James Davis: The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

"There were places secreted among the wilds of Rashemen, where those of the wychlaren and their guardians were taken for burial. Occasionally these places were well known as sacred ground devoted to heroes or champions of the land, favored by the spirits that watched well over their rest. Other places, more secluded and visited only by the wychlaren, held those whom destiny had taken too soon. They would lie in wait for those left behind beneath the boughs of ancient trees, their graves marked only by spots of sunlight and leaves disturbed by the wind. It was the peace of such a place to which Thaena found her thoughts drifting.

Dirt filled the lines in her palms, found its way beneath her fingernails. Dreamlike she turned them over, studying the stains of Rashemen's soil, as Duras lay quiet and unmoving before her. The ritual had been instinctual, a simple prayer for the protection of his spirit and the soil to protect his body from the ravages of undeath. Slowly her hands reached for his, to cross them over his chest along with his sword.

Somewhere nearby a terrible roar thundered. Unhallowed voices whispered through the air as a numbing cold drew mist and steam from the throats of the living. She blinked, her eyes dry and sore, and shook her head as she focused on her task.

It is my task, she thought. It is what I can do for him-what I could not do before.

She lifted his left hand. Small and pale, an old scar crossed through his palm, a sign of undying friendship between two young boys torn apart by an untimely death. The death and the funeral thereafter had lived with Ouras ever since, had spilled from him years later and helped forge the bond between ethran and guardian that now ached within her breast. He had never let go, crushed by guilt of the boy he'd been-guilt she could not soothe from his haunted memory.

"What I could not do," she said. "Give him peace."

Something slid across the floor nearby. Shambling footsteps drew nearer. Blearily she looked up into the face of one of her warriors. His eyes were glazed over, mouth agape and moaning as his awkward gate forced air through his lungs with each lurching step. She blinked again and reality found a place in her thoughts.

Calmly, she completed the ritual. She took up Duras's sword but did not replace it in his hands. Instead she stood and took a cleansing breath. Members of the wychlaren rarely had use for long blades, preferring simple daggers, staves, or their famed whips, but many were trained in the art of swordplay.

Her feet slid gracefully across the stone as she raised the sword against the mindless thing that had replaced the berserker. The power in her slash betrayed the calm demeanor that had overtaken her. The blade sank deep into the undead's neck, and she kicked the weapon free, sending the dead berserker off balance.

It slipped on a patch of frost and fell onto its back, trying to stand and make its newly disjointed shoulder support its weight. She reached into a pouch and sprinkled a pinch of sulfur over the thing as she walked by, whispering a quick incantation. Flames engulfed the thrashing body, bringing fresh light and heat into the chamber. The wraiths recoiled from the sudden illumination, giving Syrolf and those at his back a much-needed moment of distraction.

The fire also drew the attention of the prince. Serevan Crell, half-skeletal and turning to face her with quick, snapping movements, shook off bits of ice as he freed himself of the bleakborn dormancy. He cracked his sword against the stone floor, breaking away frost encrusted on the blade. Half-formed brows knitted in confusion as he stared at her. Standing straight, he called out something she could not understand and the wraiths drew away from their battle, hovering toward him in subservience.

The last of the walking corpses fell to Syrolf s sword, and he stumbled to one knee. The exhaustion that followed a berserker's fury was debilitating-and in some cases fatal. As the Rashemi warriors heaved for breath and clung to weapons, Thaena summoned another spell and listened carefully as the prince began to speak.

"Captain," he rasped, still staring at the ethran, "tarry no longer with these strange spirits, these tricks of the Magewarden. Secure the central tower and disable the remainder of the Shield's defenses. Send some of your men to help mind the fires in the city."

One of the wraiths nodded, its face disappearing in folds of twisting cloth and dark ether, but its bright eyes focused on the risen prince. The spirits moved to obey, but paused as Serevan continued.

"If any of my father's wizards approaches the citadel, kill them and throw them to the flames as kindling. I will attend to matters here. Now go."

The wraiths drifted away, flowing past Thaena. She stared after them a moment, then watched Serevan pace in a circle, his body still not completely up to the task of mimicking the life he believed he still had. He ignored her and the berserkers as if he were alone. Finally his gaze rested upon the open doors and the northwest tower.

"My father wishes a portal?" he said aloud, his thin lips spreading in a rictus of a grin as he took a step toward the long wall. "Then by all means I shall give him one."

Syrolf stood on shaking legs, supporting himself on his sword to intercept the prince. The others, though injured and weak, followed suit as best they could. Thaena watched all of it in a daze. If not for the loose-fitting armor and bony claws of the prince, she could almost believe that she was the spirit and he the living commander of an invading army. Blood flowed like a cold river of ice through her limbs. An errant breeze blew from outside, stinging her chapped and cracked lips, drying the tracks of spent tears on her cheeks.

She looked down, absently searching for her mask. On the floor, it stared at her from beside Duras's body. Blood smeared its face-her face, since the wychlaren had accepted her request to lead a fang on a relatively safe mission. She felt disembodied, floating from one heartbeat to the next and seeking a purpose to match the unending drive of the dead prince that had slain her lover.

Staring at his face, a knot of guilt ate at her stomach, and warmth returned for a moment. She dropped the sword, flexing her fingers as she turned away from the body. She felt stripped to the bone, light and drifting on a nightmarish wind as arcane words escaped her. The Weave responded and set power adrift along with her, a building storm to fill the unwelcome void in her chest.

On hands and knees Bastun crawled into the chamber of the Word, squinting through the haze of power that surrounded him. It roared in his ears, an unfelt wind rushing and turning. Every surface squirmed with Ilythiiri and Nar runes, a shimmering labyrinthine pattern that distorted all he could see. He searched for Anilya through a myriad of dark shapes, most of which seemed only mirage. He pushed farther inside, his presence causing ripples in the torrent running through his fingers and around his legs.

The fever of the Flame only grew stronger, and he allowed it to wash over him. He accepted the pain, felt deserving of it for what he had allowed to happen-what he might still allow.

Holes formed in the walls and floor, shimmering open as if the tower were tearing itself apart. Through these he saw glimpses of Shandaular and the outside world. In some the city lay as dead and ruined as he knew it to be, full of shadows and mist. In others it still burned, an eternal pyre of suffering while Narfell's cruel emissary sought the deadly secrets of King Arkaius. For a moment he wondered which of the two cities truly lay outside the threshold he had just crossed. He felt himself lying on the doorstep of nowhere, in between and hovering in a state of stilled potential-a superposition from which any possibility could occur.