The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [23]
Clawlike hands scratched and tore at the Rashemi, batting away their swords and hurling grown men through the air to crash against the walls. Eyes that were little more than black pools of viscous, dripping tears dominated their sunken faces. Armor hung loosely on their bodies, rusted and split by time. Their age-worn tabards bore the faded insignia of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos, the first ruler of ancient Narfell-a black tree, stripped of leaves on a circular red field-soldiers cursed to suffer alongside the people they slaughtered as the city burned and the Shield was breached.
The creatures wailed and cried with monstrous voices. Only a dozen opposed the fang, but their inhuman strength more than made up for their numbers.
The fang negotiated the cracked and rubble-strewn floors without hesitation, roaring eagerly into battle against foes thankfully more substantial than the city's spirits. Anilya's sellswords paled at the sight of the enemy, overtaken by the wracking sobs and groans that echoed within the hall. Several of the sellswords fell to their knees and rolled on their sides, clutching their ears and weeping uncontrollably. The others, led by Ohriman, followed the fang into the fight.
Bastun stopped just outside, staring at the eldritch glow that swirled and spat in the hall's center. A maelstrom of energy where no magic should have been left now haloed a blackened patch of ground, once covered by the archway of Shandaular's portal. The archway itself was shattered, destroyed long ago by King Arkaius, but the fragments glowed with power in defiance of all reason. Bastun nearly fell to his knees as the keening wail of the undead filled his ears. The voices of Duras and Syrolf stood out in the cacophony of sound, shouting in some unknown language that drew Bastun out of his sudden stupor.
Clutching his staff Bastun half-slid down into the chamber, his eyes on the portal and his mind fighting the pull of the undead's despair. A warrior screamed in pain and fell back from the fray, his arm steaming and covered in a black smear of the creatures' tears. Bastun stepped over the man and continued on.
Anilya hurled bolts of flame, and the undead screamed and wailed even louder. She screamed right back at them as she summoned her spells, her Rashemi spirit evident as she continued her assault.
Thaena's staff flashed scarlet, ruining the claws of one creature, then spinning to sweep it off balance. Her casting was lost to Bastun as he neared the portal, voices streaming from the unnatural vortex. Though spoken in a dialect he did not know, the language sounded vaguely of Nar origins, a version unheard for nearly two millennia.
A berserker was pushed into him and they tumbled to the ground. An undead soldier moaned as it knelt over them with arms outstretched. Intoning a quick command, Bastun shoved his staff forward into the thing's chest, producing a burst of blue light that knocked the wheep off its feet. It scrabbled and screamed as it sought to regain its footing again.
Sitting up, Bastun met the glazed eyes of Syrolf, who seemed not to recognize him at all. An odd light in SyrolPs eyes turned in rhythm to the spinning power of the portal. The warrior muttered something in Old Nar and returned to the fight. Bastun understood the words "protect" and "portal," then Syrolf was lost in the battle.
Standing, Bastun ran to the edge of the portal circle and searched for some idea of how to stop the wild magic of the broken stones. The symbols and runes on the shattered archway were unlike any that he had ever seen before. They glowed with a flickering green-hued light that stung his eyes. Looking up, he squinted and tried to make sense of what he witnessed in the depths of the spinning energy.
A mass of figures pushed and strained against the edges of the vortex, their faces contorted in madness and pain. A constant stream of babbling escaped their lips. Bastun took a step backward, the noise in the