The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [98]
Pushed back against the battlements, blood streamed down the Creel's arm, making it slick and hard to keep from his neck. Bastun punched and kicked viciously, though any effect it had on the man was fleeting and unnoticeable. Rough hands wrapped around his throat, and it was all he could do to keep the pressure at a minimum. He pushed back, finding the man's neck and squeezing in turn. Bent back over the wall, his vision swam as he forced air past the Creel's grip.
The battle blurred around them. The Creel hissed and spat, wide-eyed and bleeding. A smell of leather, sweat, and faint decay assaulted Bastun's senses. No one would come to his aid; none would know the danger that would lie unprotected with his body. From the corner of his eye he could see the silhouette of the city behind and far below him. The cold touch of the Magewarden's memories stirred as he sought to break free.
Another battle from another time sounded in his mind, echoing across Shandaular in screams and the crackle of flames. Phantom fires traced buildings that no longer stood, trailed behind torches set to burn at the Nentyarch's order. Those left behind, running to a portal, an escape that no longer existed, were mercilessly cut down by soldiers.
His eyelids fluttered. Athumrani's spirit grasped him with a chill he felt creeping nearer with each strangled breath. Choking, he pushed back harder, the Creel's pale face and the tall shadow of the tower looming over him. Staring at the flickering windows above, he knew he might die alone and unnoticed, but that he would not be alone for long. He managed one last breath before letting go, his face flushed and warm as his arms fell wide. He gave in to it all just a little-just enough.
Where is your breath?
Exhaling, he whispered, his voice strained and hoarse, his hands grasping at threads of the Weave as he summoned the spell he needed. The Creel seemed to recognize his purpose and shook him all the harder, screaming senselessly as he tried to crush the life from the masked wizard. Bastun closed his eyes and concentrated past the burning in his lungs and the phantom flames of ruined Shandaular, past the screams of the Creel and of those long dead in the streets far below. A wispy scent of smoke curled past his nostrils as the past crept closer to claim him.
An impact shook them both, and the hands around his throat loosened. Opening his eyes, he met the shocked expression of the Creel. Inhaling again, renewed strength flowed through his arms and he brought them together, clapping the sides of the man's skull with as much force as he could muster. The man shuddered at the blow, his arms went limp and he stumbled backward. Bastun pushed away from the battlements, skin flushed and tingling as air filled his lungs.
A quick punch sent the Creel spinning, revealing the axe buried in his back. Bastun kicked the blade deeper, holding his would-be killer face down in the reddening snow.
The old anger churned in Bastun's stomach, though he kept it in control. Reaching out he gestured to the axe, his spell shaking the weapon free and bringing it to his awaiting hand. Though Athumrani still held sway in his mind, he managed to keep the spirit's influence in check. The Breath seemed to squirm at his side, and he resisted its pull even as he eyed more of the Creel approaching.
Wading into the fray, he became a whirling dervish of dark robes and flashing axe. Though only Creel faced him and fell before his blade, he could feel the cobwebs of the older battle playing around him. Warm blood hissed on the snow and stained his mask as the cold, misty spray of ephemeral wounds splashed across his skin from the ghosts of Nar soldiers. Walking a tightrope between the Weave and wild emotion, he kept his senses sharp.
Cutting down another of the Nar, he noted the growing number