maws. His laughter became a cha
nt and the chant became thunder.
Lightning blasted outward, leaving the twitching fiends to fall and flounder.
As the blue-white glow faded, others escaped, clinging to walls, their green eyes full of hunger and violence. Turning slowly, whispering spells through a grim smile, he watched them regroup, shrieking at one another in a fiendish tongue. They leaped from the walls from all directions. Waves of tingling energy washed over him as his stomach lurched and gravity changed direction.
He plummeted upward, the fiends screeching as they fun-neled into a flapping spiral in his wake. From a pouch, he pulled a fistful of pebbles, shaking them like bone-dice as he chanted and scattered them like seeds. The tiny rocks grew into boulder-sized chunks of rock and plunged through the tornado of leathery wings.
Emerald light filled the darkness beneath him as the fiends scattered, smashed by the falling rocks and crushed against the ruin below. Their shrieks reached beyond the stone-cold demeanor of the mask to the calm that dominated the center of his being. He stopped his freefall, drifting toward the wall and rolling on the stone before finding balance again.
Standing, his senses swam with a momentary vertigo. The tower appeared as a long tunnel, pale light behind and crawling darkness ahead. Shaking his head, he waited as the survivors, those still able to fly, rose from the chaos to find him. He couldn't let them escape-a small flock of varrangoin could become hundreds within months, thousands in a year.
Less than a dozen remained, slow in their ascent and splitting into groups. Directing each other in their odd croaking language, it seemed they were regaining their wits after such a long hibernation in the ice. Letting go, gravity turning in his gut like a giant's fist, he fell to the far wall. Two varrangoin fell to his axe, a third scoring his mask as it spun out of the way. He led the others back down, leaping from wall to wall, before changing direction and ripping through two more as he ascended.
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