The Shield of Weeping Ghosts c-3

by James P. Davis

  "Shadows of the children… still playing in the walls…"

  Bastun's spirits, she thought, and looked around as if she felt the shadows even now crawling near to twist her emotions into fury again.

  "They torment us… boil our cold blood in battle… until our prince returns… to find his Breath."

  "He is raving," Anilya whispered. "There's nothing here for us."

  Thaena ignored the durthan, piecing together the fragmented narrative with what Bastun had already told her about Serevan Crell. The vremyonni's knowledge of the Shield seemed accurate, which made his omission of the Breath and the Word more suspect than she was content to leave be. The spirit's voice continued to mutter and ramble as she determined what should be done.

  "End it!" said Anilya. "He cannot-"

  The sound of cracking ice in the distance cut off the durthan.

  Thaena's eyes widened, looking ahead, searching the dark for some disturbance. She was rewarded by the sound of a faint whimper, like a pained dog. Unseen claws scratched at stone in that black distance between she and her fang. Standing, she made to end her spell when the body's voice stopped her cold.

  "Ghosts of wild warriors and strange peoples… witches in masks… asking questions… now you." The bright eyes faded away after its cryptic rant was finished. She struggled to recall a spell of light even as a low, thundering growl echoed through the tall corridor of the Shield's wall.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The fang set to work freeing the doors at the end of the hall, pulling stiff bodies away from one another. More torches were lit and laid by the side to loosen the ice.

  Looking high into the shadows overhead, Bastun imagined the battles fought above and below the wall, resisting the urge to caress the cold metal of the Breath and bear witness to the ghosts still fighting.

  Still fighting, he thought, because of I’ll-conceived magic in the past and wychlaren neglect in the present.

  The length of wall they toiled beneath was once known as the Bridge of Wakes, where the wizard rulers of Shandaular were carried upon their passing to the northwest tower. All but the last were cremated at the tower's top, Arkaius's remains being utterly destroyed in his sacrificial attempt to seal the portal in the heart of the city. Troubled by the thought, he recalled there were no solid records regarding the fate of Athumrani.

  "See something?" Duras asked and followed Bastun's gaze up into the darkness.

  "No, just remembering my studies," he replied, and returned to watching the progress at the doors. Duras looked away as well, turning back to stare into the dark behind them with a concerned expression. "We're close now. The tower beyond should be well enough intact if memory serves, and the northwest tower has been-"

  "Thaena still hasn't caught up," Duras said, then added, "and the durthan is with her."

  Bastun sympathized with his friend's worry, but he could find little fear for the ethran.

  "You love her," he said solemnly, the words slipping out.

  "I am-" Duras began, then paused, sighing in the awkward silence that followed before continuing, "I am her guardian."

  The answer stung, it tore at Bastun's insides like nothing else had, but it was what he'd needed to hear. The weight of lost time on his shoulders lessened, though it settled in more comfortably-more permanently. Neither of the pair spoke, listening to the cadence of axes and swords on ice and wood. It was as if something had broken, a divergence between what was and what should have been.

  "Perhaps I should go back for her," Duras said at length, hand resting on the hilt of his long sword.

  "She'll be fine. Thaena can-" Bastun stopped, noticing the quick glances of several among the fang. They looked at him and at Duras, then to Syrolf, who shook his head derisively at the pair. The wedge that was being driven between Duras and his warriors was becoming painfully apparent. Their leader's loyalty to an old friend threatened to make a bad situation worse, and Bastun rethought his words. "I think you should do as she does, Duras. Do as you damn well please, ignore common sense, and leave me out of it."

  The coldness in his voice was heard by all, being more for the fang's benefit than that of Duras. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the change in the air as Duras regarded him with sudden shock and anger. Syrolf squared his shoulders and glowered at the vremyonni.

  "Watch your tongue, exile," he said. He looked as if he were about to say something else when Bastun whipped around, ignoring him as a deep and ominous sound echoed through the hall. The mask carried the noise to his ears alone at first, but soon that sorcery was no longer needed. Something big voiced its displeasure in a disjointed growl that seemed constructed of several dozen beastly throats singing as one.

  "Syrolf! With me!" Duras's sword leaped into his hand as he swiftly took command. He pointed at the berserkers. "Keep at that door! Do not stop until we return!"

  Syrolf clapped two of the fang on the shoulders, and they fell in behind him. Two of the sellswords also followed as Bastun stood and followed Duras's long-legged run through the maze of bodies. The Rashemi and the sellswords alike stared after them a moment, then redoubled their efforts at freeing the doors.

  They jumped over bodies and climbed over icy hills of the fallen army. Visages frozen in horror passed beneath Bastun's boots as he summoned his axe blade, imagining a myriad of unholy beasts rising amid the piles. A massive silhouette shifted just beyond the next pile of bodies and burst into view, a charging blur of pale flesh and bones.

  Duras cursed and dodged as the thing hurtled past. Syrolf was thrown aside like a rag doll, and Bastun fell as the shape turned and snarled. Raising his axe, he began chanting, repulsed as the beast entered the light. The wolflike head flinched at the illumination at first, then fixed on it.

  The head was as long as a man was tall and more than half as wide. Odd knots and malformed protrusions revealed a patchwork construction of various bodies and parts. Arms and elbows formed the angry brow. Fingers gripped bone along a jaw made of broken ribcages, the ribs sharpened into vicious fangs. Legs, torsos, and faces rippled and writhed through the neck, flanks, and limbs of the creature which had no body of its own save those that made up its macabre anatomy. Ice clung to its white, hairless flesh as it bared a maw of jagged yellow fangs and prowled toward him.

  A red flash of energy left Bastun's palm and sizzled across the thing's snout. Flames sprouted and guttered, steaming as ice melted and rotten flesh burned. As it shook away the offending fire, Bastun scrambled back to his feet, eyes scanning the area for any sign of the durthan or Thaena.

  As he summoned another spell, berserker blades hacked at the hound's frost-rimed flanks, but to no apparent effect. It swiped and clawed, batting them away and snapping at those that got too close. Growls emanated from a collection of mouths along the beast's neck, humanoid faces twisted in torment as the hound scattered its attackers, separating them from one another. Arcs of lightning leapt from Bastun's fingertips, sizzling among the conjoined corpses and causing each to spasm and steam. The whole of the monster shuddered, and it wobbled on its legs, but only for a moment as it pinned a screaming sellsword beneath a heavy paw.

  The other sellsword, a vicious dark-skinned easterner wielding twin axes, hacked at the beast's snout, and it reared back. Bastun circled, chanting softly and still searching for sign of Anilya or Thaena. A female voice rang out from behind and he turned, energy crackling at his fingertips as Thaena appeared atop a pile of corpses and ice. He ceased his spell as a brilliant white light shot from her staff and pierced the hound with a blazing heat.

  It howled in pain from a score of hideous throats, trembling as the searing hole in its side grew and blackened to ash. The myriad of its tortured faces moaned in unison as they twisted to get a view of the ethran. Legs slipping on the icy stone, it thrashed, an aimless paw crushing the fallen sellsword as it snapped at the easterner. The man was taken screaming into the air. Razor-sharp rib-fangs pierced through armor and furs, gnashing in an awkward imitation o
f feeding.

  Horrified by the spectacle, Bastun stopped as the screams ceased and the body slid down the throat. Bits of armor, chewed and slashed, fell from in between clasped arms and broken legs. Fur cloak and boots sloughed away as well, discarded as the new body took its place in the mass. In moments the gaping wound in its side had shrunk. The wolflike head rose, focused on Thaena.

  Duras rushed forward, placing himself in the hound's path. Bastun stepped back a pace, magic sliding down his arms as the beast crouched to pounce. Then his world dissolved into white wind and ice.

  He could hear the clash of steel on bone, the thunderous crash of the creature landing atop ancient bodies, and the chanting voice of Thaena. He fell to his side, thrown across the floor, tumbling against the dead. Chill caressed his skin for the briefest of moments before heat began surging through him. The fever burned like fire in his blood. Snow and ice melted, his long braids were matted to his head and draped across his mask, steaming as he pushed himself up. Heat churned in his gut like a pit of coals, and he cried out, turning with murderous intent to find Anilya.

  Eyes wide behind her mask, the durthan stared, a slender, pale wand still glowing in her hand.

  Bastun raised his axe and started toward her, turning the curse on his lips into eager words of magic. The sounds of battle echoed behind him, and he only just heard the sound of approaching footfalls crashing ever closer. Reluctantly turning, he swung as the hound bore down on him. The force of the blow cracked against the beast's lower jaw, sending Bastun falling to the right.

  He rolled out of the way as more bolts of burning light charred the hound's back, distracting the descending jaws. Pulling himself up a drift of bodies, Bastun found the durthan gone, catching a fleeting glimpse of her figure as she ran for the western exit. Wavering, he looked between the escaping Anilya and the battle below.

  Cursing, he noted with alarm the long-dead body captured in the beast's fangs. Throwing its head back it devoured the corpse, healing more of its wounds even as they were made. The battleground all around became more than just an unworthy graveyard-a feast of hundreds filled the inner wall.

  "Now, damn all the luck, is my chance," he whispered, taking heart in Thaena's continued casting, Duras's war song, and the cries of pain as the beast was injured. He made after the durthan, eager to return the favor of her betrayal.

  Several Rashemi surrounded the open door. Neither Anilya nor her sellswords were anywhere to be seen. The Ice Wolves seemed eager for battle and the sight of him would do little to calm this instinct. He had no time to stop and explain himself. He whispered a quick spell just before entering the light of their torches. His form shifted and rippled, becoming translucent and shadowlike. Staying on the move, he barely made a sound as he slid by them, little more than a disturbance on the air.

  The stairwell to the top of the tower was intact, and he swiftly followed the footsteps he could hear above. Not quite shadow and not quite solid, he was able to see the thick darkness gathering in pools below him. Quiet sobs and whispered insanities rose as shadowy tendrils grasped at the bottom step. Ignoring the child spirits, he gained on the durthan and climbed the last few steps just behind her sellsword guards, who could not see or hear him.

  Eyeing the walls and heavy doors, Anilya strode into the room ahead of him. Shouts and curses echoed from the bottom of the tower. Her men turned to look over the railing just as she spun around, seeming to notice his odd shimmer in the air. The haft of his axe slammed into her raised arm as she attempted to defend herself. His blade whistled past her mask and she fell backward, landing on her hands. As he raised the axe to swing again, the durthan pointed a ringed finger and hissed an arcane syllable. The blade disappeared from the staff and would move no closer to her no matter how he strained to bring it to bear.

  He spun away, dodging the hurled dagger of an attentive sellsword.

  "You want the Breath?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then by all means-"

  He reached for the sword, his hand wrapping around the hilt, fully intending to end Anilya's twisted quest in a flash of steel. Contact with the blade stopped him cold, a sensation of wracking despair crushing his anger in a vice of hopelessness. He fell to one knee as the foreign mind haunting the blade flooded his being.

  Anilya gestured swiftly, halting the blades of her men.

  Bastun struggled to assert himself, fearful of becoming lost again amidst misty spirits of the past. The durthan stood, studying him as he tried to rise. His eye caught the broken form of an old mirror leaning against the wall, and he looked in wonder upon the same stranger he'd witnessed before.

  The bearded older man in blue robes knelt much as he did. The man tightly clutched a wavy-bladed long sword that could be none other than the Breath, which Bastun fought to release from his own hand. On the spirit's sleeve, he saw the shape of a shield surrounding a stylized archway, and he gaped in shock.

  "You are a fool, Bastun," the durthan spoke in a hushed tone. "The door that blade opens could defend Rashemen better than a thousand wychlaren outposts!"

  Who are you? The spirit reflection mouthed the words, and Bastun felt sorrow give way to more manageable emotions. He let go of the Breath, his hand numb, and the stranger's image faded. The implications of all he had witnessed were beginning to solidify toward a conclusion that he could not deny. In a daze, he faced Anilya.

  "You care nothing for Rashemen, Anilya," he said, staggered somewhat by the vision. "Your passion lacks sincerity."

  "So says the exile," she replied, then added more softly as she drew closer to him. "Why didn't you run? You could have taken the Breath and disappeared, but you didn't."

  "I wouldn't abandon my friends," he said. "Thaena needs-"

  "She doesn't love you," Anilya said, "and Duras doesn't understand you any more than Syrolf or the others."

  "And you understand me?" He caught his breath and drew his robe over the wavy blade, backing away cautiously. Distantly, he noticed the sounds of battle far below them were fading.

  "More than them," she answered. "What if you died here? The Breath unburied, left with your corpse to be easily found. You know-though you may not say so out loud-you know this power could be used for Rashemen."

  "No." He blinked, the rhythm of her voice strange and compelling. "This isn't a power that can be commanded."

  "Not yet." She came nearer. "There are no assurances save that the Word, with proper study and understanding, will be needed. Even now, Thay, our worst enemy, grows more aggressive, desires our land's power and our people as slaves."

  "Are the durthan any different?"

  "My sisters seek power for the sake of Rashemen, not conquest." She stared deep into his eyes, and he found it difficult to pull away, weakened by her voice, though inwardly he found a minute spark of agreement. "Imagine the fall of Thay and cowing the raiders of Narfell.

  "And wars with Aglarond?" he asked. "Attacking the druids of the Great Dale, perhaps? Where does it end?"

  Shouts sounded from below, and voices echoed from within the tower. He wondered if the children were there, lying in wait for his countrymen, to send them up the stairs in bloodlust to find him.

  "When Rashemen is safe," she said sternly, her voice growing softer as she approached. "When our people are no longer slaves. We don't have to be alone in this, you and I."

  He drew back. Though she had already tried to kill him once, he feared his attraction to her-and seemingly hers to him-more than her magic. The kindred spirit he had sensed in her since arriving at the Shield was strong and called to him. This frightened him beyond measure, for if he could find common ground with such a woman, what might that say about himself?

  "No," he said, searching her eyes for some hint of reasoning that might hear him beyond her quest for the Word's power. "None of us are alone in this place. You were right before, about the Shield being a ghost. Its walls and towers are just bones left to dry, but the spirit remains, just like those lost in the city streets."


  "You think the Shield is alive?" she said, drawing nearer still. He tensed but did not move away.

  The booted charge of the Rashemi grew closer as they climbed the stairs, and he knew he would lose this chance at stopping Anilya.

  "Its past is alive. The day Shandaular was destroyed lives on," he spoke slowly, still working things out, giving voice to his concerns. He was dimly aware that whatever charm she'd been casting was gone, and he feared the fact that it was no longer necessary. Her fingertips brushed his shoulders, and he met her gaze cautiously, grateful for the masks that prevented desire from overcoming sense. "And as we become more aware of that past…"

  "Bastun," she said quietly.

  "… it becomes more aware of us," he said, determined to finish the thought that had plagued him. "We're becoming a part of that day."

  "I cannot concern myself with the past," she said, sounding almost regretful.

  "I believe we'll destroy one another," he added, still hoping to reach her, but more than aware of the staff at his side and the blade he might summon.

  A silence fell between them. The moment trembled on an edge between intimacy and enmity. The Rashemi were at the last landing outside the room, nearing the door. He sensed the first mote of imperfection mar the space between he and the durthan. She blinked, slowly, the motion drawn out as he awaited some reaction to the fate that he suspected might await them.

  "So be it," she said, the words hammered into his chest even as he reluctantly raised the old staff. Anilya shoved herself away from him, falling to the floor on her hands. The axe blade screamed into being, flashing brightly. The door burst open and he paused.

  The Ice Wolves charged inside, shoving the sellswords out of their path. Thaena strode in with forearms crossed and Duras close behind. Syrolf limped in with blade drawn, as they all stared at the scene before them.

  Anilya lay on the floor with an arm upraised against Bastun's axe. He fell back a step, shaking his head in anger at himself for failing to anticipate her ruse. Thaena's eyes flashed, and a cruel scowl grew on Syrolf s face. The vremyonni's mind raced to come up with some explanation as he backed away from the durthan.