The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [110]
Black light exploded from Bastun's open palm, the beam searing through Serevan's chest. The prince howled in pain and whirled away, ashes falling from where lifelike flesh and solid armor once had been. Bastun followed closely, slicing with the axe and adjusting his position to keep Serevan off balance. They exchanged blows again, and Bastun loosed the dark beam a second time, burning it into the prince's leg. Icy skin and muscle fell away, exposing bone. Serevan cried out in pain and began casting a spell of his own.
Unleashing a torrent of attacks, Bastun spun and turned, keeping the prince's attention far too busy to complete the spell. The rhythm of the spell-rage felt good, settled within him calmly in contrast to the wild bloodlust of the berserkers. Athumrani did not struggle or assault him with commands or memories. In truth, Bastun was not sure the spirit could affect him as crudely as it had before. The Weave surged like waves around him. He matched its swells with magic and its troughs with steel.
The black light of his previous spell died away as he parried and struck, carrying his axe blade to his enemy's side. The wounds he had opened were already closing, healing as Serevan spent his stolen life replacing the illusion of living flesh. The prince could not accept the reality of his undead state, believing himself alive and on the cusp of victory each night. Bastun had counted on this denial and smiled grimly as the first shadows of sunken flesh began to plague his opponent's face.
The wraiths avoided the pair, flying around them as they dived and circled the struggling Rashemi. More of the spirits had been slain, but more than enough remained to threaten their thinning chances. Syrolf still fought at the ethran's side, but Thaena's voice had grown weak and hoarse.
Bastun backstepped, spreading his arms wide. With one hand he deflected the prince's blade and with the other waved over the dropped blades and weapons of his fallen countrymen. Magic drifted from his fingertips, and he reversed his spin, thrusting with his axe and battering at Serevan's sword. A moment's hesitation and a nicked wrist revealed the first sign of a sluggishness infecting the bleakborn nobleman's movements. With a final thrust Bastun stepped away, backing up and kneeling on the stone floor.
Eyes closed, he concentrated on the magic seeded in the items around him. Only the smallest of the blades responded. Hard-tipped short swords and daggers rattled as they rose on their points and spun into the air. He stood quickly and raised his axe, catching the prince's sword at the last moment. Tiny fractions of his focus floated in the small blades and he growled as he pushed back against Serevan's unnatural strength. Twisting to his right, he kicked at the prince's leg, setting Serevan off balance.
Bastun exhaled and released the swarm of blades. They flew unerringly at their target, a few parried and sent spinning to the ground before the others struck home. A look of shock crossed the bleakborn's face, lasting only a moment as his chest, legs, and arms were stabbed by the flying arsenal. The blades tore through the illusion of life which tried to replace itself with each new wound. Daggers clattered to the floor, pushed out by renewing flesh that looked less alive and more scarred each time. As the last shortsword slipped from his stomach, the prince seemed more the walking corpse he was than the man he thought himself to be.
Serevan's step faltered, and his head shook in denial. A thin whisper of a voice tried to speak past a shriveled tongue and a lipless skull's grin. Bastun knew he could not truly slay the prince. The Shield would keep its tormented conqueror alive night after night, but the vremyonni only needed to make it through one night, slay the Nar prince this once, for Duras. Taking the advantage he raised his axe high and brought it down with all the strength he could muster.