The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [82]
He kept moving as if nothing were amiss, though he could not deny the sudden urge to dash ahead of the group. His headache became a piercing stab, and he gasped as a foreign compulsion warred with his will. An absent-minded touch upon the Breath became a white-knuckled grip as he resisted the strange command to escape his captors and reach the northwest tower-the tower of the Word.
The need consumed him, ignoring all reason or caution. Stumbling forward, his legs buckled and he fell in the snow. Strange words escaped his lips, a language unspoken for centuries, but unmistakably a dialect of the Nar tongue. He muttered and spit as the others formed a circle around him.
A blade slid from its scabbard, and Anilya crossed her arms defensively.
"Get up, exile!" Syrolf said, shoving his boot into Bastun's ribs.
He tried to rise, squinting through the chaos of ghosts that surrounded him. Duras appeared and placed a hand on his shoulder. The contact seemed to ground him briefly in the present. His muttering stopped and he rose to one knee.
"What's wrong, Bastun? Are you hurt?" Duras said, his voice strident and clear in the silence of the violent images.
"Get him to his feet!" Thaena yelled. "We cannot stop here!"
He felt himself being lifted, though by whom he wasn't sure. Spirits struggled all around them, stabbing and slashing, reliving their ancient battle. He groaned, trying to find his balance, unsure of his footing.
"He spoke like the language of the Creel!" Syrolf proclaimed, drawing closer with his sword.
The ghosts paused in their fighting, turning as one toward the center of the wall where a black aura of magic pulsed. Thaena turned as well, then Duras. Syrolf walked past them, his eyes widening as shadows coalesced out of thin air.
Pain subsiding, Bastun released his grip on the Breath, the bond it had forged between himself and the past fading, his last sight being of the child at the center of the swirling darkness on the wall.
"They can see it… her… them…" he whispered,
drawing a curious glance from Duras. "The children in the stone…"
In the thrashing shadows stood the eldest girl of the child spirits, her hair waving as before, tossed in some strange watery current. Thaena strode forward, her hands tracing the intricate motions of a spell. Duras cursed and shoved Bastun against the battlements as he rushed to stand at the ethran's side.
The wall hummed beneath his palms, vibrating with power, and he pushed himself away.
"Wait!" he cried. "Stop!"
Thaena glanced at him, fury in her eyes as the glow of magic faded from her hands. Flailing chains whipped around the girl in shadow as her head tilted, her weight slowly shifting forward.
"No," Bastun muttered in fear and stepped forward.
A familiar hand gripped his shoulder roughly, stopping him from getting any closer to the ethran. Turning, he spun his staff into the center of Syrolfs chest. The warrior stumbled backward but recovered quickly. He advanced on the vremyonni even as the shadows erupted in a chorus of pained and angry voices.
Thaena and Duras fell back from the darkness as the wall shook with a terrible impact. No one moved as the snow's surface shifted, conforming to the cracks of damage beneath. Anilya and her men were the first to begin retreating from the growing rift. Thaena followed suit as the wall began to crumble before their eyes. With a curse Syrolf fell in step behind the ethran and the fang.
Bastun froze in place, staring into the shadows as if he might communicate with them, plead with them to trust him. The remnant of some horrible memory flitted through his thoughts, a recollection not his own, but somehow imparted to him through the Breath.
Duras grabbed his arm and pulled.
"Run, Bastun! The wall won't stand much longer!"
Shrugging him off, the vremyonni held onto the battlements for balance. Snow just paces in front of him slid away and fell. Duras grabbed him again, hauling him back toward the tower.
"Come!"
Bastun hesitated only a moment before relenting.