The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [101]
His arms grew tired from swinging at what felt like little more than empty air. As he struggled to keep moving, Athumrani's will surged, and the Breath pulled at his side. The sight of Serevan through the fray made the will stronger, and Bastun felt pushed through the wraiths. Their claws reached effortlessly through skin and muscle. Their blades flowed through bone leaving only pain. He fought against the Magewarden's wild emotions, enforcing his will over the entity. His axe rose and fell, growing slower and less accurate.
Once again death reached with rough hands for his soul, and he made a swift choice. Inhaling slowly, he reached for the spell-rage that laid but a heartbeat away when the piercing voice of Anilya rose above everything.
Her spell unleashed a torrent of warm air across his back. Harmless and singing with magic, it Was barely enough to rustle the hem of his robe, but the effect on the wraiths was instantaneous. Their incorporeal forms rippled. Their faces, straining beyond death's grip to be known, screamed as the spell's wind tore them apart. In moments only an echo of their pain was left hanging on the air.
Falling forward, senses clearing, Bastun forced back the fury in his throat. Less than half the wall remained between him and the prince. Serevan turned, his face twisted in confusion. For the briefest of moments, the prince seemed as a sleepwalker, woken from his dream to a reality that he could not comprehend. He moved forward, his steps unsure as madness twisted his features. The blush of life he had taken from the Creel had begun to fade. Sharp cheekbones stood out as taut skin pulled his face slowly back into the rictus grin of unlife.
Anilya's voice rose again. Recognizing the spell, Bastun lurched forward, determined to reach the prince. Tiny motes of ice-blue light danced past him, striking the stone with bright sparks of energy. Where they touched, spikes of ice burst upward, forming a barrier across the wall and keeping him from his goal. Sorrow flooded through his mind as the Magewarden's will fell apart, torn from the course of time. Bastun placed a hand on the ice, feeling the magic ring's strange warmth flow through his fingers. The quiet curses that escaped his lips were Athumrani's, but the desperation he felt was his own.
Hands grabbed at his shoulders, dragging him back from the ice. He resisted at first, wondering at Athumrani's path, what sorrow had carried the man past Serevan to the Word-and beyond. Arms weak and aching, he thought of his fallen master, wishing Keffrass were there to tell him what he should do. Together they might have done battle against and discussed the peculiar history of the Shield and its odd curse. For a moment he shared in the echo of sorrow that Athumrani had left in his heart. Overpowered by Duras, he reluctantly complied and turned back.
"The wraiths are gone only temporarily," Anilya said to Thaena as the pair approached. "The spell was not enough to destroy them. Get back inside the tower. When they return, I and my men will hold them off as long as we can."
"Why should we trust you?" Syrolf asked.
"I should think there is little choice," she answered, her eyes glancing between them and the icy barrier.
"And even less time to debate the issue," Thaena said. "Get everyone inside the guard tower."
Syrolf did as the ethran ordered, ushering the fang back as the durthans sellswords, down to only four, approached their employer. Duras went on ahead, leaving Bastun to edge along slowly and listen as the two women spoke.
"I'll raise another barrier when you are all inside," Anilya said, producing a small vial of brown liquid from her belt. "It should give you a bit more time."
"We'll gather the blades," Thaena replied, staring after the fang. "I should be able to make enough of them potent against the wraiths."
"Provided they get past me," Anilya said, a dangerous humor in her voice.
"Yes," the ethran said. "I don't know why-"
"Let's not waste time, Thaena," Anilya