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 it-it 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 paused as a green light burst in the soldier's chest, eating away at the armor and dried flesh beneath until the creature collapsed into a pile of dust. Anilya stood nearby, her hand still glowing with the timely spell.
She strode forward, glancing at the portal and the vortex above it. Behind her the battle shifted as more of the undead tore themselves from the ice and snow and dug their way into the fight.
"Can you stop it, vremyonni?" Anilya asked.
"I can try," he said, "but I make no promises."
"Good enough," she said and turned to face the hall of raging Rashemi and undead soldiers. Ohriman dashed to her sideI and slashed at a pair of shriveled arms breaking free beneath his feet. Wielding a wand of pale green wood, Anilya shouted over her shoulder to Bastun, "Do what you can! We will try to give you time!"
Lacking the time to question the good sense in trusting a durthan, Bastun turned back to the portal and began to trace patterns through the runes. He shook his head as possibilities came and went, discarding one idea after another. The pages of spellbooks flipped through his mind, turning and turning as he tried to find a weakness in the dense net of magic that flowed among the portal's spells.
The others struggled against the tide of undead soldiers and made slow progress, though the strange look in Syrolf s eye haunted Bastun's sense of hope. The smell of burning bone wafted from the steaming remains of another of Anilya's targets, her wand flashing a bright emerald light every few moments.
Growling in frustration, Bastun chose. His fingertips brushed the edges of one rune as he reached for another. He whispered arcane names, quickly trying to identify the symbols even as he called upon their power. For a moment, between the cracks and the squirming magic, he saw a pattern. His eyes widened, seizing upon the two runes he had chosen and managing the last syllables of their names before his breath was stolen from him.
I369 DR, Year of the Gauntlet
"Where is your breath?"
Keffrass's voice whispered in Bastun's ear as he concentrated. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolled into his eyes, and dripped from his chin. Magic filled his limbs, granting him power-raw power. It was his to master, to control lest it break free. His will and his rage warred inside of him, defying his training and calling upon him to be free, to destroy.
Slowly, he inhaled, shuddering and shaking, his eyes trying to focus on a delicate glass object resting on the floor within a chalk circle several paces away.
"There," Keffrass said, pacing behind him. The vremyonni taught secrets of magic that even the wychlaren did not use, destructive spells forbidden among the wilds of Rashemen. They felt it necessary to push the limits of their knowledge into dangerous places, for one never knew when such secrets might be needed. "Master your breathing, will your pulse to deliver only what the body needs. Keep the mind free. Make a place within yourself to hide from the ravages of anger. Divide your flesh from your mind, but control both as instruments of your will. Now speak the words."
Bastun spat, his lips trembling. Pain arced through his body, filling his arms and flooding down to his legs. His fingertips glowed and he gritted his teeth, forcing the magic to subside, to obey his will. He smiled as it did so, tensing his body as if for battle, though his mind cleared as the spell worked its way to his tongue and issued from his lips.
The glass sculpture rose sharply into the air, spinning wildly. Exhaling carefully, Bastun stopped its motion by degrees until it floated calmly at eye level. It drifted to the right, Bastun's every breath a matter of pure control as the magic spent itself from him. Bastun directed it to sit within a second circle. The sculpture landed silently and he released it from his control.
The power fled from his limbs, the Weave reforming itself into natural patterns as he fell to his knees, lightheaded and smiling again.
"Good," Keffrass said, then added, "Always remember your breathing, your focus. Master the breath, and control the word."
+ + + + +
Power surged through Bastun's body, leaching from the portal and skewing his senses. The voices of those in the vortex crowded his thoughts, pressing and shoving to be noticed, to be granted mercy from their torment. Twisting his eyes away from their sickly light he saw the battle flowing around him. Time slowed and showed him the faint outlines of warring spirits, some intertwined with the fang, the proximity of the phantoms' bloodlust infecting Duras and shining in SyrolPs eyes.
Pain flared in Bastun's head and he shut his eyes, unable to grasp at the strands of magic that held him. The voices, those trapped for centuries, tore at his focus and foiled his attempts at control. The ruined portal could likely never be what it once was, but the magic of those who crafted it would endure. He choked in its grip.
Where is your breath?
The memory of his master's voice forced his eyes open. Slowly he inhaled and touched upon the wild stirrings of the rage within him. The maddened voices faded. He pulled away from the stones, his hands still clinging to the runes. The pattern flickered before him. He could not break it, but he struggled to disrupt it. His body hummed with energy as he exhaled, whispering a spell of disenchantment.
At the last word pain flared, and he was thrown from the portal stones and slammed on his back. He lay there, measuring his breathing, power still vibrating beneath his skin. Taking up his staff, he watched the runes waver once, but their light resumed unabated. He gaped in frustration, gripping the staff with white knuckles as he turned to the battle.