The Shield of Weeping Ghosts Read Free

future. So much of his time lately had been wrapped up in the past. The recent past clung to him like shreds of heavy shadow, darkening his steps wherever he went. The far past, so long hidden in his soul, was rushing back to tap him on the shoulder and make him turn around. Though he marveled at the differences between then and now—the boy he had been and the man he’d become—he still could not help but feel
    regret. Questions lingered there in the moments between the moments—questions he’d rather not ponder and answers he felt he knew all too well.
    Fatigue waited behind his eyelids and took away his worries into a half-sleep filled with dreams and memories, one merging with the other until the difference no longer mattered. The Firedawn Cycle was sung to him and his friends, the warmth of the bonfire glowed under the stars and possibilities spread from one end of the heavens to the other. The epic tales, the battles of Narfell and Raumathar, and the great wizards of legend, dark and terrible, appeared in the flames as the lyrics summoned them.
    The army charged with chilling song, the Seven at their head,
    By flame and fiend the path was forged, the end of Shandaular.
    In tears did they drown; Seven they were, weeping,
    to the Shield. Within the walls, inside the halls; to break the
    bones, to shake the stones Of the Shield and steal its Breath. Of the Shield and steal its Breath.
    Bastun could see that first spark of ambition alighting in Thaena’s eyes as she watched the hathran and the dancing flames. She was so beautiful to him. Duras and he took up sticks from the ground that instantly became swords of legend in the hands of mighty berserkers. The older warriors smiled and cheered them on, until the sticks broke and it became a wrestling match or some other test of strength. Duras was strong even then, but Bastun was quick and sly. Sitting near the fire, a broad smile on her face, was Bastun’s mother, humming along to the tune of the Firedawn. Sleeping on her lap, up far later than her bedtime, was Ulsera, Bastun’s younger sister.
    The song faltered in his dream. Bastun stirred and opened his eyes, the image of his sister burned into his mind. He sat up, wondering how long he had slept. A heartbeat passed before he realized he could still hear the song.
    Alarmed, he looked to the others. The helmsman had slumped at the wheel. The warriors’ eyes were closed, but their heads still swayed to the strange tune that filled the air. Thaena’s head had drooped to her chest and Duras lay on his side, his face a grimace of anguish as if in the throes of a nightmare. The wind still held strong and ice thumped and cracked at the bow, but another sound had joined the others. Something scratched at the hull, like claws pulling at wood. Something that was not ice thumped at the boards beneath his feet, from under the ship.
    Standing carefully and quietly, Bastun peered over the side, scanning the surface of the water for any movement other than the waves. As he did so the helmsman groaned and slid sharply to one side, turning the wheel along with his weight. The ship leaned into the turn, throwing Bastun off-balance but awakening Thaena. Regaining his footing, Bastun met the ethran’s confused gaze and watched as she took in the scene. The music drifted in and around the masts and the felucca’s passengers like an invisible serpent, its call still tempting Bastun’s mind back to the dream. Awaiting him in that dream was Ulsera, staring back at him, and he knew he would not succumb to the insistent charm again.
    Thaena stood and rushed to the helmsman, pulling him away from the wheel to lie upon the deck as she righted the ship. Bastun leaned on the railing, staring into the water as Thaena tied the wheel into place. That done she strode to him, staff in hand.
    “What have you—” she began, but the scratching grew louder, the thumping on the hull more demanding.
    Looking closer in the glow of a hooded lantern,