The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard

by David Adams

  Corson was too far away to reach his friend before the wyvern, so he did the only thing he could—he screamed and charged.

  The distraction may have saved Demetrius. The wyvern looked up at the shout, then snapped its tail about, trying to impale Demetrius against the tree. Instead it found only bark and wood, as its mark had been able to roll away when it hesitated.

  Demetrius, still trying to fill his lungs with air, managed to bring his sword down toward the wyvern’s tail. But he, too, was late. The wyvern pulled free a split second before the blow fell, pieces of wood flying as it tore its stinger loose from the tree. Demetrius saw the hole and realized with a sinking feeling that it had nearly been made in his chest.

  Corson’s charge may have saved his friend, but it was reckless. Once the wyvern freed its tail it continued the motion, swinging the stinger at Corson. He had only one choice if he wanted to avoid it—he slid to the ground. His momentum carried him under the beast and he lifted his sword to try to skewer it.

  Again the wyvern was faster. It brought a powerful talon down, pinning Corson’s sword to the ground. It swung its tail up and then drove it down.

  Corson twisted to one side, wrenching his shoulder. The stinger kicked up a spray of dirt as it tore into the ground, inches from Corson’s chest.

  The stinger lifted up, paused, then whistled back down. Then it was gone, along with half the tail

  Demetrius dropped to one knee while his bloody sword fell by his side.

  The wyvern lifted its head straight up and let out a shrill scream. It swatted at Demetrius with a wing, the cartilage and leathery membrane enough to knock him face down on the ground. In its pain and rage it moved to finish the fallen man, to beat and rend with talons and beak.

  The wyvern’s first move at Demetrius freed Corson’s arm. He did not give it the chance to make another, plunging his sword up to its hilt in the creature’s soft underside. He held fast while the wyvern wailed and thrashed for a moment, and considered himself fortunate that its strength faded quickly. It slumped aside, twitching once, and died.

  Corson switched hands, pulled the sword out of the beast’s belly, then let the weapon lay where it was. He scrambled over to Demetrius, relieved to see the rise and fall of his chest. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he gently rolled his friend over.

  Blood coated his arm and half his face. Demetrius opened his eyes and recognized the look of sorrow and resignation on Corson’s face. He smiled weakly and spoke with some difficulty. “Blood’s from the wyvern. Not going to die just yet.”

  “You saved my life,” Corson said. “Again.”

  “We saved each other.”

  “I was too slow. I should have—”

  Demetrius raised a shaking hand. “We can debate tactics later. We need to move on, before the others return.”

  Corson drew in a quick breath to settle himself, then asked, “Can you walk?”

  “Have to.”

  Corson collected the swords and put them in their scabbards after wiping the blood off as best he could on the ground. He dropped to one knee to help Demetrius up with his good arm.

  Demetrius noticed his friend wince at the effort. “You’re hurting, too.”

  “Twisted my shoulder a bit is all. I’ll be fine.”

  They hobbled away as quickly as they could, each with an ear and an eye alert for signs of the remaining two predators. Full night was upon them, and they welcomed its shroud.

  They covered the first half-mile as swiftly as they could, but Corson knew the wyverns could cover the same distance in a fraction of the time. He glanced at Demetrius, worried about his labored breathing, and thought he saw a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. “We should rest a bit,” he suggested.

  “Not yet,” Demetrius wheezed. “Still too close.”

  He knew better than to argue with his friend and captain, even in his current state, but he set a limit in his own mind. Another mile at most and they would stop, no matter what.

  They stumbled on, trees looming up like phantoms before them, silent sentinels marking their slow progress. The night was eerily quiet, and their footfalls and heavy breathing seemed to echo far too loudly.

  Demetrius lost his footing, and as he stumbled his momentum nearly carried both he and Corson to the ground.

  “Steady,” Corson said, regaining balance for both of them. “We can rest soon.”

  Demetrius tried to smile but winced instead. He drew air into his lungs in irregular, ragged draughts.

  “We’ll find a nice spot, and then—”

  A piercing shriek rent the air, causing them to freeze and hold their breath. As far as they had gone—and as much as they had toiled to come this far—the cry sounded far too close.

  “Keep moving,” Demetrius finally gasped.

  Corson pulled him along a few steps, and then stopped with a sigh. “No,” he said, gently. He lowered Demetrius into a sitting position against the nearest tree. “If they can track us, they’ll catch us soon enough. We can’t outrun them in our current condition. May as well stand and fight.”

  “I’m slowing you down,” Demetrius said. “You go on.”

  “You know I won’t do that.”

  “That’s an order.”

  “Then you can charge me with insubordination when this is all over.”

  Demetrius beckoned him closer, then took hold of his arm. “I do not doubt your courage or your friendship,” he whispered between uneven breaths. “But one of us must reach our people and call them to arms. The fate of our world may depend on it.”

  “Demetrius, I—”

  “If we both die here, Arkania dies with us.”

  Corson shook his head.

  Demetrius drew his sword. “I will defend myself if I must. They may miss me altogether.”

  “I can’t leave you here, not like this. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

  Demetrius turned the sword about so the point pressed against his own belly. “If I’m dead by my own hand, then you will go.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Corson said, but he could not keep the slight tremble out of his voice.

  “Only if you make me.”

  “You are the most stubborn man I ever met. Why I call you ‘friend’ is beyond me.”

  “It is more than I deserve.”

  Corson pushed the sword aside and embraced his friend. “Be safe. I’ll be back with help as soon as I can.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  Demetrius watched him go, waving weakly as Corson took one last look over his shoulder. Once alone, he readied his sword. He had no hope of killing either wyvern if they found him, or even of doing much damage, but he would give his weapon at least one chance to bite at his enemy before he succumbed. His wait to see what might happen was brief.

  A shadowy form came crashing through the brush, sniffing the ground and air. A dozen feet away from him it pulled up, spreading its wings in a symbolic gesture of power.

  “Don’t preen for me,” Demetrius spat, his voice far too weak for his own liking. “If you want me, come take me.” He wanted to stand, but his muscles betrayed him. It was all he could do to lift the sword.

  The wyvern seemed to understand its advantage, but also to recognize the sharpened steel in Demetrius’ hand. It moved a bit closer, then coiled to strike, its eyes boring into its intended victim.

  Demetrius let out a slow breath, shuddered, and then lowered his sword, as if giving in to fate. But his eyes were just as sharp as the wyvern’s, and they never left the creature.

  The beast shot forward and the sword swung up. Too late the beast saw its mistake. The sword pierced its breast and exited its back. Before it could bring its tail or head to bear on its tormentor, another sword flashed twice, severing each end of it in turn.

  As the wyvern fell aside, Demetrius saw Corson standing there. “You never left.”

  Corson shook his head. “Just waited in the shadows. If you want to bait the trap, fine, but I’l
l not leave you to die here. And let’s not rehash the argument again. Besides, we’ve taken two down now. If the other tries us, it could meet the same fate.”

  “Help me up,” said Demetrius. “Logical arguments are lost on you. I give up.”

  Corson laughed. “You’ve known me long enough to know logic is wasted on me. Glad you’ve accepted reality.”

  As they moved off, Corson said, “You were baiting it, weren’t you? Playing half-dead so it would get reckless.”

  Demetrius nodded once. “I feel half-dead, but I was trying to get it to lower its guard. Still, I owe you my life, again.”

  “Seems to me you stuck it pretty well.”

  “And it would have died eventually from the wound, I’d wager, but not right away. Not before introducing me to that tail or those talons.”

  “Well, it’s good—”

  Something rustled the trees behind and above them. They just started to turn when they were knocked to the ground by a blow from behind. Each rolled and tried to assume a defensive posture.

  The third wyvern stood over them, wings half-spread, mouth open, poised to pounce. But it looked oddly still, like it was a statue that had suddenly appeared in the wood. Corson noticed something else then, a pair of arrows that had pierced its head and entered its brain cavity. A dozen bowstrings sang out, and the creature was filled with the same number of feathered shafts. It backed up a few hesitant steps, then was treated to another volley. It tottered like a tree expertly cut by an axe, and in the same way it fell, crashing to the ground and remaining still.

  Corson lay there, stunned. He blinked hard, half expecting the vision of the dead wyvern to vanish or suddenly morph back into a living adversary. He shook himself, and then remembered Demetrius. His friend was lying ten feet away, face down on the ground. Past him lights appeared and advanced, and as they neared he could see they were lanterns carried by men, which had been shrouded by simple dark cloth that had now been thrown aside.

  “Stay your hands,” someone said in a firm tone. “If we see a weapon, we’ll shoot. You’ve seen how deadly our archers can be.”

  Corson held up empty hands. Demetrius did not move. Even with the lantern light, Corson could not tell if Demetrius’ chest rose and fell.

  The man who had spoken came nearer. His face was drawn and tired, his beard tangled and his hair unkempt. His clothes were frayed and tattered, but to Corson they were a beautiful sight, for they were the green and gold of Corindor.

  The man noticed the garb Corson wore as well, but he spoke warily. “You wear our colors.”

  “I served the king, and still serve this land. My name is Corson, and my wounded companion is Demetrius. He led the King’s Guard, and I served under him.”

  The man pondered this and nodded slowly, but behind him someone else called out, “Anyone can wear the colors and claim to have served a dead king.”

  “Thank you, Canon,” the man said with exaggerated emphasis, as if speaking to a child. He waved some men forward, who approached Corson and Demetrius with drawn swords. Corson held his hands a bit higher in supplication as the swords came within easy striking distance.

  “Midras,” the man called.

  One of the bowmen ran to his side. “Yes, sir.”

  “You served in King Rodaan’s Guard, correct?”

  “I did.”

  “These men claim to have done so as well. Corson and Demetrius, by name. Can you identify them?”

  “The names are true,” he said. He stepped forward, looked at Demetrius’ prone form for a moment, and then searched Corson’s face.

  Corson knew him, but he saw the shadow of doubt in the man’s eyes, and felt his heart begin to sink.

  Midras sighed and frowned. “I should say I don’t know you, to avenge your taking all my money at cards.”

  “Took your—” Corson choked on the words. “It was you that cleaned me out.”

  “I know,” he said. His face relaxed and he smiled broadly. “A test. Sorry.” He waved the swordsmen back and addressed the group. “They are true. Looks like they’ve been to hell and back, though.”

  “It feels like we have,” said Corson. “We’ve been away a long time.”

  The leader stepped forward and helped Corson to his feet. “Then we’ll be happy to hear your tale at camp. For now, welcome home.”

  * * *

  Rowan sniffed the air, thinking he smelled rain on it. He looked over his shoulder, back toward the Aetos Mountains, and saw deep purple storm clouds towering above them. A second glance assured him that the clouds were moving rapidly in their direction. If the storm did not overtake them that day, it certainly would that night.

  If his company had noticed his looks rearward they did not deem it necessary to see what it was that had caught his eye. Jazda spent most of his time staring mournfully at the ground, while Tala kept her stony gaze forward. They had buried Rande two days earlier, and had covered nearly a hundred miles since then, but a heavy cloud of gloom still hung about them, almost as palpable as the approaching storm clouds.

  Rowan pushed them well past dark, hoping to find shelter of some sort. The area between the Aetos and Stone Mountain ranges was lush but untamed, and wild plants often choked the grass and made its wooded areas difficult to pass through quickly. As long as they stayed to open areas the horses made easy work of the journey, the spring growth new and not yet able to tangle the powerful horses’ legs. By late summer a path closer to the mountains might have been easier, but for now they took the straightest and swiftest route.

  Rowan finally gave up with a sigh. “Going to be a wet night,” he lamented. “No good shelter out here, or for another day or two, I fear. We’ll have to do the best we can with our cloaks.”

  The others nodded their understanding and dismounted. Tala rummaged through the packs, and then started to prepare a small meal while Rowan saw to the horses.

  “Should I try a fire?” Jazda asked.

  “Won’t hurt while it lasts,” said Rowan with a shrug. He doubted they would benefit from it long, but he was happy to have Jazda busy. They had all had far too much time to think since Rande had died.

  Their meal was cheerless and the rain found them before they had finished. It came down in gusty sheets, and their cloaks were of little use. Soon they were as drenched in the skin as they felt in spirit. “I’ll take the first watch,” Rowan said when they had finished eating. “Get some sleep if you can.”

  He extended his watch, tired though he felt. The rain was relentless and he didn’t think he could fall asleep anyway. His companions, thankfully, had found rest, and he wanted them to get as much of it as possible.

  Tala finally stirred about three a.m. and came to him. “A double shift?”

  He shrugged. “Never was good at sleeping in the rain.”

  “I was the same, but I seem to have adjusted. You should at least try. I will take a turn now.”

  He gave in and went to lie down, the ground feeling wet and uncomfortable, even though he knew he couldn’t get any wetter than he already was. He made a rough pillow out of some tufts of grass, pulled his cloak over him like a blanket, and shut his eyes, unsure if sleep would come this night. He felt over-tired and uneasy, and his mind raced but could focus on nothing in particular.

  Tala patrolled the camp slowly, her sharp eyes darting here and there in the gloom. Sight and scent were lessened in the deluge, and she felt they were safe unless someone or something accidentally stumbled upon them. But she refused to let down her guard, and she would keep as keen a watch as any other time.

  The night drew on, the first shade of morning appearing in the east. The rain slowed to a steady drizzle. Tala slapped her arms to try to shake off the chill, and she circled the camp at a steady clip to keep her blood flowing. Rowan lay motionless, but Jazda tossed and turned, mumbling in his sleep. Dawn was near enough that she decided to continue her watch.

  Out of the misty rain a figure appeared, dim and indistinct. Tala stopped and s
tared, trying to make out what it was she was seeing. The figure advanced slowly, and seemed to coalesce as it drew nearer. Some fifteen feet from her it stopped.

  Tala tried to calm her racing heart. The figure gazed at her with lost, sorrowful eyes. She stepped forward, shaking her head, believing she would soon wake or that the apparition would be gone when she blinked. Stubbornly, it remained.

  Before her stood the ghostly form of Rande, shimmering with a pale white-blue light. He reached up, took hold of his hair with his right hand, and then gently pulled upward. His head separated from his body, and he held it beside himself, like a child holding a doll.

  Tala was uncertain what to do. She wanted to call out to the others, but her words caught in her throat. Finally she managed to squeak, “Rande?”

  “Rande’s spirit,” he answered, his voice hollow and far away.

  As his mouth moved, Tala’s eyes were drawn to the ragged cut in his neck, which flapped as he spoke. She felt her stomach lurch.

  They stood there, regarding each other for a time while the rain fell all about them. When the silence was finally broken, it was by neither of them.

  “What do you want?” Rowan asked. His voice was calm, and he was fully awake. He stood next to Tala, placing a comforting hand on her arm just for a moment, a reminder that the two of them remained flesh and blood.

  “ ‘Want’?” the phantom repeated. He pondered this as if he just then realized he walked the world after death. Finally he said, “I want to rest.”

  “You cannot?”

  “I remain in this plane. I should not be here.”

  “Where do you belong?”

  Rande’s spirit thought for a time. “I do not know. But not here.”

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “I am bound. We are all bound.”

  “Who is ‘we’? All of us?”

  “Not the living. The spirits of the dead. We cannot move on.”

  “Why not?”

  From behind Rowan and Tala came a gasp, then a cry of mingled fear and anguish. Jazda held his cloak before him like a shield and backed away. “It cannot be,” he muttered. He made a warding gesture with his hands, hoping to banish the spirit.