The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Chapter Twenty

The strident blast of a horn sounded from between the pale blue lips of a Creel.

The Rashemi needed no order from Thaena to charge and meet their enemy at the wall's center. Their boots churned snow and negotiated ice expertly. Weapons sang from their sheaths and were echoed by the singing of ancient battle hymns. The Creel, despite appearances, were quick to advance, driven by their own cries and songs of steel. The first of them met in the center and the battle was joined, blood gracing snow and stone.

Though all of the fang pushed into the fray, more Nar still came from the darkness within the northwest tower. Each of them bore the same drained appearance and fierce light of fanaticism in their eyes. Bastun summoned his axe and advanced in the rear, unconcerned about the Creel's advantage in numbers. The wall limited the effectiveness of such a force, and the Rashemi battle rage was far more legendary than any among the tribes of Narfell.

Thaena held back with Bastun and Anilya. She kept Syrolf close, though he shook with bloodlust, awaiting his turn in battle. They edged forward slowly, spells and sword at the ready for any Nar unlucky enough to break through the Rashemi press.

With each step closer to the tower, Bastun felt the tugging at his gut and tried to ignore it, focusing on the mass of swinging swords and shouting warriors-images mirrored by those Athumrani's spirit sought to force into his mind. The battle spread, the two forces twisting around one another like oil and water. The first of the Creel laid eyes upon them and snarled, his fury such that he was beyond words or oaths. Though several of his kinsmen lay dead already, he charged and Syrolf rushed forward to meet him.

Others broke through as the fight shifted, berserkers close on their heels to protect the ethran. Thaena and Anilya summoned flames and ghostly blades, cutting down those that came too near.

Bastun met another with his axe, locking blades and witnessing firsthand the madness in the Nar's eyes. He kicked the man away, swinging wide with his axe and muttering arcane words. With a gesture he set the Creel's weapon aflame, the metal heating to a deep red. Burning quickly through the leather glove, the man dropped the sword with a cry. Leaving it to hiss in the snow, he charged Bastun.

Reversing his swing, he scored a deep wound in the Creel's shoulder but could not slow the man. The Creel ignored the injury, reaching for Bastun's throat. Thrown off-balance, axe knocked from his hands, he struggled against the madman's strength. The battle rage stirred within him, and he suppressed the urge to give it voice. He had no wish to lose control, not so close to the tower of the Word with Magewarden Athumrani's will all too ready to supplant his own.

Pushed back against the battlements, blood streamed down the Creel's arm, making it slick and hard to keep from his neck. Bastun punched and kicked viciously, though any effect it had on the man was fleeting and unnoticeable. Rough hands wrapped around his throat, and it was all he could do to keep the pressure at a minimum. He pushed back, finding the man's neck and squeezing in turn. Bent back over the wall, his vision swam as he forced air past the Creel's grip.

The battle blurred around them. The Creel hissed and spat, wide-eyed and bleeding. A smell of leather, sweat, and faint decay assaulted Bastun's senses. No one would come to his aid; none would know the danger that would lie unprotected with his body. From the corner of his eye he could see the silhouette of the city behind and far below him. The cold touch of the Magewarden's memories stirred as he sought to break free.

Another battle from another time sounded in his mind, echoing across Shandaular in screams and the crackle of flames. Phantom fires traced buildings that no longer stood, trailed behind torches set to burn at the Nentyarch's order. Those left behind, running to a portal, an escape that no longer existed, were mercilessly cut down by soldiers.

His eyelids fluttered. Athumrani's spirit grasped him with a chill he felt creeping nearer with each strangled breath. Choking, he pushed back harder, the Creel's pale face and the tall shadow of the tower looming over him. Staring at the flickering windows above, he knew he might die alone and unnoticed, but that he would not be alone for long. He managed one last breath before letting go, his face flushed and warm as his arms fell wide. He gave in to it all just a little-just enough.

Where is your breath?

Exhaling, he whispered, his voice strained and hoarse, his hands grasping at threads of the Weave as he summoned the spell he needed. The Creel seemed to recognize his purpose and shook him all the harder, screaming senselessly as he tried to crush the life from the masked wizard. Bastun closed his eyes and concentrated past the burning in his lungs and the phantom flames of ruined Shandaular, past the screams of the Creel and of those long dead in the streets far below. A wispy scent of smoke curled past his nostrils as the past crept closer to claim him.

An impact shook them both, and the hands around his throat loosened. Opening his eyes, he met the shocked expression of the Creel. Inhaling again, renewed strength flowed through his arms and he brought them together, clapping the sides of the man's skull with as much force as he could muster. The man shuddered at the blow, his arms went limp and he stumbled backward. Bastun pushed away from the battlements, skin flushed and tingling as air filled his lungs.

A quick punch sent the Creel spinning, revealing the axe buried in his back. Bastun kicked the blade deeper, holding his would-be killer face down in the reddening snow.

The old anger churned in Bastun's stomach, though he kept it in control. Reaching out he gestured to the axe, his spell shaking the weapon free and bringing it to his awaiting hand. Though Athumrani still held sway in his mind, he managed to keep the spirit's influence in check. The Breath seemed to squirm at his side, and he resisted its pull even as he eyed more of the Creel approaching.

Wading into the fray, he became a whirling dervish of dark robes and flashing axe. Though only Creel faced him and fell before his blade, he could feel the cobwebs of the older battle playing around him. Warm blood hissed on the snow and stained his mask as the cold, misty spray of ephemeral wounds splashed across his skin from the ghosts of Nar soldiers. Walking a tightrope between the Weave and wild emotion, he kept his senses sharp.

Cutting down another of the Nar, he noted the growing number of them fallen around the wall. Less than a dozen of the fang lay wounded or dying despite the Creel ferocity. Pulling his axe free and kicking the body to the ground, he backed away from the quieting battle. Duras put another down, as did Syrolf, both warriors suffering only superficial injuries. Once down the Creel hardly struggled. Wounds that slowly bled were allowed to bleed. Swords and axes that might have been wielded, even while injured, were left untouched.

"This has been too easy," he muttered and strained to hear voices speaking that even his mask had difficulty detecting. Fearing that Athumrani's memories were taking him again, he sighed in relief as he identified the Common language drifting from within the darkness of the tower. The faint whispering held a solemn rhythm, like a prayer or ritual. He made out the words "fallen brothers" as Duras faced down the last of the Creel. The rest of the fang allowed their leader the kill, forming a semicircle and finishing off those that still groaned. Two quick strokes, one ringing with steel, the other muffled by armor and flesh, finished the battle as Bastun heard the whisperer simply utter "sacrifice."

The parting warriors, breath steaming in the evening air, made way for their ethran. Thaena strode among the fallen, leading her men to the tower. Bastun edged forward, hearing nothing more of the scratchy whisper and peering into the thick shadow of the open doors.

Fleeting and brief, he saw the face and shoulders of a withered old man moving within the dark. Heavy robes enshrouded the figure. The old man disappeared, but a second presence took his place. Night's chill intensified, though the wind had actually calmed. Thaena's steady stride slowed as a white web of frost crawled across the iron-braced open doors. The wave of ice spread and grew thicker-as did the air in Bastun's lungs. Guttering torches were reduced to nothing more than wind-tossed embers and dwindling smoke.

The second face that appeared from the darkness was youthful and sharp. Pale skin bearing a faint flush of warmth graced the handsome, cruel visage. With noble features and a regal bearing he strolled from the tower. His eyes seemed formed of solid ice, bright blue and staring down the length of the wall as if waiting for something. Bastun shivered, not from the cold, but something stirred within him at the sight of the man. He knew that this would be no imposter, no Creel masquerading in the guise of an ancient prince of Narfell. This was Serevan Crell, last son of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos and the destroyer of Shandaular.

Bastun felt himself being pulled forward, and this time he did not resist. Whereas Thaena had backed away nervously, Bastun advanced and called spells to mind. The complacent Serevan leaned over the battlements, staring out across the city as if surveying the ancient siege. The sigil of the Nentyarch, faded and torn, twisted and turned in a breeze on Serevan's cloak. The prince paid no mind to the ethran or the warriors arrayed behind her.

Bastun's approach felt weighted down, as if time itself were freezing. The compulsion to attack seemed an agreement between himself and the spirit of the Magewarden. The Breath calmed its nervous squirming at his side with each sluggish step.

The phantoms' battle of the past had also slowed to a standstill, save that Serevan's men were left standing and the Shield's defenders had been killed to a man. Those ghostly soldiers turned their heads lethargically as Bastun moved toward them. No swords were raised nor violence threatened. They parted to let him through, though he had no intention of playing the Magewarden's traitorous role in the city's curse. As the first syllable of a spell crossed his lips, Serevan turned to face him, the first indication that he was aware of anyone on the wall.

The lips of the prince moved, yet his voice was only a scratching whisper of sound as he stood straight and placed a hand on his blade.

"Athumrani," he said, his voice curling coldly in Bastun's ears, as if his very breath could steal life and soul from a body.

The vremyonni paused, spell lost as hatred flashed through his mind. The Magewarden swore in his head, shouting oaths of damnation upon Serevan and the empire he stood for. Bastun fought to catch his breath in the thick air, shocked by Athumrani's reaction.

"Not a traitor," he whispered, incredulous and only slightly relieved. "Then why-?"

Time returned in a rush. Bastun exhaled, heart pounding in the cumbersome cold, though Serevan was still some distance away. A weak voice chanted from within the tower. Arcane mutterings became a surge of commanding power and the darkness there writhed violently. A scent of death wafted over them as the tower's blackness tore itself apart, becoming individual pieces that moaned and fell into a military order before the prince.

Bastun studied the ghostly force. Though they resembled the fallen Creel, their bodies trailed away into misty nothingness below the knees. Fierce eyes of glowing white burned in faces blackened by shadows of their undead state. The ghostly visions of the past had faded, as Serevan Crell's battle joined the present with the Creels' grisly sacrifice of their own souls.

Serevan turned toward the soldiers, seeing only the eager faces of his long-dead countrymen. He spoke again, the language once again familiar, the subtleties lost to time. In his mind though, Bastun understood, hearing all through the Magewarden's memories, an enduring echo of what had come before.

"Spare not the mage," the prince ordered. "Bring me the Breath when he is dead."

Though began in a mockery of some marching order, the wraiths quickly swarmed. They took to the air and rushed the Rashemi in a cloud of misty cloaks and spectral blades.

Tracing runes on the blade of his axe, Bastun muttered incantations for dealing with such spirits. Thaena took up the chant as the fang surged around her to meet the undead.

She picked up a Creel hand axe, casting much the same spell as Bastun, and glanced at the warriors around her. Bastun intuited the source of her concern, knowing the fang would have little defense against the wraiths. Thaena handed the axe to Duras and summoned another spell, just as the undead met the front of the line.

The night swallowed all sound as ghostly blades tore through steel that could not withstand their touch. The ghosts fell among the berserkers as a black rain of shadowy blots, like night's parchment cut into grisly dolls. Occasionally a berserker blade would somehow catch at their forms, tearing them into silky shreds that faded when taken from the whole. Bright bolts of energy flew from Thaena's fingertips, searing into those that came too near. Their twisted faces writhed and mumbled in pain, but their numbers quelled thoughts of hope or victory.

Bastun's axe turned the wraiths' light forms into melting bits of nothing, and still they came. He pushed his way forward, chill bits of insubstantial bodies falling from his blade, burning his arms with the numbing cold of a grave before fading away. Fixing his gaze on the wall ahead, he navigated the battle to reach the long-dead and oblivious prince. No more did sounds or visions of the past plague him. It seemed the Magewarden, if indeed a traitor to his king, was no ally of the invading prince.

Men screamed and fell at all sides, retreating from the life-stealing touch of the wraiths. The warriors gathered near Thaena, encircling their ethran as she called upon the Weave. More of the fang fell back and the circle tightened. Though magic harmed the wraiths, the ethran could not match their numbers. She cried out above the maelstrom of moaning undead and screeching blades. Duras responded and signaled a retreat to the guard tower.

Bastun ignored the summons. Serevan's cold eyes burned ahead of him. Should the prince fall, the Shield's strange curse might be lifted. He had no doubt that the magic forged by King Arkaius would continue its resurrection of Shandaular's last hours, but he might afford the living a reprieve from suffering a similar fate. As he pressed on, stepping over the fallen, the wraiths seemed to sense his intention and crowded closer to block his path.