The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (9 page)

Syrolf released the grip on his sword, and Ohriman slowly pulled his blade away from the Rashemi’s neck. The arguments fell silent as the pair faced one another.

Syrolf took a step backward and turned as Ohriman made to sheath his sword. As soon as the mercenary’s hilt touched scabbard, the berserker spun, drawing his sword against the tiefling. In the blink of an eye, Ohriman’s blade appeared and blocked the attack, their steel singing as it met and held between them.

Their arms strained and pushed. SyrolPs lip curled as he found the wiry mercenary’s strength to be far more than expected.

Ohriman’s demeanor remained calm. Bastun swore the man looked as if he could have yawned at any moment. The others stood still, waiting to see if blood would be drawn between the two—there were no wychlaren laws to protect the tiefling. Despite his dislike of Syrolf, Bastun hoped Ohriman would lose. If Syrolf fell, the entire fang might rush to avenge his death.

With a final shove the pair parted. Syrolf merely grunted and turned away. Ohriman walked back to his men and gracefully sat down, drying the condensing mist from his blade with his cloak. Duras stood in SyrolPs path and grabbed his cloak roughly, batting the sword from his hand.

“Get some rest,” he said angrily and pushed Syrolf to the ground. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Syrolf glared and leaned against a block of stone. Another warrior passed him a skin of watered-down jhuild, the infamous Rashemi firewine, with a pat on his shoulder. Syrolf drank

slowly, wincing only slightly at Thaena’s whisper of admonishment as she passed. Glancing once more in Bastun’s direction, he looked away and stared at the ground, seething.

Silence returned to the hall, and both groups settled back in their places. Thaena prepared her spell components, while Duras maintained a close eye on Syrolf, who paid no mind to anything but the wineskin in his hand.

Shaking his head, Bastun resumed his place beside the portal, more comfortable with a puzzle of destructive magic than trying to figure out his fellow mortals.

Duras came to sit by him, wrapped in his cloak and sighing as he rested his legs.

“That was… bracing,” he said quietly, his eyes drifting to Syrolf and Ohriman.

“No blood spilled,” Bastun answered, still unsure of how to act around the warrior. “Well, not yet at any rate. How long do you suspect this truce will hold?”

“That depends.” Duras raised an eyebrow as he considered the question. “Mostly on how much opposition we’ll face at the Shield. And I say the more the merrier for this band.”

“Common enemies,” Bastun said, nodding.

“It does tend to keep the swords side by side,” Duras replied.

Bastun recalled his vision of the phantoms surrounding the fang as they fought the weeping undead, their ghostly blades blurring alongside Rashemi steel.

“When you were fighting those things, did you… feel anything strange?” Bastun asked, unsure if what he’d seen was even real.

“Something.” The warrior closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “There was something—terribly cold. And a memory, as if I’d been here before, fighting the same battle. Does that make any sense?”

“Perhaps,” Bastun replied, biting his lip and caressing the edges of a cracked rune in the portal. “I thought I saw something.”

In truth Duras’s memory meant far more to Bastun than he cared to say within earshot of the durthan and her lackey.

“I wouldn’t have let Syrolf kill you,” Duras said, interrupting the vremyonni’s thoughts. “I want you to know that.”

“Well,” Bastun replied, looking around the hall and taking in the odd stare or two from the fang and the sellswords alike. Thaena kept to herself and had made no move toward the pair. “That makes two of us.”

Duras smiled and glanced back at the durthan and Ohriman.

“Was Anilya right in what she said? Do you know what’s happening here?”

“Not really.” It was a safe lie, avoiding the fact that he couldn’t truly know for sure. “Though I doubt we’ve seen the last of the Creel. In fact I suspect the durthan was telling the truth about what she saw before meeting us.”

“Truly?” Duras raised an eyebrow. “Humph, then what is she lying about, I wonder?”

Bastun looked toward the durthan, who had ceased staring at him, and wondered at her true motives. She could not have known he knew anything about Shandaular, unless she was merely basing her guess on his luck with stopping the portal. It was common knowledge that the vremyonni had studied the city long before the Shield outpost was established by the wychlaren. However, Bastun was far too young to have been among those scholars. Bastun continued puzzling over the matter as the two groups rested in silence, waiting for Thaena to give the order to march.

+ + + + +

The ethran seemed to need no rest at all. She produced healing salves for the more seriously wounded among the fang and then paced in front of the hall’s entrance. Bastun found moments of rest here and there, not really exhausted

so much as trying not to appear impatient.

This became all the harder when the voices returned outside.

Scattered at first, he heard them swiftly gathering. He recalled the black tide of souls that had swept through the Creel earlier and imagined the waves of darkness rising in the streets. Slowly the others began to hear the voices as well, and Thaena clapped her hands together once to gain everyone’s attention, the nearness of the spirits giving her an immediate audience.

Words were unnecessary as the fang stood at the ready. Anilya roused her men as well and joined Thaena at the entrance. Duras took his place at the head of the fang. The vremyonni took one last look at the broken pieces of Shandaular’s portal, trying to hold the image of the Ilythiiri runes in his mind, then made his way toward the others.

“How far to the Shield, Duras?” Thaena asked.

“Less than a mile, directly south,” he answered.

“We’ll need to be quick,” Anilya added as the howling darkness outside grew louder.

“Indeed,” Thaena said. “Same marching order as before. We’ll run the distance to the gates and hope the spirits don’t follow too closely. Understood?”

“Yes, ethran,” Duras replied without hesitation, eliciting nods of approval and boastful assurances from the rest of the fang.

“And if they do follow?” Anilya asked.

Thaena gave the durthan a half-lidded stare through her mask, tilting her head as she answered matter-of-factly. “Then we stand and die fighting, as Rashemi should.”

The ethran stepped outside. Dawn was still a ways away as the two groups exited the chamber, but clouds heavy with snow and the thick fog eclipsed the pale light of sunrise. Bastun hovered a moment at the rear, looking around the corner of the hall’s curving exterior. The mist made everything a dim

silhouette, and walls seemed to melt into blackness as the spirits moved through and around them like a spreading flame. Every tortured voice, every wail felt directed at him, grabbing his heart and pounding it harder. Still, he could not look away. Scents of smoke and burning flesh reached his nose. Like ghosts themselves the smells tugged at the primal urge to flee.

A shout from Duras broke his bondage, and he quickly took his place as the group began a steady charge ahead of the spirits. The Rashemi ran, focused only on reaching their destination, but Bastun noted the looks of panic among the sellswords as the sound of the wailing shadows became screeches of frustration and inhuman desire. Only Ohriman maintained his stride and composure.

Chancing a look over his shoulder, Bastun could see where the Hall of the Portal had been. The advancing spirits had overcome it. Bastun searched through the fog ahead for the first glimpse of the Shield’s gates. It felt like an eternity, the limited visibility making progress unfathomable.

Lightning flashed through the clouds, lighting up the fog. Catching movement from out of the corner of his eye, Bastun saw a narrow alley flooding with shadows. Ephemeral arms stretched out for the warmth of the living, and pale patches of light bobbed in pairs through the mass.

“Beware the west!” Duras yelled.

Muted thunder mumbled in the wake of the lightning as the group edged away from the western side of the road, jumping over broken bits of wall and other structures protruding from the snow. More spirits tumbled into the street and merged with the moaning army of ghosts. Bastun pumped his legs harder, eyes focused on the path ahead of him.

“The east!” Anilya cried as the windows of a standing wall bled forth yet another stream of shadows.

Order dissolved as the shadows flanked them and closed in. The fang shouted, some challenging the shadows to catch them.

Lightning ripped through the sky again, spreading through

the snow and clouds and unnatural fog. Amidst the clouds, in the heartbeat in which they were lit, Bastun saw shapes diving and banking on shadowy wings. Shandaular was coming to life all around them. More corporeal things stumbled into view as they passed.

Thunder followed. A scream echoed in the thunder’s wake. One of Anilya’s sellswords had lagged behind, slowed by a wounded ankle. Tendrils of the darkness pulled him down into the snow. He shrieked for help, but there was no help to be had. His cries did not last long, and they strengthened those still running.

Death rode on their heels, and Bastun’s lungs burned with the effort of maintaining his stride. He felt relief as the high towers of the Shield became visible through the fog, although he feared what they might find inside. The mournful wail of the dead rose in pitch as the group crossed the last stretch of ground into the shadow of the Shield’s outer wall. The sound was deafening as the dead reached the border of their territory, a line that they would not cross, many retreating even within sight of the massive fortress.

Warriors hit the wall and slid to the ground, smiling grimly as they fought to catch their breath. The Rashemi greeted those behind them as if they’d just finished a casual race. Bastun slumped to his knees at the large wooden gates and leaned on his hands, breathing heavily. Though thankful that the dead outside still held a healthy fear of the Shield, he knew from Keffrass’s cryptic remarks that the spirits within the fortress were far more dangerous. When pressed for specifics, the old vremyonni would stare off into space for long moments, remembering, before shaking his head and changing the subject.

The shadows left behind melted among the ruins, their voices quieter but no less disquieting.

The gates were open slightly, just enough to allow one to pass through, and Bastun stood to peer in at the ancient castle. Thaena and Duras came to look as well, and Bastun wondered

if they had any idea of what they were truly seeing.

The tops of its high walls and multiple towers were lost in the low clouds, their surfaces remarkably untouched by times ravages, as if the citadel had been frozen and set aside. Bastun marveled at the magic that must have been used in its construction. Little decoration broke up the austere architecture save for the stylized archway above the gate, made to resemble what the portal must have once looked like.

Stepping back, he leaned against the cold surface of the gate and slid down to his knees once again. He collected his thoughts and rested his head on his staff. The others were still calming down, some invigorated by the run through the streets and others already checking their weapons. The latter reminded him that the Creel would be waiting. He knew this in his gut. The lack of any Rashemi guards at the gate lent proof.

Spells came to mind on instinct, and he closed his eyes to inventory the arcane passages held in his memory. An undercurrent of rhythm flowed through his thoughts as he recalled the Firedawn Cycle as well, the tune resurfacing as he worried about the Shield’s safety in the shadow of the fortress. The memory of Keffrass’s voice echoed among his thoughts.

Where is your breath?

He cast a quick glance toward Anilya and Ohriman, careful to shield his eyes beneath hood and mask. They stood apart from the others, talking in whispers and watching him. He focused the magic of his mask to eavesdrop on their conversation even as pieces of the Cycle sang themselves in the back of his mind.

… to shake the stones, to break the bones Of the Shield and steal its Breath, Of the Shield and steal its Breath.

A grim smile spread across his lips as he heard everything but the voices of the durthan and Ohriman.

Secrets, secrets, he thought, everyone has a secret.

“So be it,” he whispered and got back to his feet, surrounded by distrust and enemies, with more likely lying in wait just ahead. It had been a cold day when Keffrass had entrusted him with the secrets of Shandaular, and he couldn’t have imagined the day he used them would be colder still.

Somewhere inside—still hidden and buried, he hoped—lay the folly of Shandaular’s desperate king and the true cause of the city’s ruin.

He had to find the Shield’s secret and ensure its safety.

He had to find its Breath.

+

Nightal2, I376DR, the Year of the Bent Blade

Ihe snow was smooth and unbroken, the wind light and silent. Even the mist thinned as they neared the Shield, giving Bastun a better view of their surroundings as the group made its careful way across the courtyard to a series of rising steps.

The fortress loomed over them, the tops of its towers lost in darkness. High walls bridged one tower to the next, curving the entire structure into a wide embrace of stone and ancient ice.

Keffrass’s journals had contained sketches of what he had seen, his thoughts written with a mixture of fear and fascination. Before they’d been stolen along with several other scrolls and maps, Bastun had pored over them, devouring all that he could. The Shield’s emptiness, abandoned corridors and silent battlements, had caught his imagination like nothing else he had studied. Standing in its shadow, he could understand his master’s apprehension. Frozen in time, it stood in stark contrast to the ruined city surrounding it. He had the sense that it was watching them, bitter and unforgiving; it waited for them with all the patience of a dark mountain.