The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard

by David Adams

  “Solek marks us,” Deron stated plainly, as if he was commenting on the weather. “Nothing more.” He led the way past the towering guardians, sparing them only one quick glance as he passed beneath their outstretched arms. Silently the others followed, many watching the statues with undisguised fear, expecting them to spring to life and strike down the invaders. Even once safely past, many heads turned to see if an attack from the rear was coming. Other than the blood that now pooled around the statues’ feet, all was normal.

  As the statues faded in the distance behind them, eyes began to strain forward, looking for the fortress city they meant to assault. The day grew warm and a summer haze settled over the land, reducing visibility and stealing any chance that they might glimpse Citadel from a day’s march away.

  The miles passed and they continued to move unchecked. Zald wondered aloud if Solek allowed it “to bring us close, the easier to strike us down.”

  “If it is so, we will find out soon enough,” replied Deron. “If we turn back now, we have lost all.”

  Zald said no more on the subject, but he was hardly put at ease by Deron’s words.

  As they traveled further east, sparse trees began to appear just off the road, individually at first, then in small groves, and finally in something that might be called a forest. But the trees were barren and lifeless, good for burning but providing no shade or fruit. Rowan was studying this dead wood, wondering how far into it his sight could penetrate, when he spied several small wooden structures a short distance ahead. His breath caught in his throat for a second, and when he was finally able to speak, he commanded a swift halt. He urged his own mount forward for a better look.

  Several dozen figures were there, some crucified on crosses, others impaled on thick pikes, some hacked apart and left on the ground, their blood staining the soil. There were men and women, even a young child, dwarves, elves, goblins, and wolves. But it was one figure that held Rowan’s total attention. Upon a group of three crosses three figures had been crucified. Their blood, still fresh, poured from the wounds on their hands and feet. The center cross was a bit higher than those to its right and left. Upon this cross hung Alexis. In addition to the nail wounds, her right side had been pierced, and on her head had been paced a crown of woven thorns. A small sign hung over her head, which stated: “Alexandra, Queen of Arkania.”

  Rowan felt as if his heart was going to hammer its way out of his chest. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled out. He let them go and felt a sob rack his body. He started as a hand touched his arm.

  Tala had followed him, as had Deron, Zald, and Yola, the latter three having stopped a few paces back. Each wore their own mask of pain, revulsion, and rage. Tala, however, seemed composed. “It is not real, Rowan. It cannot be.”

  “I know. But I—”

  “Her body was consumed by the fire. Not even the Dark One is capable of bringing her back. It is not her. It is not anyone.”

  Rowan opened his mouth to speak, but another voice interrupted.

  “Why did you let me die?”

  When Rowan looked up at the sound, he found that he was staring into Alexis’ blue eyes. Those eyes, like the voice, held nothing but accusation.

  “I didn’t let you die,” he stammered. “I wanted to save you. I—”

  “You let me die. Now I will suffer forever.”

  Rowan shook his head and looked away.

  Tala spoke into his ear. “She is not there. I recognize some of the others here as well. All fell earlier. Maybe when we pass everyone will see those they most miss. We must not tarry here. They are phantoms. They can harm us only if we allow it.”

  “Do you see her?”

  Tala paused, then said, “Yes.”

  Alexis’ form let out a cry of anguish. “Can no one come to my aid? Have all forsaken me?”

  Rowan moved as if to go to her. Tala stayed him, then readied her bow and nocked an arrow.

  “No, wait!” Rowan tried to divert the weapon, too late.

  The arrow flew true, straight into Alexis’ midsection. If she felt it, she gave no sign. Tala pointed to where the arrow landed, some distance away. “Do you doubt my aim?”

  Rowan pulled himself together. “No. It was true. It is as you say, a phantom only. Solek must not be content to haunt only our dreams. Now our waking moments are his playthings as well.” Rowan turned his back on Alexis’ image and took a deep breath. “If he means to frighten us off, we will see to it that he fails. And if this is all the strength he has left…” Rowan called the main body forward. “Eyes straight ahead! There are foul images here sent by the enemy to weaken our resolve. But it is he that weakens. Hold your heads high and march past these empty displays!” The other leaders joined him in spreading encouraging words, and while the marchers could not resist looking as they passed and their faces grew pale at what they saw, they obeyed orders and tried to file by quickly to put the gruesome specters behind them.

  The presence of the main body elicited more life from the images, each calling out for relief from their torment. Many of the living heard their names called by loved ones, but those hesitating were swiftly urged on by their companions. Lucien managed to keep his eyes forward. He sensed Krellos looking off to one side, and the wolf emitted a low growl but kept moving. Corson couldn’t help himself, and he studied each of the foul images with growing disgust. The final one he recognized, the girl he hoped to marry. He let out an involuntary gasp. Demetrius laid a hand on his back and pressed him forward. “Ignore it,” he said.

  “But it’s—”

  “An image from the darkest part of your mind. Leave it here. Don’t carry it forward. It will only distract you.”

  “I’ll try,” was the best Corson could promise.

  Only when all were safely by did the leaders move on, ushering the army away. After a time they moved to the front again, none sparing a backward glance, even though the haunting voices chased them, angry for attention and crying out their doom.

  * * *

  Citadel did not come into view that day, but there was a sense when they made camp that they would reach their destination tomorrow. They had marched past dusk and for a time at night, torchlight their only guide, trying to put a few more miles at their backs and shorten the next day’s journey. There were no complaints about this, no grousing about being tired or wanting to eat. This close to their fate, be it good or ill, they wanted to be done with it and put a stop to the endless questions that each silently pondered but none could answer.

  A guard was set that night as a formality. Very few were able to rest, fewer still to sleep. Demetrius had lain for a time but had given it up as fruitless. He was unsurprised to find Corson awake as well. Lucien was standing with him, the goblin having sought out his old friends to help pass the night. Demetrius clapped a friendly hand on Corson’s shoulder and greeted Lucien. “It is good to see you well.”

  “And you.” The goblin’s face hardly showed warmth, but Demetrius had known him long enough to know the words were sincere.

  “Can’t sleep?” Corson asked.

  “No. Did you even try?”

  Corson shook his head. “I’ll give up a night of sleep to avoid the dreams. Can’t do that every night, but I figure we’re close enough…”

  Demetrius eyed Lucien. “What about you? Plagued by nightmares too?”

  “Yes. Not real, but make angry with no enemy to fight when awake.”

  Demetrius nodded, deciding not to ask if bad dreams could leave a goblin shaken or frightened, as they often did to a man. He guessed the truth, and that such an admission would not pass Lucien’s lips. “Where is the wolf I’ve seen you with?”

  Lucien pointed to Krellos, who stalked slowly back and forth some distance away. His black fur made him difficult to see, but his yellow eyes flared with reflected fire light whenever he turned his head toward them.

  “War makes for strange friends,” Corson commented. “I thought you two would just as soon kill each other as figh
t together.”

  “Krellos brave fighter. Not good joke like you. Tonight I need joke, so come here.”

  Corson laughed softly. “Glad I’m bringing some value to our little expedition.”

  The goblin saw something in Corson’s face or heard it behind the words, a defensiveness under the carefree mask. “I joke too. You good fighter. Lucien has seen.”

  Corson inclined his head in silent thanks.

  “We’ll all need to be good fighters tomorrow,” Demetrius said. “And maybe a bit lucky. I hope Rowan is praying hard tonight.”

  “I said a few myself,” said Corson.

  Demetrius lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you believed in the Savior.”

  “Not sure I do, but an extra prayer won’t hurt. Depending how things go, maybe I’ll end up being a convert.”

  “Sounds to me like your trying to bribe a god,” Demetrius said with a smile. “Give us victory, and I’ll believe in you.”

  Corson shrugged. “We do what we can.”

  “What about you, Lucien? Do your people worship a deity?”

  “Some. Most honor ancestors and dead warriors.”

  “And what do you believe in?”

  Lucien smiled and held forth his warblade.

  Corson said, “Let’s hope it gives you what you want tomorrow.”

  Lucien’s smile grew more feral, much like Krellos’, as he pictured bloody victory in his mind.

  * * *

  Rowan had not given a lot of thought to what weather he would desire as they reached Citadel. He had never seen the place, had no sense of the ground or how they would attempt to attack. He was happy for the thickening though sparse trees, which would provide wood to build ladders if needed, and perhaps a bit of cover, though he thought that pointless, at least as far as hoping they might sneak up on Solek. When morning came with a light overcast, he accepted it, just as he would have any other condition that seemed natural. What they had been dealt would allow them to see but be easily seen. It would not allow them to attack with the sun behind them and in the eyes of their enemies, but would not make them toil under its blazing heat. It would not give them the cover of heavy rain, but would keep the road dry and easy to traverse. All-in-all he was pleased, especially by the fact that Solek had not chosen weather of his own liking. He spared a few seconds to muse on how much the single bout of acidic rain—and the story Demetrius and Corson told of their first encounter with it—had affected him. He had not seen the two men from Corindor in several days, and even then was only able to exchange brief greetings. He prayed for them, and for all assembled here, who today could face their ultimate test. He prayed for victory, if it be God’s will, trying to push away the insistence in his own mind that it must be his will. How could it not be? But Rowan had learned that God sees much more than man, and that even in a situation such as this, when the fate of the world seemed in the balance, God might see some future events that deemed Solek should carry the day. An unbidden question flittered through his mind: Was Alexis’ death what God wanted? If it served the greater good, perhaps it was. Could he, Rowan, have made that choice? He doubted he would have had the strength to do so. But he was only a man, not God. With an effort, Rowan kept his heart open to the Savior’s will, and asked only that he, a simple man, might be his vessel.

  The Arkanian Army had been battered and abused, but they stepped off spryly that morning, as if they were just starting out on their journey. The promise of peace lie at the end of this day, either in victory or in the endless sleep of death. As had become the norm there was no laughing or singing, and the fear was still there in each of them, gnawing at the mind, but for the most part they were composed and the look on most faces was one of grim resolve.

  The forests beside the road remained, thickening in places but still just dead wood. The road grew wider and smoother, and only turned to the right or left on rare occasion. The sickly, pale grass had few spots to grow, only an odd patch here and there being visible.

  They had covered several mile since breaking camp when a low, distant rumble came, not so much audible as felt in the bones. Deron held up a hand and the army came to a halt, silent without needing to be told. The air about them felt heavy, a portent of a coming storm. All about them was still. Even the insects, if any were about, were quiet.

  Rowan looked at Deron, a silent question. Should we continue on?

  Deron held up a finger. Wait a moment.

  Time stretched out, and a sense of unease grew. Something was coming. Deron shook his head, shrugged, and pointed down the road. His horse stepped out and the army followed.

  They passed an uncomfortable half-hour, booms and deep groans emanating from somewhere ahead, coming louder and more frequently. “I think if I don’t soon know the source of those sounds, I’ll go mad from what my imagination is conjuring up,” said Zald.

  “You will get your wish soon enough,” Tala said. “We are drawing nearer to it.”

  “If it’s some sort of creature or demon,” Rowan observed, “it must be an awfully big one.”

  Zald shook his head and laughed. “Your imagination is working too, I see.”

  Their progress became slower, a natural caution growing inside them as the noise grew louder. From behind the leaders, amongst those that traveled on foot, came an exclamation. “The ground shakes!”

  Tala was the first to dismount, the other following in kind. She put a hand and an ear to the ground and waited. As a low growl sounded in the distance, she rose with a nod. “It is coming from below, all right. And the ground does tremble.”

  “What we do?” asked Yola his voice dark and angry. The goblin preferred enemies that could be fought with a warblade.

  “What can we do?” Rowan replied rhetorically. “We cannot pass easily anywhere but this road. Those woods, though dead, would slow us and spread us out.”

  “And make us easy targets,” said Deron. “A single strike of lightning would soon set the whole thing ablaze.”

  “Then the road or turn back,” said Tala. She jumped on her horse again and pressed onward. Another boom came, loud, echoing across the landscape. Her horse started at the sound, but she soon steadied him with a caress and a few whispered, soothing words. She kept her head forward, afraid to look back lest someone see doubt or fear on her face. The die was cast, and this road would lead them to their fate.

  The sounds continued to grow louder, though no more frequent. No longer was it necessary to be on foot to feel the ground move; even those mounted could feel the vibrations. The horses became more and more unsettled, and soon the riders were all on foot as well, leading their disturbed mounts by the reins.

  As the miles slowly crawled by the sounds no longer came solely from before them. Although not easy to distinguish, those with better-trained ears pointed out that the various rumblings sometimes came from the right or left of the road, and even from the rear of their current position.

  “Is it too much to hope that it is some natural phenomena, and that we will soon be past it?” Rowan asked.

  Deron said nothing, simply looked down the road ahead, perhaps to a place beyond where the world spoke in a deep thundering voice.

  Tala replied, “We can hope,” but her tone betrayed her true feelings.

  As if in reply the ground shook furiously, bringing her to her knees and throwing the army into chaos. Only a few had experienced an earthquake before, and none had lived through one of this magnitude. Where they could keep their feet the horses began to run wild, and many of their two-legged companions wanted to do so as well, overcome by an urge to flee, but none knowing where to flee to. It seemed as if the world was coming to an end, and all anyone could do was cling to the ground and hope it would soon be stilled.

  Demetrius lay prone but kept his head up to see what he could. Corson had dropped next to him, his face with a look that said “Now what?” Demetrius gave him a reassuring pat on the arm, a human touch that said “I’m here, and we’ll get through this toget
her.” Suddenly Corson grinned, pointing. Demetrius followed the gesture to see Lucien some distance away, standing stubbornly with his warblade’s tip planted in the ground, using the weapon to help him keep his balance. Krellos crawled near the goblin, his ears flat and the fur on his back standing on end.

  “I’m not sure whether I want to see him keep upright or fall on his rear end,” Corson shouted to be heard over the din. “Think all goblins are as stubborn as him?”

  Demetrius sought out the green-skinned amongst them and found many, like Lucien, trying to keep their feet. He wondered if they all had tried to do so, and it was only those with the best balance who remained upright, winners of a morbid game. “I’d say Lucien’s pretty normal,” he replied, hoping Corson could hear him.

  A great rending sound tore the air, and the ground beneath them jerked convulsively. Trees and rocks were hurled upwards in places and in others sank and disappeared. The earth was torn asunder some hundred yards in front of where Rowan lay, the road and woods vanishing and a gout of flame rising to take their place. The dry wood of the trees that remained soon caught fire, and Rowan knew it would spread quickly given their dryness, and in so doing would envelop the Arkanians on both sides. He wheeled about, opening his mouth to call for a hasty retreat, but his voice caught in his throat. Some short distance behind the rear elements of the Arkanian Army there was another great tear in the land, from which poured flames just as hungry as those to the front. He looked right and left, seeing fire had sprouted back in the woods on either side. He had no doubt the chasm had completely surrounded them.

  He found his feet, the ground no longer trembling. The noise had abated, but this change went mostly unnoticed due to the roar of the fire that sprang from the bowels of the earth, and the pop and crackle of the trees as they were consumed. Deron and Tala were soon with him.