The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [61]
Bastun followed the desperate logic: the smaller room might provide some protection from the collapsing ceiling of the armory. He didn't pause in his casting to consider that safety just yet. The Weave flowed around him as he took up his axe and stood before the small room. One way or another, the Breath would remain buried.
Ohriman charged, intent on bowling him over, but Bastun's spell finished first. Several chunks of stone floated from the floor around him, spinning and whirling. He sent the first flying toward Ohriman's legs. The tiefling dodged, but the movement slowed his rush to safety. Before he could recover, Bastun hurled the rest all at once, his will directing their flight.
One smashed into Ohriman's temple, bloodying his face. The next slammed into his shoulder, spinning him, but he continued to move forward. Then one struck his chest, and another his stomach, knocking the wind from him and doubling him over. The tiefling stumbled forward, gripping his stomach and baring his teeth as he drew closer.
The ceiling between them buckled with another impact, but Ohriman kept moving. Seeing the Breath so near again,
Bastun allowed himself a brief moment of hope and gambled on an idea. Straining, he focused his spell on a heavy stone. Lifting it into the air, he sent it flying in a wide circle, slamming into Ohriman's back. The tiefling fell just before the crack in the ceiling gave way.
Amidst the chaos of noise, Bastun noted the loudest of the stones' grumblings yet. The entire structure shook, and it seemed only a few scant breaths remained before they were buried. Crashing to the ground, Ohriman's grunt of pain was lost as a shower of stones thundered into the chamber. Dislodged from the tiefling's grip, the Breath clattered to the floor near Bastun's feet. Scooping it up quickly, Bastun backed away as Ohriman leaped to his feet. With the last of his spell, Bastun closed the door to the weapons room and leaned against it. Hearing the latch click, he stood resolutely as Ohriman closed the distance, sword flashing barely a stride away. Bastun held his breath and reached back to brush the door handle.
The trap sprung as quickly as before.
Freezing cold burst around him, showering Ohriman in shards of ice and bone-chilling wind. Cuts split the tiefling's face, and he raised his hands against the spell, dropping his sword and slipping to the ground where the magical cold formed thick ice around his legs. The mysterious fever burned across Bastun's flesh, painful but protecting him against the ward's icy breath.
Pushing the door open, he ducked inside the room as the ceiling buckled with a final groan of weakening rock. Ohriman fought to free himself, frozen to the floor as the tower gave in to collapse.
The old metal door slammed shut, and Bastun pressed himself against it, keeping as close to its frame as possible. Tons of stone thundered down in the central chamber, crashing against the door and rattling his teeth. Weapons shook from the walls, clanging to the floor. Cracks appeared to either side of him and he shoved the Breath into his belt.
Reaching into his pouches he retrieved a pinch of sparkling dust. Whispering the spell quickly, he felt his skin harden and grow thick. A gray discoloration spread over his hands and arms, giving them the look of iron.
The entire room shook, and he prayed to the Three as the stone above him split. Debris bounced off his shoulders and arms, the spell protecting him for now, but he hoped the magic would not have to contend with much more.
The back of the room collapsed in a cloud of dust and the door broke from its frame, leaning against the ruin outside. Stones and rock fell for what seemed like forever, until the light from his axe-staff was all but completely obscured. An image (lashed through his mind-himself lying buried for years in rubble, clinging to the Breath as he was dug