The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [43]
It was Bastun who had sent Ulsera to her death, he who had lost himself the night his master was murdered. For both lives he had taken some quiet measure of responsibility. Yet in his heart, where he had always searched for and expected to find grief, he had only found rage,
"Where is your breath?" it asked.
In a screech of metal, the axe blade sprung from his staff, shining in the dark. His mind calmed somewhat, but his arms trembled and his jaw clenched.
"Nothing," he muttered, standing straighter. "I owe you nothing. Now leave this place!"
He swung and struck the wall, sending sparks showering to the floor. The voices shrieked in pain as a shadow coalesced on that wall, forming a twisted face. Long arms ending in wicked claws reached for him. The blackness howled in a decidedly unchildlike manner. Stepping back beyond its reach, he ran, now keeping track of each turn even as more of the shadows appeared along the walls.
He ducked and swung at them with the axe, but he did not stop.
West, he thought as he rounded another corner and stopped short, the path blocked by a young girl at the end of the hallway. The shadows retreated and the whisperers stopped.
Older than the girl he had followed into the maze, this spirit's eyes seemed full of a pain and wisdom far beyond her years. Her dress was little more than sackcloth, and deep wounds encircled each of her pale-skinned wrists. Motes of dust swirled through her translucent form. She stared at him blankly. Just paces away, between him and the ghost, a side passage led south-or what he assumed was south.
Smelling dust and old parchment on the air, he took a tentative step toward the passage. The spirit inclined her head, her dark hair rippling and settling slowly to her shoulders as if underwater. Leaning forward, she lifted her right foot and the floor trembled as her weight shifted. Unnerved and unwilling to wait for her foot to fall, he ran and dived at the passage.
The spirit child's step landed like the stomp of an angry dragon. The stone walls shook, and dust fell as bits of the ceiling crumbled. The floor heaved, and Bastun stumbled into the hallway, the momentum carrying him tumbling and rolling into an open space.
Falling down a short flight of stairs, he dropped his staff. Something wooden shattered beneath his weight, breaking the fall. His legs crashed against something solid and the sound of falling and ripping parchment surrounded him. Books and scrolls rested beneath his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the quaking stone settled and the dust began to clear.
Dim light illuminated the rafters of a high ceiling and a row of shelves to his right. The blue glow of a cloudy morning filtered in from a nearby window. He rested his head on a thick tome, blinking and coughing. Though no shadows followed him and no whispers pushed their way into his ears, he could still feel them-could still see Ulsera's grave and Keffrass's burned mask.
Disentangling his leg from a fallen stack of books, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The splinters of a rotted footstool crumbled beneath his left hand and he thanked the gods. His back ached well enough from the fall without the assistance of newer furniture to crash into.
"There is no shelter here."
He froze, spying the silhouette of a figure in the dimness. The voices had spoken in unison-all very young, some male and some female, shouting, weeping, and groaning. He rose to a crouch, glancing at the floor in a futile attempt to find his staff.
"What do you want?" he asked, hoping to stall for time. "Why are you here?"
"The cold prince will find you," they answered, "will find us all. He will freeze your blood and give Breath to the Word. He's coming now… again… always…"
Watching for any movement from the speaker-or rather speakers-he raised the staff. Light burst from its steel sphere, revealing the source of the voices-
The statue of an aged man in long robes.
Bastun looked around, searching for any movement, any sign of the spirits.
Several moments passed, but