The Shield of Weeping Ghosts Read online

  “If nothing else, it is a start,” he muttered.

  He closed the journal and stared at the shelves, the walls, and the ceiling, trying to piece together what he knew of the Shield’s layout with the Magewarden’s drawings. Rubbing his eyes he picked up the second journal.

  A cold breeze whistled through the room from the north, and he noted a sliver of light shining above one of the shelves. Curious and hesitant, drawn to the second journal, he reluctantly placed both books within his robes and stood to inspect the source of the disturbance.

  A ladder stood against the shelves, leading up to a low railing. Carefully testing the rungs, he found them solid—a newer addition if not very recent. Climbing up, he peered over the top to find a small loft. Light came in through a crack in a thick curtain across the north window.

  Climbing into the loft, he saw a desk, a comfortable looking if dusty chair, and against the north wall, a bed. Unfortunately, it did not appear to be empty. Keeping his staff at the ready he approached the bed, its mattress old and sagging beneath the weight of whoever lay within. Simple sheets and thick fur covers obscured the figure, which gave no indication of sensing Bastun’s presence.

  Raising his staff and grasping the edge of the blankets with his other hand, he pulled them away. For half a breath he wished he hadn’t.

  The figure, lying in repose, had been dead for some years. The skin was taut over an aged face. Yellowed white hair haloed the frail skull of an old man in plain dark robes. Lowering the staff Bastun stared at the corpse curiously until he noted, beside the pillow, an all-too-familiar mask.

  “Vremyonni,” he whispered, recalling the men who had come to study the Shield at the hathrans’ behest. This one had obviously elected to stay behind, maybe to maintain the library or merely to lose himself in the rich history of a time long lost. Replacing the blankets reverently, Bastun whispered a quiet prayer, a small rite for a fallen brother.

  He sat on the edge of the chair and studied the loft, taking note of the thick curtains, much like ones he himself had drawn after a long night of reading. Turning toward the opposite window the whole of the library was visible to him—rows upon rows of shelves, scrolls beyond counting, more books than one might read in a lifetime. Much as he felt the solemnity in a dead brother’s presence, he found himself envying such a life. Peace and quiet, reading and learning, hidden away as the wychlaren willed. But free.

  Glancing at the old master he considered the prospect of a peaceful death, far from the troubles and trials of people he could not understand. The breeze blew again, disturbing the curtains and allowing the light to glint off of something small on the vremyonni’s hand.

  Looking closer, he saw it was a ring of an odd design, nothing like the vremyonni normally crafted. Quietly begging the late master’s forgiveness he lifted the hand closer to inspect the golden band. Tilting it toward the light, he made out a sigil like the one upon Athumrani’s journal—the shield of Shandaular. Tiny symbols decorated the sides of the ring—a mixture of arcane runes, some recognizable, the others of Ilythiiri origin.

  Another item of hybrid magic? he wondered. There was no record of it.

  He made to remove the ring, and despite his curiosity he realized he was holding hands with a corpse. Though far from Rashemen and well aware of the difference between superstition and true danger, he reached into his robes, searching for a pouch he always carried. Scooping out some of its contents, he produced a fistful of soil and sprinkled it liberally over the vremyonni’s body.

  “The land be with you always, Old One,” he said, and gently removed the ring.

  Stepping back he studied the ring more closely. There was no indication of what it could do, what it was for, or why it even existed. After all Bastun had been told of the Breath and the Word and of the Ilythiiri magic that infected this place—that the caretaker had chosen to wear such an artifact seemed strange and reckless. Bastun had never questioned the Old Ones and trusted in their wisdom of crafted items, but the ring tugged upon some dim memory he couldn’t readily place. Trusting instinct and the judgment of his seniors, he placed it upon his finger with a held breath.

  The metal was warm and the loop somewhat loose. But even as he watched it shrunk to fit him, as many magical rings tended to do. He felt heartened that at least that particular aspect seemed normal enough. Little else occurred. Though somewhat disappointed, he decided to hang on to the artifact, its markings and design too coincidental to ignore.

  Waves of nausea assaulted his stomach, and he doubled over, feeling as if he had swallowed liquid fire. His gut burned and his skin tingled with strange power. Falling to his hands and knees, he tried to pry the ring from his finger, clenching his teeth against the pain. Slowly it faded as did the cold that previously occupied the library. Collecting himself, he sat up and studied the ring again, unchanged and as mysterious as before.

  Narrowing his eyes in thought, he noticed the light in the chamber growing dimmer. Standing and rushing to the window, he looked out at the sky. The clouds had grown thicker and darker. Eerie, silent lightning flashed, and the wind gained more strength. Shandaular’s mists rose and fell like troubled waves, and they clung to the ruins despite the weather. Gooseflesh rose on the nape of his neck, and he turned, finding the bright eyes of the smallest of the spirits spying upon him from the ladder.

  Her appearance startled him and touched upon the memory of Ulsera—both the spirit and his sister seemed roughly the same age, both of them long dead. The little girl, barely translucent, her face marked by cruelty, regarded him with a mixture of pity and fear. Tentatively he took a breath and made to address the spirit, but she disappeared in a blur.

  Running to the railing he searched the library floor, looking for any sign of the ghost. With the sudden feeling of being watched, he found her bright, unnerving eyes again. She huddled in a narrow doorway on the west wall, pale fingers clinging to the edge. Bastun was intrigued by the spirit, sensing an odd familiarity in her eyes, but he could not discern if this was only the memory of his sister imposed upon the translucent features of the young girl.

  As they stared at one another, his eyes were drawn to a strange glow just above the doorway. Etched into the stone was a tiny, simple marker—a vremyonni symbol. He touched his mask and felt foolish for having worn it so long even while alone. It had been such a part of him he’d forgotten it was there—and fortunately so, for he could not have seen the symbol without it.

  Looking back down, he saw that the spirit was gone. Disheartened by the loss of an opportunity to speak with her, he noted the direction of the corridor, the vremyonni marker, and the sketches from Athumrani’s journal. Though he felt as tossed by chance as any snowflake in the winter storm outside, he whispered a final farewell to the vremyonni and climbed down the ladder.

  Approaching the doorway, the glow from his staff flickered, and he prepared himself to make the acquaintance of the Shield’s spirits once again.

  With each step into the west tower, Thaena’s dread grew stronger. The walls closed in as the group made their way, and she had to focus on each breath, each step, always careful to hide her discomfort.

  They found wychlaren wards at regular intervals, covered over with more of the Nar glyphs, these written not in ash and oil, but blood. The Creel seemed to be systematically destroying the very protections that made Shandaular and the Shield even remotely safe for mortals. She could not imagine the madness that would send such an invitation to the dead.

  Duras stayed close, his concern for her obvious in his stance and bearing. He stared at the walls as if teeth-filled mouths might appear on them at any moment. There was no time to explain to him what she had been made to feel, what she had imagined. Nor did she think she could, even if the rest of the fang were not so near and the walls not so conducive to carrying even the slightest sound. Keeping what she had experienced a secret seemed more and more pointless as they climbed. Everyone could sense something wrong. She heard whispers of smordanya—
a place that existed as a pathway or gate between the world of the living and the dead.

  It is an accurate description, she thought.

  Louder voices echoed from above, and she was ushered through the group, Duras and Anilya close behind. They had reached a large semi-circular landing with tall windows. Wind whipped at their long braids, and snow piled in small drifts on the floor. Half-buried in the snow were two more Rashemi bodies, frozen like those at the gates. No one approached, and the lead warriors looked to Thaena for instructions.

  “Signs of movement?” she asked while studying the corpses.

  The warriors shook their heads.

  “We must wait,” Duras said close to her ear. “If they have been defiled, we are honor bound to destroy them, give them peace. If not …”

  “Then it is a desecration,” Thaena finished.

  “Perhaps,” Anilya said, “but why take any chances either way?”

  “Perhaps you did not hear my mention of honor,” Duras said angrily.

  “Or perhaps I did. Honor may leave them in peace, but peace by its very nature is temporary,” Anilya said. “We’ve already left plenty of bodies in our wake that could be used against us.”

  Thaena strode forward, ending the argument before it could continue. Approaching the bodies she held out her hands, feeling for the cold aura of the bleakborn reaching out for her warmth. The durthan’s words echoed in her mind as she neared the dead warriors. She wondered why those in the entrance hall had not been raised in such a manner. A chill in her fingertips interrupted the thought. It began to travel up her arms, and she backed away as the first of the two leaned forward from the wall, ice cracking as its frozen braid split, stuck to the stone.

  Duras pulled her behind him, clapped two warriors of the fang on the shoulders, and raised his sword.

  “As one,” he said and made a downward stabbing motion with his weapon, waving the others toward the left while he angled toward the right. “Now!”

  Before the bleakborn could gain their feet, Rashemi steel pinned them to the wall. Duras held one alone. The other was pinned at the shoulders. Both grew stronger from the attack, feeding on the warriors’ body heat. Duras looked to Thaena as frost crawled up his blade.

  Anilya acted quickly. Grabbing a torch from one of the Rashemi scouts she tossed it into the lap of the bleakborn on the left. The two warriors holding the undead stared at the durthan as if she’d gone mad. Even before the torch landed she was whispering a spell, her hands tracing the guttering flames in intricate movements. The undead grew flush and more lifelike, trying to reach for the blades in his shoulder.

  Thaena followed Anilya’s lead. The torch’s flame changed from bright yellow and scarlet to shades of white and blue. The bleakborn groaned and thrashed as the heat became cold.

  The ethran scooped a handful of snow in her palm and tossed it across the undead. Every place the snow fell it sparkled and spread, becoming a second skin of ice and frost. The bleakborns’ movements slowed, and the two women stepped aside. Thaena waved more of the fang onto the landing.

  “Destroy them now,” she commanded. “Quickly!”

  They rushed in, hacking at the frozen bodies, dismembering them into piles of icy parts. Shivering, Duras freed his sword and fell back.

  Thaena placed a hand on his shoulder as they waited for the fang’s work to be done. She winced as the once recognizable bodies disappeared in a flurry of flashing steel and cursing oaths. As Duras’s breathing became more measured she caught his eye.

  “Are you well?” she said.

  Taking a last cleansing breath, he nodded.

  “I thought you liked the cold,” she added playfully, trying to hide her greater concerns for a moment.

  “As ever, my lady.” He smiled, then added, “But death remains a cold season I have no wish to experience. At least not in this place, gods willing.”

  Thaena did not reply, didn’t have to. She had no idea why the wychlaren had claimed such an outpost in the first place. Its position along the Lake Ashane notwithstanding, Thaena could imagine many spots better suited to the defense of Rashemen than a cursed city and the citadel that had failed in its defense. With all its dangers, she felt there must be something more to the Shield, a secret she was not privy to as an ethran. Secrets were common among the sisterhood, but the price paid to keep this one seemed far too high. She hoped the mystery was worth the sacrifice. Knowing her sisters, it probably was.

  Anilya walked by them to stand at the base of the next flight of stairs, looking impatiently between them and the frozen bits that had once been living men. As distasteful as Anilya’s presence was to her, Thaena agreed with the durthan’s sense of haste.

  Taking her hand from Duras’s shoulder, Thaena took the silent cue. The procession filed past the scene, their moods at once strengthened by the scent of fresh cold wind and darkened by the ruined bodies of their fellow Rashemi. Anilya’s sellswords gave both bodies barely a second glance, keeping weapons ready and cloaks pulled tight.

  As Thaena rejoined the marching order, it suddenly struck her to wonder how much the sellswords were actually being paid to take on such a mission … and to what end.

  chapter eleven

  The storm howled through tall windows at the tower’s top, and a high ceiling arched to a conical dome overhead. The fang took up positions at the two visible exits: one to the west, the wall beyond invisible through the blizzard, the other out onto the bridge that connected with the Shield’s larger central tower. It wasn’t long before even the stoic warriors of the Ice Wolf pulled furred cloaks tight against the bitter cold.

  Duras and Syrolf patrolled the area, looking for signs of recent activity by the Creel. Thaena looked to the west, trying to make out the northwest tower, but quickly gave up. Anilya approached, also staring hard toward where their quarry might be encamped.

  “The blizzard will cover their tracks,” Thaena said, loud enough to be heard over the wind.

  “True,” the durthan replied, “and the Creel are as accustomed to the season as we are.”

  “Why are they here? Why this place?” Thaena eyed the durthan, studying her ornate mask and posture, looking for any sign of deception. Though the masks hid their faces, she had grown accustomed to reading body language while learning with the wychlaren. Signs like fidgeting hands or shifting feet could reveal much, even when the face was hidden and the eyes unreadable.

  “Who can know?” Anilya answered. “I suspect they are pawns for the power that I followed here. Though for all we know, this leader is Creel as well. A powerful shaman or wizard.”

  The tone of her voice was too flat, too conversational in Thaena’s ears.

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” she asked.

  Anilya hesitated before answering, as if gauging her own thoughts on the subject, but Thaena suspected she could also be deciding how to keep hidden something she already knew.

  “No, I don’t,” the durthan finally said. “The Creel are known to be dangerous, rumored to be ambitious, but are rarely considered a real threat. The power that I sensed was a threat.”

  Clever answer, Thaena thought. Informative and still evasive.

  There was conviction in the durthan’s voice, but Thaena wondered at the depths of that conviction. Many among the wychlaren were quite adept at controlling what honesties their bodies lent to their voices. Thaena imagined the power-hungry durthan were even greater masters of their own secrets.

  “You realize,” Thaena said, “when this is over, you will be the threat once again.”

  Anilya’s head lowered and tilted away from the ethran. Thaena could imagine the condescending smile behind the mask.

  “The only true threat to Rashemen,” Anilya began, raising her head to meet Thaena’s stare, “is having the power to destroy its enemies and not using it.”

  The ethran narrowed her eyes and returned her attention to the winter storm. The answer was essentially a summation of the durthan sisterhood’s philoso
phy, but it seemed far too pointedly said to be a mere statement of opposition. Alarmed by the tone in Anilya’s voice, Thaena glanced at her warriors, noting the size of the fang against the durthan’s sellswords. The groups were evenly numbered, but not so evenly matched. The berserkers had shown themselves to be much more vicious in battle. Returning her stare to the western wall, she wondered what Anilya could be planning—or if she was truly planning anything at all.

  “Light!” Syrolf’s voice called from the bridge to the central tower.

  Thaena turned and rushed to Duras’s side, following his gaze to Syrolf on the bridge. Mist swirled across the span and snow flew sideways in the whipping wind, obscuring the runescarred warrior. He stood pointing toward the tower with his drawn sword.

  The central tower itself was little more than a gray silhouette in the distance. But briefly, between gusts of snow and mist, Thaena saw a small flickering illumination directly across the bridge.

  “It’s them,” she said, feeling her own thirst for vengeance rise to the surface as if all the dead from downstairs stood with Syrolf, pointing and crying out for justice.

  “Or it’s a trap,” Anilya said, approaching from behind, then added as she looked to Duras, “I thought the central tower was too damaged.”

  “The lower floors, from what I could judge, yes,” Duras replied, “but the upper floors could very well be strong still.”

  Thaena considered this a moment, noticing the durthan’s sudden cold stare despite her earlier conviction.

  Perhaps it is a trap, she thought, or something Anilya does not want us to find—or both.

  “We will treat it as a trap then,” Thaena said, deciding upon a course of action. “Anilya and I shall lead. Our magic can give us a degree of protection and destroy the Creel’s element of surprise. Agreed?”