The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (22 page)

He reached to his pouches, his stores of components and crafted magic, as the beast crawled over the drained corpse.

“Where is Bastun?” Thaena’s whisper reached him and vaulted him into motion. The nighthaunt shuddered and pounced.

He abandoned magic and raised his staff, the axe blade blazing to life as he slashed at the thing. The creature changed its direction, twirling in flight with a grace that had nothing to do with wind or wing. Overbalanced by the swing, Bastun fell forward as the nighthaunt’s tail whipped his shoulder. He spun with the strike, gasping at the burning touch of the creature even as he rolled into a crouch. He caught a quick glimpse of the others far down the bridge before turning to defend himself again with the axe.

He struck the nighthaunt’s wing, feeling it tear through, but the leathery hide mended itself even as it was wounded. It turned and circled, preparing to dive again. Bastun ran, chanting and drawing a tiny bead of tree sap from his pouch. Following the forged path through the snow, he searched for signs of movement in the air.

In a blink it appeared before him out of thin air, rushing forward with gangly arms outstretched. At the last moment he fell flat on his stomach, enduring the pain of claws scratching at his back as the nighthaunt passed over and circled for another strike. Kissing his fist with a prayer to the Three, he hurled the tree-sap bead into its path.

He lost sight of the bead in the snow, but the nighthaunt’s circle faltered. It shook its arm as tendrils of the sap grew, entangling its horns and wrapping around its wings. It fell from the air, writhing against the substance to disappear beyond the wall’s edge. With a sigh of relief he rushed toward the others.

Screams came to him through the storm high overhead. The creatures were said to on occasion feed while on the wing. Over battlefields and cursed places, dying beyond sight of ground or salvation, their victims fell as a grim, silent rain. He shivered to imagine such a fate.

Closer now he could see the battling shadows through the snow. Thaena’s cries drew him to his left. He found her on hands and knees, struggling to stand. Something caught his

foot and he tripped, falling on his right shoulder. The body of yet another sellsword lay beneath him. Pushing himself up, his aching limbs straining to keep moving, he watched as a nighthaunt dived for the ethran.

Duras fought valiantly barely a stride away from her, unable to see the looming threat. The spell poured from Bastun’s lips on reflex. It was fast, and he had no time to think. Thaenas head turned. She had pulled off her mask, baring the face he had not seen in almost seventeen years. The woman that looked upon him was the echo of the girl he had known, the despair in her eyes crushing him in its intensity.

Magic coursed through his arm, and flashes of light appeared at his fingertips. Motes of blazing brilliance flew from his hand and into the nighthaunt s path. Its eyes blinked, and it shook its horned head to avoid the light that popped and burst in its face. It turned and wheeled away, swiping at the clinging bits of arcane illumination that followed. Though harmless, the spell had been enough for the moment.

More light exploded from his right, and he found Anilya defending her men. Rising to one knee he watched the dtfrthan making slow progress toward Thaena, and fear brought him to his feet. She had not yet seen him, and the spell he brought to mind would put her deception to rest alongside the nighthaunts’ victims. The Breath hung heavy at his side as if more substantial in the presence of one who sought its power.

A thud shook the stones beside him. Flinching and raising his axe, he stared at the body of a sellsword, legs bent at odd angles, face buried in the snow. The hairs on Bastun’s neck stood on end, and he whirled in time to catch sight of the nighthaunt before being tackled to the ground. The axe flew from his hand as cold claws found his throat.

Instinctively he held the blank face back, his hands slipping on the nighthaunt s slick, leathery skin. He kicked and squirmed in its grasp, gripping the curling horns and twisting to get away. Beating wings churned snow into his eyes, and

the things long tail whipped around his ankles. Blinking, he managed to see Anilya kneeling close to Thaena, waving her hands in the midst of casting.

“No! Thaena!” He yelled, but the nighthaunt held him fast and pushed with unnatural strength on his chest. He fought for air and strained to hold back the unraveling pit of darkness that erupted between the creature’s horns. The pale eyes became pools of shadow, bottomless and hungry. Fine threads of curling black mist stretched and brushed through his mask, tracing thin lines of pain on his cheek. He could feel himself being drawn into the swirling vortex.

He turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut. Desperate, he let go with his left hand and fumbled through the snow for his axe. The darkness drew closer, drawing the energy from his body. He choked as the emptiness touched him. His flailing hand found nothing, and he groaned before brushing against hard metal pinned against his leg.

Grabbing hold of the object he tugged and pulled it free from beneath him. Swinging blindly he connected with the nighthaunt’s head. Bits of horn broke away and bounced off his mask. The shadows disappeared, and his spirit rushed back from the edge of the nighthaunt’s dark hunger. Opening his eyes he met the glazed orbs of the beast and swung again, the wavy blade of the Breath biting through wing and shoulder.

The nighthaunt panicked, releasing his throat and legs and kicking away. Bastun followed, stabbing the ancient blade into the creature before it scrambled out of reach. The beast crawled over the side of the wall and disappeared. Turning back to the battle, he found Thaena gone, but he heard her voice calling out to charge the guard tower.

In the place where she had been Anilya now stood. The durthan faced him with sudden interest in her eyes, her gaze lingering on the Breath before turning to join the others. Her figure became a blur through the snow, silhouetted against the madly dancing sparks of torches in the distance.

Somewhere in the battle, Thaena began casting, sending bright beams of light (lashing through the darkness and burning the circling nighthaunts.

Bastun shoved the Breath back into his belt and forced his legs to move, stumbling through the snow and trying to catch up. He knelt to retrieve his staff and lit his way along the wall, following in the deeper paths.

The figures ahead disappeared, one by one, into the white wall of the guard tower. The storm shoved him from left to right, wind screaming in his ears. The dancing lights blinked out, leaving him nearly blind beyond the reach of his staff s illumination. The slamming of a heavy door resounded like an executioners axe against the block. He passed lifeless figures lying in the snow, but not as many as he had feared—and most were of Anilya’s band.

Through the chaos of the winter storm he heard the faint beating of wings. Glimpses of flitting shadows gave him strength, and he quickened his step as much as his aching body would allow. He imagined them circling overhead like giant vultures, licking their wounds, angry at the feast lost in the tower and hungrily eyeing the lone wizard picking his way toward escape.

The tower wall appeared through the windy murk, its door firmly shut. He threw his shoulder against the door, wincing in pain when it didn’t budge. He beat on the door with his staff. No answer came from within. Placing his back to the tower he summoned his axe blade and kicked the door.

The nighthaunts landed on the wall, shaking their horned heads in excitement as they crawled nearer. Half a dozen of the beasts appeared, their bodies like holes cut from the cloth of reality. Voice ragged and throat raw with cold, Bastun managed to summon the words of a spell. A burst of scintillating colors lit the scene and scattered the creatures, buying him a few more moments. He slammed his fist into the door in anger. To break it down would mean death for the fang within. And Thaena.

Turning, he planted his feet solidly and prepared to die fighting, assuming a stooped battle stance and flexing muscles fraught with pain. Sensing his resignation the nighthaunts’ wings shivered and drew tight, like the hackles of wolves smelling prey with nowhere left to run. One lunged forward, eager to feed first. Bastun roared and raised his axe, but rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him backward.

He fell, flailing into the tower as the door slammed shut behind him. Claws raked on the door outside as he was spun around and shoved against a wall. Torches blinded his eyes and his axe was snatched away. A strong arm held him tight, though he had no strength to resist. Blinking fiercely, the blurry shape in front of him came into focus slowly, revealing the runic tattoos and snarling visage of Syrolf.

Bastun froze as torchlight glistened on the cold edge placed against his neck.

N° words were needed. SyrolPs eyes told it all.

Too weak to defend himself against the punch to his stomach, Bastun took it and doubled over in pain. The sword at his throat disappeared only for its pommel to come crashing down on his skull. He fell to his hands, vision swimming as the room erupted into chaos.

Shouts and curses surrounded him as Duras tackled Syrolf. Coughing, Bastun crawled against the wall and lay on his side. The fang had become a tangle of legs and arms as supporters of Duras leaped to his aid against those siding with Syrolf. Their eyes were bloodshot and without reason as they punched and kicked at one another. Though a common sight in the berserker lodges, this brawl stemmed from more than simple rivalry.

His eyes clearing, Bastun watched as the floor came alive. The shadows of the combatants peeled away from the stone, growing darker as tendrils reached and snatched. Beneath the curses and shouts he heard the undercurrent of whispers, the nonsensical ravings of the shadowy children as they played in the fertile ground of the Rashemi’s minds. The black stream of spirits filled cracks in the floor, bending and twisting as it made its way toward Bastun.

Drawing back against the wall, his hand went to the Breath, making the shadows pull away. Before he could study the

effect, the room rippled and changed. Ghostly images overlaid themselves among the fighting Rashemi. Fierce warriors in heavy armor fought with sword and shield through the scene. The faint noise of metal on metal echoed in his mind as if from a great distance. The Breath’s steel gripped his hand with claws of ice, compelling him to stand, to skirt this battle and continue on his way to the northwest tower. He fought the will that tried to overcome him and, straining with effort, released his hand from the Breath. As he did the ghostly battle disappeared.

Blood spattered across the floor in front of him, and Syrolf landed on his back. Duras stood over him, breathing heavily and reaching for the fallen warrior again. Others came from behind, grasping his shoulders and hauling him backward. Syrolf turned over, noticing Bastun, and lunged. Blood poured from his nose and stained his bared teeth as he was stopped as well, pulled away from the prone vremyonni to spit and swear.

Thaena walked up between the pair, reprimanding them with little more than a stern glare and a steady hand. The shouting faded as the bloodlust fled from weary muscles and clenched fists. Duras and Syrolf stood on their own, staring each other down but making no move to continue the fight.

Bastun rose to a sitting position and caught his breath. The whispers died away, and the shadows sank back into the stone, the ghosts’ sport now finished as a measure of order was restored to the group. Thaena caught his eye, an unreadable light flashing in her gaze. An awkward silence passed between them, which she quickly broke, ordering men to secure the doors and any other entrances or exits. Wind whistled through cracks beneath the doors and shook the broken windows at the far end of the chamber. Bastun leaned against the wall, clutching his stomach, stars dancing before his eyes.

“Hold him,” Thaena said, and Duras stepped forward to grasp Bastun’s robe. Hauled to his feet, Duras pinned

him to the wall. The warrior did not look at him directly, seeming uncomfortable with the situation but obeying the ethran. Syrolf and the remainder of the fang waited expectantly. Despite the blood on his face and a bruised cheek, Syrolf ignored Duras and kept his gaze firmly fixed on Bastun.

Anilya approached Thaena, barely glancing at Bastun, though she again took note of the wavy-bladed sword at his side.

“I have laid an enchantment that should discourage the nighthaunts,” she said calmly as if nothing had happened, “but the storm is another matter. We might do well to wait out the worst of it before continuing.”

Thaena blinked, looking at the durthan before nodding in agreement.

“See to your men, durthan,” she said, her tone still even and full of command as she looked sidelong at Bastun. “I will see to this.”

Anilya glanced once toward the vremyonni and turned away. Bile rose in Bastun’s throat at the durthan’s calm exterior. He fought the urge to spit and call her out in front of the fang, but instead closed his eyes to calm and steady his nerves.

They cannot know, he thought. Not yet. Not until I can prove my claims.

Thaena approached him, standing at Duras’s shoulder as she looked him up and down.

“Bring him,” she said and made her way toward the back of the room.

Duras pulled him from the wall and shoved him forward.

The fang parted for the procession, spitting and whispering in their wake. Syrolf paused before moving out of the way. Wiping blood from his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic, his expression made promises that Bastun had no doubt he intended to keep. He grabbed Duras’s shoulder, looking up at him as the big warrior stopped.

“You risk too much, protecting him,” he said. “He’s using you.”

Duras pulled away and led Bastun to an archer’s loft at the back of the room. Thaena stood beside the bottom step as the vremyonni climbed the steep stairway. He winced at the ache in his legs. As Thaena and Duras followed, the whispering below them became quiet arguments and accusations. He wondered if he had done the right thing, if he had come to help them against the durthans imminent betrayal or to die alongside them—possibly by their blades.