The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard

by David Adams

  “I do,” he said, stroking her cheek. “I’m sorry. I should have been able to act. We all should have. If we had only done so…”

  “I nearly fell under the spell as well. And her magic was stronger against men.”

  “Maybe so. That doesn’t excuse the price you had to pay to save us. If I had been stronger—”

  “If you were strong enough, you could take on Solek and all his minions alone. You are what you are, Rowan. And what you are is more than most could hope to be. It is why I loved you. It is why I love you still.”

  “And I you. Always.”

  She closed her eyes and smiled. For a moment Rowan thought she was drifting away, but then her eyelids fluttered open again. “I wish we were able to say so, all those years ago.”

  “You had a kingdom to rule. I am not of noble blood.”

  “Not by birth, perhaps, but by action. I saw that in you. But you had a god to serve as I had a kingdom. I part with only the regret that we could not spend the days of our old age together, after the throne had passed from me to another. It was a dream of mine, one I kept secretly in my heart. But I was granted the gift of seeing you again, of spending long days and nights by your side. For that I will be thankful, even if it ends here for me, broken on a field of dust.”

  Rowan took her hand and kissed it gently, ignoring the blood and dirt. Her hand was cold in spite of the heat of the day. His tears fell now, and he let them, without shame.

  “Farewell,” she said, her voice a soft breeze. She closed her eyes and then fell still.

  Rowan stayed there for a long time, not caring about anything else in the world, lost in grief. He prayed for her soul and that steadied him somewhat. When he started to rise he felt a strong hand help him up.

  “I’m sorry,” Demetrius said. “I didn’t know…”

  Rowan took in the nearest faces. Corson was there by Demetrius, as were Tala and Lucien, the entire company that had quested together now mourning their first loss. They guided him away as he spoke in soft, mournful tones. “We fell in love when we were young. I spent three years in Lorgras, in study and training. I did not know she was to be queen when she reached age twenty-one. If I had known, I would have…”

  “Led a less full life,” Tala said.

  Rowan had to admit that was true, even now.

  “You were kept apart?” Corson asked.

  “No, at least not by any hard and fast rule,” Rowan replied. “That made it all the more difficult. Because we knew it would be frowned upon by many, a queen and a commoner, and she was right to say my desire to pursue a paladin’s life played a role in our decision to part. When I returned to Delving, I never thought to see her again. Then we were fighting that Pit Demon, and who shows up to save us.”

  “Small world,” Tala said. “You hid it well. Both of you.”

  “We had a higher calling to fulfill. That much didn’t change. Maybe when Solek lay dead at our feet we would have had time to think of being together. Until then, it would have been pointless to discuss it. And she was still queen, and I a paladin.” Something struck him then, a quick thought. For an instant his face brightened but it faded even before he spoke. “I have some small healing power,” he said to Tala. “With the elders, would there be any chance—”

  Tala’s face dropped, cutting him off. “I’m sorry, Rowan. Even we cannot bring back the dead.”

  “I suppose not,” he said. “My Lord can, but only when he comes again.” He looked back at Alexis, glimpsing her face through the Lorgrasians who surrounded her, and saw there an expression of peace. He chose to ignore her crushed body. Suddenly a dark shadow crossed his features. “Solek can raise the dead as well, in a perverted way.” Slowly he drew his sword. “That cannot be allowed.”

  Demetrius tried to stay him. “Let someone else do it.”

  Rowan answered with only a dreadful, determined look, one even the Lorgrasians would not dare to question. The others backed away, and then turned away. They could not watch what needed to be done.

  * * *

  The funeral pyre was much smaller than that lit after fighting the Veldooners, but the sorrow was no less. Alexis was given a place of honor, a small separate pyre past which those who had known her filed to pay their final respects. The fire took her body and those of the others, a final irony considering the means of their deaths. The wounded were few; once one was bitten by the Blaze’s fiery sword, a sort of fire spread within and consumed the victim’s life in a short time.

  Rowan mounted up and started away before the pyres had died down. Night was falling and they could not travel far, not safely, but he would be away from this wretched place before he would rest. If only the haunting memories could be left behind as easily.

  Rowan had led them off without a word, and Deron stopped them for the night in the same way. Dimly on the horizon to their rear the dying pyres could be seen, casting a red-orange glow into the black night.

  * * *

  The next day dawned overcast, thick white clouds blotting out the sun and stealing some of the heat that beat down upon the advancing army. Since they had been near or in Veldoon, they had seen only clear skies with a scorching sun, ominous dark clouds, or worse. Today’s fluffy white clouds seemed odd and out of place, a reminder of home and of happier days.

  Late in the morning one of the men of the Westerland came pounding up to the Arkanian leaders. He had been acting as a scout, and had found a hot spring less than a mile off their direct path. “It’s quite warm and smells of sulfur, but it’s the best we’ve found since we’ve been on the Plain.”

  “It’s the only water we’ve found,” Zald noted, clarifying what his man had said. “Is there a significant flow?”

  “There is, my lord,” the man replied. “And a small pool as well, though that water is stagnant.”

  “Lead on,” said Deron. “If the source is usable we’ll want to move the army close so we can refill all our skins.”

  They covered the distance quickly, hopeful expectation giving them an added push. The spring was just as the man had described it, the smell being the most notable feature. But the water was not too hot to handle, and the process of collecting and purifying it by spell, though tedious, progressed throughout the rest of the day. In the end they camped near the spring, and considered the loss of most of a day a fair trade for the water that refreshed them now and would sustain them in days to come.

  * * *

  While there was no feeling that the worst was now behind them, the water lifted their spirits and their legs on the march, and they covered more ground in the following two days than in the previous three. As they approached their goal each passed mile was a relief, but a sense of foreboding grew—what would oppose them next? At Adiel’s urging Tala risked a brief finding spell using the Sphere, to be sure they had not gotten lost—or been led astray by some undetected magic—as they crossed the barren waste.

  “We’re on track,” Tala said, as she hurried the Sphere back into the cloaking bag. “And we are nearly clear of the Dead Plain.”

  “How much longer?” Deron asked.

  “A day or two to the Belt,” she replied. “One or two past that to Citadel.”

  “At our current pace,” Rowan added, seeking confirmation.

  Tala nodded. Everyone understood that the pace they were discussing was for an unopposed march.

  The first sign that the easy movement would end came within the hour. Drifting toward them came six Mists, Solek’s spies. These were spared only cursory glances before all eyes began to scan the horizon for approaching enemies, given that the Mists had only served as eyes for the enemy and occasionally harbingers of coming trouble. Sure enough, while the shadowy figures circled the Arkanians a mass of shapes appeared, as if materializing out of the shimmering heat of the Dead Plain. As they neared, these figures were outlined against the dust they kicked up behind themselves.

  Rowan called the Arkanians to a halt and gave the order to move into battle form
ation. He would have preferred to receive the approaching enemy from a defensive position, but there was nothing in this barren place to use for such a purpose, no sizable rocks or trees, no hills, no streams. Any attacking army here need not be at a disadvantage. It was with this thought in mind that Rowan spoke to the other leaders

  “With those Mists in the air and this flat land there will be no secret movements. We should choose when the battle is joined, and use our riders to hit their flanks while our footmen strike their front. I believe they are all on foot.” He looked at Deron for confirmation of the fact.

  “They are,” answered the elf, squinting despite his superior eyesight to improve his focus. “Odd creatures they are, like a cross-breed of men and trolls. They are tall and wiry, and move with a quick, shuffling gait. They have carved clubs for the most part, and a few have bows.”

  Tala readied her own bow, but remained on her horse. She planned to take a few shots while her mount could be held stationary, then to join the flanking attack, switching to a short sword she had acquired from one of the elves that fell fighting the Veldooners. Her supply of arrows was growing perilously short, so she needed to make each one count.

  The approaching creatures came forward in a broad line of battle. As they neared, Tala could make out their features. Their clothing was non-descript, faded tans, browns, and blacks, loose fitting and short in the arms and legs, as if they had grown long of limb while losing weight. Their eyes were solid white, with no sign of iris or pupil, their skin a drab gray, their hair dark and hanging down in long strands where it grew, which was only on the backs of their heads. Something else about them struck her as strange and it took her a moment to put a finger on it. Just as their white eyes made them appear blind, there was no indication that they had ears with which to hear. “Deaf and blind?” she asked herself. “Is Solek so desperate?”

  If anyone tried to answer her rhetorical question, she could not hear it. From above, the Mists screamed, a high-pitched keening that spiked into the brain like a tiny dagger. Tala’s horse started immediately at the sound and could not be settled. He began to buck and kick wildly, tossing Tala aside in the process, and then, finding no relief, began to run blindly, trying to escape the piercing shrieks.

  Tala barely registered the pain from a sprained wrist she suffered as she fell to the ground. She covered her ears while her face contorted in pain. Her eyes began to water, and seeing what was going on around her became difficult, but she forced herself to focus through the pain that radiated from her mind out through her body. The reaction to the noise was similar throughout the Arkanian Army. Men, women, elves, dwarves, and goblins tried to stop up their ears in a futile attempt to shut out the wretched screams of the Mists. Some were able to keep their feet, but many now rolled in the dirt, holding their heads as if they expected them to explode. The great wolves howled in agony, some even tearing at their own fur in their anguish. The horses flailed or fled, many into the eager arms of the advancing troll-men, who made quick work of the helpless beasts. Deaf these troll-men were, and ideal companions for this aural assault. Tala spared one brief look up at the Mists. They circled swiftly, the occasional arrow launched at them in a pointless gesture by one of the warriors below passing through them. She could almost imagine long faces under those black hoods, with mouths stretched into a long oval while the incessant scream poured out. There was no variety in the sound, no ululating or changes in pitch, just a single, lengthy note, an impossibly sharp splinter that worked its way deep into the brain and lodged there.

  The second part of the attack hit, the troll-men closing ground quickly and striking at their distressed and somewhat disabled foes. Most of the Arkanians saw the attack coming and were able to defend themselves, however weakly. Tala shifted her focus to her personal plight, dodging a pair of clubs as two troll-men seemed intent on beating each other to claim her as a prize. Her limbs felt weak and sluggish, and only with an effort of will could she lift her sword to ward off a blow. Despite those empty, white eyes, the troll-men apparently were anything but blind. Either they could see, or they had some other way to sense the location of their targets.

  Tala struggled to maintain her concentration, despite the fact that several creatures half-again her size were trying to dash out her brains with their clubs. The shrieking was so overwhelming that it demanded attention even when one was fighting for one’s life. Distantly she was aware of those doing battle around her, of many falling dead or wounded, of the blood spilled and the dust kicked up by the struggle. If only the sound would stop, she thought, even for a second, so she could get her bearings straight.

  She dodged a clumsy blow and managed to strike an off-balance troll-man with the flat of her blade, not good enough to really hurt him, but maybe enough to slow him down. It hardly seemed to matter. Another took his place, looking at Tala with those strange, expressionless eyes, trying to crush her with his club.

  The troll-man’s face suddenly took on a look of confusion. He raised his club and brought it down, swinging at empty air to Tala’s left, and losing his balance in the process. She rushed in and slashed him with her sword, his confusion changing to shock and dismay, then melting to numbness as he fell to the ground.

  It was all Tala could do to focus her eyes. The shrieking of the Mists pounded at her relentlessly. She saw several troll-men finding their marks, but others striking at nothing, as if suddenly losing track of their prey. Most paid no price for their misses, the Arkanians so stricken by the screams of the Mists that they could take but little advantage of it. Tala held her ears during a small respite in her personal battles, and found what she was looking for—Adiel and Roldon had pulled back a bit from the battle and had managed to muster enough concentration to cast spells. Based on the sudden inaccuracy of the troll-men, she guessed they had cast a mirror image spell—where she stood one or more exact duplicates appeared in short intervals on one or both sides of her. It was a spell that took great skill to learn, and great power to use, and it was far beyond the level of magic she had ever aspired to. She wondered how long they could keep it up. The two elders had bought them time, but the clubs of the troll-men eventually found their intended targets, and the Mists’ screams had made many Arkanians incapable of fighting back, even given this temporary advantage. It crossed her mind that despite the white eyes, the troll-men could see, at least in some way, otherwise the spell would have had no effect.

  In pain and frustration Tala let out a scream of her own. It was swallowed up by the wailing of the Mists such that it barely reached her own ears, but with it came a sudden burst of energy, which she used to brutal effect against the two nearest troll-men. In those few seconds she could see they were slow, clumsy fighters, easily dispatched if not for the debilitating effect the Mists were having on those who could hear them. But the penetrating noise stole the energy away almost as quickly as she built it up, and her arms and legs grew heavy once again.

  She could feel her senses growing numb as well, the world a confusion of dust, blood, and flailing limbs and weapons. She tried to find a familiar face, but could make out none in the swirl of battle. Someone fell at her feet, a male elf, blood gushing from a wound on his arm, his own weapon lost or forgotten, his hands tearing at his own ears, trying to stop the incessant, searing noise. She grabbed his belt and slid him back a foot, just enough to avoid the death blow being delivered by one of the troll-men. Confused, the creature’s next swing was directed at one of the mirror images, whether Tala’s or the male elf’s it was unclear. Either way it missed and gave her a chance to try her sword again. She hit him, a glancing blow, not enough to kill him but enough to force him to retreat.

  Distantly the sound of battle reached her ears, as if somewhere far away armies clashed, and muffled shouts and cries of pain carried over the Dead Plain to the edge of her perception. The sounds grew, slowly but surely. With dawning recognition, Tala looked up.

  The Mist continued to circle overhead, but they had begun to f
ade, as if they were being worn thin, and the light from the sky behind them had begun to leak through their previously impenetrable black forms. As the sound of the battle’s tumult grew, the Mists continued to fade, the two events now clearly linked.

  “They are weakening!” she shouted, her own voice a delight to her still-ringing ears. “The battle is ours! Rally Arkanians!”

  The Arkanians did rally, their strength returning as the Mists continued to recede, now just a whisper of what they once were. The battle grew in intensity, both sides now lashing out at one another, the Arkanians gaining a brief advantage over the troll-men, who were still being misled by the mirror image spell. But just as the Mists vanished completely, their screams now only a distant echo, so too did the strength of the elven mages fail, and the spell was broken. Now the battle would be decided by strength of arms alone.

  Lucien would not have believed sound could cause such torment. He had felt as if his mind was ready to split apart, had almost wished for it, for the end of the agony, and underneath that for the end of the guilt and shame he carried for Alexis’ death. Now released he fought ferociously, his warblade singing as it sliced through the air. The screams had dulled his senses, but now they were all heightened. He was in the midst of a goblin battle fury, and around him things slowed and he became a focused killing machine. Goblins in this state had been known to kill dozens of opponents, and at times fell dead themselves from what was bluntly called “Grash-ak-non,” loosely, an “exploded heart.” The warblade had become an extension of Lucien’s body, a fluid tool moving without need for conscious thought. The troll-men, fearless in most respects, backed away, indicating that they were not foolish. Lucien pressed on, the world reduced only to what was in front of him.

  The goblins were terrible in their unleashed fury, but even they paled in comparison to the great wolves, who had been so helpless when the Mists pierced them with sound, their hyper-sensitive ears allowing in far too much of the disabling noise. Some had gone mad and attacked friend and foe alike, others had died from the unendurable pain, but most had lived, and these attacked with a ferociousness that made even their allies back away. In the end, it was the great wolves that broke the troll-men and decided the battle, and it was the wolves that could not be restrained from pursuing the fleeing enemy. As a blood-red sun sank in the west, not a troll-man lived.