The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [24]
Bastun returned his focus to the portal stones. He knelt and studied the magic written by a cursed race in the deep history of Faerun. He did not understand the language of the symbols, but there was a sense of a familiar order in certain places. Searching among the runes for some pattern, he pushed away the thought that he was wasting his time. Instinct had drawn him to the portal. Intellect would be forced to solve it.
A fang warrior crashed to the ground beside him and was knocked unconscious by the fall. Growling in frustration, Bastun turned and prepared to defend himself against the undead soldier. He paused as a green light burst in the soldier's chest, eating away at the armor and dried flesh beneath until the creature collapsed into a pile of dust. Anilya stood nearby, her hand still glowing with the timely spell.
She strode forward, glancing at the portal and the vortex above it. Behind her the battle shifted as more of the undead tore themselves from the ice and snow and dug their way into the fight.
"Can you stop it, vremyonni?" Anilya asked.
"I can try," he said, "but I make no promises."
"Good enough," she said and turned to face the hall of raging Rashemi and undead soldiers. Ohriman dashed to her sideI and slashed at a pair of shriveled arms breaking free beneath his feet. Wielding a wand of pale green wood, Anilya shouted over her shoulder to Bastun, "Do what you can! We will try to give you time!"
Lacking the time to question the good sense in trusting a durthan, Bastun turned back to the portal and began to trace patterns through the runes. He shook his head as possibilities came and went, discarding one idea after another. The pages of spellbooks flipped through his mind, turning and turning as he tried to find a weakness in the dense net of magic that flowed among the portal's spells.
The others struggled against the tide of undead soldiers and made slow progress, though the strange look in Syrolf s eye haunted Bastun's sense of hope. The smell of burning bone wafted from the steaming remains of another of Anilya's targets, her wand flashing a bright emerald light every few moments.
Growling in frustration, Bastun chose. His fingertips brushed the edges of one rune as he reached for another. He whispered arcane names, quickly trying to identify the symbols even as he called upon their power. For a moment, between the cracks and the squirming magic, he saw a pattern. His eyes widened, seizing upon the two runes he had chosen and managing the last syllables of their names before his breath was stolen from him.
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1369 DR, Year of the Gauntlet
"Where is your breath?"
Keffrass's voice whispered in Bastun's ear as he concentrated. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled into his eyes, and dripped from his chin. Magic filled his limbs, granting him power-raw power. It was his to master, to control lest it break free. His will and his rage warred inside of him, defying his training and calling upon him to be free, to destroy.
Slowly, he inhaled, shuddering and shaking, his eyes trying to focus on a delicate glass object resting on the floor within a chalk circle several paces away.
"There," Keffrass said, pacing behind him. The vremyonni taught secrets of magic that even the wychlaren did not use, destructive spells forbidden among the wilds of Rashemen. They felt it necessary to push the limits of their knowledge into dangerous places, for one never knew when such secrets might be needed. "Master your breathing, will your pulse to deliver only what the body needs. Keep the mind free. Make a place within yourself to hide from the ravages of anger. Divide your flesh from your mind, but control both as instruments of your will. Now speak the words."
Bastun spat, his lips trembling. Pain arced through his body, filling his