The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (26 page)

The head was as long as a man was tall and more than half as wide. Odd knots and malformed protrusions revealed a patchwork construction of various bodies and parts. Arms and elbows formed the angry brow. Fingers gripped bone along a jaw made of broken ribcages, the ribs sharpened into vicious fangs. Legs, torsos, and faces rippled and writhed through the neck, flanks, and limbs of the creature which had no body of its own save those that made up its macabre anatomy. Ice clung to its white, hairless flesh as it bared a maw of jagged yellow fangs and prowled toward him.

A red flash of energy left Bastun’s palm and sizzled across the thing’s snout. Flames sprouted and guttered, steaming

as ice melted and rotten flesh burned. As it shook away the offending fire, Bastun scrambled back to his feet, eyes scanning the area for any sign of the durthan or Thaena.

As he summoned another spell, berserker blades hacked at the hound’s frost-rimed flanks, but to no apparent effect. It swiped and clawed, batting them away and snapping at those that got too close. Growls emanated from a collection of mouths along the beast’s neck, humanoid faces twisted in torment as the hound scattered its attackers, separating them from one another. Arcs of lightning leapt from Bastun’s fingertips, sizzling among the conjoined corpses and causing each to spasm and steam. The whole of the monster shuddered, and it wobbled on its legs, but only for a moment as it pinned a screaming sellsword beneath a heavy paw.

The other sellsword, a vicious dark-skinned easterner wielding twin axes, hacked at the beast’s snout, and it reared back. Bastun circled, chanting softly and still searching for sign of Anilya or Thaena. A female voice rang out from behind and he turned, energy crackling at his fingertips as Thaena appeared atop a pile of corpses and ice. He ceased his spell as a brilliant white light shot from her staff and pierced the hound with a blazing heat.

It howled in pain from a score of hideous throats, trembling as the searing hole in its side grew and blackened to ash. The myriad of its tortured faces moaned in unison as they twisted to get a view of the ethran. Legs slipping on the icy stone, it thrashed, an aimless paw crushing the fallen sellsword as it snapped at the easterner. The man was taken screaming into the air. Razor-sharp rib-fangs pierced through armor and furs, gnashing in an awkward imitation of feeding.

Horrified by the spectacle, Bastun stopped as the screams ceased and the body slid down the throat. Bits of armor, chewed and slashed, fell from in between clasped arms and broken legs. Fur cloak and boots sloughed away as well, discarded as the

new body took its place in the mass. In moments the gaping wound in its side had shrunk. The wolflike head rose, focused on Thaena.

Duras rushed forward, placing himself in the hound’s path. Bastun stepped back a pace, magic sliding down his arms as the beast crouched to pounce. Then his world dissolved into white wind and ice.

He could hear the clash of steel on bone, the thunderous crash of the creature landing atop ancient bodies, and the chanting voice of Thaena. He fell to his side, thrown across the floor, tumbling against the dead. Chill caressed his skin for the briefest of moments before heat began surging through him. The fever burned like fire in his blood. Snow and ice melted, his long braids were matted to his head and draped across his mask, steaming as he pushed himself up. Heat churned in his gut like a pit of coals, and he cried out, turning with murderous intent to find Anilya.

Eyes wide behind her mask, the durthan stared, a slender, pale wand still glowing in her hand.

Bastun raised his axe and started toward her, turning the curse on his lips into eager words of magic. The sounds of battle echoed behind him, and he only just heard the sound of approaching footfalls crashing ever closer. Reluctantly turning, he swung as the hound bore down on him. The force of the blow cracked against the beast’s lower jaw, sending Bastun falling to the right.

He rolled out of the way as more bolts of burning light charred the hound’s back, distracting the descending jaws. Pulling himself up a drift of bodies, Bastun found the durthan gone, catching a fleeting glimpse of her figure as she ran for the western exit. Wavering, he looked between the escaping Anilya and the battle below.

Cursing, he noted with alarm the long-dead body captured in the beast’s fangs. Throwing its head back it devoured the corpse, healing more of its wounds even as they were made. The

battleground all around became more than just an unworthy graveyard—a feast of hundreds filled the inner wall.

“Now, damn all the luck, is my chance,” he whispered, taking heart in Thaena’s continued casting, Duras’s war song, and the cries of pain as the beast was injured. He made after the durthan, eager to return the favor of her betrayal.

Several Rashemi surrounded the open door. Neither Anilya nor her sellswords were anywhere to be seen. The Ice Wolves seemed eager for battle and the sight of him would do little to calm this instinct. He had no time to stop and explain himself. He whispered a quick spell just before entering the light of their torches. His form shifted and rippled, becoming translucent and shadowlike. Staying on the move, he barely made a sound as he slid by them, little more than a disturbance on the air.

The stairwell to the top of the tower was intact, and he swiftly followed the footsteps he could hear above. Not quite shadow and not quite solid, he was able to see the thick darkness gathering in pools below him. Quiet sobs and whispered insanities rose as shadowy tendrils grasped at the bottom step. Ignoring the child spirits, he gained on the durthan and climbed the last few steps just behind her sellsword guards, who could not see or hear him.

Eyeing the walls and heavy doors, Anilya strode into the room ahead of him. Shouts and curses echoed from the bottom of the tower. Her men turned to look over the railing just as she spun around, seeming to notice his odd shimmer in the air. The haft of his axe slammed into her raised arm as she attempted to defend herself. His blade whistled past her mask and she fell backward, landing on her hands. As he raised the axe to swing again, the durthan pointed a ringed finger and hissed an arcane syllable. The blade disappeared from the staff and would move no closer to her no matter how he strained to bring it to bear.

He spun away, dodging the hurled dagger of an attentive sellsword.

“You want the Breath?” he said through gritted teeth. “Then by all means—”

He reached for the sword, his hand wrapping around the hilt, fully intending to end Anilya’s twisted quest in a flash of steel. Contact with the blade stopped him cold, a sensation of wracking despair crushing his anger in a vice of hopelessness. He fell to one knee as the foreign mind haunting the blade flooded his being.

Anilya gestured swiftly, halting the blades of her men.

Bastun struggled to assert himself, fearful of becoming lost again amidst misty spirits of the past. The durthan stood, studying him as he tried to rise. His eye caught the broken form of an old mirror leaning against the wall, and he looked in wonder upon the same stranger he’d witnessed before.

The bearded older man in blue robes knelt much as he did. The man tightly clutched a wavy-bladed long sword that could be none other than the Breath, which Bastun fought to release from his own hand. On the spirit’s sleeve, he saw the shape of a shield surrounding a stylized archway, and he gaped in shock.

“You are a fool, Bastun,” the durthan spoke in a hushed tone. “The door that blade opens could defend Rashemen better than a thousand wychlaren outposts!”

Who are you? The spirit reflection mouthed the words, and Bastun felt sorrow give way to more manageable emotions. He let go of the Breath, his hand numb, and the stranger’s image faded. The implications of all he had witnessed were beginning to solidify toward a conclusion that he could not deny. In a daze, he faced Anilya.

“You care nothing for Rashemen, Anilya,” he said, staggered somewhat by the vision. “Your passion lacks sincerity.”

“So says the exile,” she replied, then added more softly as she drew closer to him. “Why didn’t you run? You could have taken the Breath and disappeared, but you didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t abandon my friends,” he said. “Thaena needs—”

“She doesn’t love you,” Anilya said, “and Duras doesn’t understand you any more than Syrolf or the others.”

“And you understand me?” He caught his breath and drew his robe over the wavy blade, backing away cautiously. Distantly, he noticed the sounds of battle far below them were fading.

“More than them,” she answered. “What if you died here? The Breath unburied, left with your corpse to be easily found. You know—though you may not say so out loud—you know this power could be used for Rashemen.”

“No.” He blinked, the rhythm of her voice strange and compelling. “This isn’t a power that can be commanded.”

“Not yet.” She came nearer. “There are no assurances save that the Word, with proper study and understanding, will be needed. Even now, Thay, our worst enemy, grows more aggressive, desires our land’s power and our people as slaves.”

“Are the durthan any different?”

“My sisters seek power for the sake of Rashemen, not conquest.” She stared deep into his eyes, and he found it difficult to pull away, weakened by her voice, though inwardly he found a minute spark of agreement. “Imagine the fall of Thay and cowing the raiders of Narfell.

“And wars with Aglarond?” he asked. “Attacking the druids of the Great Dale, perhaps? Where does it end?”

Shouts sounded from below, and voices echoed from within the tower. He wondered if the children were there, lying in wait for his countrymen, to send them up the stairs in bloodlust to find him.

“When Rashemen is safe,” she said sternly, her voice growing softer as she approached. “When our people are no longer slaves. We don’t have to be alone in this, you and I.”

He drew back. Though she had already tried to kill him once, he feared his attraction to her—and seemingly hers to him—more than her magic. The kindred spirit he had sensed in her since arriving at the Shield was strong and called to

him. This frightened him beyond measure, for if he could find common ground with such a woman, what might that say about himself?

“No,” he said, searching her eyes for some hint of reasoning that might hear him beyond her quest for the Word’s power. “None of us are alone in this place. You were right before, about the Shield being a ghost. Its walls and towers are just bones left to dry, but the spirit remains, just like those lost in the city streets.”

“You think the Shield is alive?” she said, drawing nearer still. He tensed but did not move away.

The booted charge of the Rashemi grew closer as they climbed the stairs, and he knew he would lose this chance at stopping Anilya.

“Its past is alive. The day Shandaular was destroyed lives on,” he spoke slowly, still working things out, giving voice to his concerns. He was dimly aware that whatever charm she’d been casting was gone, and he feared the fact that it was no longer necessary. Her fingertips brushed his shoulders, and he met her gaze cautiously, grateful for the masks that prevented desire from overcoming sense. “And as we become more aware of that past…”

“Bastun,” she said quietly.

“… it becomes more aware of us,” he said, determined to finish the thought that had plagued him. “We’re becoming a part of that day.”

“I cannot concern myself with the past,” she said, sounding almost regretful.

“I believe we’ll destroy one another,” he added, still hoping to reach her, but more than aware of the staff at his side and the blade he might summon.

A silence fell between them. The moment trembled on an edge between intimacy and enmity. The Rashemi were at the last landing outside the room, nearing the door. He sensed the first mote of imperfection mar the space between he and

the durthan. She blinked, slowly, the motion drawn out as he awaited some reaction to the fate that he suspected might await them.

“So be it,” she said, the words hammered into his chest even as he reluctantly raised the old staff. Anilya shoved herself away from him, falling to the floor on her hands. The axe blade screamed into being, flashing brightly. The door burst open and he paused.

The Ice Wolves charged inside, shoving the sellswords out of their path. Thaena strode in with forearms crossed and Duras close behind. Syrolf limped in with blade drawn, as they all stared at the scene before them.

Anilya lay on the floor with an arm upraised against Bastun’s axe. He fell back a step, shaking his head in anger at himself for failing to anticipate her ruse. Thaena’s eyes flashed, and a cruel scowl grew on Syrolf s face. The vremyonni’s mind raced to come up with some explanation as he backed away from the durthan.

A faint sound drew his attention to the northwest doors. A slow cadence, like the heartbeat of a sleeping bear, stirred a primal sense of bloodlust in his veins. Not a word was spoken as the steady rhythm of beating drums shook the air.

Lament the day that Narfell won, and woe to those were there,

When black wings rose among the char of fallen

Shandaular; When Seven sang a mournful dirge within the

hollow Shield, Where restless dead lie still, waiting, to rise and

serve again.

The Nentyarch’s son, by sword and curse, to tower

tall he strides, At morning light, for Breath and Word, still there

his fury came; Though cold he found among the fire, he mourned

forgotten Flame. Within the walls, inside the halls; to speak the Word

that no one heard, Of the Shield and break its silence. Of the Shield and break its silence.

—excerpt from the Firedawn Cycle, canto XII

‘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.