would be no imposter, no Creel masquerading in the guise of an ancient prince of Narfell. This was Serevan Crell, last son of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos and the destroyer of Shandaular.
Bastun felt himself being pulled forward, and this time he did not resist. Whereas Thaena had backed away nervously, Bastun advanced and called spells to mind. The complacent Serevan leaned over the battlements, staring out across the city as if surveying the ancient siege. The sigil of the Nentyarch, faded and torn, twisted and turned in a breeze on Serevan's cloak. The prince paid no mind to the ethran or the warriors arrayed behind her.
Bastun's approach felt weighted down, as if time itself were freezing. The compulsion to attack seemed an agreement between himself and the spirit of the Magewarden. The Breath calmed its nervous squirming at his side with each sluggish step.
The phantoms' battle of the past had also slowed to a standstill, save that Serevan's men were left standing and the Shield's defenders had been killed to a man. Those ghostly soldiers turned their heads lethargically as Bastun moved toward them. No swords were raised nor violence threatened. They parted to let him through, though he had no intention of playing the Magewarden's traitorous role in the city's curse. As the first syllable of a spell crossed his lips, Serevan turned to face him, the first indication that he was aware of anyone on the wall.
The lips of the prince moved, yet his voice was only a scratching whisper of sound as he stood straight and placed a hand on his blade.
'Athumrani,' he said, his voice curling coldly in Bastun's ears, as if his very breath could steal life and soul from a body.
The vremyonni paused, spell lost as hatred flashed through his mind. The Magewarden swore in his head, shouting oaths of damnation upon Serevan and the empire he stood for. Bastun fought to catch his breath in the thick air, shocked by Athumrani's reaction.
'Not a traitor,' he whispered, incredulous and only slightly relieved. 'Then why-?'
Time returned in a rush. Bastun exhaled, heart pounding in the cumbersome cold, though Serevan was still some distance away. A weak voice chanted from within the tower. Arcane mutterings became a surge of commanding power and the darkness there writhed violently. A scent of death wafted over them as the tower's blackness tore itself apart, becoming individual pieces that moaned and fell into a military order before the prince.
Bastun studied the ghostly force. Though they resembled the fallen Creel, their bodies trailed away into misty nothingness below the knees. Fierce eyes of glowing white burned in faces blackened by shadows of their undead state. The ghostly visions of the past had faded, as Serevan Crell's battle joined the present with the Creels' grisly sacrifice of their own souls.
Serevan turned toward the soldiers, seeing only the eager faces of his long-dead countrymen. He spoke again, the language once again familiar, the subtleties lost to time. In his mind though, Bastun understood, hearing all through the Magewarden's memories, an enduring echo of what had come before.
'Spare not the mage,' the prince ordered. 'Bring me the Breath when he is dead.'
Though began in a mockery of some marching order, the wraiths quickly swarmed. They took to the air and rushed the Rashemi in a cloud of misty cloaks and spectral blades.
Tracing runes on the blade of his axe, Bastun muttered incantations for dealing with such spirits. Thaena took up the chant as the fang surged around her to meet the undead.
She picked up a Creel hand axe, casting much the same spell as Bastun, and glanced at the warriors around her. Bastun intuited the source of her concern, knowing the fang would have little defense against the wraiths. Thaena handed the axe to Duras and summoned another spell, just as the undead met the front of the line.
The night swallowed all sound as ghostly blades tore through steel that could not withstand their touch. The ghosts fell among the berserkers as a black rain of shadowy blots, like night's parchment cut into grisly dolls. Occasionally a berserker blade would somehow catch at their forms, tearing them into silky shreds that faded when taken from the whole. Bright bolts of energy flew from Thaena's fingertips, searing into those that came too near. Their twisted faces writhed and mumbled in pain, but their numbers quelled thoughts of hope or victory.
Bastun's axe turned the wraiths' light forms into melting bits of nothing, and still they came. He pushed his way forward, chill bits of insubstantial bodies falling from his blade, burning his arms with the numbing cold of a grave before fading away. Fixing his gaze on the wall ahead, he navigated the battle to reach the long-dead and oblivious prince. No more did sounds or visions of the past plague him. It seemed the Magewarden, if indeed a traitor to his king, was no ally of the invading prince.
Men screamed and fell at all sides, retreating from the life-stealing touch of the wraiths. The warriors gathered near Thaena, encircling their ethran as she called upon the Weave. More of the fang fell back and the circle tightened. Though magic harmed the wraiths, the ethran could not match their numbers. She cried out above the maelstrom of moaning undead and screeching blades. Duras responded and signaled a retreat to the guard tower.
Bastun ignored the summons. Serevan's cold eyes burned ahead of him. Should the prince fall, the Shield's strange curse might be lifted. He had no doubt that the magic forged by King Arkaius would continue its resurrection of Shandaular's last hours, but he might afford the living a reprieve from suffering a similar fate. As he pressed on, stepping over the fallen, the wraiths seemed to sense his intention and crowded closer to block his path.
Chapter Twenty-one
His arms grew tired from swinging at what felt like little more than empty air. As he struggled to keep moving, Athumrani's will surged, and the Breath pulled at his side. The sight of Serevan through the fray made the will stronger, and Bastun felt pushed through the wraiths. Their claws reached effortlessly through skin and muscle. Their blades flowed through bone leaving only pain. He fought against the Magewarden's wild emotions, enforcing his will over the entity. His axe rose and fell, growing slower and less accurate.
Once again death reached with rough hands for his soul, and he made a swift choice. Inhaling slowly, he reached for the spell-rage that laid but a heartbeat away when the piercing voice of Anilya rose above everything.
Her spell unleashed a torrent of warm air across his back. Harmless and singing with magic, it Was barely enough to rustle the hem of his robe, but the effect on the wraiths was instantaneous. Their incorporeal forms rippled. Their faces, straining beyond death's grip to be known, screamed as the spell's wind tore them apart. In moments only an echo of their pain was left hanging on the air.
Falling forward, senses clearing, Bastun forced back the fury in his throat. Less than half the wall remained between him and the prince. Serevan turned, his face twisted in confusion. For the briefest of moments, the prince seemed as a sleepwalker, woken from his dream to a reality that he could not comprehend. He moved forward, his steps unsure as madness twisted his features. The blush of life he had taken from the Creel had begun to fade. Sharp cheekbones stood out as taut skin pulled his face slowly back into the rictus grin of unlife.
Anilya's voice rose again. Recognizing the spell, Bastun lurched forward, determined to reach the prince. Tiny motes of ice-blue light danced past him, striking the stone with bright sparks of energy. Where they touched, spikes of ice burst upward, forming a barrier across the wall and keeping him from his goal. Sorrow flooded through his mind as the Magewarden's will fell apart, torn from the course of time. Bastun placed a hand on the ice, feeling the magic ring's strange warmth flow through his fingers. The quiet curses that escaped his lips were Athumrani's, but the desperation he felt was his own.
Hands grabbed at his shoulders, dragging him back from the ice. He resisted at first, wondering at Athumrani's path, what sorrow had carried the man past Serevan to the Word-and beyond. Arms weak and aching, he thought of his fallen master, wishing Keffrass were there to tell him what he should do. Together they might have done battle against and discussed the peculiar history of the Shield and its odd curse. For a moment he shared in the echo of sorrow that Athumrani had left in his heart. Overpowered by Duras, he reluctantly complied and turned back.
'The wraiths are gone only temporarily,' Anilya said to Thaena as the pair approached. 'The spell was not enough to destroy them. Get back inside the tower. When they return, I and my men will hold them off as long as we can.'
