Read Online The Shield of Weeping Ghosts by James P. Davis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James P. Davis
Ads: Link
spirits. Anilya’s sellswords paled at the sight of the enemy, overtaken by the wracking sobs and groans that echoed within the hall. Several of the sellswords fell to their knees and rolled on their sides, clutching their ears and weeping uncontrollably. The others, led by Ohriman, followed the fang into the fight.
Bastun stopped just outside, staring at the eldritch glow that swirled and spat in the hall’s center. A maelstrom of energy where no magic should have been left now haloed a blackened patch of ground, once covered by the archway of Shandaular’s portal. The archway itself was shattered, destroyed long ago by King Arkaius, but the fragments glowed with power in defiance of all reason. Bastun nearly fell to his knees as the keening wail of the undead filled his ears. The voices of Duras and Syrolf stood out in the cacophony of sound, shouting in some unknown language that drew Bastun out of his sudden stupor.
Clutching his staff Bastun half-slid down into the chamber, his eyes on the portal and his mind fighting the pull of the undead’s despair. A warrior screamed in pain and fell back from the fray, his arm steaming and covered in a black smear of the creatures’ tears. Bastun stepped over the man and continued on.
Anilya hurled bolts of flame, and the undead screamed and wailed even louder. She screamed right back at them as she summoned her spells, her Rashemi spirit evident as she continued her assault.
Thaena’s staff flashed scarlet, ruining the claws of one creature, then spinning to sweep it off balance. Her casting was lost to Bastun as he neared the portal, voices streaming from the unnatural vortex. Though spoken in a dialect he did not know, the language sounded vaguely of Nar origins, a version unheard for nearly two millennia.
A berserker was pushed into him and they tumbled to the ground. An undead soldier moaned as it knelt over them with arms outstretched. Intoning a quick command, Bastun shoved his staff forward into the thing’s chest, producing a burst of blue light that knocked the wheep off its feet. It scrabbled and screamed as it sought to regain its footing again.
Sitting up, Bastun met the glazed eyes of Syrolf, who seemed not to recognize him at all. An odd light in SyrolPs eyes turned in rhythm to the spinning power of the portal. The warrior muttered something in Old Nar and returned to the fight. Bastun understood the words “protect” and “portal,” then Syrolf was lost in the battle.
Standing, Bastun ran to the edge of the portal circle and searched for some idea of how to stop the wild magic of the broken stones. The symbols and runes on the shattered archway were unlike any that he had ever seen before. They glowed with a flickering green-hued light that stung his eyes. Looking up, he squinted and tried to make sense of what he witnessed in the depths of the spinning energy.
A mass of figures pushed and strained against the edges of the vortex, their faces contorted in madness and pain. A constant stream of babbling escaped their lips. Bastun took a step backward, the noise in the chamber coming into focus. The shouts, cries, and screams of pain mixed with the clash of steel, the smell of smoke, and shadows dancing on broken stone walls. Shandaular, the City of Weeping Ghosts, did not bemoan the fate that once befell itit relived every moment of it.
Bastun returned his focus to the portal stones. He knelt and
studied the magic written by a cursed race in the deep history of Faerun. He did not understand the language of the symbols, but there was a sense of a familiar order in certain places. Searching among the runes for some pattern, he pushed away the thought that he was wasting his time. Instinct had drawn him to the portal. Intellect would be forced to solve it.
A fang warrior crashed to the ground beside him and was knocked unconscious by the fall. Growling in frustration, Bastun turned and prepared to defend himself against the undead soldier. He
Bastun stopped just outside, staring at the eldritch glow that swirled and spat in the hall’s center. A maelstrom of energy where no magic should have been left now haloed a blackened patch of ground, once covered by the archway of Shandaular’s portal. The archway itself was shattered, destroyed long ago by King Arkaius, but the fragments glowed with power in defiance of all reason. Bastun nearly fell to his knees as the keening wail of the undead filled his ears. The voices of Duras and Syrolf stood out in the cacophony of sound, shouting in some unknown language that drew Bastun out of his sudden stupor.
Clutching his staff Bastun half-slid down into the chamber, his eyes on the portal and his mind fighting the pull of the undead’s despair. A warrior screamed in pain and fell back from the fray, his arm steaming and covered in a black smear of the creatures’ tears. Bastun stepped over the man and continued on.
Anilya hurled bolts of flame, and the undead screamed and wailed even louder. She screamed right back at them as she summoned her spells, her Rashemi spirit evident as she continued her assault.
Thaena’s staff flashed scarlet, ruining the claws of one creature, then spinning to sweep it off balance. Her casting was lost to Bastun as he neared the portal, voices streaming from the unnatural vortex. Though spoken in a dialect he did not know, the language sounded vaguely of Nar origins, a version unheard for nearly two millennia.
A berserker was pushed into him and they tumbled to the ground. An undead soldier moaned as it knelt over them with arms outstretched. Intoning a quick command, Bastun shoved his staff forward into the thing’s chest, producing a burst of blue light that knocked the wheep off its feet. It scrabbled and screamed as it sought to regain its footing again.
Sitting up, Bastun met the glazed eyes of Syrolf, who seemed not to recognize him at all. An odd light in SyrolPs eyes turned in rhythm to the spinning power of the portal. The warrior muttered something in Old Nar and returned to the fight. Bastun understood the words “protect” and “portal,” then Syrolf was lost in the battle.
Standing, Bastun ran to the edge of the portal circle and searched for some idea of how to stop the wild magic of the broken stones. The symbols and runes on the shattered archway were unlike any that he had ever seen before. They glowed with a flickering green-hued light that stung his eyes. Looking up, he squinted and tried to make sense of what he witnessed in the depths of the spinning energy.
A mass of figures pushed and strained against the edges of the vortex, their faces contorted in madness and pain. A constant stream of babbling escaped their lips. Bastun took a step backward, the noise in the chamber coming into focus. The shouts, cries, and screams of pain mixed with the clash of steel, the smell of smoke, and shadows dancing on broken stone walls. Shandaular, the City of Weeping Ghosts, did not bemoan the fate that once befell itit relived every moment of it.
Bastun returned his focus to the portal stones. He knelt and
studied the magic written by a cursed race in the deep history of Faerun. He did not understand the language of the symbols, but there was a sense of a familiar order in certain places. Searching among the runes for some pattern, he pushed away the thought that he was wasting his time. Instinct had drawn him to the portal. Intellect would be forced to solve it.
A fang warrior crashed to the ground beside him and was knocked unconscious by the fall. Growling in frustration, Bastun turned and prepared to defend himself against the undead soldier. He
Similar Books
