The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [107]
With a final syllable, the spark was reflected in the glassy eyes of the prince as he countered and dismissed Bastun's attempt to harm him. Eyes widening in shock, Bastun fell back as Serevan's blade came again-and faster. He swung the heavy axe against the quick and elegant thrusts of the smaller weapon. The axe-staff became more shield than weapon as the prince fell more out of step with his past and into the murderous fury of the sleeper awoken from a dark and terrible dream.
The proximity to the bleakborn was stifling. The numbing cold that froze anything else burned Bastun's skin like a bonfire. Frost surrounded them, ice formed on the floor, yet melted wherever he set foot. The hunger in Serevan's eyes took on a maddening gleam as his cheeks sank in upon themselves. The cracks and rot of a long-frozen death began to spread through the prince's features.
"The ring!" the prince rasped, his semblance of life falling apart.
Pain lanced through his side as the bleakborn's blade found an opening. He groaned as the sword was pulled free, blood spattering the floor. He doubled over and Serevan kicked him to the ground.
A scratchy sound like dried leaves escaped a throat that had fallen apart, exposing the lifeless gray tissue beneath. The sword hovered high, its edge wavering in the drawn-out heartbeats that came when death neared. Clutching his wound, Bastun looked upon the blade and wondered if this too was a part that Athumrani had played. Pain and the sudden shock of mortality brought an unexpected clarity to his thoughts. He couldn't raise his axe in time to stop the sword, but it didn't seem to matter as much as he'd expected only moments before.
The blade fell, a silver stroke of lightning through the storm of darkness that threatened to overtake his vision. The room blurred, something shoved him out of the way, and he rolled onto his stomach. Steel sang like a stricken anvil as he glanced up and saw Duras standing in his place. Swords locked, the berserker and the prince tested one another's strength.
Bastun watched in horror as telltale frost crawled over Duras's gauntlet and the sunken pits of Serevan's cheeks swelled slightly with a blush of renewed warmth.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tumbling toward the stairwell, Bastun leaned against the doorframe and gripped the wound in his side. In between pained breaths he reached inside his robes, just beneath the light armor he wore. Focusing on casting a spell and watching the duel between Duras and Serevan, he warded off the effects of shock. Blood ran between his fingers as he completed the spell. He cried out as a burning pain seared the wound shut, but he kept his eyes open, his mind alert, and used the pain as further reminder that he was still alive.
Duras's blade gleamed as it blocked another of the prince's thrusts. He hacked at the thin blade with his larger sword, threatening to snap the smaller weapon in two. It stubbornly held and kept coming.
Bastun carefully removed his palm from the sealed puncture. The smell of his own scorching flesh was slight compared to the scent of dying wraiths that hung on the air in a gray haze. Their numbers had thinned, but they'd taken more than their share of Rashemi along with them. Barely ten still stood alongside Syrolf and Thaena, blocked into a circle of swinging blades. Bastun could not help but wonder at the faces of such familiar strangers. Torchlight flashed over the battlefield, obscured intermittently as the howling spirits encircled those still alive.
Hefting his axe, Bastun pushed away from the wall. Hesitant to cast any magic for fear of striking Duras, he circled and waited for an opening. Serevan's features had reformed quickly in the presence of the big warrior, but Duras fought on despite the sickly pallor he now wore. His sword crashed against the prince's shoulder, denting the elaborate armor and sending a shower of ice to the floor.