James Davis: The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

The cries drifted north, growing fainter, and many held breaths were quietly exhaled as Thaena waved the fang onward.

Bastun caught himself looking left and right, his eyes darting at every imagined movement. Shadows lengthened and disappeared as the torches passed, surrounding them with phantom enemies. The faces of fantastic beasts leered from stone columns, given life in the flickering flames to taunt those intruding upon Shandaular's lingering misery.

Several warriors reached into pouches at their belts to pull out pinches of soil which they kissed and sprinkled on the snow as they passed. Bastun imagined these offerings to Shandaular's spirits might not be well-accepted in a place so far from Rashemen, but the effort was a testament to the fang's respect for the dead. Even so, more than a few rubbed the flat of their blades with the remaining soil on their palms, a request for strength against evil and a preparation for fighting those dead who would not so respect the living.

Duras moved closer to Thaena, leaning his tall frame to reach her ear.

"Have you attempted to contact the Shield's hathran?" he whispered just loud enough for Bastun to hear. She nodded, her eyes never leaving the path ahead.

"Only silence greets me," she answered, then held up her hand to signal the location of yet another obelisk. Kneeling, she studied the ash and markings defacing its warding sigil. Bastun edged closer to observe the mark himself. Thaena started as he approached but allowed him to continue. He heard her whisper a quiet spell, attempting once again to summon any magic left in the stone, but she shook her head afterwards, finding nothing.

"It's the same each time, as if the magic were drained," she said. She stepped back as Bastun kneeled closer.

Narrowing his eyes he studied the ashes, disturbed by the wind and smeared across the original marking. Removing one glove he felt the smooth stone, feeling the slight imperfections caused by some powerful strike, likely with a sharp stone or edged weapon. Touching the sigil with his fingertips he stained them with the ashes and rubbed them between his thumb and index finger. Raising them to his mask he sniffed them, two small holes in the mask allowing him room to breath.

"The ashes are moist-some form of oil-and they smell of brimstone," he said, tilting his head and pondering the mystery.

"This means something to you?" Thaena asked.

"Possibly. Perhaps we may find one with the ashes in a more discernable shape to study."

Thaena nodded and gestured for him to rejoin the formation. As the group moved on, Bastun sniffed his fingertips again, still feeling the oily moisture clinging to them, and noted that they did not frost despite the cold. Different oils could be used in several spells he was aware of, but the odor of the brimstone dominated this one's scent. The combination nagged at his memory, and he looked forward to the next obelisk as the path wound northward around a rubble-filled mound of destroyed buildings.

The song of the rusalka, the dream-like lyrics of the Firedawn Cycle, played in his mind over and over again. The power in the Cycle had been born in an age when the wychlaren were few. It carried the legacy of Raumathar into a new era. Because of it, most knew of the battle that had destroyed Shandaular, of the Nentyarch's desire for the city's portal. Few pondered why the Shield remained standing or why the city's cursed spirits refused to go near the fortress- except the vremyonni. He hoped that those vremyonni secrets had remained safe and well-hidden for Rashemen's sake.

On the northern end of their path around the wall of rubble, Thaena signaled the place of another obelisk. This time she waved Bastun along with her to inspect the stone, eliciting a frustrated sigh from Syrolf. Thaena seemed not to hear the warrior, but Duras glowered at him as Bastun moved to accompany the ethran.

He noted that the stone did indeed bear a stronger marking of ash over the original sigil and he studied the odd symbol from several angles trying to discern its meaning. Duras approached from behind to look as well, but after a moment he returned his gaze to the end of the street.

"There's some sort of clearing up ahead," he remarked to Thaena, squinting through the fog.

"Yes," Bastun said, not looking up from the obelisk. "If memory serves, it should be an old merchant square."

"I'd like to take the lead group to scout the area."

"Of course, Duras," Thaena said, also involved in Bastun's observation. "We shall be along shortly with the others."

Bastun's mind flew through the tomes of history he had studied among the vremyonni, trying to place the odd smearing of ash, the vague shape that just barely escaped his memory. Duras led the lead warriors toward the clearing, leaving Syrolf in charge of the fifteen in the rear. More of the oddly quiet thunder rumbled, and the snow came on in larger flakes as Bastun tried to shield the symbol from being obscured. The sound of the warriors' boots crunching through the snow was powerfully loud, amplified by his mask, and he tried to shut out the world around him.

The Firedawn Cycle still tugged at his mind, keeping a rhythm he could not shake from his thoughts. Sighing in consternation, he caught himself humming the tune and looked back at the the sigil from the opposite side of the obelisk. His mind refused to recognize it.

At the distant end of the street he heard Duras's group stop, their voices low as they discussed something they'd found.

Shutting out their voices, Bastun drew closer to understanding what he was seeing. Thaena had backed away, watching the bobbing light of the torches through the snow with concern.

"Is this supposed to be here?" Bastun heard them say, a slight echo among the close buildings of the merchant square.

It clicked in his mind: an ancient book on ancient and extant languages of the north. An arch here, a straight line there, the pattern matched well. He remembered the page, a listing of ancient arcane alphabets in the surrounding regions of Rashemen. His eyes widened in alarm and his quick intake of breath drew Thaena's attention.

"It looks like the path has been blocked," Duras's voice said, a note of caution echoing in Bastun's ears.

"Call them back!" he said and faced the distant clearing. "The symbol is of the Nar!"

Running toward the open square, Bastun yelled through the fog. Dulled thunder rolled through the clouds. The wind picked up, obscuring his warnings. Syrolf shouted behind him, running to stop him, but as the wind shifted Bastun could already hear the sound of taut bowstrings straining against the curve of bows. He spun around, seeing Syrolf several paces back, and waved his hand.

"Get down!"

Arrows whipped through the fog, cracking against buildings on the eastern side of the road. Several found their marks. A few warriors dropped to their knee with arrows embedded in shoulders and legs or long cuts where the missiles had grazed exposed skin. Bastun rolled in the snow, diving behind a nearby column for cover. Shouts erupted from the square down the street, a similar attack taking Duras by surprise. The Rashemi acted quickly, scattering and spreading out so they would not be such easy targets. Syrolf and a few others formed a semi-circle around Thaena, who began casting.

Bastun watched and waited as Thaena wove a spell of protection against the bows. The energy she summoned made tiny ripples in the Weave that he could feel, tempting him to call upon his own magic. He gritted his teeth, breathing slow and even.

The attackers loosed another volley of arrows, this time at

Thaena, but her spell held strong, knocking the missiles from the air to land useless in the snow.

Rocks shifted from the ruin on the western side of the road, and with a fierce war cry the Nar burst from their hiding spots, brandishing axes and long-handled swords. The fang answered that cry with a call every bit as fierce, growling as they summoned the famed rage of the berserkers. Up the street, Duras and the rest of the warriors howled their own call to battle and formed a line to close the square into a killing ground.