The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard

by David Adams

  Rowan’s dragon had been ready to land when Demetrius’ mount was hit. The dragon pulled up, and for a moment Rowan feared it would flee, but the dragon simply approached from another angle, and did so swiftly. Rowan jumped to the stone roof as the crew that had killed Demetrius’ dragon was being roasted. “The stairs,” he called to his mount as he crouched low.

  “I saw them,” the dragon replied as it took flight. “I’ll take care of them.”

  Rowan scrambled over to his companions as the dragon gained some altitude, then turned and dove. Fire flew from its throat onto the stone stair, where, from the air, both it and Rowan had spied a group of Veldooners cautiously making their way up. Rowan could not see whether the fire ruined them or simply slowed them, but either way it gave those on the roof a few precious seconds to act. As soon as he spotted Galway bringing Tala in, he led the others to the wood-and-metal door of the upper tower.

  As Galway landed the other dragons pressed their attack, providing as much cover as possible. By sheer luck, a great stone, meant to be flung onto the battlefield below, struck one of these flying beasts, sending it crashing down in ruin. But the rest kept the Veldooners at bay and the crews away from their catapults and giant crossbows, which were set alight whenever possible.

  Rowan had tried the door even before Tala’s feet had touched the stone roof, and found it held fast. Lucien brushed him aside and pulled with all his goblin might, with no better success.

  “Step away,” Galway said, seeing their struggle. Once they were clear, he blasted the door with golden fire, and then turned to smash it with his tail. It blew inward as he struck, shattered to a hundred pieces. “Good luck, my friends,” he told them as he took flight.

  Lucien was through the opening an instant after the door fragments touched down. Inside was a small landing, dimly lit, and a stair spiraling upward between an outer and inner wall, both of stone. From somewhere above torchlight descended to light the way up, though the stairs quickly curled out of view. Lucien started up, his warblade drawn and ready, his pace aggressive but not reckless.

  Corson was next in, followed by Demetrius. Rowan wanted to take the rear in case there was danger there, but did not want to push Tala up the stairs and into potential peril while he hung back. “Stay close,” he told her as he drew his sword. They both paused at the brightness of the white light the Avenger blade cast on the gloomy stair, then moved on to keep pace with the others.

  As the stair wound upward, it was easy to lose track of how far they progressed, unable as they were to see either the entrance to the high chamber above or the landing below. Somewhere near halfway up, Lucien sensed a subtle shift in the light and in the smell of the air. He held up a hand, warning the others to slow. Quietly he ascended, one step at a time.

  An opening in the inner wall revealed that a room had been built here. Lucien could make out little from where he was, but he assumed the place to be for guards to lie in wait, such that none could ascend the tower unchallenged. Whether it was currently occupied he could not yet tell, but he proceeded under the belief that it was. He inched forward, silent as a shadow, more of the inner room being revealed as he did so. He saw the toe of a leather boot, the wearer of which was clearly situated with his back to the wall, just inside the entrance. He could almost picture a Veldooner there, holding his breath, sweat on his brow, a weapon gripped tightly in white-knuckled hands.

  Lucien turned to Corson and whispered as softly as his goblin voice allowed. “I go in. Rest go up.”

  Corson nodded that he understood, but when he passed the word to Demetrius, he changed the plan slightly. “Lucien and I will hold them here. The rest of you continue on.”

  Lucien slid to the inner part of the stairwell, then climbed three more steps. The owner of the boot, perhaps sensing the approach of an enemy, had withdrawn further to his right and was out of sight. When Lucien was within a foot of the opening, his back pressed to the wall, he could see no one in the room. He glanced once at his companions, who had closed with him, made sure they were ready to move, then returned to his task. He took a firm grip on his warblade, then slapped it against the wall so that one end of it would be visible to the room’s occupants. A quick hail of arrows ensued, a few clanking off the goblin’s weapon, the others hitting the far wall and clattering to the steps.

  Lucien sprang immediately to action, his warblade working the instant he was in the room. The Veldooner who had shown his toe was the first to fall, followed soon after by the guard to his right. Lucien saw three others on this side of the room, all already backpedaling as they fumbled for their swords, having dropped their bows at the sight of a charging enemy. He wheeled to check the far side of the room, and was surprised to find Corson there, already engaging one of five Veldooners, who also, at least for the moment, were caught off balance. He saw his other companions slip quickly past the opening and further up the stair, meaning if necessary he and Corson could fall back through the doorway and try to hold on the steps. For now, while he had the advantage, he pressed the fight. If he could put these three down quickly and reach Corson’s side…

  The next Veldooner in line had barely parried Lucien’s first blow, but the power of it knocked his sword from his hand. Lucien wasted no time in bringing the other end of the warblade around for the kill. But the blow never landed. Something large and heavy struck him from behind, sending him face first into the wall. He kept his feet, and saw as he turned that he had been struck with a wooden bench, which had knocked the Veldooner he was trying to finish unconscious and sent the other two on this side of the room scrambling for cover.

  His assailant let out a bellow of challenge. The result of some foul experiment perhaps, the creature was similar to a Veldooner, only larger, more powerful, and with features born of demon seed. Horns protruded from its bare shoulders, chest, and back. Its hands were bent like claws, as were its feet, for which, apparently, no suitable boot was available. Its eyes blazed with the red glow that all Arkania had become far too familiar with. Unlike its human counterparts, the man-demon had thought to conceal itself behind a table and a few barrels of mead, rather than waiting out in the open. The obvious pleasure it took in its surprise attack quickly diminished as it saw that the goblin had absorbed the blow with little sign of injury. It issued its challenge, then snapped off a leg of the table to use as a weapon, tossing the rest of the furniture aside as if it were made of paper.

  Corson was vaguely aware of what was happening behind him, but he had enough to deal with right in front of him. He had wounded one Veldooner, and was holding his own against the second, but the others were trying to flank him now, and he had limited space to maneuver. The room was small, and the creature behind him was moving between his position and the room’s sole exit.

  Corson backpedaled slowly, fending off blows, his eyes darting from one opponent to the next—a message that he was aware of them and that they should proceed with caution. Whether it was that quick look or just their nature, the Veldooners were slow to move, even with a five-to-one advantage in numbers.

  Behind Corson the man-demon and Lucien closed with each other, Lucien’s warblade biting into the wood the beast used as a weapon and lodging there. The two struggled with one another, a test of strength. As powerful as Lucien was, he began to give ground. Sensing an opportunity, the remaining Veldooners on Lucien’s side of the room began to creep closer to the goblin.

  Corson knew he had to act now. He feigned a lunge, holding his attackers in place for a moment, then darted toward the opening in front of which the man-demon was squarely situated. The creature stood with its left leg forward and its right back, working for leverage against Lucien. Corson took the quickest path out, rolling through the man-demon’s legs, and slashing with his sword as he did so. The blade sliced into the straining hamstring of the forward leg, sending the beast to his knees as Corson slid clear.

  As the man-demon lost its footing, its strength and balance vanished as well. Lucien’s warbla
de came free of the wood and separated the creature’s head from its shoulders. The body fell to the ground in front of the doorway. Lucien leapt over it and took up position on the ascending stair with Corson. “Thanks,” he said.

  “No problem,” Corson replied. “Think we can hold them here?”

  Lucien nodded. “Afraid to come out without big friend.”

  “I know the feeling,” Corson said with a smile.

  * * *

  Demetrius ascended at a smooth, steady pace. He ignored the muffled sounds of battle rising up from behind him, ignored the fact that his friend was likely fighting for his life. His focus needed to be on what was before him, literally and figuratively. The torches that lit the way had gone out past the guard room, and if not for Rowan’s sword they would have climbed in darkness. But the paladin’s blade cast off such a light that Demetrius’ shadow, advancing before him, was well-defined.

  The stair ended at a small landing before a heavy wooden door, which appeared to be brown or black in the sword-light. The door was ornately engraved, swirls and delicate arcs placed by an artisan who surely had been employed in happier days. A large metal ring was on the left side of the door, which could be used to pull it open. Demetrius could not see a locking mechanism, but assumed the door could be bolted from the inside. He waved at Rowan and Tala to keep low, then reached out for the ring, his sword raised and ready to strike. Just as Demetrius’ fingers touched the metal ring, the door blew outward, shattering into several pieces. Demetrius was thrown clear, flung against the outer wall with a sickening thud and then dropping to the hard stone steps.

  Rowan had no time to spare a look to see what had become of Demetrius. For an instant he had thought the door had been booby-tapped, but now he could see that it was not so. Filling the door was a dark-gray demon, its huge fists still posed where they had shattered the door. A wisp of black smoke curled up from its fanged mouth, as if some inner fire had been stoked. Its muscular body, horned at the joints, was covered with a thin, glistening layer of a jelly-like substance. Its red eyes blazed as fiercely as Rowan’s sword.

  The demon came forward, its long toenails clicking on the stone. It stood a good three feet taller than Rowan, who remained several steps down, his sword before him, his right hand touching the wall to gauge where it was. For all its size, the demon was quick and sure-footed. It leapt onto the stair, forcing Rowan to move down and to the right, and then swung a mighty forearm aimed squarely at the paladin’s head. Rowan ducked the blow, and the demon’s arm smashed the stone wall, sending a small shower of rubble through the air.

  The demon reached for Rowan with its other hand, its fingers closing on his shoulder while the palm fell on his chest, touching the cross embroidered there. With a snort of pain the demon pulled back its hand, which smoked where it had touched the cross.

  Rowan tried to strike while his foe was distracted by the burn, the Avenger blade vibrating in his hand in expectation of tasting demon blood. The demon blocked Rowan’s sword arm with its injured hand, then found Rowan’s throat with the other. With frightening ease it lifted him off the ground and slammed him back into the wall, pinning him there.

  The force of hitting the wall nearly knocked Rowan unconscious. The demon’s face swam in front of him, grotesque and distorted, and then everything started to go dark. He felt the clawed hand tighten, a vice on his throat, choking the life from him. His right hand pawed uselessly at the demon, while the left started to go slack. He sensed the sword slipping from his hand, felt the vibration lessen. Distantly he heard Tala’s voice, screaming his name. Something inside him awoke, a drowning man fighting for one last gasp of air before he was pulled under forever.

  The demon had its face inches from Rowan’s, those terrible glowing eyes boring into him, its breath hot and foul. Rowan forced himself to smile. The demon cocked its head to one side, trying to understand this strange creature it was killing.

  Rowan brought the sword up, striking the demon just under the ribs. An ordinary sword would have cut the monster but done little permanent damage. But Rowan wielded an Avenger blade, the sword of a paladin, forged in times beyond the history of Arkania. The blade hummed and tore through the demon as if it were no more than thin paper. The sword exited the demon through the opposite shoulder, near the neck. Rowan felt the grip that held him lose its strength, and the red eyes dimmed. The demon fell, cloven in two parts, dropping Rowan to the stairs.

  Rowan regained his breath and his feet. He looked at the sword, which showed no signs of having just been through flesh, blood, and bone. If anything the white light was purer and brighter. He turned back in time to see Demetrius waving Tala onward. She touched his brow gently, smiled, and then ran to Rowan.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Well enough,” he replied. “Demetrius?”

  “We will get him on the way back.”

  Rowan nodded his understanding. It would be just the two of them. He eyed the open doorway, took a deep breath, and led the way up.

  A soft yellow light, faintly visible from the stairs, illuminated the chamber. Rowan was torn between the desire to sheath his sword, the light of which made him feel exposed and far too easy a target, and the need to be prepared for who—or what—awaited them in the upper chamber. He already knows we’re here, he reminded himself. He held the sword before him and stepped through the shattered remains of the door.

  The atmosphere in the room was thick, pungent with the smell of decay and death. Oil lamps with dirty glass covers cast a muddy light that struggled to illuminate the whole chamber. Two windows which in the past might have given breathtaking views of the city and the sea had been covered with stone, the outline of the newer additions still apparent as the older stone had blackened over time. Shelves and a pair of tables held sheaves of paper and bottles of various sizes, some empty and others filled with strange powders, leaves, or roots. Closer to the center of the room a brazier held a few embers from a dying fire, and near it a large crystal ball sat atop a pedestal, its top surface covered with dust. The roof was high—maybe fourteen feet from the floor—and was barely visible in the meager light of the lamps. On the floor a large pentagram had been drawn in uneven lines, and within the figure the stone had a subtle, shifting color—yellow, orange, and red—as if a fire burned within the rock.

  Beyond the brazier was situated a throne of stone, a simple square seat hewn from gray rock flecked with black. Upon this throne sat Solek. His eyes were closed and his bearded chin was on his chest as if he slept. His hair was gray, long and unkempt, as was his mustache and beard. He wore a robe that might have been white once, but was filthy with dirt and stains. His skin was deeply wrinkled, and his visage was worn and haggard, no peace there even in repose. His hands were thin and frail, the fingernails long, thick, and yellow. Blood, still wet and bright red, trickled from his nose and the corner of his mouth, coloring his facial hair. If Solek was aware that Rowan had entered the room, he hid it well.

  Tala stepped into the room and touched Rowan lightly on the shoulder. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  Rowan did not need to be told. Solek’s near-death appearance hadn’t stirred any false confidence within him. With his sword held before him, a weapon, a light, and a warding device, he moved toward the throne. Before he finished his first step, the pentagram flared brightly, and a clawed hand reached out, trying to grip the stone floor. It seemed a disembodied appendage, melding into the stone floor just below the wrist. A second hand rose up, joining the first in trying to find purchase and draw the as-yet-unseen body upward.

  Rowan lunged forward and brought his sword down on one of the hands, slicing through it easily. The remaining portion pulled back, trailing black blood, and vanished through the floor, as did the other hand. Rowan noted that the sword had penetrated into the stone as easily as if it simply sliced through the air. He drew the Avenger blade above his head, and then slashed down on the pentagram, still half-expecting the shock of metal hitt
ing unforgiving stone. Instead it went into the floor without resistance and he started to lose his balance. Tala grabbed his arm and steadied him. He turned the sword with little effort, made a quick back-and-forth slash perpendicular to the first, and then completely withdrew the sword.

  Tala looked over his shoulder at the figure drawn on the floor. The stone was simply gray now, no fiery shades tinting it. The pentagram’s outline remained, and she could now see in the white fire cast by Rowan’s sword that it had been drawn in blood. The stone itself was scored where the sword had penetrated it, leaving the shape of a cross which had closed the door to another plane and sealed it.

  Rowan and Tala now turned their full attention to Solek, who had still not stirred. Rowan pointed to a spot a few feet to the left, where they could get an unobstructed view of the throne. Tala slid over to the point and nocked an arrow in her bow, ready to let fly. Rowan circled to the right to keep out of her line of sight, then approached the slumped form on the stone chair. He froze a half-dozen feet away as Solek slowly lifted his head and his eyes fluttered open.

  Those eyes were solid back, no sign of any iris, and possessed an almost tangible hunger that contrasted with the rest of his worn-out form. He turned his head a bit so that he could regard Tala fully, and when he spoke to her his voice had an echo to it, a shadow speaking from unimagined depths. “You have done well. Have you brought the Sphere as I commanded you?”

  “I do not answer to you,” Tala said, her voice betraying her with a slight tremble.