The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [106]
The wraiths no longer came near the vremyonni, focusing their anger on the fang instead. Frost coated the ground where the prince stepped, rushing ahead of him as his aura moved. The ice hesitated at the hem of Bastun's robes, and where he expected freezing, he found burning. Sweat poured down his face, meeting the contours of his mask and dripping down his neck. Serevan raised an ungloved hand, a graceful finger pointing at him.
"Magewarden," the prince said, his voice now seeming to echo through Bastun's mind.
The Breath grew colder against his leg, a relief from the oppressive heat that pulsated across his flesh. Athumrani's thoughts swelled from the blade, flooding his head with more voices, memories, and emotions.
"We had a deal, Athumrani. You betrayed me once. Do not make the mistake of doing so again."
Bastun could feel the Magewatden's mind, struggling to answer. There was to be an exchange: the Shield's secrets for… something. Pain lanced behind his eyes as the pressure of two minds became too much to bear, and he shouted as the dead wizard's words commanded his voice.
"Y-you took her! Used her!"
Bastun choked on the words, inhaling swiftly as he fell to one knee.
"The girl," he muttered as the source of Athumrani s shame and sorrow revealed itself in his mind. He looked with dread toward the tower stairwell behind him. There, peering fearfully around the corner, more translucent than before, barely more than a memory herself, stood the child, the little girl. The others were barely a haze behind her, tiny dots of darting eyes afraid to look upon the prince that had designed their deaths. The young girl stared at him with fearful eyes, tiny gleaming tears streaking down her face as she looked not at him… but at her father's tortured spirit. "Athumrani's daughter."
"Your king is dead, and your city is burning," Serevan said. "This stand is less than noble and I’ll befits a man of your wisdom. Surrender the blade and the ring."
Bastun's hand drifted to the Breath, feeling the cold metal pulsing beneath his touch.
"The ring?" He stood, less of his own volition and more as a player's puppet on strings of time. The strange ring did indeed play some part along with the Breath-a secret kept from him, possibly even from Keffrass.
His head slowly shook from side to side, the Magewarden refusing to yield. A catch formed in his throat, and Bastun choked down Athumrani's reply. The rushing pace of history as it caught up with the present was overwhelming, but he managed to assert himself-control himself-long enough to ignore the well-tread paths of ghosts and memories.
The axe blade raised sparks as it scored the stone, swinging in a powerful arc at Serevan's neck. It sang as it met the prince's own blade, drawn and placed with a cruel precision. Denied the cut, Bastun drew back to swing again, the motion as reflexive as the spells that sprung to mind. The magic curled in his gut, spinning with the blade as the words crowded themselves on his tongue. He backstepped as Serevan advanced, the prince's actions no longer following the paths of the past.
Their blades met again, the clash of metals matching the rhythm of his casting. Though Serevan snarled, his face a mask of confusion at the re-enactment that refused to obey set course, his skill with the thin blade he carried was formidable and unhindered by the chaos he was experiencing. His white lips moved, mumbling and whispering words of magic that overlaid Bastun's own intonations.
Power flowed from the vremyonni's chest, gathering at his shoulder as he raised his arm to ditect