The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (33 page)

Death had visited both foot soldier and general alike. Destan had fallen, leaving Joss as the sole remaining Corindor general. Carlend, one of Alexis’ key lieutenants, had received a fatal wound as well. Gellan, who spoke for the dwarves, had been lifted high by a demon, which he slew with his axe before he plummeted to his own death. Ench, chief of the Salesh goblins, was gone, and Xoshan, who had succeeded Durst as Kabrinda chief, was severely wounded. The elven elders, too weak now to use their defensive magic, had simply tried to survive the battle. Sharest had failed and Adiel and Roldon were both injured, though neither of their lives was endangered. These two were among the most fortunate, for few had escaped with no hurt at all. Those who could walk and tend to themselves gave thanks to whatever god they worshipped or simply to the stars above.

Those more seriously wounded were another problem, one which could not be easily dealt with. They were made as comfortable as possible, but unspoken and understood was that no one could be spared to guard them—they would need to retreat as best they could, or wait here until the main army returned or some other fate came calling. Those who lead do not make such decisions lightly, but there was little choice in the matter, and debating it would have only made the empty feeling inside each of them grow until it threatened to swallow them. This was their only chance, and they needed to press on. They would march in the morning without looking back.

The smell of death did not dissipate during the passage of the night, and the new day was fittingly gloomy, with heavy, low, gray-black clouds slowly crossing the sky. Few words were heard in the camp, and those that had appetites consumed small breakfasts without enthusiasm. As they moved forward it was apparent something important had happened—they had melded into one army, the dwarves and elves and goblins and men still in small clusters as part of the whole, but no longer divided into distinct groups by race or home from one flank of the army to the other. Those leading—Alexis, Joss, Deron, Rowan, Zald, Yola—and their closest advisors rode together, ready to command their combined force. Only the wolves remained apart, pacing the marchers a short distance off the left flank.

Demetrius marched near the mounted leaders, happy to be alive but wishing for a horse of his own. He had been lucky to escape relatively unharmed from the battle, but the old pain from the earlier injuries had returned, and each step seemed to nudge a broken shard of glass buried somewhere inside his ribs. He thought he did a pretty good job masking the pain, and he wouldn’t think to complain, not with so many dead and dying, but a horse would have been a godsend. The mounts had fared no better than their riders in the previous day’s fighting, and were greatly reduced in number. The army itself, while victorious, had paid dearly for their gains.

Corson saw Demetrius studying their troops. “How many do you think we lost?” he asked.

“Too many,” Demetrius replied, being flip and serious at the same time. He gave the assembled force one last look, then went on. “More than half, I’d say. If we had thirty thousand yesterday, we have twelve thousand moving forward today.”

Corson absorbed that, then said, “I estimated the Veldooners at fifty thousand, not counting those flying things. I’d say their losses were worse than ours.”

Demetrius agreed but added, “The question is, was that all their strength, or do they have more in reserve? And we know Solek has other forces at his disposal.”

Corson sighed. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this. We’re still here and we’re still going forward.”

Demetrius offered a grim little smile. “Indeed we are.”

Chapter 8: The Dead Plain

For four days they marched, exhausted and footsore, while the weight of their losses settled over them like a stone hanging from their necks, bending their backs and challenging their wills. Of Solek’s plans or his minions there was no sign, but there was hardly any relief in that. There was a sense that this was no more than two tired fighters trying to re-gather strength before the next encounter. And while at a distance and unseen it appeared Solek could rest in peace, they were forced to push on with all possible speed—time both their ally and their enemy.

In addition to its natural defenses, there was one other anomaly about Veldoon that was commonly known, although only a few in the Arkanian Army had actually seen it. A swath of what was considered fertile ground encircled the inner border of Veldoon, and was called “The Belt.” The interior—“The Dead Plain”—was inhospitable to plants and living creatures alike, a wasteland rarely entered or even viewed. The army had reached the transition from “Belt” to “Dead Plain,” and those in the lead gazed out over the lifeless, rocky soil.

Rowan, sure he was thinking the same thoughts as the others, spoke first. “Are we going to find food or water in the Belt?”

“Unlikely,” Deron replied. “Not that we could trust for sustenance.”

“And our own supplies?” Alexis asked no one in particular.

“We’re okay for water for a while longer,” Rowan answered. He paused, then added quietly, “Food is no problem.”

Alexis did not openly react to the statement, which she knew to be true, though her stomach knotted. The horses, many of them Lorgrasian, which had fallen in the last battle would provide food for the living for quite some time. She knew when her empty stomach roared loud enough she would partake as well, but right now she preferred not to think about it.

“If we find water, no matter how foul, we should be able to use it,” said Deron. He waved his fingers, indicating he was speaking of using magic to purify it.

Rowan nodded. “Then I say we risk the Plain. It will save us weeks in travel time, and we need to keep pressing Solek.”

“Faster better,” Yola grunted. “Goblins move fast.”

“I don’t see any other choice,” Deron agreed.

Alexis clicked at her horse to tell him to start out. “Let’s be off then,” she called back without turning. A short time later the Arkanian Army had left the sickened growth of the Belt behind them, and tasted the dry dust of the Dead Plain.

*          *          *

Two days on the Dead Plain was enough to raise concerns over water to another level. Being able to purify it was the second hurdle; the first was finding it, and so far the Dead Plain was free of pond or stream. The dust their heels kicked up only made their thirst worse, and it was hot here and growing hotter, hot even for late June. Rowan felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his nose, where he wiped it away. His mind wondered often to thoughts of water, but like everyone else he was careful to ration his supply. And, he thought, he was lucky. He was riding, a few feet further up from the dust and under far less physical strain than those who marched. He looked up at the sun, alone in the sky, clouds again nowhere in sight, not that they would bring much relief. He mused upon the fact that even the clouds appeared to serve Solek here, now that they labored across this arid place. The icy chill that had worked into his bones while he and his companions fought their way across Arkania in the dead of winter—a bitter, deep cold he was sure would never leave him at the time—seemed almost a pleasant memory now.

“Turning your face toward the sun like that will only make you warmer,” Tala said. A soft smile played on her lips, and she appeared comfortable enough—no signs of sweat were visible upon her person.

Rowan dropped his head. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. He bobbed his head up and down a few times, testing. “Yes, a degree or two cooler. Much better.”

She shrugged. “Just a suggestion. If we have to, we can get water.”

He looked at her, hopeful. “How so?”

“Adiel and Roldon.”

“The elders?”

“A spell,” she said with a nod. “Simple enough that my father or I could do it, but if we need a significant volume, it would need to be them. Hopefully it will not come to that.”

“It would use up a lot of energy,” he said, a statement rather than a question. “And leave us vulnerable.”

“Yes.”

“So is that why you seem cool and refreshed? Using a spell to keep hydrated?”

She paused, glancing at him to see if there was any bitterness in the question. She saw nothing that confirmed it, but exhaustion, heat, and thirst had a way of changing a person. “No. Elves deal with temperature variation better than humans, it seems. And I am not as comfortable as you seem to think.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Rowan said. He thought for a moment with a scowl on his face. “I think. Or maybe I feel better about not needing to be so jealous. “

Tala laughed. “At least you are honest.”

Further back, Demetrius and Corson walked side by side, the heat and lack of water subjects not to be discussed by mutual unspoken agreement. Corson could see that Demetrius was hurting again, a painful grimace just under the mask of complacency he tried to keep affixed on his face. “You know,” Corson said, “you can get a horse, at least for a time, just by asking. I could get you one.”

Demetrius shot him a warning look.

“I know, I know. Let it go.”

“Let it go,” Demetrius repeated. “Good idea.”

Corson looked him up and down. “I don’t think I can carry you for long, if it comes to that.”

“It’s not that bad, Corson.”

Corson faked an elbow to the ribs of his friend. The instinctive flinch sent a wave of pain across his face.

Demetrius looked at Corson as if the younger man had betrayed him. “I never said it didn’t hurt. But I can manage it, as long as you don’t keep taking fake shots at me.”

“Sorry,” Corson said without much conviction. He was worried about what this march was doing to all of them, Demetrius in particular, and what kind of shape they’d be in when they next had to do battle. He would have to keep Demetrius close, he thought, to watch over him. He didn’t recognize the irony in the thought, the reversal of roles since they had first set out, when Demetrius had tried to send him away to keep him safe while he, Demetrius, would try to deliver the shard given to him by King Rodaan to Prince Kalan.

*          *          *

After five days they guessed—hoped—that they were halfway across the Dead Plain. At least having reached that point, there was no more thought of turning back. Solek continued to stay his hand, and someone noted ruefully that he likely thought the heat and dust and thirst would do them in, and that he could simply watch and wait.

A light wind kicked up just after noon, halting everyone in their tracks. It was a foul breeze, blowing the dust in their eyes and bringing added warmth, like the blast from an oven when the door is open. But the smell was not of baking bread but of decay and rotten eggs. The wind swirled about them, then pulled away, lifting a spinning cloud of dust up towards the sky. The cyclone quickened and grew, the airborne dirt thickening until the funnel seemed a solid, writhing mass.

The Arkanians stirred and mumbled softly to one another or to themselves, nothing about what they were seeing, smelling, or feeling indicating the tumult in front of them was of this world.

The whirlwind ceased in an instant and the flying dust dropped to the ground. In its place stood a woman standing nearly twenty feet tall. She was arrayed as a warrior—thick, worn leather protecting her lower legs, torso and forearms, and a brass shield held in her left hand. In her right hand was a sword which blazed with a copper-colored fire. Her hair, at first glance a striking red, was of fire as well, and her eyes glowed a solid yellow, two burning suns. She was both terrible and beautiful, and all who beheld her were held sway by the contradiction. “A Blaze,” someone murmured in awe.

She spoke, her voice like distant thunder. “Return from whence you came. Turn back and you shall be spared. Step forward and you shall die.”

Hearts quailed, and suddenly their quest seemed far away and irrelevant. The voice held such authority that to challenge its owner seemed folly. All eyes remained on the form of the she-demon, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, many who saw and heard her started to inch backward.

“Go now,” she commanded, “or I will scatter your ashes to the wind.”

Beneath her, Alexis felt her horse take a half-step back, and then try to turn away. The reins tugged at her hand and pulled her away from the deep internal void she suddenly felt sure she was poised over. With an effort, she took her eyes off the Blaze and looked at her fellow warriors. Lost they were, lost in the beauty and terror of the she-demon, lost in themselves. The men were worse than the women, and while the animals were better off, even the wolves had lowered their heads in submission, and Alexis felt her own mount ready to head back to Lorgras, ready to do the Blaze’s bidding.

Alexis shielded the eyes of her horse and whispered into its ear. She raised her spear and gave a shout, and the horse charged forward. The steed, unleashed completely, was swift, but the she-demon had plenty of time to raise both shield and sword. The shield reflected the sun’s bitter light and the softer glow of the blazing sword and her fiery hair, the colors shimmering and swirling, a mesmerizing sight in its own right.

Alexis was distracted neither by the she-demon nor her shield. She tried to drive her spear into the midsection of the fiery warrior, but the blow was deflected hard by the moving edge of the shield. With an effort she kept her weapon from being ripped from her grasp, and managed to stay on her horse.

The Blaze was not content with knocking aside the spear thrust. With breathtaking swiftness the fiery blade flashed at the rider, sending her flying and cleaving her mount. The horse fell at the she-demon’s feet, gave a final shiver and expired. She ignored the horse, focusing instead on the rider.

Alexis tasted blood and dirt. Pain racked nearly her whole body—part of her right torso was numb, and that frightened her more than the pain. She tried to rise but could not. The she-demon was somewhere behind her, and Alexis heard a voice deep within urging her to get away, get away fast. But that voice didn’t understand that a large portion of her body was ignoring her right now, and gave no heed to the request to move. For her part, Alexis refused to look down at her own injuries. She was afraid of what she would see.

In most ways, Alexis’ attack had been rash and ill-advised. But as her broken body had sailed through the air, as the she-demon’s gaze had been averted from the assembled Arkanians, the spell was broken. Alexis’ body had hit the ground with a sickening thud, and a few seconds of horrifying silence followed as she stirred and tried to move. Then like a dam bursting, the Arkanians charged, coming as one to the aid of the fallen Lorgrasian queen.

The force and suddenness of the attack took the Blaze by surprise, but not so much so that she was unable to defend herself with shield and sword. She was powerful and swift, and many fell before her, but she was also vulnerable to arrows, swords, warblades, and wolves’ teeth, her greatest defense being the spell her gaze cast upon those opposing her. That weapon was no longer available to her.

The attack now came at the Blaze from all sides, even as dead and wounded piled up at her feet. Like an irresistible tide they pressed the she-demon, and like the tide often did, they eventually stole her balance. Even as she fell, she knew she would not rise again.

The Arkanians sought no prize in this fight, and would have none to claim. Just after the Blaze hit the ground, she vanished in a blast of hot air, which knocked over those closest to her. The blood from her wounds sank slowly into the dirt, hissing and sizzling as it did so. The dark patches were all that was left to indicate that she had been there—other than those who had fallen in battle.