The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (44 page)

Rowan moved in without hesitation, his sword rising up.

Tala fired. Rowan’s sword flashed left, and the sound of metal-on-metal rang in the room. The deflected arrow clattered harmlessly off the wall and onto the floor.

Rowan was on her instantly, batting the bow from her hands. She let it go feebly and sank to her knees, feeling the weight of all they had fought through to get to this point come crashing down upon her.
So close
, she thought in some distant part of her mind.
So close.

Rowan’s hand slid around the back of her neck, his grip inhumanly strong. With his thumb he pressed upward on her chin, forcing her to look up at him. The amulet Solek had worn still dangled from his hand, and it now rested against her chest.

“You could have been a queen, and ruled by my side,” he said, his voice angry.

“Served at your side,” she corrected. “Your promises are all empty.”

“Those who defy me die. That is a promise I will keep.” He raised the sword, while his hell-lit eyes seared her soul.

As her vision blurred with tears, Tala looked up at a man she had come to admire and respect, a man she might have loved under other circumstances. Now Rowan was no more than a shell, abandoned by its previous owner when the Dark One decided to make it his home. She cried for him more than for herself and all Arkania, now lost beyond all hope.

If there was any belief that her tears would bring mercy, it died swiftly. If anything, it seemed to please the man with the bright sword. He smiled broadly, and the blade gleamed so brilliantly that Tala squinted against its light. As he brought the sword up to a striking position above his head, she whispered fiercely, “Fight him, Rowan.”

“Rowan’s gone,” he replied, and brought the sword down with all his cruel might.

The blade easily sliced through skin and bone, and a severed hand fell to the ground—Rowan’s. He flung the sword away and cradled the stump under his good arm, and then fell to his knees and doubled over. In a voice that sounded as if he was at the brink of death he said to her, “The Sphere! Hurry!”

She pulled the cord loose from the dismembered hand and studied the amulet frantically, looking for a clasp or some other way of opening it. Finding none, she struck it against the stone floor, holding the cord so she could swing it like a whip. On the fourth try she heard a faint crack, a sound echoed more loudly on the fifth attempt.

“Hurry!” Rowan urged through clenched teeth. “Oh, please hurry!” He lay on his side now, and convulsed twice, sweat pouring off his brow.

Tala left the amulet on the ground and brought her boot down upon it. It gave beneath her with a satisfying crunch. She knelt and picked the shard out of the shattered pieces of its container.

Rowan let out a scream of anguish.

Tala’s hands trembled as she fumbled to open the cloaking bag. Sphere and shard both emitted the eerie green glow, calling out to one another. She heard the sound of a sword being picked up off the stone floor, and then ponderous footsteps approaching, but she refused to look up. Her palms slick with sweat, she placed the final shard into position on the Sphere.

It was as if she held a small sun in her hands, so dazzling was the illumination of the Sphere as it was restored. She turned away to protect her eyes and to find Rowan, whom she knew was close.

He stood before her, holding the sword in his good hand while blood flowed from the opposite arm. He seemed stunned, his face slack and his mouth open. He drew in a breath and emitted a scream, a deep, dark, terrible noise that Tala knew was not of Rowan or of this world. For an instant Tala felt a sensation of pure emptiness, the horror of staring into the abyss. A hatred blacker than anything she could imagine probed at her mind, threatening endless torment, promising revenge.

Her hand went slack and the Sphere rolled to the ground. Its color ebbed and faded. At the same moment Rowan’s sword lost its luster and clattered to the floor, while Rowan himself collapsed.

*          *          *

Deron wiped blood and dirt from his eyes. Any sense of command had long since vanished in the melee beneath the walls of Citadel. It had simply become a question of individual survival, the relentless waves of the Dead Legion and the raining death from the bowmen and catapults doing their slow, sure work. Escape might not even be possible now, so disorganized had the Arkanians become. If not for the dragons assaulting those on or behind the city walls it would have been much worse. But several dragons had been taken down, and the arrows, stone, and burning oil had begun to fall more regularly again.

Deron shouldered his way past a pair of Lorgrasians to cut off a member of the Legion angling toward them from the side while they were being pressed from the front. He reached his destination in time, and prepared to meet the falling hammer the dead warrior had poised over its head as it ran. But the blow never fell. The skeletal warrior collapsed like a marionette with the strings cut. One of the Lorgrasians uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Deron saw that the Dead that opposed the females had also dropped. Shouts and cheers broke out all up and down the line. The Dead had fallen.

Deron cast his gaze on the walls above, a smile of hope playing on his lips. He wanted to believe it was over, that Solek had been defeated and that Tala was safe. The attacks from above stopped as well, another good sign, but he told himself to remain calm and wary. He would know soon, but these next minutes would each take an eternity to pass.

*          *          *

Lucien had decided the Veldooner guards would either remain cowering inside their room or would come out in a rush. He figured if it was the latter, he could handle them until help arrived. He sent Corson up to see if he might aid the others, with a strict command to call for him if his warblade was needed. Holding the rear would mean little if those at the front fell.

Corson found Demetrius slumped on the stairwell, clearly injured. His friend waved him on, and Corson went, knowing he could do little to help Demetrius unless they were to have ultimate success in the high chamber. Warily he ascended the rest of the stair and peered through the shattered door of the upper room.

He saw an old man he assumed was Solek—hoped actually, since the man was almost certainly dead. He slipped into the room and then saw Tala, weeping softly over Rowan, whose head was in her lap. The paladin was pale, and blood covered the front of his shirt and pants. The stump of his right arm was wrapped in Tala’s cloak, which had turned a dark brown near the wound and was tied tightly there with a cord—the one which had held the final shard in place around Solek’s neck.

Tala motioned to the Sphere, which sat on the ground near her knee. It seemed dull and plain, emitting no light of any kind, unlike when the shards were fused together. “It is over,” she said. “He is trapped again.”

Corson felt little joy at the news, such was the pained look on her face. “Rowan?”

“He lives for now. He has lost a lot of blood, and suffered deeper wounds which may prove fatal.”

“What can I do?”

“Get Lucien. We will need to carry Rowan, and Demetrius will need help walking as well. If we have to fight our way out…”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Corson replied as he wheeled about to retrieve Lucien.

*          *          *

There was no need to fight their way out of Citadel. The Veldooners wandered about like lost children, their weapons discarded and forgotten. The former guards drifted out onto the stair, and when they spared a glance at any of the outsiders there was no hostility in the look, but rather a gentle plea for help. When Corson asked a few Veldooners milling about near the city gate to open it, they did so without resistance or comment.

A cheer went up from the Arkanians as those who had felled Solek emerged from Citadel. Deron ran forward, heedless of any possible danger from the walls above, to embrace his daughter. Tears of pride and relief filled his eyes, and he did nothing to hide them from her. He cleared his throat and was able to croak out, “Has the Dark One been taken?”

In response she patted the cloaking bag that hung from her belt. The half-formed smile quickly faded from her face as she looked upon Rowan, who had been lowered to the ground.

“He is injured,” Deron stated, following her gaze. “He will be attended to.” He gave a signal and a pair of elves came forward to begin ministering to the fallen paladin.

“It is not the wounds to his flesh that worry me,” she said. “The Dark One fled Solek’s nearly spent body and entered Rowan. It was then that Solek died, run through by Rowan’s sword, an act that was not of Rowan’s will. The Dark One moved to slay me then, using Rowan’s form.”

“You were forced to cut his hand off? Surely in self-defense. No one would blame you if—”

“Rowan cut his own hand off, sparing me and delivering the final shard to me. For an instant he overcame the Dark One in the battle of wills, but only for a moment. The Dark One had regained control when I completed the Sphere and pulled his foul spirit from Rowan’s body.” Her gaze returned to the fallen paladin, who was ghostly pale, his breathing shallow and ragged. “I cannot imagine what it would be like to fight such a being for control of your mind.”

“And your soul,” Deron added. “Though I imagine the strength of Rowan’s faith is what allowed him to emerge from beneath the Dark One’s shadow, even if ever so briefly. He is strong, as is his will to live. If anyone can pull through this, Rowan can.”

Tala wanted to believe her father, but the look on her face cast nothing but doubt.

*          *          *

Despite the lack of apparent hostile intent from the Veldooners, the Arkanians did draw away from Citadel’s walls, and as night was nearing those not seeing to the dead and wounded began to light fires and set up camp. Deron was able to pry Tala away from Rowan’s side, assuring her that he would be well cared for, and reminding her that their work was not quite finished. He led her to a spot a short distance apart from the camp, where Lucien and Corson waited, along with Galway, the golden dragon who had born her up to the base of the high tower.

“We have yet one more decision to make,” said Deron. “What do we do with the Sphere?”

Corson wore a puzzled look, glancing at those gathered. “Kind of a small group for such a big decision.”

“It is best this way,” Deron replied. “Those who bore the burden of collecting the shards and the leader of the dragons that came to our aid. The others trust this group to do what is best, and they were made to understand that the fewer that know the final fate of the Sphere, the better.”

Lucien looked at Galway. “Dragons guard it?”

“We were asked to do so before,” said the golden beast. “All this ruin and death about us had been caused by our failure in that task.”

“Can it be kept in the Eastern Forest?” Corson asked. “The elven magic that protects that wood could shield the Sphere as well.”

“For a time, perhaps,” Deron replied. “But I would not willingly hold such an object. I fear it would corrupt any who would dare possess it over long years.”

“Then it cannot be possessed,” said Galway. “It must be hidden.”

“Hiding places can be found,” Lucien protested.

“Then it needs to be somewhere no one would look,” Corson said.

“The sea,” Tala suggested. “As far away as it can be carried, even to the edge of the known world.” She glanced at Galway.

“I will carry it as far away as my wings can manage,” said the dragon, “if that is what you ask of me.”

Deron nodded. “It is our best hope, for us and for generations to come.” He addressed Tala. “Add some rocks, then tie up the cloaking bag tightly. It will sink to the bottom of the sea, and if Arkania is fortunate, it will never be seen again.”

The others agreed, and Tala soon had the bag prepared. Galway took it in one of his great claws, and then bid them good-bye. “Farewell, my friends. May we meet again in fairer days.”