The Soul Sphere: Book 01 - The Shattered Sphere

by David Adams

  The Soul Sphere: Book 1

  The Shattered Sphere

  by David J. Adams

  Text copyright © 2011 by David J. Adams

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art and maps copyright © 2011 by Rachel Adams

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Diane, who has already made all my dreams come true.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: The The Dead Legion

  Chapter 2 : The Swamp

  Chapter 3: Under the Mountain

  Chapter 4: Arna’s Forge and Beyond

  Chapter 5: The Nest

  Chapter 6: The Lost City

  Chapter 7: Westerland

  Chapter 8: The Abandoned Castle

  Chapter 9: The Dead Paladin

  Chapter 10: The Battle of Upper Cambry

  Chapter 11: Valya and Belthros

  Chapter 1: The Dead Legion

  King Rodaan pulled in a slow, deep breath, trying to steady his shaking hands. He lifted the spyglass once more, and then studied the leader of the Dead Legion. A few tatters of clothes and assorted patches of gray, mottled skin remained on its bones, but its skull was plainly visible, as was the ruby-red fire in its eyes, a haunting reminder of the spell that gave it life.

  “Why do they wait?” asked the king.

  “Siege has never been their way,” said Demetrius, Captain of the King’s Guard, “but their numbers remain hidden behind the crest of the hill.”

  Rodaan pulled at his chin. “No,” he said, ending some internal debate. “It is too soon after the harvest. Solek is not so foolish.”

  “Who can understand Solek? His mind has been corrupted by the Dark One.”

  “Corrupted, yes. But there must be…” The king paused, peering past the living dead to the sky beyond. “Look!”

  Rising above the hills where the forward elements of the Dead Legion stood facing the fortified city of Mill Harbor was a front of lead-gray clouds, the leading edge so straight, so true that its source could not be anything of nature. The front was advancing toward the city.

  “Get everyone inside,” the king ordered. “Now.”

  Demetrius obeyed with all haste.

  * * *

  It was a simple word from his companion in the tower—“Look”—but it was said with such a tone of bottomless dread that Corson was sure that his life would soon be forfeit. He followed the path indicated by Dressen’s trembling finger, fully expecting to see the Dead Legion streaming toward them, but they remained poised but motionless on the hill, just as they had been for hours. For a moment Corson was confused, and then he saw the odd cloud front and the rain which fell from it in rippling sheets.

  “The ground melts…” Corson gasped, the air leaving his chest as if he were being crushed by a great hand. As the rain fell, the grass liquified and flowed away in pale green rivulets that trickled into the gaps between the stones that formed the main road into the city.

  Corson stood frozen as the rain advanced, ignoring Dressen’s tugs on his sleeve. An abandoned wooden cart outside the city walls melted as easily as the grass, a rusty metal plow was there one minute and gone the next. His eyes grew wider as a mongrel dog lost it footing—its feet actually—in the wash down from the hills, and then was reduced to bone.

  “We must flee!” Dressen shouted, trying to get through to his companion.

  “No, the stone is unharmed. The roof will protect us, and we must not abandon the tower.”

  As the rain began to lick the city walls, the two men fell back from the window, fearful of what even a splash of the liquid could do to them. The rain passed by quickly, as did the cloud, its rear as linear as its front. Corson returned to the window just in time to see the leader of the Dead Legion raise one skeletal arm, thrusting aloft his broadsword.

  “Sound the alarm,” Corson said as he hoisted his bow and took aim at the advancing army.

  * * *

  “To the walls!” Demetrius cried as the rain passed. “Watch for puddles. They’ll still do damage.”

  He led his men forward, frustrated by the minutes they had been forced to wait since the alarm bell sounded, frustrated by their slow progress now.

  “Hurry!” Corson shouted as he saw Demetrius. “Their ladders are already up!”

  Demetrius led the charge up the stone inner stairs and onto the city’s fifteen foot high outer wall, the king right behind him. Demetrius drew his sword and yelled out a battle cry, advancing to the aid of the pitiful little band that was trying to hold back the tide of dead warriors streaming over the suddenly inadequate defenses. Below, he spied a large battering ram being rushed forward to assault the main gate, which, being made of wood, was likely already weakened by the foul rain. He could also see that his force of 600 men was easily outnumbered by the attackers.

  The Dead Legion fought well, not due to advanced skills, but mainly from a lack of fear—they felt no pain, were already dead, and had no thoughts other than to blindly obey the commands given them.

  Demetrius and King Rodaan carved a path to a small group of defenders who had been surrounded, saving a half-dozen men where a dozen had already been lost. They fell back together, the king ordering the retreat, their haunted eyes confirming the stories they had heard about those who fell in battle to the Legion.

  Their former comrades-in-arms, brothers and fathers to some who still fought, rose to fight with the evil warriors who had just struck them down.

  Corson met Demetrius and the king as they neared the stairs once more. “The wall is lost, and we’ve done little damage to them with arrows, rocks, or oil.”

  “Blunt weapons,” said the king.

  “Or removing their heads with a sword,” Demetrius added, motioning to several Dead he had felled who remained still.

  A volley of arrows slashed into the defenders, knocking one man off the wall. The king cried out in pain, an arrow protruding from the side of his neck.

  Demetrius and Corson pulled him down the steps while the remaining warriors gave ground slowly, trying to hold back the surging foe.

  “We must retreat,” said Corson. “The city cannot be held.”

  “We can hold them for a time in the Armory,” said Demetrius. “The walls are strong. We—”

  “Corson is right, Demetrius,” said the king, his words coming out in short gasps. Blood flowed far too freely from his wound, staining his gold and green battle tunic a muddy red. “Lead the rest of the men to Port Hydleton. Perhaps you can make a stand there.”

  They reached the stables but found only destruction, the rain having eaten through the wooden roof and destroying the horses trapped inside. They moved the king into a small stone guardhouse while the fighting raged in the streets. Demetrius lowered the king to the ground and started to turn, saying he would find a cart to help bear the king away from the city. The king grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “It is too late, my old friend,” Rodaan said, offering a weak smile.

  “No, sire. Once we are away—”

  The king smiled again, softly, the light in his eyes starting to dim. “We have fought together in many battles, and seen many a man fall. We both know a fatal wound.”

  Demetrius tried to speak, but found his voice choked by the truth. The blood continued to flow down the king’s neck in ever-weakening pulses.

  “You have served me well, Demetrius. Now obey my final commands.”

  Demetrius lowered his eyes, but nodded his obedience.

  “Escape with as many men as you can, then choose a good man to l
ead them to Port Hydleton. Their wives and children wait there. That will be enough to speed their march.” The king took a long, shuddering breath, gathering his strength. “There is so little hope…”

  “We will defend Port Hydleton to the last man,” Demetrius answered, his words sounding hollow and meaningless in his own ears. If they failed at Port Hydleton, there would be nowhere left to fall back to.

  The king closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing shallow. With an effort, he forced his eyelids open. “Cut the vial from around my neck.”

  “Sire…”

  “Do it! You must see it to the prince. It may be our only hope of salvation.”

  Demetrius drew a knife and cut the cord around the king’s neck, pulling free the clear vial that held a small crystal shard. As he cupped it in the shadow of his hands, he could see that the shard gave off an eerie green-yellow glow.

  “I will deliver this into the hand of the Prince Kalan,” said Demetrius, pocketing the vial.

  “You must go now,” said the king. “You cannot take me with you, and I will not be one of them.”

  “No, your majesty!” Corson protested.

  Demetrius held a hand up to silence his friend, his eyes never leaving the king. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Sound the retreat,” he told Corson. “Take the men through the lower tunnels, and lead them to Port Hydleton. Move swiftly. The Dead Legion will not linger here long.”

  “We will meet you at the edge of the south woods,” Corson said

  “No. Go without me. I must turn east to find Prince Kalan.”

  Corson paused, as if thinking to argue, and then dropping to his knees, he took the king’s hand and kissed it. “Be at peace, King Rodaan.”

  “Go with my blessing,” the king replied.

  After Corson had left, Demetrius, kneeling at the king’s side, let his head drop. His tears flowed as freely as the blood from the king’s wound. “I have failed you.”

  “Never,” said the king, the fire in his eyes blazing for a moment. “You have been all I could ask any man to be. Farewell, Demetrius, my friend.”

  “Farewell, Rodaan, my king.” Demetrius kissed the king on the cheek, then stood and drew his sword.

  King Rodaan tilted his head backward, exposing his wounded neck, closed his eyes, and waited for Demetrius’ sword to fall.

  * * *

  Corson waited quietly, standing a few paces inside the woods south of Mill Harbor, which gave him a good view of both the road and the city. Night had fallen within the hour, and with it the yellow flames that consumed the city in which he had lived his entire life were highlighted by the deepening purple of evening.

  Corson took stock of his situation. His city was in ruins, his king was dead, he had neither food nor drink nor a horse to speed his journey. The Dark One and his minions had spread fear, death, and destruction all across Arkania now, even to Corindor, the last of the six kingdoms to be stained. There seemed little hope they could hold out. Port Hydleton was no more a fortress than Mill Harbor. But Corson knew he could not relinquish hope, for once he did all was truly lost. He narrowed his focus, his thoughts now only on his friend and the task he had been assigned.

  Moving swiftly along the edge of the road, a cloaked figure came toward him. Corson waited a moment, studying the rhythm of the man’s strides.

  “Demetrius,” he whispered, still unsure, gripping the hilt of his sword.

  The cloaked man froze.

  “It’s Corson.”

  Demetrius threw back his hood with obvious relief, a weary smile splitting his face as he and Corson greeted one another. The smile faltered. “I ordered you to lead the men to Port Hydleton.”

  “I had Gaccius do it. He is young, but he is a fine leader. The men trust him.”

  “True. But still—”

  “What you had to do was difficult, and I know you’ll shoulder more blame than you should. Neither the city nor the king fell because of you. No man could have held back the Legion.”

  “I know,” Demetrius said, without conviction. “But I should have tried to persuade the king to have his whole force go south with the women and children.”

  “You tried,” Corson reminded him. “The king had to make a hard choice, and once that choice was made, you supported him, as you have always done.”

  “You did not disobey the command of a superior officer simply to tell me these things.”

  “No, Demetrius, I didn’t. We have been friends since we were boys, long before you were my Captain. I waited so that I could go with you to seek the prince, and to make sure you don’t try to get yourself killed in the process.”

  Demetrius laughed softly. “I should think I’d like to avoid that.”

  “Glad to hear it. An honorable death isn’t needed to remove a mark of dishonor that’s not there.”

  Demetrius clasped his friend on the shoulder. “You needn’t fear that.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Thanks for staying behind. The road will pass more swiftly with good company.”

  “True, but I’ll have to do. The prince was last headed for Humbold, as I recall.”

  “So he likely took the road to Whiton, then the Bay Road north.”

  “Unless he ran into the Legion. That may have forced him and his escort overland.”

  “Or worse.” The words hung in the air, while the night insects sang their endless songs.

  “If they found him…” Corson began. “He could even be in Mill Harbor, pillaging with the rest of them.”

  “We won’t know unless we search.”

  “We may never know.”

  “But we will go anyway. It is all we can do. And it is the command of my fallen king.”

  Corson nodded his agreement.

  “We best cover some miles now,” said Demetrius. “We need to be well away from here when dawn comes.”

  They started down the road, neither speaking, neither looking back at the burning city, both knowing the lives they once knew could never be reclaimed.

  * * *

  They had covered a dozen miles, keeping just off the road so they could slip into the trees quickly at need, and then settled down for a few hours of fitful sleep before dawn. Exhausted as they were, they simply crawled into the brush and wrapped themselves in their cloaks, not bothering to take turns at watch.

  Demetrius arose first, his eyes glimpsing the first rays of the dawn-red sun as it crested the horizon. He got to his feet slowly, his joints stiff from the night march and the morning chill. After a brief glance at Corson, he went to the road, peering ahead through a rising mist. Everything was still, silent and gray, as if the land itself was dying. He rubbed his eyes, thinking the dull color of the grass and leaves to be a figment of his tired imagination.

  “I see it, too,” Corson said, sitting where he had slept. “It’s like the world has been used up.”

  “It’s just the fog,” Demetrius said. “There’s a stream a bit up the road, and a few farms. Perhaps we can find what we will need for our journey.”

  By way of reply, Corson rose and joined him.

  Their progress was slowed by the fog and a lack of food and proper rest, but presently they came upon the stream Demetrius had mentioned, and, after testing the water, they drank their fill. Corson filled a small canteen he had managed to grab as he fled Mill Harbor.

  “Won’t last long,” he said, holding it before him like a precious jewel. “At least the weather is cool.”

  By mid-morning the fog had burned off and the road left the woods in favor of a more pastoral region. They moved further off the road, trying to keep out of sight but staying close enough to cry out if help might pass by.

  They came to the first farm around noon. It was obvious the Dead Legion had passed this way. The house was a charred ruin, as was the grain silo. Dead animals littered the yard, and as they drew nearer they could see human bones strewn about, even as their eyes watered from the oppressive stench of death.

  Corson checked one of the
pigs. “Several days since this happened. We won’t be getting any meat from them.”

  “No horses,” Demetrius observed. “Maybe someone got away, or else the Dead took them.”

  “Never known a horse that would let a dead man ride it, not a living one anyway.”

  They picked half-heartedly through the wreckage, hoping to find something of value, but knowing they wouldn’t. The Dead Legion had been thorough in its work.

  Demetrius crouched over a small doll, a child’s plaything, part burned black and the rest gray with soot. Why had days such as these come? He thought he heard something and stiffened, listening, then held up an open palm and whispered, “Corson.”

  Corson paused, then nodded that he, too, heard the distant sound of horses on the road. The movement was slow, unhurried. They took positions behind burned out beams and waited.

  On the road came two travelers, the taller dressed in red and white, the colors of the kingdom in which they now traveled, Delving. He had a broadsword on his hip, but his tired face was uncovered and unthreatening—a weary warrior looking for a place to rest perhaps. The other rider was cloaked in blue, with the hood up, but the delicate facial features and lithe build were clearly those of a female. She was armed with a bow, which hung comfortably over her shoulder.

  Demetrius and Corson exchanged a glance, nodded at one another, then stepped into the open.

  Seeing them, the riders reined up the horses. “Do I address servants of King Rodaan?” asked the man. “I see you wear his green and gold.”

  “You do,” answered Demetrius. “And you serve the Lord of Delving?”

  “Indeed,” said the man. “I am Rowan, servant first of the Savior, and then to Duke Onsweys of Delving.”

  “Duke?” Demetrius repeated. “Then the king…”

  “Slain by the Dead Legion. We travel to seek the help of King Rodaan, or at least to pass on warning, but it appears the Dead are several days ahead of us.”

  “Mill Harbor has fallen, and the king with it.”