The Soul Sphere: Book 01 - The Shattered Sphere (25 page)

“You look good,” Corson noted, unable to hide his own tiredness behind his light words.

“Feel even better,” Demetrius said with a soft groan. He took the cold meat Corson offered him with thanks and gobbled it down. Food often helped, he thought, trying to focus on that instead of the knowledge that the glare of the sun and the rough tread of the horses in the snow were going to be a day-long assault.

The food did help, as did the cold, fresh air. By the time the sun peaked over the horizon, Demetrius felt almost human. He had been right about the ice layer on the snow though, and they traveled to a cacophony of noise. The noise, the tracks, moving across an open plain—the military part of his mind cringed. Even the advantage of white horses against a snowy backdrop was lost due to their clothes, his black cloak and the gold and green of his uniform, like the bright colors on dark backgrounds most of the others wore, being easily visible from a distance. “What kind of progress are we making?” he asked Tala.

They reined up while she cast her spell. “It is stationary now. It has moved since yesterday, but we are much closer. If its guardian is running away, it is unable to cover ground as swiftly as we can.”

“Do you think we can reach it today?” Rowan asked.

“If it remains stationary, possibly. I would guess we would not arrive until after sunset in any case.”

“Just as well,” said Demetrius. “Darkness may give us some useful cover.”

The Great Plain over which they traveled was mainly tall grass, dotted here and there with small groves of trees and the occasional farm. In summer the grass was a breathtaking sight, particularly when a breeze kicked up and gave the blades a gentle sway. It was then that it became obvious how it had earned its nickname: The Green Sea. But once the snow fell in quantity the plain became a sea of white, and against this background the dark brown of upturned soil was easy to see. Corson spotted it first, a few hundred yards to their left, and Demetrius led the party over to investigate.

“Graves,” Alexis breathed when they drew close.

Rowan dismounted and studied the nearest. “Recently opened, empty, and apparently dug out from the inside.”

“The Dead Legion,” said Corson, stating what they all knew.

Lucien drew close to Demetrius. “How many you think?”

Demetrius studied the open holes covering the ground. “Maybe three hundred. The Legion usually travels in far larger numbers.”

“Added forces?”

“That would be my guess.”

Alexis studied the snow beyond the open graves, then pointed to the southeast. “They went that direction. Past where the dirt trails off you can see their tracks.”

“They may have the shard,” Corson offered. “Or they might have been called to help protect it.”

“Possibly,” Tala said. “All of this is pointing to Western City. The Legion may be assaulting it. We sometimes forget there is open war in Arkania. Solek’s gaze falls upon far more than just us.”

“Then our approach may not be known,” Demetrius said, a thin smile born of hope curling his lip.

Late in the day Tala checked on the shard and found that it was moving again. “Toward Western City,” she confirmed to the others. “We will not be able to reach the city or the shard’s current position today.”

“If the shard is in the center of the Dead Legion’s war camp, that is just as well,” said Demetrius. “We will need to see what we face and plan how best to proceed. The six of us assaulting their camp would be…difficult, but if they are attacking the city, we may have other opportunities.”

They shivered through the night in a recently abandoned farmhouse. The Dead Legion appeared to have passed here within the last few days, the home’s occupants beating a hasty retreat. Tonight there would be no fire. The enemy was close.

Morning broke with the sky the gray of cold steel, and the icy wind carried little promise of rising temperatures. They hoped for more snow, to mask both their approach and their tracks, but the sky stubbornly refused.

Just after noon Rowan spotted a trampled line in the snow to the south. A swift inspection confirmed that it was made by many marching feet, and that not all of those feet were shod with boots or even had skin covering bone. The Dead Legion was near.

They followed this new trail, which slowly turned to the southwest and pointed the way to Western City. Tala assured them that they were closing on both the city and the shard.

The city came into view first, rising as it did over a vast plain. The walls were thirty feet high and twelve feet thick, and around them was a moat some forty feet across, which could only be easily crossed by using one of two draw bridges which sat on opposite sides of the city, although in winter the moat’s murky water froze and allowed limited but slippery access to the lower walls. Guard towers were placed every twenty feet along the wall, and were always manned. The city beyond was large, but the desire of the Westerlanders to dwell within the safety of their capital’s walls was even larger. As the population grew the builders began to go up when no more space was available on the ground. Several structures peeked over the top of the wall, including the majestic hall of Duke Fallo, which rose nearly two hundred feet into the air and marked the center of the city. The watch fire on top of the hall blazed furiously, warning all who could see it that the city was under attack.

Alexis slackened the pace further as the army besieging the city came into view. They covered the plain a quarter-mile deep around Western City, and groups of Dead were pushing their catapults and siege towers forward through the snow. An assault was imminent.

“How many do you think?” Alexis asked.

“Ten thousand,” said Rowan.

“Fifteen,” Demetrius amended.

“They say city cannot be taken,” Lucien said. “My ancestors tried.”

“Your ancestors did not come in such numbers,” Demetrius replied, “and they could bleed, feel pain, and die. This is a new kind of army.”

“Look at the colors,” Corson said, pointing to a banner being hoisted by some of the dead warriors. It was the red and white of Delving. As they scanned the host of the Dead they could see other banners: the blue and gray of Lorgras, the green and gold of Corindor, even the black and orange of the Westerland.

“They mock us,” said Alexis.

“And try to make the duke feel helpless,” Demetrius added.

Lucien squinted at something in the distance. “I think I see flags of goblin packs on far side of city.”

“You do,” Tala confirmed quietly. “A large army that appears to have traveled a long way. The Dark One is expending great energy here.” She shook her head, lost in thought.

“What is it?” asked Rowan

“The Dark One is powerful, but even his power has limits. Assuming he remains in his fortress in Veldoon, then I believe he has one here through whom he channels his power. If we strike that one down, this army would fall, if only for a time. He would need to re-gather his strength before he could make another move.”

“Could the same creature hold the shard?”

“Both channeling and the shard would be entrusted to one of our enemy’s strongest captains. My guess would be ‘yes,’ but it is only a guess.”

“Either way,” said Demetrius, “this creature is surrounded by an army. We might pinpoint him with Tala’s magic, but getting to him could be an issue.”

“If he leads, he will be near wall,” Lucien observed.

“Perhaps. That is what you and I have seen and come to expect in human and goblin armies, where leadership is by example. But his troops are such that he might choose to remain safely in the rear, assuming he is of living flesh and blood of some sort.”

Corson laughed. “I like how you put that. But if he, or she, or it, is different from the Dead, he-she-it might make a nice target for a bow and arrow once spotted.”

“I hope to get the chance,” Tala said, “but the first order of business is to find him.” She took out the Sphere and closed her eyes.

From behind a soft moan reached her ears, at first no more than a gentle sigh of wind, but then gaining volume and clarity. Tala’s eyes flew open and she turned in time to see the Mist go flashing by overhead, the black wraith well above them but no longer interested in remaining concealed. The moan became a horrible, cackling laugh as the Mist passed by and raced toward the army besieging Western City.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have company,” Tala said. As the Mist became lost among the other distant figures that opposed them, Tala continued with her spell-casting. “It is moving again, directly toward us.”

Lucien drew his warblade. “An opportunity,” he announced.

“Perhaps,” said Demetrius. “But we must see what force is sent to greet us. We cannot fight an army. If too many come, we must ride and pull them away from the city. If they pursue and get strung out so that we can fight them piecemeal, then regardless of their numbers our chances improve.”

“The pursuit is mounted,” said Tala, her face ashen.

“I had thought the Dead did not ride,” said Rowan.

“It is not the Dead. It is the damned.” She turned her horse and started to move away. Once the others saw the steeds and their riders, they did the same.

*          *          *

Lucien stood with his legs spread, his feet planted firmly in the snow. He held his warblade in a defensive position in front of him. He waited placid and immovable, a rock desiring nothing more than to break up the wave heading toward him, heedless of the fact that most would still sweep past undeterred. He squinted against a gust of wind that drove stinging particles of snow up from the ground, and to better see the enemy as they approached.

Their horses were fiery red in both coat and eye, red that reminded him of molten rock and of blood. Their breath showed as steam in the frigid air just as his did, but there was something of fire to theirs as well. If he had any doubts about these mounts coming from the pit, he had none about the riders. They were red, green, black, or mottled combinations thereof, with drawn faces and blazing eyes, sharp teeth in their mouths and curled horns on the top of their heads. Their garb was black, leather studded with dull brass under hooded cloaks. Claw-like hands gripped swords and bows that were alive with the fire of the underworld. They stood a bit shorter than he, except for their leader, who towered over seven feet tall. They numbered at least fifty, and as they approached Lucien felt a bead of sweat trickle down his right arm, but he stood unflinching before the thundering hooves of the demon horde. Above all of this the Mist swirled and danced, like a dog frolicking near its master’s feet.

An arrow from one of the bowmen streaked toward him. Lucien’s warblade flashed and the arrow spun away and fell harmlessly into the snow.

The demon leader held up a hand and the horses slowed, some moving right and the others left until they circled Lucien completely. He fixed the goblin with a look that was half malevolence, half amused disdain. “I am not surprised that you did not flee like your cowardly friends,” the demon said, his voice rough and raw. “You die bravely, but you are no less a fool.”

“If I die,” Lucien replied, “I die as warrior goblin should, with slain enemies around me.”

The demon laughed. “Well said, but wrong.” He looked to the horizon and the fleeing white horses, which were barely visible against the snow on the ground and that which was kicked up by their hooves. “Lorgrasian horses. Swift and strong but not enough against our mounts.” He gave orders in a strange tongue full of odd sounds and clicks, something insect-like about it that made Lucien’s skin crawl. The horde departed, whooping loudly as they took up the pursuit, the Mist going with them. Only four demons remained with the leader.

The demon captain stared at Lucien again. “I suppose your foolish notions of honor would wish me to dismount and fight you hand-to-hand.”

Lucien inclined his head slightly. “You name human friends cowards, and so I name you if you not face me.”