The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (30 page)

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.”