James Davis - The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Gradually, the shaking stopped, the growls faded, and though the spirits still hovered at the walls Bastun breathed a sigh of relief. Cautiously he knelt, taking stock of the situation. Staring up to the distant light near the top of the tower, he knew he would have to find Thaena and the others. Anilya would lead them to the Word, likely using them as fodder against the Creel.

For several moments, he contemplated the alternative- taking the Breath as far away from the Shield as possible and abandoning his old friends to their betrayer and the Creel. The long years away were apparent in that he didn't immediately reject the idea. Without the Breath, Anilya couldn't use the Word. Wasn't that what mattered?

Still… having an idea and acting upon it were very different notions. He couldn't abandon the Rashemi.

The low growls and whispers around him became tiny whimpers and fearful noises. The shadows shrank, sinking to the edge of the ruined tower's many floors. Looking around in confusion, Bastun rose cautiously back to his feet.

A cracking sound echoed from above, followed by a crash as shards of ice shattered on the stone. A mewling wail drew his attention to a block of ice on the wall. Something squirmed inside of it-a dark mass of long limbs writhing in an icy prison until a pair of glowing green eyes turned toward him from within. Raising his staff, Bastun flinched as more ice fell from behind him.

Claws scraped against ice, and leathery wings unfurled.

Taking a deep breath, he called upon his axe.

I374 DR, Year of Lightning Storms

The Running Rocks njoying the quiet and the smell of old books, Bastun stood alone in the center of his small room. Fresh snow melted on his boots and dripped from the hem of his robes. No one had seen him leave. No guards came to witness his return. Two days alone, beyond sight of his fellow wizards and the laws that bound him to remain hidden from the world. Free, more than he'd been in nearly two decades, and he had returned to the Running Rocks.

He was vremyonni, currently the youngest of the Old Ones, and no other place in Rashemen would have him. This was his place. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and lashed out. His knuckles met the stone wall. The familiar sting lanced through his wrist, and his fury subsided for a moment or two, blood welling into old cuts and scratches.

"Welcome back."

Keffrass's voice did not startle him. His master was as much a part of the Rocks as the whistling drafts in the upper caverns or the pages rustling in the library.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No," Bastun answered, then recalled the brief escape. A return to his village under cover of night and magic had shown him more than he'd been willing to admit for many years- that he would have left anyway, in time. "And… yes."

"A good answer," Keffrass said and entered the room, sitting and lighting a candle with a wave of his hand. "There is wisdom in looking back at every regret, every misstep, and realizing the value of tragedy."

"I do not think I am quite that wise just yet," Bastun said and leaned against the wall.

"There is wisdom in that as well," Keffrass replied, his ancient eyes sparkling, though his humor faded. "That mask… it does more than just cover your face."

"Yes," he said quietly, closing his eyes and feeling the second visage. "Though I fear it, what it may become, what it will allow me to do."

They sat in silence, no longer master and student, but colleagues and friends in the same order. Bastun flexed bleeding knuckles beneath his sleeve, the fury he had cultivated within himself always a heartbeat away, a weapon as much a part of him as any spell. Keffrass's teaching had forged that weapon, shaped it from raw emotion and skill, but Bastun had to live with it.

"You're going back, aren't you?" Bastun said, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it all the same. "To Shandaular, to the Word."

"Perhaps, though only the othlor can say for sure." Keffrass stared into the candle. "There is something out there for us all, waiting in the dark for us to discover-and fear." He turned to Bastun, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, full of meaning and wisdom. "We must face it alone, that abyss, in whatever form it takes-beast, guilt, magic… or the past.

"Deny it and it will devour you. Make you forever a part of it." He stood and made his way to the door. "Face it, accept it, and it will become a part of you, inseparable."

"What's the difference?" Bastun asked.

The old man paused, raising an eyebrow and looking sidelong at his former student. "Your choice."

Nightall, I376 DR, Year of theBent Blade

Wings, teeth, and a thrashing barbed tail descended in the wake of burning green eyes.

Bastun snapped his fingers, summoning a burst of light into the thing's face. It shrieked, faltering in its dive, but fell just within reach. He buried the flashing axe blade in hairless gray skin, bringing the struggling beast down to flop and bleed on the rubble.

He had but a moment to study the body before more creatures attacked, but it was enough: nearly the height of a man, emaciated and light bodied, with wings in place of arms.

"Varrangoin," he murmured. He cast another spell, a brief emerald glow surrounding him as the fiend's skin cracked and popped, spraying acidic blood in all directions. Though it hissed and burned on the stone, the blood splashed him harmlessly.

The sound of fluttering wings filled the air, their echoes bouncing off one another in a frenzy. Beyond them lay the only escape-a gray light casting the unnatural flock of varrangoin in silhouette. Bastun's thumb found the worn scar in the staff. Closing his eyes, he felt the weight of his mask, heard the memory of his master's voice, and made a choice.

Exhaling a long breath, control and reason slid away, freeing his mind and sharpening his instincts. Opening his eyes, he was no longer vremyonni, no longer truly himself. He was merely the mask, the axe, the magic, and the crystal clear rage of the Rashemi.

Thrusting his arm at the center of the descending swarm, a bead of light flew from his fingertip. It disappeared among them. He ran across the broken stone, leading them in a circle. Arcane words poured from him, a harsh poetry of magic that blurred his form as he charged into the living mass. Crashing around him, the varrangoin swirled as an explosion rocked the tower, a ball of flame erupting within the flock. The ground shook, debris fell from the walls, and Bastun found himself in the chaos.

Broken bodies and burning blood rained down as he dived into the nearest of the varrangoin. Caustic fumes burned his nose as stone melted. The survivors rallied quickly, and still more broke free of icy prisons above.

Claws raked his arms and scraped at his mask and leather armor, but they brought the varrangoin too close. His blade slipped through their forms, hissing with the blood of one even as it slew another. Stingers struck stone where he'd been standing, claws found only air as he sidestepped. The rage consumed him, filled his body with strength and his spirit with bloodlust. He reveled in the freedom-in the rhythm between steel and magic. He shouted in their fang-filled faces, laughed as they spit streams of acid from glowing maws. His laughter became a chant and the chant became thunder.

Lightning blasted outward, leaving the twitching fiends to fall and flounder.

As the blue-white glow faded, others escaped, clinging to walls, their green eyes full of hunger and violence. Turning slowly, whispering spells through a grim smile, he watched them regroup, shrieking at one another in a fiendish tongue. They leaped from the walls from all directions. Waves of tingling energy washed over him as his stomach lurched and gravity changed direction.