The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [87]
"You fear this? What is the Word and the Breath?"
"Let it be! Let it be!" he exclaimed, "We saw… watched as children marched… sons and daughters of nobles… took the gates in screaming shadows. They burned and bore madness… forged the path for our army. We know the sorcery that awaits those who displease our prince. Let it be…"
"How did you die here?" Anilya asked, and Thaena resisted the compulsion to hush the durthan. Direct questions as to a spirit's death could disturb the spell, draw forth nonsensical answers or pained ravings, but she too wished to hear his answer.
"Only white… waves of cold and tearing magic… unhallowed beasts and heavy night. Dead, we lay in the quiet… listening as the hound came… feasting upon one then the other… howling and baying. No peace. Trapped until sundown… rooted in stone by cursed magic. We still fight for our prince… over and over…"
"Serevan Crell? He is your prince?" she asked, but the voice kept on, lost in its own unending death.
"Shadows of the children… still playing in the walls…"
Bastun's spirits, she thought, and looked around as if she felt the shadows even now crawling near to twist her emotions into fury again.
"They torment us… boil our cold blood in battle… until our prince returns… to find his Breath."
"He is raving," Anilya whispered. "There's nothing here for us."
Thaena ignored the durthan, piecing together the fragmented narrative with what Bastun had already told her about Serevan Crell. The vremyonni's knowledge of the Shield seemed accurate, which made his omission of the Breath and the Word more suspect than she was content to leave be. The spirit's voice continued to mutter and ramble as she determined what should be done.
"End it!" said Anilya. "He cannot-"
The sound of cracking ice in the distance cut off the durthan.
Thaena's eyes widened, looking ahead, searching the dark for some disturbance. She was rewarded by the sound of a faint whimper, like a pained dog. Unseen claws scratched at stone in that black distance between she and her fang. Standing, she made to end her spell when the body's voice stopped her cold.
"Ghosts of wild warriors and strange peoples… witches in masks… asking questions… now you." The bright eyes faded away after its cryptic rant was finished. She struggled to recall a spell of light even as a low, thundering growl echoed through the tall corridor of the Shield's wall.
Chapter Eighteen
The fang set to work freeing the doors at the end of the hall, pulling stiff bodies away from one another. More torches were lit and laid by the side to loosen the ice.
Looking high into the shadows overhead, Bastun imagined the battles fought above and below the wall, resisting the urge to caress the cold metal of the Breath and bear witness to the ghosts still fighting.
Still fighting, he thought, because of I’ll-conceived magic in the past and wychlaren neglect in the present.
The length of wall they toiled beneath was once known as the Bridge of Wakes, where the wizard rulers of Shandaular were carried upon their passing to the northwest tower. All but the last were cremated at the tower's top, Arkaius's remains being utterly destroyed in his sacrificial attempt to seal the portal in the heart of the city. Troubled by the thought, he recalled there were no solid records regarding the fate of Athumrani.
"See something?" Duras asked and followed Bastun's gaze up into the darkness.
"No, just remembering my studies," he replied, and returned to watching the progress at the doors. Duras looked away as well, turning back to stare into the dark behind them with a concerned expression. "We're close now. The tower beyond should be well enough intact if memory serves, and the northwest tower has been-"
"Thaena still hasn't