James Davis - The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

Through the chaos of the winter storm he heard the faint beating of wings. Glimpses of flitting shadows gave him strength, and he quickened his step as much as his aching body would allow. He imagined them circling overhead like giant vultures, licking their wounds, angry at the feast lost in the tower and hungrily eyeing the lone wizard picking his way toward escape.

The tower wall appeared through the windy murk, its door firmly shut. He threw his shoulder against the door, wincing in pain when it didn't budge. He beat on the door with his staff. No answer came from within. Placing his back to the tower he summoned his axe blade and kicked the door.

The nighthaunts landed on the wall, shaking their horned heads in excitement as they crawled nearer. Half a dozen of the beasts appeared, their bodies like holes cut from the cloth of reality. Voice ragged and throat raw with cold, Bastun managed to summon the words of a spell. A burst of scintillating colors lit the scene and scattered the creatures, buying him a few more moments. He slammed his fist into the door in anger. To break it down would mean death for the fang within. And Thaena.

Turning, he planted his feet solidly and prepared to die fighting, assuming a stooped battle stance and flexing muscles fraught with pain. Sensing his resignation the nighthaunts' wings shivered and drew tight, like the hackles of wolves smelling prey with nowhere left to run. One lunged forward, eager to feed first. Bastun roared and raised his axe, but rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him backward.

He fell, flailing into the tower as the door slammed shut behind him. Claws raked on the door outside as he was spun around and shoved against a wall. Torches blinded his eyes and his axe was snatched away. A strong arm held him tight, though he had no strength to resist. Blinking fiercely, the blurry shape in front of him came into focus slowly, revealing the runic tattoos and snarling visage of Syrolf.

Bastun froze as torchlight glistened on the cold edge placed against his neck.

No words were needed. Syrolf 's eyes told it all.

Too weak to defend himself against the punch to his stomach, Bastun took it and doubled over in pain. The sword at his throat disappeared only for its pommel to come crashing down on his skull. He fell to his hands, vision swimming as the room erupted into chaos.

Shouts and curses surrounded him as Duras tackled Syrolf. Coughing, Bastun crawled against the wall and lay on his side. The fang had become a tangle of legs and arms as supporters of Duras leaped to his aid against those siding with Syrolf. Their eyes were bloodshot and without reason as they punched and kicked at one another. Though a common sight in the berserker lodges, this brawl stemmed from more than simple rivalry.

His eyes clearing, Bastun watched as the floor came alive. The shadows of the combatants peeled away from the stone, growing darker as tendrils reached and snatched. Beneath the curses and shouts he heard the undercurrent of whispers, the nonsensical ravings of the shadowy children as they played in the fertile ground of the Rashemi's minds. The black stream of spirits filled cracks in the floor, bending and twisting as it made its way toward Bastun.

Drawing back against the wall, his hand went to the Breath, making the shadows pull away. Before he could study the effect, the room rippled and changed. Ghostly images overlaid themselves among the fighting Rashemi. Fierce warriors in heavy armor fought with sword and shield through the scene. The faint noise of metal on metal echoed in his mind as if from a great distance. The Breath's steel gripped his hand with claws of ice, compelling him to stand, to skirt this battle and continue on his way to the northwest tower. He fought the will that tried to overcome him and, straining with effort, released his hand from the Breath. As he did the ghostly battle disappeared.

Blood spattered across the floor in front of him, and Syrolf landed on his back. Duras stood over him, breathing heavily and reaching for the fallen warrior again. Others came from behind, grasping his shoulders and hauling him backward. Syrolf turned over, noticing Bastun, and lunged. Blood poured from his nose and stained his bared teeth as he was stopped as well, pulled away from the prone vremyonni to spit and swear.

Thaena walked up between the pair, reprimanding them with little more than a stern glare and a steady hand. The shouting faded as the bloodlust fled from weary muscles and clenched fists. Duras and Syrolf stood on their own, staring each other down but making no move to continue the fight.

Bastun rose to a sitting position and caught his breath. The whispers died away, and the shadows sank back into the stone, the ghosts' sport now finished as a measure of order was restored to the group. Thaena caught his eye, an unreadable light flashing in her gaze. An awkward silence passed between them, which she quickly broke, ordering men to secure the doors and any other entrances or exits. Wind whistled through cracks beneath the doors and shook the broken windows at the far end of the chamber. Bastun leaned against the wall, clutching his stomach, stars dancing before his eyes.

"Hold him," Thaena said, and Duras stepped forward to grasp Bastun's robe. Hauled to his feet, Duras pinned him to the wall. The warrior did not look at him directly, seeming uncomfortable with the situation but obeying the ethran. Syrolf and the remainder of the fang waited expectantly. Despite the blood on his face and a bruised cheek, Syrolf ignored Duras and kept his gaze firmly fixed on Bastun.

Anilya approached Thaena, barely glancing at Bastun, though she again took note of the wavy-bladed sword at his side.

"I have laid an enchantment that should discourage the nighthaunts," she said calmly as if nothing had happened, "but the storm is another matter. We might do well to wait out the worst of it before continuing."

Thaena blinked, looking at the durthan before nodding in agreement.

"See to your men, durthan," she said, her tone still even and full of command as she looked sidelong at Bastun. "I will see to this."

Anilya glanced once toward the vremyonni and turned away. Bile rose in Bastun's throat at the durthan's calm exterior. He fought the urge to spit and call her out in front of the fang, but instead closed his eyes to calm and steady his nerves.

They cannot know, he thought. Not yet. Not until I can prove my claims.

Thaena approached him, standing at Duras's shoulder as she looked him up and down.

"Bring him," she said and made her way toward the back of the room.

Duras pulled him from the wall and shoved him forward.

The fang parted for the procession, spitting and whispering in their wake. Syrolf paused before moving out of the way. Wiping blood from his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic, his expression made promises that Bastun had no doubt he intended to keep. He grabbed Duras's shoulder, looking up at him as the big warrior stopped.

"You risk too much, protecting him," he said. "He's using you."

Duras pulled away and led Bastun to an archer's loft at the back of the room. Thaena stood beside the bottom step as the vremyonni climbed the steep stairway. He winced at the ache in his legs. As Thaena and Duras followed, the whispering below them became quiet arguments and accusations. He wondered if he had done the right thing, if he had come to help them against the durthans imminent betrayal or to die alongside them-possibly by their blades.

Stumbling over a loose stone, he fell to his hands, and pain lanced through his wounded shoulder. Stifling a groan he crawled to the wall and sat down. Thaena ascended the last few steps, his staff held in the crook of her arm. Duras stood at the top step, blocking access to the loft as Thaena paced. With a sigh, she knelt down, leaning on his staff, and regarded him with anger and pity in her eyes.