The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard

by David Adams

  The duke greeted them with a tired, benevolent smile. “Here are two I did not expect to see again. Back from the quest already? Solek defeated?”

  “Not yet,” Alexis answered.

  Duke Fallo joined them at the table and helped himself to a generous portion of the food. He had put on weight since they had seen him last, his appetite apparently still healthy, but his face was lined with age and the troubles of leadership, and his hair had started to go white. “A shame,” he said. “And what of the others? Fallen bravely in glorious battle?”

  The words came out far too casually, as if he was asking after an aged, lost cat. He bit into a piece of beef, juice dribbling down his chin and beard and dripping onto his robe.

  Alexis ignored his tone and pressed on. “Actually, none of the group that visited you earlier has fallen, and we are near the end of our quest, although the last stage might be the hardest.”

  The duke paused for a fraction of a second, a flicker of some lost fire in his eye. But then he looked away, and took a handful of grapes. “Tell me what has happened since we parted company, and for what purpose you have returned.”

  They did so, and all the while the duke gorged himself. He asked no questions, occasionally emitting a grunt of recognition or interest to indicate he was still listening. When the tale was told, he took a deep draught from the goblet of mead before him, then leaned back in his chair and let out a contented sigh. “So you ask that I march to war with you?”

  “I do,” Alexis answered.

  Duke Fallo shook his head and laughed. “A fool’s errand, I deem this. You can’t hope to defeat him in the end, not assaulting his very stronghold.”

  “We hope to weaken him by force of arms, so that we may complete the Sphere. That will be his downfall.”

  “If Solek is so frail you can take the shard from him, he is already beaten. Your plan seems driven by despair and perhaps even madness.”

  “If you have a better plan, I’d be happy to hear it.”

  “My plan is simple,” he said, waving at the table. “Enjoy what little time is left to us. Solek has already won. The land itself dies. If I could find men brave enough to farm the fields, I doubt the crops would be anything but shriveled reminders of our own fate. My people, what is left of them, shelter here and await their doom. It is coming whether the Dead Legion returns or not, whether you succeed or not. Slow or swift, it hardly matters in the end.”

  Alexis paused, wanting to respond with measured words, but failed. “You coward.”

  Duke Fallo laughed, but the sound held no mirth. “You cannot inspire me to action with your hollow insults. If I choose a different path to death than you, that is my concern.”

  “If we are doomed alike then come with us. Die nobly and hurt your enemy in the process.”

  “Did you learn that sentiment from your goblin friend here?”

  “She did not,” said Lucien, “but there is truth in it.”

  “Maybe so,” the duke admitted, “and were I younger and more naïve, I might follow you to be crushed under Solek’s heel. If Solek deigns to strike here again, we will perhaps choose this noble death you speak of. But for now, I will enjoy a roof, a bed, and three meals a day, as will my people.”

  Alexis studied the duke and saw a hardness in his expression that had been buried while he ate and played at not caring what went on beyond the walls of his city. Here was a place, the look said, where he could draw a line, and no words or power she had could compel him to change. She allowed herself an exaggerated sigh. “The coming battle will be difficult, and many will fall. We could use your help.”

  The duke shook his head. “I’m sorry. You will not have it.”

  Alexis bowed her head briefly. “So you have chosen. I would ask leave for the goblin army to march through the Westerland. The longer path would—”

  “Stop!” the Duke commanded, slamming a fist on the table. “Enough. I will not allow it, and if you think me too cowardly to move an army beyond these walls, march the goblins this way and find out otherwise.”

  Lucien could constrain himself no longer. “You would be destroyed.”

  “Maybe if your whole army could reach the city, but passing the wall will do you great harm.”

  “Wall is broken and guarded by boys.”

  “You might find it otherwise if an army approaches it.”

  “Empty words from empty man. I should—”

  Alexis stopped him with a gentle touch on his arm. "We will not use our strength fighting our way through,” she told him, “even though I am certain the outcome would be as you say.” Here she spared the duke a quick, icy glare. “If you choose to stay buried in your own tomb, we will trouble you no more. I hope if we’re successful, you’ll find it within yourself to reclaim the heart and soul you seem to have lost.”

  The duke’s smile was almost a sneer. “Please, don’t think too ill of me,” he said without conviction. “You have shared my table. Stay the night, take what rest you can.”

  “No,” Alexis said firmly. “We thank you for the food, but time is our enemy now as well. We will depart at once.”

  “Go then,” said the duke. “I would wish you well, but the words would likely echo hollow in your ears.”

  “At least in this you speak the truth.”

  * * *

  There was something foul in the air, and Demetrius stopped in mid-breath with a wince of disgust. It was as if the rot in Veldoon was carried by the breeze, and even on a fresh spring day, where the sun bathed him in warmth and light, the reek was an underlying reminder of the sickness and death that seemed to pervade everything. He tried to remember to be grateful that he could inhale deeply now, his injuries healed to the point that only sudden, sharp motions brought back the pain. It didn’t hurt that he rode while most with him marched on foot. Normally he would have walked as well just on principle, but those afoot cared not for horses, and did not begrudge him his seat upon one.

  Before they had broken camp, Granos had made the decision that Demetrius, Rowan, Midras, and another dozen men should ride north to try to reach the dwarves that had offered to join them in battle. They had passed safely through the lands where the wyverns had hunted them, then back into the Westerland. They lost a few days following what signs they could find of the dwarves’ movements, but soon enough found them. The dwarves were ready for action, their axes sharp and a deadly gleam in their eyes. Nearly a thousand there were, a welcome surprise. Dwarves were slow on the march, but hearty, keeping their legs moving long after others would have given out for the day. The long march did not wear on them or dampen their desire to strike at their tormentor, and though there was little singing or light talk at march or camp, there was a certain enthusiasm that bonded the group and helped stifle the feeling of impending doom that came at them as surely as the stench carried on the wind.

  The Stone Mountains had formed a barrier to their right for weeks, and Demetrius often looked that way, as if he hoped to see through them to be assured the Corindoran army was making equal progress on the southern side. They would know in a few days, when they reached the end of the range, and if fate really smiled upon them the Delvish forces would be there, too, moving up from the south.

  But today fate had other plans. The attack came from the north. The Dead Legion marched brazenly, in the open, unconcerned with surprising the enemy. They came tramping across the grassy fields between the Aetos and Stone ranges, a long line of rotting former humanity. The wind shifted, and the odor that had offended Demetrius only moments before was lost in the foul decay of the Dead.

  The leaders the dwarves had selected sprang into action, the slowness of the Dead’s approach giving them time to organize into battle lines rather than being hit while strung out for the march. For that, Demetrius was thankful.

  Corson rode up. “None mounted, no demon lords that I can see,” he said, giving his assessment.

  Demetrius had been studying their foe as well. “I see the same. We
fight mounted,” he said louder, so that the others that rode from Corindor could hear. “Once they engage, we circle to the right and drive into their flank and rear.”

  The dwarves had shown commendable discipline in forming up, but a light was in their eyes, a battle fury. Before the Dead reached them it became more than they could bear. With first a single shout, and then a massed cry, the dwarves moved forward. They were outnumbered three to one, but the Dead fought in a controlled, conservative manner, while the dwarves hacked and hewed with righteous anger. If their strength held out, they could carry the day, but if not…the Dead did not tire.

  The Dead had no warriors horsed, but their bowmen understood the threat of the charging riders. They loosed their arrows, but tucked as they were in the center of the Dead line, they found their marks—fast moving and on the flank—difficult to find.

  “Watch for more volleys!” Demetrius shouted over the tumult of battle and pounding hooves. “They won’t hesitate to fire into their own ranks to strike at us.”

  Demetrius had his sword out, and he swung it once without feeling any pain. Whether he was completely healed from his injuries or simply protected by the rush of adrenaline, he did not question. He nudged his horse for full effort, and it responded, leading the way. Had he had time to look back, he would have seen only Corson, also on a Lorgrasian horse, was able to keep up, and that two of the other mounts, now seeing the Dead for what they were, refused their masters’ commands and turned to flee instead.

  Demetrius and Corson cut a swath through the enemy, their rampaging horses doing more damage than their swords. The dwarves cried out upon seeing the riders scatter their foe, and pressed forward all the harder. The Dead’s left flank began to crumble. Demetrius could feel it, could feel the pulse of battle change, the momentum firmly in their hands and brought to bear on the faltering enemy. His sword rose and fell, a scythe slicing through a ripe field. He heard bones snap under his mount’s relentless hooves.

  He raised his sword again, and his eyes searched for the next target. Moving against the surge of bodies a foe charged, one only recently dead. The pale gray skin was just starting to decay and the eyes were still intact, but behind them was the subtle red glow that was seen brightly in the empty sockets of most of the Legion. For an instant the face turned upwards and the eyes met his own, and Demetrius hesitated.

  It was a young girl who gazed up at him, no more than eleven. Curly locks of red hair fell to her shoulders, the dirt from the grave still tangled there. In her hand she held a leg bone to use as a weapon. She raised it and opened her mouth in a soulless scream. Demetrius felt frozen in place, his sword arm locked in an upraised position. Then she was gone, in a flash of steel. The face and hair spun like a top and then fell to the ground, rolling away from the collapsing body.

  The frozen moment ended, and the sounds and smells of battle returned. One of the other riders had struck where Demetrius had paused. Demetrius had known Solek’s spells did not discriminate against any that might be raised to fight, but that knowledge had fled him when he needed it. He roared aloud, angry at his weakness, angry at what was still the image of a young girl brutally slain before him. His anger drove him, and the Dead fell.

  * * *

  The field was quiet, save for the sounds of graves being dug. Time was short, but the dwarves would not leave their dead unburied. They had carried the battle and then done the hard labor of making sure those who had fallen would not rise again to aid Solek, so there was little thought to arguing about the further delay. Demetrius sat alone, wiping blood and dirt from his face in thoughtless little motions, but what he wanted to erase he could not. Over and over he saw the girl’s face, the empty scream, the flash of steel.

  “You all right?” asked Corson.

  “Fine,” he said. He forced himself to look up at his friend, but could not force a smile. “You look like you came through the battle okay.”

  “Better than many.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “About three hundred. Dwarves that is. Two riders. Considering the numbers, we should be happy, but…”

  Demetrius nodded. “But Solek fights with a much deeper pool of resources.”

  Corson sat next to his friend and watched the dwarves work for a time. “They are quick with earth and stone. We’ll be away before nightfall.”

  “That is well. We can’t camp on this field tonight, so we’ll need to get a few hours’ march behind us before we rest.”

  Corson was silent for a few moments, then laughed softly to himself.

  Demetrius looked at him, curious. “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking that we won. A pretty grim crew we make, considering.”

  “There is always bitterness in war, even in victory,” Demetrius said. “Still, you are right. We bloodied Solek’s nose and gave him something to think about. I’m glad we have the dwarves with us. They do some powerful work with those axes.”

  “That they do,” Corson replied. He watched the sun as it passed behind some low clouds in the west. Less than an hour until sunset, he guessed. “I wish I knew how the others were doing.”

  “So do I,” said Demetrius. “So do I.”

  * * *

  Rowan led the Delvish army directly up the Bay Road. He rode at the front of 3,000 men and women, arrayed for battle, and he sat tall and brave in the saddle, an example for those behind him. He had Tala to thank for that. As they had ridden back to Delving, he had pulled more and more within himself, the weight of leadership and responsibility pressing on him relentlessly. He had no fear for his own life, but leading an army into battle was something he had not trained for, nor did he desire it. He would have preferred making his way into Veldoon alone rather than doing this. One night as they camped in the darkness, Tala had addressed the issue in the most blunt terms.

  “You cannot lead an army like this,” she said.

  “I know that. But the duchess has commanded it.”

  “I do not mean you cannot physically lead them. Anyone can do that. But if you show weakness and doubt, it will infect your forces like a plague.”

  Rowan had stared away at the stars overhead for a long time. “You’re right, of course. But it is difficult to exude confidence when you feel none inside.”

  “Tell me, do you feel we have no chance to defeat Solek?”

  “It will be difficult, but it can be done. I would not have asked the duchess to send our people to certain death.”

  “Good. Then the issue is with you. With you giving orders and sending your people into harm’s way.”

  “I…” Rowan blew out a tired breath. “What if I make a mistake? The fate of our world could depend on every decision.”

  “And how is that different than what we have already been through? We have had a dozen chances to fail already, and yet here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Rowan repeated somberly.

  “Two of us, at least. What about the third?”

  “ ‘The third’?”

  “This Savior you used to speak of. It seems you left him back with the duchess.”

  The color slowly drained from Rowan’s face. “Ouch,” he finally managed.

  “I do not pretend to fully understand your beliefs, but if he watches over this world—and over you—would it not make sense that you were asked to lead the Delvish army because your Savior wished it to be so?”

  Rowan pondered this briefly. “Thanks,” he said.

  The change in him had been gradual but sure, a light slowly blossoming, first in his soul, then his heart, and then finally visible on his face. By the time they had returned to Delving, he had accepted his assigned task wholly.

  They had chosen to march on the road rather than a less conspicuous route in order to draw Solek’s forces out as soon as possible. A gamble, and one that did not sit well with many who had seen the damage the Dead could do—and that when they had defensive walls to overcome. But the time for defense and retreat was past, not that a
ll caution was thrown to the wind. They marched slowly, in tight formations, with mounted scouts ahead and on their flanks.

  They reached the intersection of the Bay Road and the High Road, which went west into Corindor’s northern cities, without incident. Rowan paused there, looking down the High Road, a shadow passing over his face.

  Tala reined up beside him and saw his expression. “It would have been nice to see them marching up the road,” she said with a smile, “but such a coincidence would be asking a bit much.”

  “I know,” he said, returning her grin. “Can always hope, though.”

  “Do not forget, we are early and the others have much longer marches.”

  He nodded, already knowing everything she said, but glad to be reminded anyway. “Still, I think we might spare a couple of riders to venture down the road a ways. If they are coming, I’m sure they’d like to know we’ve preceded them.”

  “That makes sense,” she agreed. “And if they make contact and return to tell us when we can expect more help that would be even better.”

  Rowan looked at the setting sun and made a decision. “Let’s get another mile or so past these crossroads, then we’ll camp. If the riders find them and return by morning we can wait, otherwise we’ll stay with our original plan—taking shelter in the Eastern Forest until the time has arrived to begin the assault on Veldoon.”

  “I will start spreading the word,” Tala said.

  Rowan spared the High Road one last, longing glance, then turned and moved north once more.

  * * *

  The morning brought thin, gray clouds but no news from the west. Rowan was deliberate in his preparations for the day, clearly lingering in hopes the scouts sent west would return.

  “They will overtake us soon enough if they are already on the way back,” Tala reasoned. “And if not, we should not tarry here long.”