The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (18 page)

“Perhaps you’re right,” Bastun said. He regarded the Breath and the cloud of dust flowing around his feet, then resumed his battle stance. “Then again, perhaps I can hold out just long enough.”

Ohriman charged, blocking Bastun’s axe to the side and aiming his attacks at the vremyonni’s sword arm. Fresh pain lanced Bastun’s forearm as a strike pierced through his defense. He fell back, maintaining focus, but hard pressed by the tiefling’s furious assault. Close to the wall he turned his axe toward Ohriman, keeping the Breath behind him. Shadows on the wall peeled away as the ancient blade neared them, the ghosts screeching to escape its presence.

An ominous crash resounded from above. Bastun compromised his own defense, yelling as he thrust his axe at Ohriman’s chest. The tiefling’s sword sliced into his shoulder, just under the leather guard beneath his robes. Bastun ignored the wound and rolled to the side. A massive stone block broke away from the ceiling and smashed into the place where Bastun had stood. The sound was deafening, the dust blinding, and he fell on his injured shoulder. Pushing himself up, he had only gotten to one knee before Ohriman kicked him in the back.

Down again, he choked on dust, fighting for air. A boot crushed his wrist. Shadows screamed in his ear as the Breath was pried from his fingers. Growling, he rolled and swung his axe, but the nimble Ohriman easily leaped out of the way, the Breath in his possession.

Amidst crumbling walls and howling spirits, Bastun got to his knees, shaking with fear and pain. More of the ceiling

crumbled as Ohriman dodged left and right, making his way to the only exit.

Where is your breath?

His master’s lesson took on a more ominous meaning as he raised his hands and began casting. The magic came quickly, calming his nerves as he resolved himself to what must be done. His hand shot out, emerald energy gathering as he aimed for the ceiling above the doorway.

A thin green line of light shot from his fingertips, cutting through the stone and destroying any support it had left. Bits of debris fell first, giving the tiefling pause before the ceiling disintegrated and caved in. Ohriman fell back as rock and dust covered the path, sealing them inside. He turned around, madness in his eyes at the realization that they were trapped, then spied the open door behind Bastun.

Bastun followed the desperate logic: the smaller room might provide some protection from the collapsing ceiling of the armory. He didn’t pause in his casting to consider that safety just yet. The Weave flowed around him as he took up his axe and stood before the small room. One way or another, the Breath would remain buried.

Ohriman charged, intent on bowling him over, but Bastun’s spell finished first. Several chunks of stone floated from the floor around him, spinning and whirling. He sent the first flying toward Ohriman’s legs. The tiefling dodged, but the movement slowed his rush to safety. Before he could recover, Bastun hurled the rest all at once, his will directing their flight.

One smashed into Ohriman’s temple, bloodying his face. The next slammed into his shoulder, spinning him, but he continued to move forward. Then one struck his chest, and another his stomach, knocking the wind from him and doubling him over. The tiefling stumbled forward, gripping his stomach and baring his teeth as he drew closer.

The ceiling between them buckled with another impact, but Ohriman kept moving. Seeing the Breath so near again,

Bastun allowed himself a brief moment of hope and gambled on an idea. Straining, he focused his spell on a heavy stone. Lifting it into the air, he sent it flying in a wide circle, slamming into Ohriman’s back. The tiefling fell just before the crack in the ceiling gave way.

Amidst the chaos of noise, Bastun noted the loudest of the stones’ grumblings yet. The entire structure shook, and it seemed only a few scant breaths remained before they were buried. Crashing to the ground, Ohriman’s grunt of pain was lost as a shower of stones thundered into the chamber. Dislodged from the tiefling’s grip, the Breath clattered to the floor near Bastun’s feet. Scooping it up quickly, Bastun backed away as Ohriman leaped to his feet. With the last of his spell, Bastun closed the door to the weapons room and leaned against it. Hearing the latch click, he stood resolutely as Ohriman closed the distance, sword flashing barely a stride away. Bastun held his breath and reached back to brush the door handle.

The trap sprung as quickly as before.

Freezing cold burst around him, showering Ohriman in shards of ice and bone-chilling wind. Cuts split the tiefling’s face, and he raised his hands against the spell, dropping his sword and slipping to the ground where the magical cold formed thick ice around his legs. The mysterious fever burned across Bastun’s flesh, painful but protecting him against the ward’s icy breath.

Pushing the door open, he ducked inside the room as the ceiling buckled with a final groan of weakening rock. Ohriman fought to free himself, frozen to the floor as the tower gave in to collapse.

The old metal door slammed shut, and Bastun pressed himself against it, keeping as close to its frame as possible. Tons of stone thundered down in the central chamber, crashing against the door and rattling his teeth. Weapons shook from the walls, clanging to the floor. Cracks appeared to either side of him and he shoved the Breath into his belt.

Reaching into his pouches he retrieved a pinch of sparkling dust. Whispering the spell quickly, he felt his skin harden and grow thick. A gray discoloration spread over his hands and arms, giving them the look of iron.

The entire room shook, and he prayed to the Three as the stone above him split. Debris bounced off his shoulders and arms, the spell protecting him for now, but he hoped the magic would not have to contend with much more.

The back of the room collapsed in a cloud of dust and the door broke from its frame, leaning against the ruin outside. Stones and rock fell for what seemed like forever, until the light from his axe-staff was all but completely obscured. An image (lashed through his mind—himself lying buried for years in rubble, clinging to the Breath as he was dug free. Screams hid behind the chaos of destruction and, thinking of the spirits, he feared he might actually witness his own exhumation.

The rumbling faded, walls groaning as the structure adjusted to the collapse.

Laying against the door, he stared up into a new darkness. The chamber outside was gone, the weapons room half-buried, leaving him in a small space filled with dust and rock. He listened to each creak and pop in the settling stone, waiting to be crushed at any moment. His shoulder suddenly ached, the wound remembered after the chaos.

Afraid to move, he endured the pain a little longer, resting his aching body, and took slow breaths as the dust settled, waiting to see if the Shield would bury him as it buried all its secrets.

What did you do to her?” “What had to be done.”

Thaena’s head hurt. Noises seemed too bright and, as she tried to open her eyes, light seemed too loud. Duras was a blur, leaning over her, holding her shoulders. She heard his voice, knew his touch. Her relief was bittersweet as she remembered where they were.

“She’s coming around,” she heard Anilya’s voice from somewhere to her left.

“Thaena,” Duras said, “can you hear me?”

She coughed. Her throat was dry and aching from the cold. Duras pulled her up slowly. Her head swam, as if she were still swaying and turning in the fangs of a giant skull. He held her in a sitting position as she waited for the nausea to subside. His grip was strong, fierce, and warm.

“You are welcome, Rashemi,” Anilya said before turning away.

“Duras,” Thaena croaked, then cleared her voice. “What did she do?”

“I don’t know,” he said, bringing a waterskin to her lips. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re fine. The bleeding has stopped.”

She ran a hand along her thigh where the bone-beast had bitten her. Fearing her leg would be gone, she was surprised to find smooth skin, clean and whole, albeit a little numb. She

drank more of the water and held her arm out to Duras, who carefully raised her to her feet. Finding her balance, she felt refreshed. Her leg had no pain. In fact her entire body, once aching and bruised, seemed restored.

Looking around she found the chamber empty and quiet. Only the faint sound of the wind outside and her own breathing disturbed the silence. Bones lay scattered around the floor as before, but now they were broken and splintered beyond what time had done to them. Raising her eyes to the high balcony, she felt the heavy silence. There were no arrows to fall or archers to loose them. All were gone and swallowed by shadows.

“We are trapped here?” she asked, afraid of his answer.

“We checked the rest of the tower,” he said, his voice low and bordering on grim. “Every floor below this one has collapsed.”

“I feared as much.” She looked back toward the hallway at the top of the stairs, remembering the woman who had died, sacrificing her body to keep them in this tower.

“But the Creel are defeated,” Duras said.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice feeling stronger. “They were going to die anyway. They came here for that purpose.”

“I don’t understand.” Duras took his hands from her shoulders, turning her around to face him.

“I watched a woman, back there,” she said, pointing to the hallway. “She gave herself to keep us here. She destroyed herself for whatever cause these Nar have come for.”

Duras didn’t answer, merely stared at her, trying to understand.

“This wasn’t just a trap, Duras. It was… a sacrifice.” “Then it was a meaningless sacrifice,” he said. “We’re still alive.”

Thaena looked away and crossed her arms. She couldn’t help but feel that more could have been done. It was on the tip of her

tongue to suggest returning to Rashemen, getting help from the hathrans, and returning with a larger force, but she couldn’t say it. She loathed to return in defeat—a vremyonni exile escaped and a wychlaren post lost to the Nar. The Creel could be given no quarter, no time to finish what they had planned.

“You’re right,” she said. “We are still alive, still here, and we must make something of that—at any cost.”

“Any cost?” Duras said, though she could see something else in his eyes and his bearing. He looked over her shoulder, and she turned to see Anilya above them on the stairway, looking out the eastern window.

“We will not suffer wolves at our gates, Duras. We will do what we must for Rashemen.”

“This isn’t Rashemen,” he replied. “Just an old castle.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“And you know what I mean.” His voice rose sharply, then softened. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

Lowering her head, Thaena did not reply. He spoke truly, and she could not deny that truth. There was something in the durthan that she respected and at the same time feared. She saw something of the same growing in herself, an anger that could only be sated in her enemies’ blood. Looking around, she saw naught but bones on the floor and flickering torches on the walls. She had no monstrous shadows on which to blame her emotions, and though her old self loathed the feeling she could not deny its usefulness.

“Where are-the others?” she asked.

Duras said nothing. She placed a hand on his arm, squeezing just enough to let him know his words did not fall on deaf ears.

“Preparing a climb,” he answered finally. “There is a small ledge on the inside of the collapsed chamber we can use to reach the bridge. With some rope and a little time…”

“Good,” she said, eying Anilya. “We’ll go as soon as they’re ready.”

She listened to him walk away, then let out a held breath and ascended the stairs toward the durthan. Reaching the window she saw the snowstorm had lessened. The wind barely whistled as snow piled within the Shield’s walls. The durthan did not move, but stood staring out into the white nothingness. Before Thaena could break that silence, Anilya spoke.

“They don’t understand, wychlaren.”

“They?”

“The warriors,” Anilya said, still watching the falling snow. “Your berserkers, my sellswords. They fight for vengeance, honor, blood—”

“And gold.”

“Yes. My men have less passion perhaps, but they know quite well which end of the sword earns their pay. But they don’t understand the magic in this place, the power that hides in the walls.” Anilya turned to face her. “Not like we do.”

“Do not liken me to your understanding, durthan,” Thaena said, still contemplating her conversation with Duras. “I sense nothing but what the Creel have awakened here.”

And what brought them here? she thought. Suppressing a shudder, she recalled the frozen figure on the bridge and the eyes that had chilled her very soul.

“Do you think the Creel awakened the darkness here?” Anilya asked. “Or was it hathran magic that kept it hidden, existing beyond their notice, sleeping and ignorant, until the hathran were… removed?”

“I fail to see how that matters now,” Thaena answered.

“When this is over,” the durthan said, “when the Creel are gone, their mysterious leader dealt with, and your hathrans return to their precious outpost, perhaps then it shall matter to you more.”

“As I recall, it was durthan magic that summoned those wraiths during the battle.”

“And it was out of respect for your authority in this that I gained your permission before doing so,” Anilya said. There

was no anger or defensiveness in her voice.

Thaena looked away, shaking her head for falling into the durthans logic.

“It was the right decision, Thaena,” Anilya said. “These Creel are fighting a war here that we don’t understand, making sacrifices more like fanatics than mere raiders. We must match them if we are to succeed.”

“And what then?” Thaena said, though she feared the answer, a justification that might ease her troubled mind. The durthan returned to her window view, her secret thoughts, and the swirling snow. Thaena looked upon her enemy and ally with new eyes. It wasn’t just philosophical opposition that separated them, but the knowledge that, deep down—in the darkest wisdom of the oldest othlor—the durthan could be right. “We could fall as well.”