James Davis - The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Bodies covered the floor. Dressed in the furs and armor of the Creel, the fallen warriors lay unmarked, no sign of blood around them. Pale scars graced their arms and faces, the edges like streaks of frost-burn. Bows, arrows, and swords were strewn around. At their center was one in dark robes bearing a rune-covered dagger-a priest or wizard. The breathing came from a young woman lying against the balcony's rail.

She did not move or seem to notice Bastun's approach. Like the others, he found no blood around her, but she was weak and appeared to be dying. Taking no chances, he kicked her sword away, the sound causing her eyes to flutter open. Kneeling down to eye level, Bastun made sure his axe was visible and doused its light with a whispered command.

Her eyes widened and her hand slid along the floor, searching for her lost blade. He was surprised by her sudden liveliness, having underestimated her condition. She tried to push herself up, and he raised the axe and murmured a spell. Waving his hand, he shouted the last of the spell, summoning glowing bands of force that encircled her wrists and throat. Bound against the railing, she snarled and struggled, but her strength quickly failed.

Getting comfortable, Bastun sat and laid the axe across his knees. Meeting her eyes, he spoke in Common.

"We will have words, you and I," he said. He briefly squeezed her throat with the spell. Wheezing breaths escaped her when he released the grip, but she smiled, baring her teeth like a trapped animal.

"A word will indeed be spoken, wizard," she hissed. "And neither of us will speak again."

"What word is that?" He sensed a pride in her bearing that could work in his favor.

"The last word," she said with a smirk, "the word of the Prince and the old blood."

"This Prince, he brought you here?"

She drew her lips into a thin line, frowning and looking away defiantly. She struggled against the spell again, causing Bastun to raise his axe and slam its shaft against the floor. Its light blazed in her eyes.

"I have magic that can wring the truth from you if you like," he said, "but it will not be pleasant."

She stared at him, considering her alternatives before answering. "No," she said, slumping and shivering in obvious pain. "We came to him. Those of us who believed."

"Why? Why is he here?" Bastun kept his voice firm, but he was not quite prepared to believe that a two-thousand-year-old prince of Narfell had drawn anything to himself but rot and dust.

"Our priests say that he searches for the Breath." Her voice bespoke the passion and the fury she felt. "That he covets the Word, and that he will summon a cleansing flame, returning the long lost empire to our people… the bloodline… will rule again."

Madness, Bastun thought as the woman shuddered and tensed. Her head lolled to the side, and she mumbled. He stared in wonder, looked at the bodies around them, and shook his head in disbelief.

"The Creel are as lost as we are," he whispered. "There is no flame to summon in this place. They have no idea what they're doing, what they're dying for."

"We die for the promise," she murmured, her eyes rolling. "The old Order… twilight… failed us. Their old man is dead. Prince Serevan rises with a promise… of power."

The moment the name was spoken Bastun grabbed his axe. Rising slowly, he watched the shadows around the woman deepen and grow thick. Tiny hands gripped her legs, little fingers digging into her flesh. The children screamed as she stirred, and her pitiful cries joined them. They roared and wrapped their chains around her, pulling themselves out of the stone and pushing themselves through her.

Bastun looked away and stepped toward the stairs, careful not to gain their attention. He could not help her, had no magic that could harm the spirits now. His quiet prayer for her quick death went unanswered. Her cries followed him down the stairs, back to the hallway, and drifted past him to bury themselves in the pit of the tower.

He rested his hand on the Breath and stared across the pit at the long bridge. His old friends would die if he left them and took the Breath as far away as he could manage. The durthan, if she survived, would look for him. The man, the prince, or whatever it was calling himself Serevan Crell, would fail, might search for Bastun as well. The Creel tribesman would remain, hold the Shield, and perhaps convince the rest of their tribe to join them. The wychlaren would come for him, the vremyonni also. These thoughts raced through his mind, analyzing the paths and possibilities open to him.

"I would become the exile they believe me to be," he said aloud, staring into the dark void beneath him. "Not one drop of Rashemi blood on my hands, and I would be hunted as a murderer and a traitor."

Tiny whimpers reached him, echoing from the far side of the room. Peering into the shadow he could see the faint form of the little one, huddled against the wall and staring wide-eyed toward the gruesome scene that played out in the room at his back. She was so much like the memory of his sister-an echo of a past he could not change. A simple dare-to spy the wychlaren of the Urlingwood-had sent her away from him and forged the life he lived amid rumor and accusation. When Keffrass was slain and the Shield scrolls stolen, the groundwork of his apparent guilt had already been laid by his foolish childhood game.

He'd never mustered the courage to challenge their perceptions of him-had never cared to defend his own honor.

"This last thing," he said, walking to ropes that still hung along the side of the pit, "then freedom."

He grabbed the ropes, found a foothold, and edged himself along the wall.

"Win or lose. In body"-the cries of the Creel woman faded away, leaving only the wind to answer him-"or in spirit."

Snow, lit by the eerily silent lightning, painted the path before Thaena. She and the fang pushed through the wind and piling snow. The first of three guard towers along the west wall was hidden by a storm that slowed their march to a crawl. Duras forged a path just ahead of her. There had been a silence between them ever since their conversation in the central tower. It was a silence she was loathe to break, but she feared giving it room to grow. Between the thunder and the wind she had excuse enough not to probe the subject for now. Love or no, she could not justify stopping to mend their misunderstandings.

A feeling of dread grew within her with each step. She felt out of time and in a place she did not belong. The same could be seen on the others' faces. The alertness of the impending threat seemed overshadowed by a growing paranoia. She had tried to attribute this to the presence of the durthan or the absence of Bastun, but she had been touched by the shadows of this place and felt the madness that hid in its walls.

The northwest tower, a tall spire of unassuming architecture, loomed in the distance.

Despite its cursed reputation, she had never suspected the Shield to be much more than as Duras had described it-just an old castle. As an extension of Rashemen's defenses it served a vital purpose, but the city itself made its strategic value to an enemy almost negligible.

Squinting through the snow, she could barely see the outline of the first guard tower coming into focus. After a few more steps, she paused, reaching out and grabbing Duras's arm. The procession stopped and Anilya approached from her side. Thaena held up a hand to shield her eyes from the snow, peering at the figure that stood before the tower doors.

He came closer, and she found the eyes she had seen on the bridge, ice white and full of a dull, glowing power she could not describe. He spoke, but she could not make out the words. Duras raised his sword. Syrolf walked alongside him, shouting something in his ear.