pulled it free.
Covered in dirt, the wavy blade bore intricate symbols and crude markings. Holding it in both hands he inspected the sword with a mage's eye. Sharp to the touch, it was nothing like the weapons that surrounded him. Forged by wizards and enchanted by King Arkaius of Shandaular himself, the Breath was the key to the Shield's most powerful weapon-the Word, a weapon that had marked the end of the city.
To Bastun's knowledge, Keffrass had been the last person to lay hands upon the sword before the wychlaren had laid claim to the Shield as their outpost. He had always meant to return, to study the altered runes of the Ilythiiri and try to dismantle them, but his responsibilities in the Running Rocks prohibited it. In the meantime, the Breath remained hidden, buried, and spoken of only to the othlor and those hathran deemed worthy. And Bastun.
Bastun's knowledge of the Shield's secrets had been his greatest treasure for many years, a gift from an old man who had seen something in him that no one else ever had-potential.
Holding onto the Breath for a few moments longer, satisfied of its safety, he dipped the point of the sword back into the hole. With the blade halfway in he felt the floor shake, and the walls shook. Eyes wide, he froze and listened. Dust fell from the ceiling, and he could hear the edges of tiny cracks popping as they grew in the stone. Alarmed, he turned around, raising his staff.
A thin cloud of dust filled the outer chamber, and a crash from above sent more spilling from the ceiling. He stood, the
Breath in one hand, his axe-staff in the other, as the sound faded to faint and distant rumblings. In the brief silence that followed, a second sound reached his ears-the scuff of a boot on loose gravel.
A silhouette appeared outside the room. Bright eyes regarded him through the fog of dust, and he could make out the sound of a slow, measured breath-the breathing of a thief on the prowl or an assassin before a kill.
'Ohriman,' he said, his earlier relief fading in the face of reality. He felt foolish for indulging his fears-and even more so for believing, however briefly, that he had been alone save for ghosts and memories.
'Vremyonni,' the tiefling replied. He stepped into the light, a thin blade held at his side.
'How did you follow me?' Bastun asked, stalling for enough time to prepare a defensive spell. Ohriman seemed in no hurry, though his cat-like eyes did wander to the ceiling more than once. 'The haunting in this place is quite formidable.'
'Yes, the ghosts,' Ohriman said, standing his ground in the center of the room. He appeared casual save for the sword. 'Terrible little fiends, aren't they?'
The walls shook yet again. This impact felt closer. Larger chunks of the ceiling fell, and stones the size of walnuts bounced in the dust. Bastun didn't answer, raising his staff as he lowered the Breath to his side. He took one long, cleansing breath, preparing himself for the next few moments. Ohriman raised an eyebrow and smiled as he surveyed the growing cracks above them.
'Well, no matter to me. Your witches have a knack for keeping little beasties like that quiet and out of the way. I like having them around, long as they're paying me no attention.' He held out a hand. The glove upon it was of a black cloth and held a barely perceptible nimbus of shadow. 'Now, I suppose I can guess your answer, but considering the reputation you have among your friends upstairs, I'll ask anyway-'
'I will not give you the Breath,' Bastun said.
Ohriman nodded, smirking as he did so. 'Have your own game to play?' he said, eyes narrowing. 'I can respect that.'
The tiefling lunged, his blade lightning-quick. Bastun parried the strike with his axe blade and swung the Breath in a wide arc. Ohriman skipped backward, spreading his arms and smiling as he gave the vremyonni space to join him in the central chamber.
Accepting the pause, Bastun stepped out from the weapons room, quickly surveying the tenuous integrity of the ceiling and detecting movement to his right. A deep darkness leaked into the room, crawling at the edge of his light. As soon as the Breath crossed the threshold, the returning spirits whined and growled. He ignored them and circled the tiefling. Ohriman snarled and came again.
They traded quick blows, and Bastun struggled to match the tiefling's speed. He didn't dare drop the Breath to free a hand for spellwork, so he was limited to what lay within the axe-staff. Calling upon the power he had, he managed to trap Ohriman's sword in the curve of his axe. Bright blue-white sparks leaped from the weapon, singeing the tiefling's hand, and Bastun slashed the Breath at Ohriman's legs. He cursed as Ohriman jumped nimbly out of the way, freeing his blade.
Though the shocking spell had done little damage, he pressed the slight advantage, bringing his axe to bear again. As another thunderous impact shook the room, Ohriman kicked the flat of the axe away and tumbled backward, dodging a large chunk of stone. Dust, rocks, and ice showered from the newly made fissure.
The tiefling rolled into a crouch, licking the back of his singed hand with an obscenely long tongue. Steam rose around his lips and he smiled.
Bastun circled around the cloud of dust, considering his options. The exit was several strides away, but he had no way of knowing how much damage had been wrought to the tower.
As if mirroring his thoughts, the spirits drew closer, circling the pair, though their shining eyes remained fixed on the Breath.
'Walls falling down, little ghosts sneaking up from behind.' Ohriman smirked and stood, his head low as he moved forward. 'You've got more skill with a blade than I gave you credit for, wizard. But you can't hold out for much longer.'
'Perhaps you're right,' Bastun said. He regarded the Breath and the cloud of dust flowing around his feet, then resumed his battle stance. 'Then again, perhaps I can hold out just long enough.'
Ohriman charged, blocking Bastun's axe to the side and aiming his attacks at the vremyonni's sword arm. Fresh pain lanced Bastun's forearm as a strike pierced through his defense. He fell back, maintaining focus, but hard pressed by the tiefling's furious assault. Close to the wall he turned his axe toward Ohriman, keeping the Breath behind him. Shadows on the wall peeled away as the ancient blade neared them, the ghosts screeching to escape its presence.
An ominous crash resounded from above. Bastun compromised his own defense, yelling as he thrust his axe at Ohriman's chest. The tiefling's sword sliced into his shoulder, just under the leather guard beneath his robes. Bastun ignored the wound and rolled to the side. A massive stone block broke away from the ceiling and smashed into the place where Bastun had stood. The sound was deafening, the dust blinding, and he fell on his injured shoulder. Pushing himself up, he had only gotten to one knee before Ohriman kicked him in the back.
Down again, he choked on dust, fighting for air. A boot crushed his wrist. Shadows screamed in his ear as the Breath was pried from his fingers. Growling, he rolled and swung his axe, but the nimble Ohriman easily leaped out of the way, the Breath in his possession.
Amidst crumbling walls and howling spirits, Bastun got to his knees, shaking with fear and pain. More of the ceiling crumbled as Ohriman dodged left and right, making his way to the only exit.
Where is your breath?
His master's lesson took on a more ominous meaning as he raised his hands and began casting. The magic came quickly, calming his nerves as he resolved himself to what must be done. His hand shot out, emerald energy gathering as he aimed for the ceiling above the doorway.
A thin green line of light shot from his fingertips, cutting through the stone and destroying any support it had left. Bits of debris fell first, giving the tiefling pause before the ceiling disintegrated and caved in. Ohriman fell back as rock and dust covered the path, sealing them inside. He turned around, madness in his eyes at the realization that they were trapped, then spied the open door behind Bastun.
Bastun followed the desperate logic: the smaller room might provide some protection from the collapsing ceiling of the armory. He didn't pause in his casting to consider that safety just yet. The Weave flowed around him as he took up his axe and stood before the small room. One way or another, the Breath would remain buried.
Ohriman charged, intent on bowling him over, but Bastun's spell finished first. Several chunks of stone floated from the floor around him, spinning and whirling. He sent the first flying toward Ohriman's legs. The tiefling dodged, but the movement slowed his rush to safety. Before he could recover, Bastun hurled the rest all at once, his will directing their flight.
One smashed into Ohriman's temple, bloodying his face. The next slammed into his shoulder, spinning him, but he continued to move forward. Then one struck his chest, and another his stomach, knocking the wind from him
