The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Chapter Twenty-one

His arms grew tired from swinging at what felt like little more than empty air. As he struggled to keep moving, Athumrani's will surged, and the Breath pulled at his side. The sight of Serevan through the fray made the will stronger, and Bastun felt pushed through the wraiths. Their claws reached effortlessly through skin and muscle. Their blades flowed through bone leaving only pain. He fought against the Magewarden's wild emotions, enforcing his will over the entity. His axe rose and fell, growing slower and less accurate.

Once again death reached with rough hands for his soul, and he made a swift choice. Inhaling slowly, he reached for the spell-rage that laid but a heartbeat away when the piercing voice of Anilya rose above everything.

Her spell unleashed a torrent of warm air across his back. Harmless and singing with magic, it Was barely enough to rustle the hem of his robe, but the effect on the wraiths was instantaneous. Their incorporeal forms rippled. Their faces, straining beyond death's grip to be known, screamed as the spell's wind tore them apart. In moments only an echo of their pain was left hanging on the air.

Falling forward, senses clearing, Bastun forced back the fury in his throat. Less than half the wall remained between him and the prince. Serevan turned, his face twisted in confusion. For the briefest of moments, the prince seemed as a sleepwalker, woken from his dream to a reality that he could not comprehend. He moved forward, his steps unsure as madness twisted his features. The blush of life he had taken from the Creel had begun to fade. Sharp cheekbones stood out as taut skin pulled his face slowly back into the rictus grin of unlife.

Anilya's voice rose again. Recognizing the spell, Bastun lurched forward, determined to reach the prince. Tiny motes of ice-blue light danced past him, striking the stone with bright sparks of energy. Where they touched, spikes of ice burst upward, forming a barrier across the wall and keeping him from his goal. Sorrow flooded through his mind as the Magewarden's will fell apart, torn from the course of time. Bastun placed a hand on the ice, feeling the magic ring's strange warmth flow through his fingers. The quiet curses that escaped his lips were Athumrani's, but the desperation he felt was his own.

Hands grabbed at his shoulders, dragging him back from the ice. He resisted at first, wondering at Athumrani's path, what sorrow had carried the man past Serevan to the Word-and beyond. Arms weak and aching, he thought of his fallen master, wishing Keffrass were there to tell him what he should do. Together they might have done battle against and discussed the peculiar history of the Shield and its odd curse. For a moment he shared in the echo of sorrow that Athumrani had left in his heart. Overpowered by Duras, he reluctantly complied and turned back.

"The wraiths are gone only temporarily," Anilya said to Thaena as the pair approached. "The spell was not enough to destroy them. Get back inside the tower. When they return, I and my men will hold them off as long as we can."

"Why should we trust you?" Syrolf asked.

"I should think there is little choice," she answered, her eyes glancing between them and the icy barrier.

"And even less time to debate the issue," Thaena said. "Get everyone inside the guard tower."

Syrolf did as the ethran ordered, ushering the fang back as the durthans sellswords, down to only four, approached their employer. Duras went on ahead, leaving Bastun to edge along slowly and listen as the two women spoke.

"I'll raise another barrier when you are all inside," Anilya said, producing a small vial of brown liquid from her belt. "It should give you a bit more time."

"We'll gather the blades," Thaena replied, staring after the fang. "I should be able to make enough of them potent against the wraiths."

"Provided they get past me," Anilya said, a dangerous humor in her voice.

"Yes," the ethran said. "I don't know why-"

"Let's not waste time, Thaena," Anilya said. "Do not place any thought of nobility or honor in my actions. We do what we must for our own reasons."

Bastun looked over his shoulder at the durthan, narrowing his eyes as he turned her words over in his mind. Thaena did not reply, the moment broken as steel cracked against ice from the other side of the wall. The pair parted in silence, Thaena toward the guard tower and Anilya to her men. Serevan thrashed against the ice in front of them, his blurry shape slashing and pounding at the barrier with inhuman force.

Anilya did not flinch, and to their credit the sellswords simply stretched weary muscles and readied their weapons. She looked back after Bastun before he finally turned away and he wondered if, despite her intentions, he had misjudged her character after all.

The doors slammed shut behind him. Swords were laid out before the ethran, who whispered and mumbled in a trance of magic. Her voice strained as she struggled to call upon what power she could from faraway Rashemen.

Bastun paced to the back of the chamber, lost in thought and staring at the packs and possessions of these who might not survive until morning. chapter Tuueoty-ooe

Tiny imperfections, lengthening and growing darker with each blow, danced just underneath the surface of the ice. Anilya watched them, wondered at the hands that swung the blade on the other side. This forgotten prince, bound in frozen flesh, had orchestrated with cruel precision each trapped spirit in the City of Weeping Ghosts. He ruled here just as his ambition had demanded-now slave to his own folly and a day long since passed. Anilya had broken his day, if only for a few short moments, had denied him his meeting with the vengeful Athumrani. Now, his purpose lost he turned his rage against the ice that kept him from replaying his fate.

She turned around as the tower doors were shut, and she hurled the vial. The liquid splashed against the doors and the stone, seeping into each as it stained and set roots of magic. Tiny shoots appeared at first, growing at an unnatural rate, spreading into massive trunks and clinging vines. Thorns sprouted on every surface as arcane foliage engulfed the western side of the tower. She observed her work for a moment, making sure that all was in order before turning back to the barrier of ice.

Her warriors watched her expectantly, as if waiting for some plan to be revealed. She told them nothing, unconcerned and confident that they were sufficiently drugged to maintain a semblance of morale. With a whisper, her vision rippled, changing the world that she saw. The spectral realm overlaid reality as a cobweb of images. Smoke drifted by, and she saw Shandaular illuminated by flames. Denied the prize he sought-the city's most unique portal-the Nentyarch had ordered everything burned to the ground. It was to be a message for any who would deny him. Though he had intended a monument of ash, one traitorous son had managed a cursed ruin of ice. In the midst of such destruction, its secrets kept by ghosts, hidden by thick mists and short memory, was left only the Shield.

"As enduring as the magic wrought within its walls," she muttered, remembering the quote from something she had once read. Trying to recall the exact text, her hand drifted to the satchel at her belt and found it gone. Glancing over her shoulder at the guard tower, she sighed and shook her head, "Ah yes. Time is truly our enemy now."

"What is the trick, lady durthan?" The warrior that spoke eyed the ice nervously as did his companions. "Are we to make a deal? A trade perhaps?"

She looked at him, smiling despite herself.

Not as much wine in them as I'd expected, she thought.

"No," she answered. "Though these Creel are dead or dying, more will come, and my sisters will not allow any incursion of the Nar close to Rashemen."

The warrior, a middle-aged nomad of the Cold Road, glanced between the two barriers that sealed them all upon the wall. The long-handled blade in his hand wavered as he considered their limited options.

"Then what are we to do here?" he asked, a note of genuine confusion in his voice-the aftereffects of a steady dosage of thrallwine still hampering his wits. An edge of frustration was making its way to the surface as survival instincts overcame drug-induced bravery. "Our blades are nigh useless if those wraiths return, and your damned prince there, by your own word, isn't likely to take to a grave anytime soon! We're trapped on top of this wall, and your precious sword is in the hands of that wizard. So what do we do now?"

Smiling behind the mask, she turned as if considering his question. The wall was bereft of phantoms now. Shandaular's day was coming to yet another end. Stars flickered and winked overhead, some disappearing completely as the wraiths slowly remade themselves. A split appeared in the ice-the tip of Serevan's blade piercing the frozen barrier.

"Now?" she said, crossing her forearms and reaching out to the Weave with her will. It was a minor spell she cast, common house-magic for witches of the north dealing with harsh winters. The ice crackled as a spider web of imperfections spread beneath its surface, making it brittle and awaiting the prince's next shattering blow. "Now… we must die."

The first moans of the returning wraiths echoed above as magic swirled at her fingertips.

Time was broken. The uncomfortable rift between what was happening and what should have happened loomed in Bastun's mind. The Breath, out of balance with the memory of itself, hung heavy at his side.

In the past, either Athumrani or Serevan had wielded the blade and opened the black door to the Word. Of the two, he could not decide who would have desired such destruction more. Between the prince's ambition and the Magewarden's hate and sorrow, both might have fulfilled the Word's purpose-and both were surely very close when it occurred.

The thought of ambition made him consider Anilya, and though he wished otherwise, he was unable to trust the durthan's act of noble sacrifice. He listened closely for the sounds of inevitable battle outside, wondering what end she might make for herself-if indeed she truly expected to die at the Cold Prince's hands.

He shook his head and smirked beneath the mask, carrying no illusions that she would die an unlikely hero for the sake of Rashemen. For that alone he almost admired her tenacity.

A scream cut through the doors. The dull clash of steel rang in muted tones and the floor shook slightly. The sounds of battle returning his focus to the moment, Bastun tried to appear casual as he scanned the scattered piles of extraneous gear left by the wall.

In the light of a nearby torch, a familiar satchel, unceremoniously tossed among the effects of the Rashemi, caught his eye. He glanced at the others. Thaena sprinkled consecrated soil over the gathered swords before her, casting magic upon them that would sharpen their edges against threats not in the world of the living. The fang waited, respectfully silent and echoing the prayers sent to the Three as they observed their own traditional rituals. Duras and Syrolf stood across from each other, the rivalry between them evident, though muted in the face of the true enemies they would soon encounter.

Taking the moment, Bastun knelt and grabbed the satchel, turning his back to the others and shielding it from view. Waving a hand over its simple latch he detected only minor spells had been put in place to deter prying eyes. It spoke volumes about Anilya's confidence that she would trust such protection among other spellcasters.

Or, he thought, it means she keeps nothing more inside than cheap wine and dried food.

Trusting his instincts and curious to discover what secrets of the durthan he could, he disarmed the latch's cantrips and reached inside. He pulled forth two large books. The first was likely the durthans spellbook bound in a dark cover, the latch on its side fairly humming with protective wards, and he set it aside carefully. Even among allies, most spellcasters kept their arcane secrets shut away and locked with painful consequences.

More screams came from outside, joined by chilling moans and the sound of spells being cast.

Steel scraped against stone as the Rashemi bent to retrieve their blades. Thaena breathed heavily in the wake of the working she had cast on the weapons. Whispered oaths followed swiftly, members of the fang adding their own humble blessings upon the enchanted weapons. The noise only barely registered at the edge of Bastun's attention. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his brow toward his eye. He blinked it away.

The second book was a much older tome with red leather binding, yellowed pages, and wrapped only in a leather cord. The Nar runes on the cover caught his attention first. By his estimation, they dated the book far older than its appearance suggested. The strange lettering danced under his scrutiny, avoiding his cursory attempt at translation. Just touching the book made him nauseous, and the runes squirmed before his eyes, elusive in their meaning.

The sounds of battle faded, but the groaning chorus of wraiths became stronger. A faint rustling and the sound of chopping wood shook the barred doors.

Setting the books aside, Bastun pulled forth a collection of old parchments and a small brown leather journal. A familiar scent wafted from the pages, and his eyes widened as he laid them flat, smoothing their curling corners. His heart pounded as he looked them over, hands trembling as he leafed from one to the next. He stopped and stared, clenching his jaw, exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes and swore under his breath.

The doors shook violently, the braces across them bowing beneath the heavy blows that mirrored the beating in his chest. The nearness of the prince caused the Breath to grow cold as a shadow of Athumrani's sorrow-driven hate flashed through his mind. He felt the Magewarden had suffered some loss that had shaken him to his core, and for the moment Bastun did not mind the uninvited company.

With a heavy heart he reached for the journal and opened it to the first page. The signature there as unmistakable to him as his own-Keffrass of Vremyonni. He closed it and laid it among the old scrolls, all of them stolen from the Running Rocks on the night of his master's-his friends-murder. "Thieving even now, exile?"

He reacted slowly to the voice of Syrolf, the memory of Keffrass's death giving way to emotions more easily dealt with in battle. Looking over his shoulder, he found the blade of the tattooed berserker leveled upon him and ready to strike. Syrolf casually acknowledged the approach of Thaena as if proudly displaying his catch of the vremyonni's indiscretion. The ethran looked down upon him with a stare he had grown to recognize among the wychlaren, even among their pupils. It no longer bothered him much anymore.

Before she could speak, he slid the scrolls and pages around for her to view, laying the durthans satchel alongside them. His eyes never left the small leather journal, the edges of its cover darkened as if singed. Raising a hand close to his mask, he could smell the scent of char from handling the journal. The fiery magic that had laid Keffrass low, he had blamed upon himself, the guilt of it guiding many of his decisions since.

One of the door braces cracked, splinters snapping off and tapping on the floor. Thaena knelt before the gathered pages, her fingers brushing the parchment thoughtfully. Years of research, meticulously collected by the vremyonni, were laid out before her. Much of Shandaular's mystery, here reduced to ink and wizards' secrets, told a tale of ancient magic, terrible empires, and the sacrifice of a single man. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and speechless, then laid a hand on the flat of SyrolFs blade to lower it. He raised an eyebrow in confusion and took a step backward. The simple act drew Bastun's attention from the journal, and he met the ethran's gaze.

He should have felt something-relief at being exonerated completely of his alleged crimes, his actions justified in the presence of an old friend once lost-but there was nothing there. He felt hollow.

The braces broke. The doors swung free and a fierce cold invaded the chamber. Night hung with burning eyes behind the ivory figure of Serevan, stolen warmth again filling his sunken visage. The fang fell back before the feeding chill of the bleakborn prince, but it was only a momentary retreat. Berserker rage was upon them, and there before them stood the cause of all recent sorrow and chaos. Exhaled breaths became wolflike growls, and gleaming swords marked a sharp line between the prince and their ethran.

"Athumrani!" Serevan's voice sliced through the room, his ice-rimmed eyes resting on Bastun.

The emptiness within Bastun filled. The trapped spirit of the Magewarden writhed to answer the call, and Bastun rose with him. His axe blade screamed to life as spells swarmed through his mind.

The discordant voices of the wraiths moaned and hissed in answer to the berserkers' growls. Their floating mass surged, a roiling storm of gloom as they poured into the room. Black blades raised high as they descended upon the Rashemi and rang loudly as they were blocked and turned away. Sibilant whimpers escaped many of the spirits at being denied an easy victory, but they pushed their numbers hard against the fang. Bastun lost sight of Serevan as the wraiths engulfed the doorway and shrouded everything in darkness.

Syrolf charged, slicing deep into the wraith's body. The spirit shimmered at the blade's touch, its bright eyes widening as it fought back with a speed unchecked by physical reality. Bastun skirted the edges of the chaos, searching for Serevan among the crowd.

Flashes of sparkling light exploded from the opposite end of the chamber-Thaena's voice rising in victory as several of the undead dissipated into nothing. Bastun summoned his own spell, calling forth a nimbus of flame that glowed and flickered around his hand. A wraith flew too near, and he grasped at its neck, the flames searing through the night black creature. It clawed at his arm as he waded into the fray with the screeching thing. Within the unnatural darkness, the Rashemi appeared as solid silhouettes as they slashed and cut the wraiths to ribbons. Some, fighting despite their wounds, thrashed as the undead surrounded them and pulled them to the ground.

The wraith in Bastun's fist groaned and fell apart, its form drifting and caressing his skin like a veil of cobwebs before disappearing. Slicing his axe forward, he felled another of the spirits and another, ignoring the cold bum of claw marks on his arm. He realized he was alone, breaking through an invisible circle and surrounded by the white eyes of the desecrated Creel warriors. Gnarled claws and ghostly blades reached to scratch and stab at him, but he held them back.

His foot brushed against something solid. Glancing down he saw the body of a berserker, curled upon the floor, skin white as unbroken snow. Through a brief break in the dark, he caught a glimpse of the west wall, the distant tower of the Word, and the bodies lying broken and bloodied in the snow. The sellswords lay dead, their mistress sprawled out among them, lifeless.

"No!" he whispered in disbelief, stunned by a pang of guilt followed quickly by a sense of vindication: his master's murderer lay dead. Wraiths blocked his view, moaning as they spun in circles around the Rashemi.

Warmth spread down his arm and through his body. Fever set his senses aflame as he sought the source of the sensation. He turned, slashing into shadow after shadow. He could hear the others struggling to fight the numerous spirits, but only as if from a great distance.

A blazing light appeared from the midst of the darkness, and he recoiled at the sight of it, his eyes burned by the sudden radiance. It pressed closer and touched him upon the shoulder. A jolt of power rushed through his body. Every muscle danced and clenched as he was thrown across the chamber. He slammed into the floor and slid several feet before stopping. His axe, still in his grip, scraped across stone.

He worked his jaw slowly, his mask chafing against skin that felt raw and exposed. The light of a nearby torch flared as his eyes rolled back. He shook and spasmed, gritting his teeth as he forced unwilling muscles to respond. Gulping for air like a landed fish, he managed to place a palm down on the floor and push himself up. Blinking and shaking his head, the taste of copper filled his mouth, and he lifted his mask to spit as he awkwardly regained his feet. The prince appeared, striding through the throng of wraiths, his deathly pallor passing through the spirits and giving the illusion that he was the ghost and not they.

The wraiths no longer came near the vremyonni, focusing their anger on the fang instead. Frost coated the ground where the prince stepped, rushing ahead of him as his aura moved. The ice hesitated at the hem of Bastun's robes, and where he expected freezing, he found burning. Sweat poured down his face, meeting the contours of his mask and dripping down his neck. Serevan raised an ungloved hand, a graceful finger pointing at him.

"Magewarden," the prince said, his voice now seeming to echo through Bastun's mind.

The Breath grew colder against his leg, a relief from the oppressive heat that pulsated across his flesh. Athumrani's thoughts swelled from the blade, flooding his head with more voices, memories, and emotions.

"We had a deal, Athumrani. You betrayed me once. Do not make the mistake of doing so again."

Bastun could feel the Magewatden's mind, struggling to answer. There was to be an exchange: the Shield's secrets for… something. Pain lanced behind his eyes as the pressure of two minds became too much to bear, and he shouted as the dead wizard's words commanded his voice.

"Y-you took her! Used her!"

Bastun choked on the words, inhaling swiftly as he fell to one knee.

"The girl," he muttered as the source of Athumrani s shame and sorrow revealed itself in his mind. He looked with dread toward the tower stairwell behind him. There, peering fearfully around the corner, more translucent than before, barely more than a memory herself, stood the child, the little girl. The others were barely a haze behind her, tiny dots of darting eyes afraid to look upon the prince that had designed their deaths. The young girl stared at him with fearful eyes, tiny gleaming tears streaking down her face as she looked not at him… but at her father's tortured spirit. "Athumrani's daughter."

"Your king is dead, and your city is burning," Serevan said. "This stand is less than noble and I’ll befits a man of your wisdom. Surrender the blade and the ring."

Bastun's hand drifted to the Breath, feeling the cold metal pulsing beneath his touch.

"The ring?" He stood, less of his own volition and more as a player's puppet on strings of time. The strange ring did indeed play some part along with the Breath-a secret kept from him, possibly even from Keffrass.

His head slowly shook from side to side, the Magewarden refusing to yield. A catch formed in his throat, and Bastun choked down Athumrani's reply. The rushing pace of history as it caught up with the present was overwhelming, but he managed to assert himself-control himself-long enough to ignore the well-tread paths of ghosts and memories.

The axe blade raised sparks as it scored the stone, swinging in a powerful arc at Serevan's neck. It sang as it met the prince's own blade, drawn and placed with a cruel precision. Denied the cut, Bastun drew back to swing again, the motion as reflexive as the spells that sprung to mind. The magic curled in his gut, spinning with the blade as the words crowded themselves on his tongue. He backstepped as Serevan advanced, the prince's actions no longer following the paths of the past.

Their blades met again, the clash of metals matching the rhythm of his casting. Though Serevan snarled, his face a mask of confusion at the re-enactment that refused to obey set course, his skill with the thin blade he carried was formidable and unhindered by the chaos he was experiencing. His white lips moved, mumbling and whispering words of magic that overlaid Bastun's own intonations.

Power flowed from the vremyonni's chest, gathering at his shoulder as he raised his arm to ditect the energy he had summoned. It danced through his muscles, slid along sinew and bone, through his wrist, and flared into a sparkling yellow light at his palm-and then died.

With a final syllable, the spark was reflected in the glassy eyes of the prince as he countered and dismissed Bastun's attempt to harm him. Eyes widening in shock, Bastun fell back as Serevan's blade came again-and faster. He swung the heavy axe against the quick and elegant thrusts of the smaller weapon. The axe-staff became more shield than weapon as the prince fell more out of step with his past and into the murderous fury of the sleeper awoken from a dark and terrible dream.

The proximity to the bleakborn was stifling. The numbing cold that froze anything else burned Bastun's skin like a bonfire. Frost surrounded them, ice formed on the floor, yet melted wherever he set foot. The hunger in Serevan's eyes took on a maddening gleam as his cheeks sank in upon themselves. The cracks and rot of a long-frozen death began to spread through the prince's features.

"The ring!" the prince rasped, his semblance of life falling apart.

Pain lanced through his side as the bleakborn's blade found an opening. He groaned as the sword was pulled free, blood spattering the floor. He doubled over and Serevan kicked him to the ground.

A scratchy sound like dried leaves escaped a throat that had fallen apart, exposing the lifeless gray tissue beneath. The sword hovered high, its edge wavering in the drawn-out heartbeats that came when death neared. Clutching his wound, Bastun looked upon the blade and wondered if this too was a part that Athumrani had played. Pain and the sudden shock of mortality brought an unexpected clarity to his thoughts. He couldn't raise his axe in time to stop the sword, but it didn't seem to matter as much as he'd expected only moments before.

The blade fell, a silver stroke of lightning through the storm of darkness that threatened to overtake his vision. The room blurred, something shoved him out of the way, and he rolled onto his stomach. Steel sang like a stricken anvil as he glanced up and saw Duras standing in his place. Swords locked, the berserker and the prince tested one another's strength.

Bastun watched in horror as telltale frost crawled over Duras's gauntlet and the sunken pits of Serevan's cheeks swelled slightly with a blush of renewed warmth.