The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (35 page)

If anyone tried to answer her rhetorical question, she could not hear it. From above, the Mists screamed, a high-pitched keening that spiked into the brain like a tiny dagger. Tala’s horse started immediately at the sound and could not be settled. He began to buck and kick wildly, tossing Tala aside in the process, and then, finding no relief, began to run blindly, trying to escape the piercing shrieks.

Tala barely registered the pain from a sprained wrist she suffered as she fell to the ground. She covered her ears while her face contorted in pain. Her eyes began to water, and seeing what was going on around her became difficult, but she forced herself to focus through the pain that radiated from her mind out through her body. The reaction to the noise was similar throughout the Arkanian Army. Men, women, elves, dwarves, and goblins tried to stop up their ears in a futile attempt to shut out the wretched screams of the Mists. Some were able to keep their feet, but many now rolled in the dirt, holding their heads as if they expected them to explode. The great wolves howled in agony, some even tearing at their own fur in their anguish. The horses flailed or fled, many into the eager arms of the advancing troll-men, who made quick work of the helpless beasts. Deaf these troll-men were, and ideal companions for this aural assault. Tala spared one brief look up at the Mists. They circled swiftly, the occasional arrow launched at them in a pointless gesture by one of the warriors below passing through them. She could almost imagine long faces under those black hoods, with mouths stretched into a long oval while the incessant scream poured out. There was no variety in the sound, no ululating or changes in pitch, just a single, lengthy note, an impossibly sharp splinter that worked its way deep into the brain and lodged there.

The second part of the attack hit, the troll-men closing ground quickly and striking at their distressed and somewhat disabled foes. Most of the Arkanians saw the attack coming and were able to defend themselves, however weakly. Tala shifted her focus to her personal plight, dodging a pair of clubs as two troll-men seemed intent on beating each other to claim her as a prize. Her limbs felt weak and sluggish, and only with an effort of will could she lift her sword to ward off a blow. Despite those empty, white eyes, the troll-men apparently were anything but blind. Either they could see, or they had some other way to sense the location of their targets.

Tala struggled to maintain her concentration, despite the fact that several creatures half-again her size were trying to dash out her brains with their clubs. The shrieking was so overwhelming that it demanded attention even when one was fighting for one’s life. Distantly she was aware of those doing battle around her, of many falling dead or wounded, of the blood spilled and the dust kicked up by the struggle. If only the sound would stop, she thought, even for a second, so she could get her bearings straight.

She dodged a clumsy blow and managed to strike an off-balance troll-man with the flat of her blade, not good enough to really hurt him, but maybe enough to slow him down. It hardly seemed to matter. Another took his place, looking at Tala with those strange, expressionless eyes, trying to crush her with his club.

The troll-man’s face suddenly took on a look of confusion. He raised his club and brought it down, swinging at empty air to Tala’s left, and losing his balance in the process. She rushed in and slashed him with her sword, his confusion changing to shock and dismay, then melting to numbness as he fell to the ground.

It was all Tala could do to focus her eyes. The shrieking of the Mists pounded at her relentlessly. She saw several troll-men finding their marks, but others striking at nothing, as if suddenly losing track of their prey. Most paid no price for their misses, the Arkanians so stricken by the screams of the Mists that they could take but little advantage of it. Tala held her ears during a small respite in her personal battles, and found what she was looking for—Adiel and Roldon had pulled back a bit from the battle and had managed to muster enough concentration to cast spells. Based on the sudden inaccuracy of the troll-men, she guessed they had cast a mirror image spell—where she stood one or more exact duplicates appeared in short intervals on one or both sides of her. It was a spell that took great skill to learn, and great power to use, and it was far beyond the level of magic she had ever aspired to. She wondered how long they could keep it up. The two elders had bought them time, but the clubs of the troll-men eventually found their intended targets, and the Mists’ screams had made many Arkanians incapable of fighting back, even given this temporary advantage. It crossed her mind that despite the white eyes, the troll-men could see, at least in some way, otherwise the spell would have had no effect.

In pain and frustration Tala let out a scream of her own. It was swallowed up by the wailing of the Mists such that it barely reached her own ears, but with it came a sudden burst of energy, which she used to brutal effect against the two nearest troll-men. In those few seconds she could see they were slow, clumsy fighters, easily dispatched if not for the debilitating effect the Mists were having on those who could hear them. But the penetrating noise stole the energy away almost as quickly as she built it up, and her arms and legs grew heavy once again.

She could feel her senses growing numb as well, the world a confusion of dust, blood, and flailing limbs and weapons. She tried to find a familiar face, but could make out none in the swirl of battle. Someone fell at her feet, a male elf, blood gushing from a wound on his arm, his own weapon lost or forgotten, his hands tearing at his own ears, trying to stop the incessant, searing noise. She grabbed his belt and slid him back a foot, just enough to avoid the death blow being delivered by one of the troll-men. Confused, the creature’s next swing was directed at one of the mirror images, whether Tala’s or the male elf’s it was unclear. Either way it missed and gave her a chance to try her sword again. She hit him, a glancing blow, not enough to kill him but enough to force him to retreat.

Distantly the sound of battle reached her ears, as if somewhere far away armies clashed, and muffled shouts and cries of pain carried over the Dead Plain to the edge of her perception. The sounds grew, slowly but surely. With dawning recognition, Tala looked up.

The Mist continued to circle overhead, but they had begun to fade, as if they were being worn thin, and the light from the sky behind them had begun to leak through their previously impenetrable black forms. As the sound of the battle’s tumult grew, the Mists continued to fade, the two events now clearly linked.

“They are weakening!” she shouted, her own voice a delight to her still-ringing ears. “The battle is ours! Rally Arkanians!”

The Arkanians did rally, their strength returning as the Mists continued to recede, now just a whisper of what they once were. The battle grew in intensity, both sides now lashing out at one another, the Arkanians gaining a brief advantage over the troll-men, who were still being misled by the mirror image spell. But just as the Mists vanished completely, their screams now only a distant echo, so too did the strength of the elven mages fail, and the spell was broken. Now the battle would be decided by strength of arms alone.

Lucien would not have believed sound could cause such torment. He had felt as if his mind was ready to split apart, had almost wished for it, for the end of the agony, and underneath that for the end of the guilt and shame he carried for Alexis’ death. Now released he fought ferociously, his warblade singing as it sliced through the air. The screams had dulled his senses, but now they were all heightened. He was in the midst of a goblin battle fury, and around him things slowed and he became a focused killing machine. Goblins in this state had been known to kill dozens of opponents, and at times fell dead themselves from what was bluntly called “Grash-ak-non,” loosely, an “exploded heart.” The warblade had become an extension of Lucien’s body, a fluid tool moving without need for conscious thought. The troll-men, fearless in most respects, backed away, indicating that they were not foolish. Lucien pressed on, the world reduced only to what was in front of him.

The goblins were terrible in their unleashed fury, but even they paled in comparison to the great wolves, who had been so helpless when the Mists pierced them with sound, their hyper-sensitive ears allowing in far too much of the disabling noise. Some had gone mad and attacked friend and foe alike, others had died from the unendurable pain, but most had lived, and these attacked with a ferociousness that made even their allies back away. In the end, it was the great wolves that broke the troll-men and decided the battle, and it was the wolves that could not be restrained from pursuing the fleeing enemy. As a blood-red sun sank in the west, not a troll-man lived.

Lucien stood apart from everyone, needing time to come back from the trance-like state in which he had been enfolded. He felt his heart banging in his chest, stubbornly refusing to slow for several minutes. He closed his eyes to shut out the world, but the iron tang of blood was still fresh in the air. When he allowed his eyelids to open again, he saw a black wolf approach.

“I remember you, Lucien,” the wolf said. "When last we met I said I would taste your flesh.”

“And I said you would feel warblade, Krellos," Lucien replied, but without malice. It seemed ages ago when they hurled such threats at one another in the Great Northern Forest, back when Lucien and his companions had been gathering the shards of the Soul Sphere. Back when Alexis yet lived.

The wolf looked at the dead scattered a short distance away from the goblin. “It seems your warblade has spilled much blood today.”

“As your teeth,” Lucien said, raising his blade in salute. “Appears fate makes us allies again.”

“This is so. Perhaps I will walk with you. If we cannot test one another, we can watch each other fight, and take our measure in that way.”

“Good plan,” the goblin said.

They both wore toothy smiles, friendly and threatening at the same time. Slowly they relaxed, knowing that for now they still fought together.

*          *          *

Demetrius sat a short distance away from the latest pyre, one he had helped build with the headless bodies of the dead. He could feel the heat from it on his back, and the foul smell filled his nostrils, but for now his legs refused to carry him any further away. He had never known exhaustion like this, so complete, deep inside his spirit as well as in his aching muscles and battered ribs. He looked up at the starry sky, thinking of nothing and of everything at once, his mind drifting with a will of its own. The image of a bed under a sheltering roof tried to come into focus, but he pushed it away. He thought he could sleep for a month.

He saw a familiar pair of boots stop by his right leg. Corson sat down with a low groan.

“Sounds like you feel like I do,” Demetrius said.

“Like a giant put me in a box and shook it around for a couple of hours.”

Demetrius’ laugh came out as a quick, exhaled breath through his nose. Even that sent a sharp jab of pain into his side. “You have an interesting way of putting things. But that’s probably a fair description, especially if there were logs and boulders in the box.”

“Some spear and swords, too, for good measure.”

Demetrius nodded. “And still we have to consider ourselves fortunate.” He indicated the pyre with a slight turn of his head.

“I know.” They were quiet for a while, then Corson said, “You
didn’t need to help move the bodies. People know you are still healing

from injuries.”
“As are many. We have to do what is needed, like the soldiers that we are. Do you see the way some look at us?”

“As if we are kings or lords, or maybe wizards or ancient mages.”

“Yes. Because we are among those that gathered the shards. In their eyes we have become special because of that.”

“We were tested by Solek and live to speak of it. They hold us in awe, despite the injuries we bear, despite all the evidence that we have not been marked by some higher power to win this ultimate battle.” After a pause he added. “Despite the fact that Alexis fell.”

Demetrius nodded solemnly.

“Do you think Rowan feels a higher power wills us to victory?” Corson asked. “His faith seems strong.”

“It is, but it’s being tested. I’m sure if you asked him, he would say victory will be ours if it is the will of his God.”

“Why would any god will evil to win?”

Demetrius shrugged. “Gods are gods, not men. Perhaps evil exists to temper and refine men, as a fire does to metal. Some will be stronger for it…”