James Davis - The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

He plummeted upward, the fiends screeching as they fun-neled into a flapping spiral in his wake. From a pouch, he pulled a fistful of pebbles, shaking them like bone-dice as he chanted and scattered them like seeds. The tiny rocks grew into boulder-sized chunks of rock and plunged through the tornado of leathery wings.

Emerald light filled the darkness beneath him as the fiends scattered, smashed by the falling rocks and crushed against the ruin below. Their shrieks reached beyond the stone-cold demeanor of the mask to the calm that dominated the center of his being. He stopped his freefall, drifting toward the wall and rolling on the stone before finding balance again.

Standing, his senses swam with a momentary vertigo. The tower appeared as a long tunnel, pale light behind and crawling darkness ahead. Shaking his head, he waited as the survivors, those still able to fly, rose from the chaos to find him. He couldn't let them escape-a small flock of varrangoin could become hundreds within months, thousands in a year.

Less than a dozen remained, slow in their ascent and splitting into groups. Directing each other in their odd croaking language, it seemed they were regaining their wits after such a long hibernation in the ice. Letting go, gravity turning in his gut like a giant's fist, he fell to the far wall. Two varrangoin fell to his axe, a third scoring his mask as it spun out of the way. He led the others back down, leaping from wall to wall, before changing direction and ripping through two more as he ascended.

They floundered behind him, diving beyond reach of his axe, though the unnerving sound of beating wings grew uncomfortably close. A sudden impact nearly took his breath, and he tumbled with the fiend, freefalling toward the top of the tower. The varrangoin's stinking breath burned his nose as he fought to breathe. It raked his shoulders, teeth snapping just over the handle of his axe. He growled as he fought to keep the fangs at bay, shifting the fall and pushing it toward the stone.

Just before hitting, his defense slipped and he felt the hot piercing sting of the fiend's barbed tail bite into his side. There was no time to cry out as they slammed into the stone. He managed to swing his axe as reality twisted and rolled around him. He heard the varrangoin scream and saw it falling away, one slashed wing twitching as it disappeared into darkness. He quickly rose to one knee and winced at the blinding pain in his side. Looking over his shoulder, the top of the tower lay far closer than he'd expected after the last fall.

Rising to his feet, aching joints screamed in pain as the beast's poison took hold. Spasms wracked his muscles and he struggled to hang on, to ignore the pain long enough for one more effort. Screeching in excitement, the rest of the flock drew closer, their chase almost at an end.

Breathing raggedly, he fumbled in his robes for a small clump of rose petals. He forced out the words of the spell, intoning them carefully and timing the syllables to the nearness of the varrangoin.

Just as their eyes dimmed in the light of his axe, their needle-sharp fangs glistening and long tails twitching, he tossed the petals in the air before them. The air shimmered and grew thick, slowing the creatures. They sniffed and blinked, wings beating at the air sporadically, faltering as they shook their heads, making sneezing noises. Drifting back, one by one, their glowing eyes fluttered as an arcane slumber overcame them.

Bastun wheezed as the rage left him. He lay shaking in a pain that grew by the heartbeat. He crawled, barely hearing the faint sound of bodies smashing against the rocks below. The gravity spell kept him from joining the fiends, but it would not last indefinitely.

Reaching one hand over the edge, he pulled himself up, raising one leg onto the floor just as his other fell straight with the normal pull of gravity. His stomach turned, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Flexing his fingers, forcing them to work, he removed his mask. Rolling slowly onto his side, he began pulling pouches from his belt. He made a pile, studying the contents of each pocket. Shivering with fever, he picked at the items, finding the things he needed, cursing and talking to himself.

"Leave Rashemen? Live by my own rules? Find honor in my own battles? Excellent idea, Bastun." He groaned, tremblingas spasms churned his gut. Grasping a small flask of liquid, he set it aside and kept at his search. "Trade one isolation for another, leave pointing fingers and dishonor for undead soldiers, frozen corpses, tiefling assassins, and flocks of Abyss-spawned acid-spewing demon-bats."

With a handful of herbs he whispered a cantrip, then set them down carefully as they began to smoke and smolder. As the herbs charred and the smoke lessened, he collected and crushed the ashes. Pouring them into the flask, he closed it and shook the contents to mix them.

"Well," he said, teeth chattering, "here's to adventure."

He tipped the flask to his lips and downed as much of the mixture as he could before coughing and spitting. The foul taste of the Rashemi firewine and the burnt herbs flooded his mouth and nostrils. He had come by the idea of using jhuild as a catalyst for simple potions quite by accident, finding some of the stuff left behind by fellow apprentices. Its nearly poisonous properties made it an interesting candidate for treating poisons found in nature and elsewhere. Unfortunately, when enchanted by the right herbs, it became the antidote equivalent of cauterizing a severed limb.

Flashes of pain shot through his body, and he fought to contain his screams. Throat burning and blood boiling, he felt as if he were melting. Pain shuddered through his body. Bright spots danced on the inside of his eyelids. He fell onto his back, letting the potion take hold, breathing deep as fresh snow melted on his cheeks, joining the tears that streamed from his eyes.

Time disappeared as exhaustion replaced pain. Though his mind was alert, he waited for feeling to return in his extremities. The rage-state left him tired, but the release and the comfort it gave him was exhilarating. Few others had trained as he had, studied the magic that he wielded-the magic that he sometimes feared wielded him. Vremyonni were expected to be quiet and studious, lead lives toward those endeavors, but Keffrass had led him to the place he needed-the anger that yearned for battle.

Where is your breath?

No time, Bastun thought and tried to sit up.

Blinking in the pale light, he breathed evenly and took in his surroundings.

An open door lay at the other end of the room, allowing the weather to drift inside and down into the pit he'd just escaped. Snow was piling there, and he could make out fresh footprints that had not yet filled in. Behind him was a short hallway. Torchlight flickered beyond. Wincing, he sat up and gathered his things, replacing his spell components and items in his pouches and pockets before rising to his feet.

He donned his mask again. This he did with much thought and a brief pause, staring at it, through it, then letting it cover his face. It was the symbol of an allegiance he no longer carried, but by necessity and the magic it held, he would bear it a little longer.

He explored the hallway and the massive chamber beyond. Bones covered the floor, broken and suggestive of some sort of lost shape. Snow piled here as well. Falling through windows along the staircases, it laced all it touched with white. But for the wind, only his footsteps disturbed the silence in the room. It was a grand hall, high and likely once adorned with all manner of decoration and tapestries. This was the home and the study of King Arkaius and, Bastun imagined, the bjrth-place of the Breath and the Word.

A faint sound disturbed his thoughts, drawing his attention to the high balcony. Cautiously he ascended the stairs, his legs aching with each step. The noise he heard seemed a slow, rasping breath-a dying breath, and one he'd have missed without the mask. Peering over the top step, he found the source of the breath and the eerie silence.