The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [92]
Lament the day that Narfell won, and woe to those were there,
When black wings rose among the char of fallen
Shandaular; When Seven sang a mournful dirge within the
hollow Shield, Where restless dead lie still, waiting, to rise and serve again.
The Nentyarch's son, by sword and curse, to tower
tall he strides, At morning light, for Breath and Word, still there
his fury came; Though cold he found among the fire, he mourned forgotten Flame. Within the walls, inside the halls; to speak the Word that no one heard, Of the Shield and break its silence. Of the Shield and break its silence.
–excerpt from the Firedawn Cycle, canto XII
Chapter Nineteen
The walls and floors vibrated with the sound of Creel war drums.
Thaena strode into the room as Bastun and Anilya separated before her. The durthan pulled herself to her feet defensively, her eyes never leaving the vremyonni. Bastun lowered his axe.
The ethran stood between them, looking from one to the other as the Ice Wolves filed into the room, the drums affecting them much as they had Bastun-hands on weapons, eyes narrowing, and breathing becoming short and controlled. He imagined the Creel would be in for a shock if they expected their drums to inspire fear.
Thaena's gaze rested upon Bastun as she called out orders to the fang.
"Syrolf, get those doors secured," she said.
The runescarred warrior led several men to inspect the heavy iron doors, which appeared to have opened sometime in the recent past despite the ice and rust which should have sealed them tight. Duras approached, followed by more of the fang, and Bastun backed away from them, a familiar ache growing in his head.
Thaena gestured and continued, "Restrain the vremyonni and stick close to the durthan until we know what we're dealing with."
Bastun's hand was nowhere near the Breath, yet spirits appeared behind the nearing Rashemi. Only faint outlines and bright eyes, they looked down upon him like judges as they walked through and around his countrymen. The pain increased, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. The Breath pulsed like a living thing at his side, growing heavier. He fell to one knee, staring at the floor as the dust appeared to shift and move beneath his feet. Tiny at first, shadows bled through the stone and welled around his boots.
The sorrowful thoughts of the invading mind pushed against his will. Voices whispered throughout the chamber, and Duras stopped, the fang turning their eyes to the ceiling and floors as a thin umbral veil darkened the tower. Curses echoed between the sound of the drums and whispers. Bastun's staff clattered to the floor, rolling away as he clutched the sides of his head, fighting the urge to escape, to wield the Breath and face the enemies separating him from the Word.
Rough hands gripped his shoulders and slammed him against the wall. The sound of the drums shook the stone, and he could not separate the cadence from his own heartbeat. The foreign mind, that face in the mirror, leaked its sorrow, anger, and indignation into his thoughts.
"Why?" he whispered through clenched teeth, not sure if the question was his own. The distant banging of swords on shields reverberated in his mind, joining the drums as the past again imitated the present. He spoke to that spirit in the blade. "Why did you do this?"
"What are you doing, Bastun?" Thaena asked as she stared at the creeping shadows and watched as her men slowly devolved into a barely held rage. Rounding on him she grabbed his robes and pulled him close. Dreamlike, he imagined he could see the children's dark madness swimming in her eyes as she shouted at him, "What have you done?"
He heard her voice, but the answer that came streaming forth was not his own. The words he spoke had no meaning to him, the language strange and familiar all at once. He babbled forth anger and tears, a wellspring of loss that he could not control. The children wept with him, the whispers broken by quiet choking sobs. Trapped within memories that did not belong to him, he struggled to decipher