The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Chapter Nineteen

'Jhe walls and floors vibrated with the sound of Creel war drums.

Thaena strode into the room as Bastun and Anilya separated before her. The durthan pulled herself to her feet defensively, her eyes never leaving the vremyonni. Bastun lowered his axe.

The ethran stood between them, looking from one to the other as the Ice Wolves filed into the room, the drums affecting them much as they had Bastun-hands on weapons, eyes narrowing, and breathing becoming short and controlled. He imagined the Creel would be in for a shock if they expected their drums to inspire fear.

Thaena's gaze rested upon Bastun as she called out orders to the fang.

"Syrolf, get those doors secured," she said.

The runescarred warrior led several men to inspect the heavy iron doors, which appeared to have opened sometime in the recent past despite the ice and rust which should have sealed them tight. Duras approached, followed by more of the fang, and Bastun backed away from them, a familiar ache growing in his head.

Thaena gestured and continued, "Restrain the vremyonni and stick close to the durthan until we know what we're dealing with."

Bastun's hand was nowhere near the Breath, yet spirits appeared behind the nearing Rashemi. Only faint outlines and bright eyes, they looked down upon him like judges as they walked through and around his countrymen. The pain increased, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. The Breath pulsed like a living thing at his side, growing heavier. He fell to one knee, staring at the floor as the dust appeared to shift and move beneath his feet. Tiny at first, shadows bled through the stone and welled around his boots.

The sorrowful thoughts of the invading mind pushed against his will. Voices whispered throughout the chamber, and Duras stopped, the fang turning their eyes to the ceiling and floors as a thin umbral veil darkened the tower. Curses echoed between the sound of the drums and whispers. Bastun's staff clattered to the floor, rolling away as he clutched the sides of his head, fighting the urge to escape, to wield the Breath and face the enemies separating him from the Word.

Rough hands gripped his shoulders and slammed him against the wall. The sound of the drums shook the stone, and he could not separate the cadence from his own heartbeat. The foreign mind, that face in the mirror, leaked its sorrow, anger, and indignation into his thoughts.

"Why?" he whispered through clenched teeth, not sure if the question was his own. The distant banging of swords on shields reverberated in his mind, joining the drums as the past again imitated the present. He spoke to that spirit in the blade. "Why did you do this?"

"What are you doing, Bastun?" Thaena asked as she stared at the creeping shadows and watched as her men slowly devolved into a barely held rage. Rounding on him she grabbed his robes and pulled him close. Dreamlike, he imagined he could see the children's dark madness swimming in her eyes as she shouted at him, "What have you done?"

He heard her voice, but the answer that came streaming forth was not his own. The words he spoke had no meaning to him, the language strange and familiar all at once. He babbled forth anger and tears, a wellspring of loss that he could not control. The children wept with him, the whispers broken by quiet choking sobs. Trapped within memories that did not belong to him, he struggled to decipher bits of the language that escaped him.

"Something's wrong with him, Thaena!" Duras yelled over the cacophony of noise. "He is not doing this!"

She released Bastun's robes, her hands shaking as she reached for a small dagger at her belt, her eyes darting toward Duras. Thin tendrils of shadow laced her wrists as she wrapped her fingers around the dagger's handle.

Bastun's words came slower, slurred and broken as he fought to regain dominance over the possession. He did not fully comprehend the language he had spoken or the emotion it evoked, but the Breath, closer and closer to the Word, was becoming stronger, its former wielder more dominant. He sensed names and betrayal among the thoughts that raced through him, and he feared he might not be able to resist another invasion.

Cold hands pressed against his back, tiny fingers reaching through the wall. Though his mind was once again alone in his head, the children flooded his emotions with their own, and he felt an echo of their madness welling within him. Behind the ethran, men who were locked in their own struggle against the spirits' influence bashed fists into the floor and walls. Punches were thrown. Warriors fell and cried out. No weapons were drawn as yet, but there didn't seem to be a need.

Bastun stared as Thaena drew her small blade. He struggled against the Rashemi guards holding him. Her eyes rested upon Duras, dagger flashing in her hand, swaying in the thrall of an anger that was not her own.

"I loved you," Bastun said through clenched teeth, catching her gaze, then added, "Once. I believed every day that it was true."

She didn't truly hear him, he knew, and he felt the sickening courage of that fact, but kept on, keeping her attention, keeping her from raising the dagger against Duras.

"I imagined you were as alone as I was, told myself that we might find each other again," he continued, every muscle in his body strained. The Rashemi guards dug bruises into his arms, their breaths ragged, eyes bloodshot. The children wept and screamed in his ears, their hands scraping down his spine. "I trusted in dreams, and I lied my way through being without you."

"You lied?" she asked, blinking and trying to focus on him. Trembling, blade in hand, she glanced over her shoulder at Duras.

"I lied… and I'm still lying," he spoke over drums and howling shadows, searching for some spark of recognition. "Because you can't really hear what I'm saying, and that's the only reason I'm saying it at all-because deep down I love the lie more than you."

"What? I-" Thaena shook her head and stepped back.

Pain spread across his face and the room blurred. Suddenly falling, he slipped from the grip of the Rashemi guards. The floor rushed toward him, and he caught himself on his hands, his mask spinning on the ground. Warmth flowed along his cheek and jaw as the chamber came back into focus. Turning, he saw Syrolf standing over him.

He shielded his face instinctively, warding off not only another blow from the wild-eyed warrior, but his appearance from the others. Duras tackled Syrolf against the wall and held him as Bastun reached for the mask. In a daze he turned it over in his hands. Steel clanged against stone, and Thaena backed away from her dropped dagger. She looked at him and paused, as if seeing him for the first time. The moment passed quickly as she turned to the fang, helping to pull those fighting apart and organize the others.

Considering the mask for a moment, he dismissed the urge to put it back on. Lowering his arm, he faced Syrolf and stood. Retrieving his staff, he felt a wetness dripping down his neck and touched it gingerly. Blood stained his fingertips and trickled down his cheek where the warrior had struck him.

Ignoring the runescarred warrior's struggles against Duras, Bastun turned his attention instead to the shadowy spirits of the children. Spells turned through his mind as he sought another way to banish the children without wielding the Breath again. They feared the sword, but his fear of it had grown as well, afraid of becoming trapped in a past that sought to consume him.

The drums grew louder with each passing moment, thundering in his ears, though the cries and groans of the children lessened. Their shadows faltered, drawing away from the walls and floors, as if driven away by something else. SyrolPs spitting and cursing ceased, and a look of confusion crossed his face. The pounding drums reached a deep climax and then stopped.

The shadows disappeared, retreating through the east wall as a profound silence filled the void left by the Creel's instruments. Duras released Syrolf as all attention returned to the doors and whatever lay outside. A chilling presence passed through the chamber and clung to all it touched.

Anilya stepped out of the shadows where she had waited out the possessions. With a word she melted the ice encrusting a small window near the doors and stared out upon the west wall. Thaena stepped toward the durthan and then stopped, glancing back at Bastun. Her eyes darted between Syrolf and Duras as if choosing.

"Syrolf, come with me," she said, and the warrior reluctantly complied. Though he was no longer manipulated by ghosts, they truly had only exacerbated what he already carried within him. Bastun understood the sentiment and regretted not a word he had said either. Thaena nodded at Bastun and added, "Watch him closely, Duras."

The vremyonni shook his head as the big warrior watched after the pair a moment before turning away. Bastun sat against the wall and rested the staff across his legs. Despite everything that had happened, he felt a bit more the exile that he sought to be, closer to freedom of one sort or another. Duras kneeled close by, staring at his bare face in silence for several breaths.

"Bastun," he said, his voice low and hesitant, "I don't know what's out there or what might happen before morning. But we were friends once, and I feel bound by honor to respect that friendship."

He paused, clearing his throat and coughing as if the words were stuck. Bastun's eyes narrowed as he waited. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear what Duras had to say. Growing weary of the past and secrets, one more reminder of why he had chosen to leave Rashemen might have proved one too many.

"There's something you need to know, something I have to say-"

Bastun held up a hand, cutting him off. "Keep it, Duras," he said, staring at the floor. "I don't need to know and you don't have to say it."

"No, I must-"

"I'm finished with Rashemen, with the vremyonni, and with the past," he said, coming to tenuous terms with the decision. "I may not have made any peace with it, but I'm leaving it. You should, too."

The big warrior's shoulders slumped. He sighed and stood again, clearly frustrated, but respecting his friend's wishes.

Left in relative peace for a moment while Thaena, Syrolf, and Anilya assessed what lay outside in wait for them, Bastun closed his eyes. The images remained, though the words were garbled and slurred, the language making no more sense to him than before. It was the names that he contemplated-and the history of Shandaular's fall as learned by vremyonni scholars.

The history claimed that the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos, eager to complete his empire and expand to the far south, laid siege several times to Shandaular. The final time he sent Serevan Crell, his youngest son, and the attack succeeded in breaching the city walls and the defenses of the Shield. Most of the citizens escaped through the city's portal before it was shattered.

It had been surmised that Athumrani, Magewarden of the Shield, had accompanied the people through the portal in the king's stead. Bastun rested his hand on the Magewarden's journal and recalled the fear Athumrani had written about. Shandaular's people had found themselves in the savage land of the Shaar, far to the south, and called themselves Arkaiuns in honor of their king's sacrifice.

All of this Bastun had little reason to doubt save for one detail-Athumrani never left the Shield.

The Breath lay at his side, heavy against his leg. The mind that had taken him over and responded to Thaena's questioning had identified itself as Athumrani. He had taken the Breath from hiding and fought his way through friend and foe alike to reach the Word. He had betrayed his king's secret and left Shandaular an ice-encrusted wasteland of rubble and broken shadows. For what reason he had taken such action, Bastun could not discern. Bile rose in his throat as he imagined what could occur if he were forced to wield the weapon again, if Athumrani's presence overcame him completely.

He picked up his mask and returned it to his face, fearing that his thoughts were too visible, too transparent without the familiar protection. It was a crutch he was content to live with a while longer as he prepared himself to face the demons which had driven Athumrani to suicide-and the devils that laid in wait beyond the stones of the Shield.

Punctuating his thoughts, the Creel drums began again, echoing through the night air.

Just outside the northwest tower torches flickered in the wind, their light a stark contrast to the darkness within the open doors. Thaena watched and listened for long moments, growing anxious for the Creel or their master to reveal themselves. The drums played the rhythm of her growing expectation, but no one appeared to satisfy it.

Tearing herself away from the window, she placed a hand on SyrolPs shoulder, moving him from between her and Anilya. The durthan stood motionless, her sellswords separated from her by the fang, as she awaited Thaena's attention. The ethran was of two minds concerning Anilya and Bastun and had no easy answers that she would readily employ against them. The matter was trivial but crucial, as the impending threat of time worked against them all.

The durthan had said nothing yet of Bastun's alleged attack upon her. With arms crossed and narrowed eyes, Thaena approached Anilya, studying her as she broke their silence.

"He tried to kill you?" she asked, keeping her tone firm but neutral.

"He tried, yes," Anilya answered.

"And do you know why?"

"No, I do not, though I stopped questioning the murderous intentions of Rashemi upon joining the durthan," she said. "Such age-old enemies rarely need reasons to spill each others blood."

"One might do well to remember that," Syrolf grumbled over his shoulder. Thaena took a breath to admonish the warrior, but exhaled calmly instead and let the statement stand. The durthan needed some reminding that their truce was temporary and that she stood on ground claimed by the wychlaren.

"Then you accuse the vremyonni of nothing?" Thaena asked.

"Only of the attempt on my life, he-"

"Threatening the life of a durthan is a trifling thing for a Rashemi to be guilty of, Anilya," she said, interrupting the durthan. "As you said yourself, age-old enemies, correct?"

"And what of his secrets? The words of the spirit beneath the wall?" Anilya asked quickly-a little too quickly to Thaena's mind. "Do you suspect him of nothing, despite his knowledge of this place?"

"What I suspect or believe has no bearing on this discussion," Thaena said, "and I am disinclined at the moment to share counsel with a durthan."

"You doubt me, despite all," Anilya said, crossing her arms and staring out the window. Tired of the durthan's flippancy, Thaena squared her shoulders and stepped toward her. Anilya could not help but meet the ethran's burning gaze, so near were their masks.

"As much as I might doubt him," she said and held the stare for a moment before continuing, "you will now join your men and await your orders. If you are displeased with my leadership, then I will fulfill your expectations of the Rashemi and our savagery. Am I clear?"

"Quite," Anilya said. She turned toward her sellswords with a leisurely step, far more calm than Thaena would have liked.

"That ought to take some fire out of you," she heard Syrolf whisper at the durthan's back.

Looking once more out the window, she studied what she could see of the tall northwest tower. Recalling the feel of the dagger in her hand made her fingers numb and brought a knot to her throat. Glancing at Duras, who stood watch over the vremyonni, she knew she would have killed him if the spirits had swayed her any farther. Stronger than Rashemi firewine those shadows were-and well more traitorous where her emotions were concerned.

For the briefest of moments as she looked upon her guardian, her lover, she regretted being of the wychlaren. The necessities of leadership were tearing them apart, testing them as never before. However, she knew her duty and felt she had been too soft in its application. Between Duras and Syrolf, she decided that Duras might not accept the decisions she would have to make. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps his secret was all the sin he suspected it to be. For years she'd barely been able to convince him otherwise. The child he had been still lived on in the man he'd become, ever since the day Bastun had been taken away to the Running Rocks.

Shaking her head and focusing on the situation, she took a cleansing breath and approached SyrolPs shoulder.

"You have watched out for my interests well, Syrolf," she whispered to him. "Now you must watch them more carefully. If either of our charges does anything more to make you suspect they are working against us, then…" She let the unspoken order hang on the air for a moment, noting his solemn nod of acknowledgement, then added, "Make it quick."

The drums outside halted and again left them all in silence.

From across the room she caught Bastun's eye, his mask staring at her as if hearing her words. She hoped that somehow he had.

The doors were stiff with ice, but they creaked open much easier than they should have. There were scars in the stone already where the Creel had recently forced them open. Winter wind breezed into the chamber and engulfed the minor warmth that torches had supplied. The Ice Wolves gathered near the opening, eager to see their enemy on the wall. Thaena watched stoically and Duras stood by ready to lead the charge.

Bastun peered over shoulders and betwixt the warriors in front of him, trying to catch a glimpse of the northwest tower. He was surrounded in the rear of the fang, along with Anilya and her sellswords. SyrolPs ever-present scowl watched their every move, Thaena's order likely on the forefront of his mind.

Bastun mused that the warrior would rather slay a vremyonni in exile over the Creel. Killing Anilya as well would only be a benefit.

He chided himself as the group began moving forward, knowing he might have been miles away from the Shield by now if he'd had any sense. Here he faced unceremonious execution, a duplicitous and beguiling durthan whose skills they still needed, and an unknown number of ignorant barbarians following what could prove to be just a recurring nightmare of the Shield itself. That nightmare, the prince of old Narfell, concerned him the most as he stepped out of the tower and viewed the length of wall ahead of them. Advancing into the unknown with swords drawn was practically a Rashemi tradition, but though they marched forward he feared they moved backward in time with each step.

"This borders on suicide," Anilya whispered at his side.

"Really? I thought this is what you wanted," he said.

"I prefer subtlety and surprise, this Rashemi courage is sickening and foolhardy," she said, looking in all directions for some sign of an ambush or trap.

He had to agree, though he did not say so out loud.

"Do you suppose he is really in there?" she asked, a playful tone in her voice. "Prince Serevan of Dun-Tharos, withered and half-rotten, to reclaim his lost prize?"

"We both know he is," he answered, glancing sidelong at her, "though whether ghost or corpse I could not say."

"Then how do you rate our chances?" Anilya's eyes fairly smiled through her mask.

For a moment he was at a loss for words, having this conversation with a woman who had tried to kill him, seduce him, and frame him all in the space of less than a day. She acted as if this were merely normal course and seemed not the least bit bothered. He realized she was, on some level, having fun.

"I already told you I believe we'll kill each other in the end," he said, his gaze drifting to the north of the wall, the mist parting occasionally to afford him a view of the ruined city and the first of several concentric circles of ancient ice. "Besides, Serevan has fought this battle before… in one form or another."

The group ahead stopped, and Bastun heard the crunch of boots on snow from the doors of the tower. The figures that appeared, stepping into the light of torches set to either side of the door, were unmistakably Creel, but their condition was wholly unexpected.

They were alive, a fierce stare of battle in their eyes, but their bodies seemed too pale, their gaits weaker than their muscles might imply. Dark circles hung beneath their eyes, and a slight rime of frost coated the edges of their armor and weapons.

"What trickery-?" he heard Thaena whisper from up ahead, but he had already begun to surmise what had happened. The pale skin and frost had similarly graced those of the Ice Wolves during the battle as the bleakborn fed on their life's warmth. These Creel seemed to have been fed upon as well, but not slain, being overly long in the presence of such a creature. Without a steady supply of warmth, a bleakborn would lay dormant until approached by the living.

The Cold Prince, Bastun thought, recalling the words of the children in the library.

"Well," Anilya said, "apparently not a ghost."

"They followed him to the only place he would have any use for them," he whispered. "Serevan did not drag an army in his wake. He brought a feast."