The Soul Sphere: Book 01 - The Shattered Sphere

by David Adams

  “This was too easy to find,” said Demetrius with a frown. “I don’t like it.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Alexis. “But unless there is another way in, it is the path we must take.”

  “Not sure I’d want to take the time to look for another way in, considering that thing in the trees might be coming after us,” said Rowan.

  Demetrius grabbed a torch. “I will lead.”

  They had traveled for days in darkness, yet somehow the stone door framed a blackness that seemed deeper and thicker. Demetrius took a deep breath and stepped forward, wondering if something in that entrance would extinguish the torch or simply swallow him up, but the light penetrated beyond the door, casting a glow against the inner walls, which were of the same gray brick that outlined the door. He moved cautiously down the ramp, making sure his feet did not slip on the worn surface, finding some comfort in the footfalls he heard behind him. He glanced back once to see it was Lucien, and the sight of the warblade the goblin held in his well-muscled arms bolstered him even further.

  The ramp descended a hundred feet to a second open doorway. Beyond this the floor leveled out. Demetrius stuck the torch through this second opening, waving it back and forth a few times like a signal. It was possible the flame drew attention, but it did not draw a reaction.

  Holding the torch aloft, Demetrius stepped into what he thought was a large room. But the light could not reach the ceiling or even the walls in any direction but behind him, where he had entered. As the others joined him and extra light was added, buildings came into view, stone facades that had cracked and crumbled with age, empty doors and windows that looked like moaning spirits, hollow and empty and lost forever.

  “The Lost City,” Alexis intoned, recalling conversations with Ballthor during Tala’s recuperation. “Ancient beyond recorded history.”

  “And holding untold dangers and restless spirits,” Demetrius added, “if legend be true. I’m more concerned with more recent occupants, those in Solek’s employ.”

  “The shard?” Rowan asked Tala.

  She checked, and then said, “A half mile ahead, but fifty feet below where we stand.”

  “Lovely,” Corson said. “Another nest, or a pit perhaps.”

  “Not find out talking here,” said Lucien. He took the lead, Demetrius taking a position by his elbow so the way would be lit. Lucien kept both hands on his warblade, ready for immediate action. Three torches were always kept lit as they traveled, either real or magical, but Lucien always requested that he be one of the ready warriors. None had thought to deny him. They had all seen him fight.

  Buildings loomed above them like silent sentinels as they walked down what appeared to be the main street of the city, their footfalls echoing dully off distant walls. The glow of their torches did not penetrate the structures’ openings, and none who passed these empty doors and windows wished to explore. If any signs of past life had been left on these streets—a market stall, a cart, a water barrel, a child’s toy—time had long since ground them to dust.

  A distant moan wafted through the city, a tired sigh, freezing them where the stood.

  “Wind?” Rowan asked hopefully.

  “More likely to be the tree squid,” Corson retorted. The air was close here. A breeze would have been a welcome relief.

  From the darkness before them a light shimmered to life, then more appeared. They coalesced as they moved toward the adventurers, and something began to take form. In shape it was much like a man, although larger than any who walked Arkania and indistinct around the edges, as if the blackness of the city tried to pull it apart. It shone blue-white, its skin and clothing—a vest, breeches, and heavy boots—all the same glowing hue. Its face appeared pained, the mouth drawn into a permanent cry of agony, and it stared at them with blind eyes. When it walked it did not stir the dust or make any sound. It came to a halt ten feet in front of them.

  For a moment all was still as the travelers and the specter regarded one another. Then a moan emanated from somewhere deep within the phantom, rising in volume until it was a wonder the sound did not shake the walls of the city down. The cry went on for a dozen seconds that seemed much longer to those listening, then abruptly stopped.

  “I’m not positive,” said Rowan, “but I believe we are supposed to be fleeing in terror right now.”

  “I let it taste my blade,” said Lucien. “Then it flees.”

  “Not yet,” said Demetrius. “But if it comes closer…”

  “I know why you have come,” the specter said in a voice as cold as a winter’s grave.

  “Tell us then,” Rowan said with a neutral expression.

  “You have come here to die.”

  “Not so,” answered the paladin.

  “That is the fate of all who enter here. I sense little fear in you, but the end is always the same. Cruel death.”

  “We know death,” growled Lucien while he brandished his warblade. “If want to fight, do so.”

  The phantom laughed, a harsh, mirthless noise that chilled the blood. It lifted its right arm, grasped its own hair, and then pulled its head off. Tucking the head under its arm like a package, it said, “I have done my fair share of fighting, goblin, but I am beyond the reach of your fearsome weapon.”

  “Then why do you speak to us?” Rowan asked.

  “The spirits here find no rest. Some call this ‘The Lost City,’ and believe it is so named because it is hidden. They are wrong. Those who perish here are lost forever, their souls trapped as mine is. We want no further company, nor would I wish such a fate on anyone still living. A warning is all I can give, and so I give it. Leave now. If you are so anxious to die, return to the surface and fall on your own swords. At least then your spirits might find rest.” The message given, the phantom simply vanished.

  After a momentary pause, Alexis asked, “Should we believe it?”

  “Does it matter?” Demetrius replied.

  “I guess not,” Alexis said. “We all know we’re going ahead regardless.”

  Corson was holding one of the torches, and as they resumed their journey he looked from one building to the next, the light illuminating just enough of the crumbling structures to show how many hiding places there were in the shadows. He mumbled calming words to himself.

  You’re going to die here.

  Corson shook the thought away. “Are we almost there?” he asked, more to hear his own voice than anything else.

  “It was nearly a half mile,” Tala reminded him. “We just got started.”

  “Sorry. Dumb question.”

  No less than they’d expect from you. The group clown. The weak one.

  “I bet I could lift more than Tala,” he said to himself. He hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but his words were audible, if only as a whisper.

  “What’s that?” Demetrius asked.

  “Nothing. Whistling past the graveyard.”

  Weak in the mind. That’s the problem. Although any of the others could take you in a fight, Tala included.

  He listened to the gentle sound of the torches burning, and studied the serious, focused faces of his companions. Demetrius walked next to him, sword drawn, eyes alert, ready for anything. A friend of which one could be proud.

  But could he say the same about you? If you weren’t friends as boys, would he have wanted you along? Would he put up with you? Does he really want you here now?

  Of course he would, Corson thought. “This place makes me jumpy,” he said.

  “That means you’re alive,” Demetrius told him with a wan smile.

  For a moment that pushed Corson’s doubts away. He listened to the way their footfalls echoed dully, the steps muffled by the dust and dirt from ages past which covered the stone road. He glanced back, the dead city fading to black behind them as they drew away.

  Tala slowed as she checked the Sphere, took a dozen steps forward, and then three to the right. “Down from here,” she said, kicking at the debris on the road.

 
; Rowan knelt at the spot, holding a torch close. He brushed away the dust and played his fingers around the stones that formed the road. He worked an area some four feet in diameter, trying to pry and push the stones, but found no give in them. “We either need to break through, or find another way. Are you sure this is the exact spot?”

  “Definitely,” said Tala. “But straight down may not be the way to get there, as you just implied.”

  “What if buried under fifty feet rock?” asked Lucien.

  “Then we need to hire some dwarves,” Demetrius replied. “Let’s work in teams of two. We’re looking for a well, a stair, a trap door—anything that might give us access to a lower level. We’ll need to look in the buildings as well. Lucien and Tala, try forward and left, Rowan and Alexis to the right. Corson and I will go back and check the rear.”

  He needs to keep you close, so you don’t do something stupid.

  Corson hesitated, staring at his friend. The flickering torchlight played tricks on Demetrius’ face, making it seem to be some living thing, changing with each instant. Sometimes the shadows fell in such a way that it seemed this face Corson had known for more than three decades was hiding a sinister secret.

  “What’s wrong?” Demetrius asked.

  “Nothing,” Corson said, stirring as if waking from a dream. “Let’s go.”

  They stood close as they searched, sharing the light, listening for a call of distress or discovery from their companions. Wary of the buildings, they decided to search the streets and the outer walls of the city first. Other than the main road, the streets were narrow and irregular, and were often lost amidst fallen debris.

  “Nothing but ruins,” Demetrius announced after they had spent a fruitless time picking their way through the streets. “Let’s follow the city walls.”

  They made their way back to the entrance, and Corson let out a relieved breath when he saw that it remained solidly in place—no trick or trap apparent.

  You should leave now. Better to brave the forest than this tomb. You have the torch…just go and they will follow.

  Demetrius let his hand slide along the wall, finding intricately carved stone. He stepped back and looked at the patterns, which were detailed but decorative only—no particular image had been left there. He moved to the right, not taking notice of the fact that Corson hesitated before deciding to follow.

  The wall stretched on nearly a half mile until it reached the corner of the city. There a smaller structure jutted out, a ten-foot-high rectangular box. On each face was carved the image of a king, each tall and powerful and gazing upon them with empty gray eyes.

  Demetrius studied it closely, then ran his fingers along the corner nearest him. He blew away the dust and called for the torch. “There is a seam here. It may be a door.”

  “Looks like a tomb stood on end.”

  Your tomb.

  A loud boom shattered the silence, echoing from some distant part of the city. Corson held his breath as the reverberation faded, and thought he could almost hear his racing heartbeat.

  “Found it,” rumbled a voice in the distance. Lucien. “Far left corner of walls.”

  Corson and Demetrius traveled the perimeter rather than trying to pick their way through the heart of the city. Demetrius heard Alexis answer Lucien’s call, and he did the same, his voice amplified as it echoed through the underground city. Even along the walls they had to be cautious, and it seemed a long time until they finally arrived.

  Lucien stood by a small structure just like the one they had found in the opposite corner, except that a slab of stone lay face down in the dirt, broken over rocks that might have lain there undisturbed for centuries. “Stairs,” he announced, pointing into the newly-made opening.

  “We found a similar structure,” said Demetrius. “I thought it might actually be a door.”

  “It is,” Tala said with a soft smile, touching the place where ancient hinges stood broken. “Our powerful friend here just pulled a bit harder than necessary”

  Lucien flashed his toothy smile. “You want open. I open.”

  “At least we don’t have to worry about it closing behind us,” said Rowan, pushing past Lucien to thrust his torch into the opening. Stone steps spiraled down into the darkness, and the walls were carved with hexes and dire images. “Wards and warnings. A crypt most likely.”

  Alexis thought of the specter that had confronted them earlier. “Maybe we’ll see where our headless friend rests,” she said. She glanced at the spear in her hands as if it had changed into an overgrown twig. “If he and others like him walk here, our weapons will not be of much use.”

  “Spirits such as that one can haunt but not slay,” Rowan said. “But we have all seen the dead walk in bodily form. Keep your weapons ready.” He led the way down.

  The stairs spun down some thirty feet before reaching a floor of polished black stone. Rowan stepped away from the foot of the stair and held his torch aloft.

  Neat rows of marble crypts were stacked to the ceiling, in numbers beyond counting. Sentinels stood guard in each row, some of granite, others of armor, all armed. These tombs showed little of the disrepair of the city above, the images carved on them intact, dust and crumbled stone not littering the floor. What did lay strewn about was of more concern.

  “Bones,” said Rowan.

  Even here in the crypt the bones were out of place. They were too numerous and lay at too many odd angles. There was no respect or honor or finality in the way they were arranged—the living had simply fallen there, and now the dead bones were all that was left.

  Demetrius crouched down to study those closest to them. “Many of these people fell from wounds. Perhaps all.”

  “The sentinels?” Lucien asked, his eyes playing over the guardians. They held many different weapons—swords, spears, maces, hammers, and staffs. Neither wood nor metal showed signs of rust or decay.

  Demetrius pulled a hand over his face and blew out a breath. He shook his head. “Maybe. But as far as I can tell, there are no severed limbs and fewer broken bones than I would expect if they were hacked to death.”

  “I would still be reluctant to pass before those waiting weapons,” said Rowan. “And look, further on the bones are fewer, as if this area right before us is the place one cannot pass safely.”

  Demetrius took a torch and slid along the wall, taking great care, his eyes never ceasing their movement. He checked three other rows of tombs and then worked his way back to his companions. “Each row is the same. Bones near the first few stacks of crypts.”

  Speed is the trick. Those who move cautiously are struck down.

  Corson took a step forward, then caught himself. He studied the lines of armed guardians on each side of the path. “Do you think if we ran we could get past before the weapons fell?”

  “If it’s a trap and they’re all triggered at once, there is little chance of escaping them all.”

  “But some traps are overcome by haste,” said Tala. “If the weapons fall as one passes, it is better to be a step ahead.”

  “We seem to be agreeing it is a trap,” Rowan said. “The question is what kind and how do we get around it.”

  “The best way to answer that is to trigger it,” said Demetrius. He picked up a skull, turning it over in his hands as he studied the puzzle before him. Finally he tossed it ahead about twenty feet. It bounced with a sharp crack that echoed in the giant chamber, bounced and rolled, and then came to rest at the foot of a sentinel that held a spear. Nothing moved.

  “Not enough weight?” Rowan offered.

  Demetrius shrugged. “Or one of a dozen other reasons.”

  “Could we climb up and pass over the tops of the tombs?” Tala asked, lifting her torch high.

  Demetrius and Rowan did the same. “It’s hard to tell how near they are to the ceiling,” said Demetrius. “The light makes shadows that trick the eye.”

  “I’ll check,” Corson said. He stepped to the nearest stack of sarcophagi and made his way up.
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  Climb like a monkey. It’s good you have some use to them.

  Corson grunted and pulled himself higher, six tombs, seven, eight. The tenth rose to within an inch of the ceiling, which was a smooth, polished black, just like the floor.

  Useless. As usual.

  He went back, disappointed at having to give the unhappy news that they could not pass above.

  “We could try another entrance,” suggested Alexis. “Perhaps it will be different there.”

  With no other good options, they made the journey, going back to the upper level, trying the staircase opposite—after an appropriate and far less noisy opening of the stone doorway—but found a sight so familiar that they could have been convinced they had descended the same stair.

  “The other problem is we still need to go down further,” said Tala. “And if there is a path or stair or some other way down, it is somewhere amongst these tombs.”

  “A most interesting puzzle,” Rowan observed as he sat on the floor with crossed legs, as if he planned to ponder it for some time.

  “Aggravating,” said Lucien through gritted teeth. The knuckles of his green fingers grew pale where he held his warblade in a crushing grip.

  “An effective trap,” Demetrius mused, “is one that is hidden, and one that strikes all who try to pass.”

  “A quick one,” said Corson.

  “Quick and possibly large. If a group sees one of its members caught, the others learn, but if they are all taken at once…”

  “From the number of bones, this one seems to be doing that quite effectively,” said Rowan.

  “In which case…” Demetrius found another skull, made sure his companions were well back from the aisle and the point where the nearest bones lie, then hurled it much further than he had thrown the first. Like its predecessor it smacked against the floor and bounced forward.

  In the blink of an eye the room changed. Black metal spears shot from the floor and ceiling, lifting and scattering the bones. The poles formed a grid with only twelve inches of space between them, those going up three-inch cylinders with tops that had been impossible to see in the smooth black floor, those coming down tapering into sharp points that halted a mere three inches from the ground. The speed and weight of the spears left no doubt about the fate of anyone caught in them.