The Shield of Weeping Ghosts by James P. Davis Page A

lost to Rashemen’s harsh winters, cursed to rise again by circumstance or vengeful spirit—or, he realized, by dying at the hands of another bleakborn.
    He tried to call out, to warn the others, but his voice came as barely more than a whisper.
    “No… flame,” he managed though none could hear him. Some among the fang dropped weapons and cursed the growing frost on gloves and sword hilts. Thaena’s voice rose
    above the others, chanting the beginnings of a spell that filled him with dread. “No… flame!”
    He rushed to stop her but slipped and fell to his hands and knees. The ethran’s forearms glowed with heat, fire leaping from her palms. Several of the bleakborn were engulfed, writhing in the flames. The nearness of warmth was a blessing before it was sucked away.
    The flames died, swallowed by flesh that blushed and plumped as the frozen blood within thawed and began to flow. Rashemi faces, restored to a horrific semblance of life, twisted into horrified grimaces as if some dim memory of death had sparked in their minds. They stared at hands that were no longer icy claws. The effect was brief, holding for a heartbeat before the patches of white spread, a pallor of death reclaiming their cursed flesh. They whined as the heat bled from them, raising their arms, hungry for more as they advanced on the living.
    The fang moved to defend their ethran. Wide-eyed as he surveyed the closing circle of undead, Bastun summoned his axe blade. Anilya’s voice rose in casting and she spun as her sellswords formed their own semicircle. Battle cries, blades, and cracking ice echoed within the enclosure. Raising his axe, Bastun searched for his place in the circle, turning as he listened to the chaotic rhythms—and detected an inconsistency.
    A bleakborn shattered as the durthan completed her spell. Thaena grunted as she took another off its feet, muttering arcane phrases to keep it down. A clang of steel on his right, a dying sellsword gasping for breath on his left. From above he caught whispering and a rustle of robes.
    The dark figure on the eastern wall moved before Bastun could get a better look, but its voice continued to whisper words of magic. Bastun charged forward, sidestepping a stumbling berserker, the man’s arms coated with thin ice. A bleakborn hissed as it knelt to finish its grisly feeding. Horrified, Bastun slashed at its skull, using the strike to slip
    past the combatants. The blade split through flesh and bone as he turned with the swing.
    Bolts of flame arced from above and he dived forward, the edges of his robes singed and steaming in the snow. The figure above disappeared again, but its aim had been true. The nearly beheaded bleakborn rose, its flesh healed, and reached toward the vremyonni. He cursed as the undead’s freezing aura gripped him. Pushing himself up along the ruined wall, Bastun struggled to summon a spell through the cold.
    Ohriman appeared, kicking the bleakborn down and slashing at its grasping fingers. Blood spilled and became a black ichor as it hit the ground. Not waiting to thank the tiefling, Bastun turned to the wall and began to climb, finding easy hand-and footholds in the crumbling stonework.
    Wind and snow greeted him atop the wall as he stood and peered through the mist for the figure on the tower. Stalking forward, he glanced once at the battle below, his allies barely visible through the haze. Only Anilya stood out, her arms raised as she chanted a dark language over the bodies of several fallen sellswords. Bastun shuddered and ignored the durthan, focusing on the tower.
    The figure appeared, dressed in long robes and a furred cloak with a brace of amulets around his neck and braided into his long, unkempt hair—the look of a Nar shaman. Even across the distance that separated them, Bastun could see a spark of madness glinting in the Creel’s eye. Spying Bastun, the shaman snarled, baring his teeth as Bastun approached.
    “What do you want with the Shield?” Bastun