The Shield of Weeping Ghosts c-3

by James P. Davis

  The farthei she ascended, the less human these faces appeared. Hideous sculptures spanned clawed arms from one wall to the other. Insectile mandibles framed open jaws teeming with needle-sharp fangs. Long, barbed tails rose to the ceiling, hovering over fleeing prey. There was no flesh beneath these images; the trapped fiends seemed frozen only in spirit or presence.

  The Breath trembled in her grip, pulling her faster. Its blade gleamed with a white torrent, the image of a blinding blizzard in waves of steel. She shivered as what little light behind her was swallowed in a slow, hesitant darkness. Stone and ice bruised as the ghostly children kept pace with her, but they did not approach the sword in her hand. Bright eyes darted in and out of those shadows, fearful to see and unable to look away.

  Cautiously she turned sideways, pointing the Breath at them as she continued climbing. They slowed but maintained their morbid vigil. The stairway grew colder, the ice more jagged, and the children stopped. Their shadows retreated. Anilya felt as though she stood over an immense gulf. Shaking, she turned and stared briefly into the heart of a limitless abyss.

  She averted her eyes, doubling over as the wind was stolen from her lungs. Gasping for air, she focused her eyes on the edges of the black doorway. Carved into an arch, it was a likeness of the city's shattered portal in shape only. The runes here were like those upon the Breath-Ilythiiri and human magic merged by the hands of King Arkaius. The elven symbols, once laid separate from the human ones, now locked themselves in crude knots. They seemed to writhe in the stone, wrestling one another for dominance of the pattern. Neither could win the arcane contest, but the magic stored in that struggle pulsed outward, threatening to stop the durthans heart completely.

  Regaining control of herself, she straightened her back and shifted her eyes to the doorway itself. It was not black nor any shade of any color. It was a lack of light, a nothingness that looked back at her with a hungry, dark eye. She sensed the Weave bending and warping through the doorway, but not breaking, only changing as it rippled outward through the Shield and across to the edges of the city. Such was the disturbance she had detected in Shandaular's streets, the curse that had made the City of Weeping Ghosts.

  Her arm rose of its own accord. Though she willed the action, the Breath at that moment wielded her as much as she wielded it. Flashes of pain and anger tore through her thoughts, as if a second mind were supplanting her intentions with its own. The Breath, the key to the Word, pierced the black veil and sank into its limitless depth. The steel was swallowed to the hilt, and her fingers brushed against the terrible dark. Countless words, screams, cries, whispers, and deaths flooded her senses, blinding her and leaving her deaf for several moments.

  Spots of brightness pocked her vision as it returned. A faltering step echoed in her ears like thunder in the sudden silence. The Breath lay heavy and inert at her side, its prodding and trembling gone. Its point lay upon the floor, though she had no recollection of lowering the sword. The door stood open, its breathtaking darkness now replaced by rusted black iron. Gazing beyond, she stepped forward, the spent Breath dragging behind her, and entered the Word.

  Bastun followed the footsteps of the durthan, past the dead, through churned snow, toward the northwest tower. The unnatural fever lessened a bit, the ring on his finger cooling as he left Serevan behind him, but it throbbed as he neared the source of Shandaular's woe. Weakness and fatigue clung to the hem of his robes, staggering his step slightly. His legs ached, his injuries screamed for rest, yet the path of Anilya drew him on. He needed to look upon her with eyes that knew what she had done-what she would soon do.

  He fell against the door frame, wincing as the ring renewed its aura of heat. He fought the urge to throw off his cloak and cool himself. The death that hid in winter's grip was a trickster, fooling the mind into an irrational fever. Though heat radiated from him and the ring, distorting all he saw through a filter of undulating mirage, he would not risk the dangers of exposure. He contemplated the ring itself, sensing its importance but unsure of its true purpose. It was a secret neither Athumrani nor Arkaius-or even Keffrass-had written of, and he feared bringing it too close to the Word.

  Something slippery caught his boot, and he lost his balance, sliding down to his hands. He swore and rose carefully to his feet. Gleaming in the half-light of stars and the burning embers of dying torches, his hands were covered in something dark and sticky. Nearby lay the source. Bent double and surrounded by a pool of blood, the corpse of a Creel shaman had been left tangled within shredded robes. His gray hair was matted to the floor, one dry bone charm crushed into the stones.

  Leading away from the scene, with nary a quickened pace nor sign of struggle, were the bloody footprints of his quarry.

  Another old man in her path, he thought, cut down and left for dead.

  His eyes widened as the air was pulled from his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, the ring flared with energy. Pain shot through his arm, covering his body and causing him to fall upon the steps. Darkness rolled past him from the stairway, devouring sight, breath, and all sense of time or place. His squeezed his eyes shut. Unbearable waves of heat churned in his gut like molten iron. He feared opening his eyes, afraid to find his hands charred and bleeding, his flesh sizzling and steaming against the icy stone beneath him. He knew, without having to see for himself, that the Breath had been used and the seal upon the Word had been broken.

  The dark passed and the pain faded. Air flowed back into his chest, bitingly cold, and his teeth chattered as he opened his eyes. His skin was unharmed. The flames he imagined were invisible, the ash and char only in his mind. He sensed eyes upon him and turned his head toward the top of the next flight of stairs.

  She stood quietly, a blank expression on her face. Sorrow had left, leaving only deep emptiness and resignation. Athumrani's daughter stared down upon him with eyes that matched the misery of her cursed existence. Her ghostly brothers and sister swirled around her frantically, though she remained unaffected by their madness. Ashen chains smashed and crumbled against the walls, crawling toward him as slow and shaking tendrils. Staring into her bright eyes, he knew she could see the spark of madness that resided within him. He could not blame her for not stopping her cursed siblings.

  As the chains neared, brushing against his fingers, the little girl wavered. Her body shook horribly, blinking in and out of sight. The children wailed as they were drawn into her strange fit, and the shadowy chains receded. With a final glance, he saw in her eyes a hint of hope, a tenuous trust that he could only attribute to her familiarity with the mask he wore. The shadows faded into the walls, soaking into stone and ice until all trace was gone. Taking a deep breath, he crawled upward on hands and knees. He cursed Serevan for the pains he had inflicted upon the children, the Seven of the Firedawn Cycle.

  As if summoned, the ancient song flitted through his thoughts, and he wondered at the words that came to mind.

  The Nentyarch's son, by sword and curse, to tower-tall he strides,

  At morning light, for Breath and Word, still there his fury came;

  Though cold he found among the fire, he mourned forgotten Flame.

  Ice melted at his touch as he crawled up the stairs. The walls dripped as he passed and froze again when he was gone. The Firedawn Cycle, the last passages of Shandaular's fall and the beginning of Narfell's epic rise to power and destructive war with Raumathar, sang over and over again in his head. There were many hidden bits of wisdom in the old song, such that even the oldest living othlors did not fully understand them all. Secrets of Rashemen's past were said to be revealed only to those who were ready to know.

  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.r />
  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 Tujeoty-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 Ouras 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 formed 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.