The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [70]
Where is your breath?
No time, Bastun thought and tried to sit up.
Blinking in the pale light, he breathed evenly and took in his surroundings.
An open door lay at the other end of the room, allowing the weather to drift inside and down into the pit he'd just escaped. Snow was piling there, and he could make out fresh footprints that had not yet filled in. Behind him was a short hallway. Torchlight flickered beyond. Wincing, he sat up and gathered his things, replacing his spell components and items in his pouches and pockets before rising to his feet.
He donned his mask again. This he did with much thought and a brief pause, staring at it, through it, then letting it cover his face. It was the symbol of an allegiance he no longer carried, but by necessity and the magic it held, he would bear it a little longer.
He explored the hallway and the massive chamber beyond. Bones covered the floor, broken and suggestive of some sort of lost shape. Snow piled here as well. Falling through windows along the staircases, it laced all it touched with white. But for the wind, only his footsteps disturbed the silence in the room. It was a grand hall, high and likely once adorned with all manner of decoration and tapestries. This was the home and the study of King Arkaius and, Bastun imagined, the bjrth-place of the Breath and the Word.
A faint sound disturbed his thoughts, drawing his attention to the high balcony. Cautiously he ascended the stairs, his legs aching with each step. The noise he heard seemed a slow, rasping breath-a dying breath, and one he'd have missed without the mask. Peering over the top step, he found the source of the breath and the eerie silence.
Bodies covered the floor. Dressed in the furs and armor of the Creel, the fallen warriors lay unmarked, no sign of blood around them. Pale scars graced their arms and faces, the edges like streaks of frost-burn. Bows, arrows, and swords were strewn around. At their center was one in dark robes bearing a rune-covered dagger-a priest or wizard. The breathing came from a young woman lying against the balcony's rail.
She did not move or seem to notice Bastun's approach. Like the others, he found no blood around her, but she was weak and appeared to be dying. Taking no chances, he kicked her sword away, the sound causing her eyes to flutter open. Kneeling down to eye level, Bastun made sure his axe was visible and doused its light with a whispered command.
Her eyes widened and her hand slid along the floor, searching for her lost blade. He was surprised by her sudden liveliness, having underestimated her condition. She tried to push herself up, and he raised the axe and murmured a spell. Waving his hand, he shouted the last of the spell, summoning glowing bands of force that encircled her wrists and throat. Bound against the railing, she snarled and struggled, but her strength quickly failed.
Getting comfortable, Bastun sat and laid the axe across his knees. Meeting her eyes, he spoke in Common.
"We will have words, you and I," he said. He briefly squeezed her throat with the spell. Wheezing breaths escaped her when he released the grip, but she smiled, baring her teeth like a trapped animal.
"A word will indeed be spoken, wizard," she hissed. "And neither of us will speak again."
"What word is that?" He sensed a pride in her bearing that could work in his favor.
"The last word," she said with a smirk, "the word of the Prince and the old blood."
"This Prince, he brought you here?"
She drew her lips into a thin line, frowning and looking away defiantly. She struggled against the spell again, causing Bastun to raise his axe and slam its shaft against the floor. Its light blazed in her eyes.