The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Chapter Ten

The sound of pages rustling as he turned them, the smell of dust and dried leather bindings-all brought Bastun back to his time among the vremyonni. Though the books had calmed him, he was growing frustrated, and time did not seem to be on his side. Not finding what he sought, he shelved another tome and searched for another that might have withstood the test of years. Faint auras of magic drew him toward several tomes. The minor spells kept the pages from growing brittle and disintegrating.

Pulling another book down he carefully flipped through its pages and recalled the late nights, reading alone in the caverns of the Running Rocks. Master Keffrass had encouraged him to socialize with the other apprentices, but Bastun only found the company distracting. He far more enjoyed having the great library to himself. During those years after Ulsera's funeral, after being taken away and hidden with the other wizards, he found little use-or success-in forging relationships with others. Fortunately, Keffrass kept him in some practice in regards to conversation and social skills.

Frustrated, Bastun shelved the book and stood back, taking in the image of the Shield's library. Torn and yellowed pages littered the floor, dust and cobwebs hung between the shelves, and tiny cracks webbed through the stone beneath his boots. He felt transported into his own mind, a past corrupted by decisions gone awry, left alone to sort out what went wrong. Sighing, he continued the search, finding yet another shelf that caught his eye.

Leaning at the end, small and bound by leather straps, were two worn journals. Lifting one gently and blowing away the dust on its cover, he found the imprint of a coat of arms. Much of the image was worn away, but he could make out runic writing on the edge of an ornate shield and within that the unmistakable shape of Shandaular's portal-arch-the standard of the Shield. Carefully he unwound the cracked and dried strap and opened the book to the first page.

The writing was faded and in a language he could not readily identify. The other book bore the same coat of arms and a similar writing style. They both had regular entries in a script that bespoke of an acute skill for conveying specific symbols and shapes. He narrowed his eyes and looked around, scanning the shelves once more before gambling on the pair. Deciding quickly, he brought them to a stone bench and laid them flat.

Setting aside his staff, he summoned the words to one of the first spells he had learned. Speaking clearly, he intoned the magic while resting his fingertips on the first journal's cover. There was no flash of light, no glow or any of the effects that other apprentices had clamored for when time came to gain more magic for their fledgling spellbooks. Bastun had seen the spell for what it truly was: a key to the knowledge in all the other books of the vremyonni library.

Opening to the first page again, the writing changed as he viewed it, the language becoming his own, and he read that page with no small amount of relief:

The Personal Writings and Musings of Athumrani Zukar Magewarden of Dun-Tharyn and Counsel to King Arkaius of Shandaular

Picking up the journal, he sat upon the bench and began to read, turning pages gently but quickly, searching for any mention of the Breath or where it might be hidden. He knew clues were the best he might find. If the Breath had been used, what they had actually unleashed would have been clear to all. What had been intended as a weapon of defense, the stories said, was made a horrible force of destruction by the inclusion of the Ilythiiri magic they had gleaned from the portal.

Details of daily life abounded. He found notes concerning research, news from other lands, minor shortages of resources, and trade routes becoming more dangerous. Exotic creatures and spices were brought from Shandaular's sister city in the far south, the portal causing a remarkable mixture of cultures that drew merchants and scholars in droves. Soon though, trade from neighboring villages stopped altogether. Caravans were attacked and burned, left as warning for any who might defy the rule of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos. The world around Shandaular grew smaller and smaller as Narfell crept toward its doorstep and demanded submission.

Though Bastun yearned to sit and read until as much dust covered him as the shelves surrounding, he pressed on, scanning quickly.

Athumrani's writing was precise and to the point, making Bastun's reading all the easier. As he neared the end, he feared he had indeed wasted the valuable spell. The last few pages, however, gave him a glimpse of what he had been waiting to see. Athumrani's script became more erratic and hurried, the words more urgent.

After months of waiting we have seen the results of Arkaius's work, and while it is a marvel of ambition and talent, his creation is monstrous. His control was tenuous at best. Even he was surprised at what he unleashed. My hands shake as I write this, and the walls still seem to hum with its power. The Word was all that we had expected and more. Far more than we could-or should-ever use. The secrets of the Ilythiiri must remain forever as they are: secrets.

The Arkaius of Bastun's studies matched the sensibilities of the man described by Athumrani. He was by all accounts a good king with good intentions, but in the last days of Shandaular he had grown desperate as NarfelPs attacks became more determined.

The Nar grow bolder each time they assault us. Nentyarch Thargaun has sent all of his savage sons with armies to break our defenses, but to no avail as of yet. I have evidence of spies among us. Even now, I cannot trust my own advisors. They have taken so much from us. From me. The Nentyarch has one last son to send, and the roads have been silent for nearly a tenday. I have studied the Breath and the Word to the extent of my abilities. Frost forms on the walls no matter how many torches we light or spells we cast to warm the citadel. Terrible cold haunts me every day. With time I feel I could unmake these terrible weapons, but the Ilythiiri magic is persistent, almost alive in the way it clings to even fragments of the runic patterns. I find it hard to concentrate on the greater good and the lives of the many, when it is all I can do to not think of her. I have no more time. The Breath must be hidden and the portal destroyed, though I fear it may not be enough. My despair is unending of late, and I question Arkaius's decision to trust me with this thing he has wrought. I shall miss our Shield, as I will our king. And my daughter…"

Several sketches followed this last entry, and Bastun tried to make sense of them, but could only identify pieces of what appeared to be an intricate map. He feared the true map was only in Athumrani's mind, and this drawing, though possibly accurate, was only a two-dimensional representation of what could be stairs up or down here, a tower or perhaps empty space there. The most he could decide upon was direction. The rest could be a network of arcane traps and dead ends.

"If nothing else, it is a start," he muttered.

He closed the journal and stared at the shelves, the walls, and the ceiling, trying to piece together what he knew of the Shield's layout with the Magewarden's drawings. Rubbing his eyes he picked up the second journal.

A cold breeze whistled through the room from the north, and he noted a sliver of light shining above one of the shelves. Curious and hesitant, drawn to the second journal, he reluctantly placed both books within his robes and stood to inspect the source of the disturbance.

A ladder stood against the shelves, leading up to a low railing. Carefully testing the rungs, he found them solid-a newer addition if not very recent. Climbing up, he peered over the top to find a small loft. Light came in through a crack in a thick curtain across the north window.

Climbing into the loft, he saw a desk, a comfortable looking if dusty chair, and against the north wall, a bed. Unfortunately, it did not appear to be empty. Keeping his staff at the ready he approached the bed, its mattress old and sagging beneath the weight of whoever lay within. Simple sheets and thick fur covers obscured the figure, which gave no indication of sensing Bastun's presence.

Raising his staff and grasping the edge of the blankets with his other hand, he pulled them away. For half a breath he wished he hadn't.

The figure, lying in repose, had been dead for some years. The skin was taut over an aged face. Yellowed white hair haloed the frail skull of an old man in plain dark robes. Lowering the staff Bastun stared at the corpse curiously until he noted, beside the pillow, an all-too-familiar mask.

"Vremyonni," he whispered, recalling the men who had come to study the Shield at the hathrans' behest. This one had obviously elected to stay behind, maybe to maintain the library or merely to lose himself in the rich history of a time long lost. Replacing the blankets reverently, Bastun whispered a quiet prayer, a small rite for a fallen brother.

He sat on the edge of the chair and studied the loft, taking note of the thick curtains, much like ones he himself had drawn after a long night of reading. Turning toward the opposite window the whole of the library was visible to him-rows upon rows of shelves, scrolls beyond counting, more books than one might read in a lifetime. Much as he felt the solemnity in a dead brother's presence, he found himself envying such a life. Peace and quiet, reading and learning, hidden away as the wychlaren willed. But free.

Glancing at the old master he considered the prospect of a peaceful death, far from the troubles and trials of people he could not understand. The breeze blew again, disturbing the curtains and allowing the light to glint off of something small on the vremyonni's hand,

Looking closer, he saw it was a ring of an odd design, nothing like the vremyonni normally crafted. Quietly begging the late master's forgiveness he lifted the hand closer to inspect the golden band. Tilting it toward the light, he made out a sigil like the one upon Athumrani's journal-the shield of Shandaular. Tiny symbols decorated the sides of the ring-a mixture of arcane runes, some recognizable, the others of Ilythiiri origin.

Another item of hybrid magic? he wondered. There was no record of it.

He made to remove the ring, and despite his curiosity he realized he was holding hands with a corpse. Though far from

Rashemen and well aware of the difference between superstition and true danger, he reached into his robes, searching for a pouch he always carried. Scooping out some of its contents, he produced a fistful of soil and sprinkled it liberally over the vremyonni's body.

"The land be with you always, Old One," he said, and gently removed the ring.

Stepping back he studied the ring more closely. There was no indication of what it could do, what it was for, or why it even existed. After all Bastun had been told of the Breath and the Word and of the Ilythiiri magic that infected this place-that the caretaker had chosen to wear such an artifact seemed strange and reckless. Bastun had never questioned the Old Ones and trusted in their wisdom of crafted items, but the ring tugged upon some dim memory he couldn't readily place. Trusting instinct and the judgment of his seniors, he placed it upon his finger with a held breath.

The metal was warm and the loop somewhat loose. But even as he watched it shrunk to fit him, as many magical rings tended to do. He felt heartened that at least that particular aspect seemed normal enough. Little else occurred. Though somewhat disappointed, he decided to hang on to the artifact, its markings and design too coincidental to ignore.

Waves of nausea assaulted his stomach, and he doubled over, feeling as if he had swallowed liquid fire. His gut burned and his skin tingled with strange power. Falling to his hands and knees, he tried to pry the ring from his finger, clenching his teeth against the pain. Slowly it faded as did the cold that previously occupied the library. Collecting himself, he sat up and studied the ring again, unchanged and as mysterious as before.

Narrowing his eyes in thought, he noticed the light in the chamber growing dimmer. Standing and rushing to the window, he looked out at the sky. The clouds had grown thicker and darker. Eerie, silent lightning flashed, and the wind gained more strength. Shandaular's mists rose and fell like troubled waves, and they clung to the ruins despite the weather. Gooseflesh rose on the nape of his neck, and he turned, finding the bright eyes of the smallest of the spirits spying upon him from the ladder.

Her appearance startled him and touched upon the memory of Ulsera-both the spirit and his sister seemed roughly the same age, both of them long dead. The little girl, barely translucent, her face marked by cruelty, regarded him with a mixture of pity and fear. Tentatively he took a breath and made to address the spirit, but she disappeared in a blur.

Running to the railing he searched the library floor, looking for any sign of the ghost. With the sudden feeling of being watched, he found her bright, unnerving eyes again. She huddled in a narrow doorway on the west wall, pale fingers clinging to the edge. Bastun was intrigued by the spirit, sensing an odd familiarity in her eyes, but he could not discern if this was only the memory of his sister imposed upon the translucent features of the young girl.

As they stared at one another, his eyes were drawn to a strange glow just above the doorway. Etched into the stone was a tiny, simple marker-a vremyonni symbol. He touched his mask and felt foolish for having worn it so long even while alone. It had been such a part of him he'd forgotten it was there-and fortunately so, for he could not have seen the symbol without it.

Looking back down, he saw that the spirit was gone. Disheartened by the loss of an opportunity to speak with her, he noted the direction of the corridor, the vremyonni marker, and the sketches from Athumrani's journal. Though he felt as tossed by chance as any snowflake in the winter storm outside, he whispered a final farewell to the vremyonni and climbed down the ladder.

Approaching the doorway, the glow from his staff flickered, and he prepared himself to make the acquaintance of the Shield's spirits once again.

With each step into the west tower, Thaena's dread grew stronger. The walls closed in as the group made their way, and she had to focus on each breath, each step, always careful to hide her discomfort.

They found wychlaren wards at regular intervals, covered over with more of the Nar glyphs, these written not in ash and oil, but blood. The Creel seemed to be systematically destroying the very protections that made Shandaular and the Shield even remotely safe for mortals. She could not imagine the madness that would send such an invitation to the dead.

Duras stayed close, his concern for her obvious in his stance and bearing. He stared at the walls as if teeth-filled mouths might appear on them at any moment. There was no time to explain to him what she had been made to feel, what she had imagined. Nor did she think she could, even if the rest of the fang were not so near and the walls not so conducive to carrying even the slightest sound. Keeping what she had experienced a secret seemed more and more pointless as they climbed. Everyone could sense something wrong. She heard whispers of smordanya-a place that existed as a pathway or gate between the world of the living and the dead.

It is an accurate description, she thought.

Louder voices echoed from above, and she was ushered through the group, Duras and Anilya close behind. They had reached a large semi-circular landing with tall windows. Wind whipped at their long braids, and snow piled in small drifts on the floor. Half-buried in the snow were two more Rashemi bodies, frozen like those at the gates. No one approached, and the lead warriors looked to Thaena for instructions.

"Signs of movement?" she asked while studying the corpses.

The warriors shook their heads.

"We must wait," Duras said close to her ear. "If they have been defiled, we are honor bound to destroy them, give them peace. If not…"

"Then it is a desecration," Thaena finished.

"Perhaps," Anilya said, "but why take any chances either way:

"Perhaps you did not hear my mention of honor," Duras said angrily.

"Or perhaps I did. Honor may leave them in peace, but peace by its very nature is temporary," Anilya said. "We've already left plenty of bodies in our wake that could be used against us."

Thaena strode forward, ending the argument before it could continue. Approaching the bodies she held out her hands, feeling for the cold aura of the bleakborn reaching out for her warmth. The durthans words echoed in her mind as she neared the dead warriors. She wondered why those in the entrance hall had not been raised in such a manner. A chill in her fingertips interrupted the thought. It began to travel up her arms, and she backed away as the first of the two leaned forward from the wall, ice cracking as its frozen braid split, stuck to the stone.

Duras pulled her behind him, clapped two warriors of the fang on the shoulders, and raised his sword.

"As one," he said and made a downward stabbing motion with his weapon, waving the others toward the left while he angled toward the right. "Now!"

Before the bleakborn could gain their feet, Rashemi steel pinned them to the wall. Duras held one alone. The other was pinned at the shoulders. Both grew stronger from the attack, feeding on the warriors' body heat. Duras looked to Thaena as frost crawled up his blade.

Anilya acted quickly. Grabbing a torch from one of the Rashemi scouts she tossed it into the lap of the bleakborn on the left. The two warriors holding the undead stared at the durthan as if she'd gone mad. Even before the torch landed she was whispering a spell, her hands tracing the guttering flames in intricate movements. The undead grew flush and more lifelike, trying to reach for the blades in his shoulder.

Thaena followed Anilya's lead. The torch's flame changed from bright yellow and scarlet to shades of white and blue. The bleakborn groaned and thrashed as the heat became cold.

The ethran scooped a handful of snow in her palm and tossed it across the undead. Every place the snow fell it sparkled and spread, becoming a second skin of ice and frost. The bleak-borns' movements slowed, and the two women stepped aside. Thaena waved more of the fang onto the landing.

"Destroy them now," she commanded. "Quickly!"

They rushed in, hacking at the frozen bodies, dismembering them into piles of icy parts. Shivering, Duras freed his sword and fell back.

Thaena placed a hand on his shoulder as they waited for the fang's work to be done. She winced as the once recognizable bodies disappeared in a flurry of flashing steel and cursing oaths. As Duras's breathing became more measured she caught his eye.

"Are you well?" she said.

Taking a last cleansing breath, he nodded.

"I thought you liked the cold," she added playfully, trying to hide her greater concerns for a moment.

"As ever, my lady." He smiled, then added, "But death remains a cold season I have no wish to experience. At least not in this place, gods willing."

Thaena did not reply, didn't have to. She had no idea why the wychlaren had claimed such an outpost in the first place. Its position along the Lake Ashane notwithstanding, Thaena could imagine many spots better suited to the defense of Rashemen than a cursed city and the citadel that had failed in its defense. With all its dangers, she felt there must be something more to the Shield, a secret she was not privy to as an ethran. Secrets were common among the sisterhood, but the price paid to keep this one seemed far too high. She hoped the mystery was worth the sacrifice. Knowing her sisters, it probably was.

Anilya walked by them to stand at the base of the next flight of stairs, looking impatiently between them and the frozen bits that had once been living men. As distasteful as Anilya's presence was to her, Thaena agreed with the durthans sense of haste.

Taking her hand from Duras's shoulder, Thaena took the silent cue. The procession filed past the scene, their moods at once strengthened by the scent of fresh cold wind and darkened by the ruined bodies of their fellow Rashemi. Anilya's sellswords gave both bodies barely a second glance, keeping weapons ready and cloaks pulled tight.

As Thaena rejoined the marching order, it suddenly struck her to wonder how much the sellswords were actually being paid to take on such a mission… and to what end.