The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (4 page)

On the northern end of their path around the wall of rubble, Thaena signaled the place of another obelisk. This time she waved Bastun along with her to inspect the stone, eliciting a frustrated sigh from Syrolf. Thaena seemed not to hear the warrior, but Duras glowered at him as Bastun moved to accompany the ethran.

He noted that the stone did indeed bear a stronger marking of ash over the original sigil and he studied the odd symbol from several angles trying to discern its meaning. Duras approached from behind to look as well, but after a moment he returned his gaze to the end of the street.

“There’s some sort of clearing up ahead,” he remarked to Thaena, squinting through the fog.

“Yes,” Bastun said, not looking up from the obelisk. “If memory serves, it should be an old merchant square.”

“I’d like to take the lead group to scout the area.”

“Of course, Duras,” Thaena said, also involved in Bastun’s observation. “We shall be along shortly with the others.”

Bastun’s mind flew through the tomes of history he had studied among the vremyonni, trying to place the odd smearing of ash, the vague shape that just barely escaped his memory. Duras led the lead warriors toward the clearing, leaving Syrolf in charge of the fifteen in the rear. More of the oddly quiet thunder rumbled, and the snow came on in larger flakes as Bastun tried to shield the symbol from being obscured. The sound of the warriors’ boots crunching through the snow was powerfully loud, amplified by his mask, and he tried to shut out the world around him.

The Firedawn Cycle still tugged at his mind, keeping a rhythm he could not shake from his thoughts. Sighing in consternation, he caught himself humming the tune and looked back at the the sigil from the opposite side of the obelisk. His mind refused to recognize it.

At the distant end of the street he heard Duras’s group stop, their voices low as they discussed something they’d found.

Shutting out their voices, Bastun drew closer to understanding what he was seeing. Thaena had backed away, watching the bobbing light of the torches through the snow with concern.

“Is this supposed to be here?” Bastun heard them say, a slight echo among the close buildings of the merchant square.

It clicked in his mind: an ancient book on ancient and extant languages of the north. An arch here, a straight line there, the pattern matched well. He remembered the page, a listing of ancient arcane alphabets in the surrounding regions of Rashemen. His eyes widened in alarm and his quick intake of breath drew Thaena’s attention.

“It looks like the path has been blocked,” Duras’s voice said, a note of caution echoing in Bastun’s ears.

“Call them back!” he said and faced the distant clearing. “The symbol is of the Nar!”

Running toward the open square, Bastun yelled through the fog. Dulled thunder rolled through the clouds. The wind picked up, obscuring his warnings. Syrolf shouted behind him, running to stop him, but as the wind shifted Bastun could already hear the sound of taut bowstrings straining against the curve of bows. He spun around, seeing Syrolf several paces back, and waved his hand.

“Get down!”

Arrows whipped through the fog, cracking against buildings on the eastern side of the road. Several found their marks. A few warriors dropped to their knee with arrows embedded in shoulders and legs or long cuts where the missiles had grazed exposed skin. Bastun rolled in the snow, diving behind a nearby column for cover. Shouts erupted from the square down the street, a similar attack taking Duras by surprise. The Rashemi acted quickly, scattering and spreading out so they would not be such easy targets. Syrolf and a few others formed a semicircle around Thaena, who began casting.

Bastun watched and waited as Thaena wove a spell of protection against the bows. The energy she summoned made tiny ripples in the Weave that he could feel, tempting him to call upon his own magic. He gritted his teeth, breathing slow and even.

The attackers loosed another volley of arrows, this time at

Thaena, but her spell held strong, knocking the missiles from the air to land useless in the snow.

Rocks shifted from the ruin on the western side of the road, and with a fierce war cry the Nar burst from their hiding spots, brandishing axes and long-handled swords. The fang answered that cry with a call every bit as fierce, growling as they summoned the famed rage of the berserkers. Up the street, Duras and the rest of the warriors howled their own call to battle and formed a line to close the square into a killing ground.

Bastun gripped his staff. The warriors to the south prowled forward, baring their teeth and hunched low to the ground, ready to spring. Duras to the north did much the same, backing out of bow range to force their attackers to come forth and face them. Though slightly greater in numbers, the Nar were more than evenly matched. Thaena held her staff low, respecting the stand-off and ready to add her magic to the battle. The guards that protected her were ready to lay down their lives in her defense and eager to lay down many more Nar lives in doing so.

No one looked for Bastun. No warrior came to fight at his side or even glanced his way. Under normal circumstances Bastun would have preferred this, but under normal circumstances his hands would not be so tied by wychlaren law.

The Nar poured down the fog-shrouded rubble. Fur cloaks flowed around their broad shoulders, their bare arms riddled with tattoos. Bows had been left behind in favor of the vicious heavy blades they bore with ease. As they reached the base of the pile and continued their charge across the snow, they shouted battle cries. The Rashemi charged back, closing their spread line and raising their voices in unison.

Steel rang against steel, and the Nar cries dissolved into grunts and challenges. The Rashemi continued growling, losing themselves in an animal fury that grew with each strike. Thaena cast globes of crackling black energy into the fray, taking at least one screaming Nar to the ground where

he writhed for long moments before laying still. Bastun heard Duras’s voice from the north, but he could only see the faint glow of dropped torches on the ground. Blurry silhouettes danced, flickered, and disappeared in the fog.

Biting his lip, Bastun fought to maintain his calm. He was forbidden to cast any magic until safely away from Shandaular’s borders. He knew the wychlaren could not have suspected the Nar would enter the city so brazenly, and for a heartbeat he wondered how the Nar had accomplished such a feat in the first place. Peering south again, he saw the Nar had not been prepared for the berserkers and had backed up several paces to defend themselves against the assault. To their credit, the Nar maintained a fierceness that was impressive.

Syrolf slashed again and again in wild abandon, seeming possessed as he bore down on yet another foe. Finding the proper opening, he swept the thick-bladed short sword behind his opponent’s knee, lifting high and laying the Nar on his back to be hacked apart before he could rise. Cries of victory spurred the others on and they called out their kills, competing with one another even in combat.

Thaena’s circle of guards had joined the rest of the fang to better face their attackers. The ethran stood her ground fiercely, shattering a Nar blade with a gesture and swinging her staff into his jaw. Before his broken teeth had time to disappear into the snow, she was casting again. She spun and sang words of magic, a vision of Rashemi myth and legend leaving her foes in ruin.

In the midst of the battle, Bastun detected the sound of more rocks tumbling from the wall of rubble, his mask picking up the noise of steel sliding from leather scabbards. A second group of seven Nar had crept to the base of the wall in silence, murder in their eyes as they saw Thaena’s exposed back. Bastun cursed and pulled the hood from his head, measuring his breath as he stepped from behind the column to intercept the would-be assassins.

“Forbiddance be damned,” he whispered and charged forward, chanting a spell and hurling a sphere of ice that exploded in the chest of the lead barbarian. The man cried out in shock and pain, bleeding and gasping for air as he fell.

Positioning himself between the Nar and Thaena, Bastun challenged them. Long, thin braids framed his mask, and the wind whipped at his cloak, revealing layers of light leather armor. His heart pounded as the freedom of battle built within him. Though Bastun had joined the vremyonni, his master had nurtured and encouraged the Rashemi fury in his spirit. Spells clamored in his mind for release, and he chose quickly as the Nar abandoned stealth to advance on the lone wizard.

Bastun cast again, and shadows curled from the ground beneath the Nar, becoming solid and wrapping around the legs of three, pulling them down. Two others sidestepped the writhing black tentacles and the third rushed forward, raising an axe to strike. Hissing a command word, Bastun brought his staff forward, the steel sphere at its tip flashing and screeching as it grew into a long, curving axe blade.

The two axes sparked as they clanged together. Bastun smiled at the surprise in the barbarian’s eyes. He pushed the Nar back before swinging at the man’s stomach. The Nar attempted a block with his own axe, but he was forced to jump back at the unexpected ferocity of the vremyonni. He became entangled in the net of tentacles that had taken his fellow warriors.

Bastun reversed the swing and ripped open the Nar’s leather breastplate, slashing through flesh and sending the barbarian into the shadowy web. A second Nar came from his left, sneering as he closed with his long blade. Bastun blocked the attack with his axe, defending himself as he chanted, the magic spilling from his mind. Knocking the Nar’s sword aside he thrust out his right hand, slamming a burst of force into the Nar’s chest that sent the barbarian spinning into the wall of rubble.

The remaining Nar ran past the vremyonni and charged Thaena. Turning, she had no time to prepare another spell.

She raised her staff, shock in her eyes. A stream of fire flowed from Bastun’s fingertips as he ran at the Nar’s back, watching the fur cloak burst into flames as the man fell to the ground. Screaming and throwing off the cloak, the Nar tried to rise, and Bastun kicked him in the side, knocking the man on his back. Roaring, he buried his axe in the Nar’s exposed chest and ended his struggles.

Breathing heavily, Bastun met Thaena’s stare, unreadable behind the mask, but Bastun expected he did not see the gratitude of an old friend, rather the quiet judgment of the wychlaren. Behind her, the other Nar were trying to retreat in the face of the fang’s fury. Few of the attackers remained standing, and the Rashemi suffered only shallow cuts and bruises—nothing to slow down their battle lust.

Grunting, Bastun freed his axe from the dead barbarian and turned to the Nar still trapped in shadowy tentacles. With a word and a gesture, he threw a small ball of wet clay into the middle of the writhing mass. The snow nearby turned brown as the ground beneath them liquefied and bubbled. A few of the Nar screamed as they sank, intensifying their attempts to escape the tentacles, but within moments the entire grisly scene had disappeared into the muddy soil. Bastun barely glanced at the sodden mess before sprinting toward the open square to assist Duras.

On the edge of the battleground, he surveyed the fight. Thirteen Nar still stood, backing toward a makeshift barricade of old wood and stone across the wychlaren’s path. Cast-aside torches guttered in the snow, their flickering light shining in the eyes of dead Nar and flashing on swinging blades. Duras fought at the lead, snarling as he traded blow after blow with the Nar. An arrow shaft in his shoulder had broken off in the struggle, but he seemed not to notice the injury.

The sounds of battle had faded behind him, and Bastun heard another noise in the distance. Just below the clang of steel and grunts of pain a low moaning carried itself on the

wind. Bastun took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as the battle-lust left his muscles and his heart slowed to a normal rhythm. Concentrating, he whispered a spell, hoping that his message could penetrate the fury in the mind of Duras. Knowing that any spoken words might fall on deaf ears, he willed his thoughts to reach the warrior. The moaning grew louder and closer, and he shouted through the Weave.

Duras! The dead! They’re coming! Let the Nar retreat!

Duras shook his head, confused, and shoved the Nar facing him back into the barricade. Thrusting and slashing he did not slow his attack, and Bastun repeated the message. Duras’s fury faltered a bit as the warning pierced through his bloodlust. Shaking his head again and stepping back from the battle, he cast a glance at Bastun, blinking as he tried to calm himself. Taking heaving breaths, he nodded, gritting his teeth as he sheathed his long sword and drew an ivory hunting horn from his belt. Halfway to Bastun he blew a long note on the horn—a call for retreat. The other members of the fang held back their attacks, shaking off their fury as they gave ground to their foes. The Nar, however, mistook the cue and renewed their assault, complicating the situation. Duras reached for his sword, torn between Bastun’s warning and returning to the battle.

Bastun studied the opening of the square even as Thaena and Syrolf advanced from behind. Calling the correct spells to mind he stepped toward Duras.

“Go!” he said, meeting the warrior’s gaze with a quiet confidence he hoped would sway his old friend, then added, “Call the retreat again and keep Thaena and the others back. Trust me.”

Hesitating, Duras nodded and blew the horn as he rushed to stop the others. An odd chill had filtered into the wind, and the scent of death filled Bastun’s nostrils as he watched the warriors fall back against the Nar advance. Arcane words tumbled passed his lips, and from a pouch at his belt he pulled a pinch of sulfur. The sulfur hissed as it burned away, singeing

the fingers of his glove. Hundreds of tiny glowing lights appeared all over the ground, silencing the arguments he could hear between Duras and Syrolf.

Gesturing at the Nar, Bastun watched the lights scurry away, leaving little trails through the snow. Weaving in between the legs of the Rashemi they crawled, glowing embers of living flame, to leap at the legs of the Nar. The ambushers fell back, trying to brush off the hundreds fiery spiders that bit and burned whatever they touched. The Rashemi obeyed the call to retreat, cries of surprise becoming screams of pain behind them as they rejoined the rest of the fang.