The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (8 page)

Corson moved out from under the shelter of the trees, advancing slowly. He wasn’t sure when he should strike, but he knew when the time came the window of opportunity would be small. He glanced at the ground beneath him, fearful of the dried twig or leaf that might give him away. After a dozen steps he knew he was committed. If the wyvern turned on him now he would have to fight.

Demetrius saw Corson coming and kept up the banter to hold the wyvern’s attention. As it moved closer he found it harder to hold his ground, and as its head lowered he could only hope that it had no breath weapon, unlike its cousins, the dragons.

The wyvern’s eyes flashed to Demetrius’ sword and then back to his face. It bellowed another challenge, then coiled itself for a strike.

Demetrius could see it coming and prepared to spring aside. “Now,” he thought, willing Corson to swift action, but not wanting to shout the word for fear he would give his friend away.

Corson continued to close the gap, but when the wyvern paused, he did not interpret it as preparation for an attack, and fearing even the sound of a footfall, he froze. The wyvern then sprang forward, and as it did so it was completely out of his reach.

Demetrius lunged aside at the first sign of movement, but the creature was much faster than he anticipated. Its head rammed into his ribs, flinging him in a different direction from his initial leap. He slammed into a tree, his head and legs snapping back as his back absorbed the blow. He fell to the ground, breathless.

The wyvern was big, but with its wings in it could move easily enough in the woods, its body more like that of a thick snake. The momentum of its charge carried it beyond Demetrius’ prone form, but it quickly gathered itself and spun about, its talons finding easy purchase in the soft soil.

Corson was too far away to reach his friend before the wyvern, so he did the only thing he could—he screamed and charged.

The distraction may have saved Demetrius. The wyvern looked up at the shout, then snapped its tail about, trying to impale Demetrius against the tree. Instead it found only bark and wood, as its mark had been able to roll away when it hesitated.

Demetrius, still trying to fill his lungs with air, managed to bring his sword down toward the wyvern’s tail. But he, too, was late. The wyvern pulled free a split second before the blow fell, pieces of wood flying as it tore its stinger loose from the tree. Demetrius saw the hole and realized with a sinking feeling that it had nearly been made in his chest.

Corson’s charge may have saved his friend, but it was reckless. Once the wyvern freed its tail it continued the motion, swinging the stinger at Corson. He had only one choice if he wanted to avoid it—he slid to the ground. His momentum carried him under the beast and he lifted his sword to try to skewer it.

Again the wyvern was faster. It brought a powerful talon down, pinning Corson’s sword to the ground. It swung its tail up and then drove it down.

Corson twisted to one side, wrenching his shoulder. The stinger kicked up a spray of dirt as it tore into the ground, inches from Corson’s chest.

The stinger lifted up, paused, then whistled back down. Then it was gone, along with half the tail

Demetrius dropped to one knee while his bloody sword fell by his side.

The wyvern lifted its head straight up and let out a shrill scream. It swatted at Demetrius with a wing, the cartilage and leathery membrane enough to knock him face down on the ground. In its pain and rage it moved to finish the fallen man, to beat and rend with talons and beak.

The wyvern’s first move at Demetrius freed Corson’s arm. He did not give it the chance to make another, plunging his sword up to its hilt in the creature’s soft underside. He held fast while the wyvern wailed and thrashed for a moment, and considered himself fortunate that its strength faded quickly. It slumped aside, twitching once, and died.

Corson switched hands, pulled the sword out of the beast’s belly, then let the weapon lay where it was. He scrambled over to Demetrius, relieved to see the rise and fall of his chest. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he gently rolled his friend over.

Blood coated his arm and half his face. Demetrius opened his eyes and recognized the look of sorrow and resignation on Corson’s face. He smiled weakly and spoke with some difficulty. “Blood’s from the wyvern. Not going to die just yet.”

“You saved my life,” Corson said. “Again.”

“We saved each other.”

“I was too slow. I should have—”

Demetrius raised a shaking hand. “We can debate tactics later. We need to move on, before the others return.”

Corson drew in a quick breath to settle himself, then asked, “Can you walk?”

“Have to.”

Corson collected the swords and put them in their scabbards after wiping the blood off as best he could on the ground. He dropped to one knee to help Demetrius up with his good arm.

Demetrius noticed his friend wince at the effort. “You’re hurting, too.”

“Twisted my shoulder a bit is all. I’ll be fine.”

They hobbled away as quickly as they could, each with an ear and an eye alert for signs of the remaining two predators. Full night was upon them, and they welcomed its shroud.

They covered the first half-mile as swiftly as they could, but Corson knew the wyverns could cover the same distance in a fraction of the time. He glanced at Demetrius, worried about his labored breathing, and thought he saw a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. “We should rest a bit,” he suggested.

“Not yet,” Demetrius wheezed. “Still too close.”

He knew better than to argue with his friend and captain, even in his current state, but he set a limit in his own mind. Another mile at most and they would stop, no matter what.

They stumbled on, trees looming up like phantoms before them, silent sentinels marking their slow progress. The night was eerily quiet, and their footfalls and heavy breathing seemed to echo far too loudly.

Demetrius lost his footing, and as he stumbled his momentum nearly carried both he and Corson to the ground.

“Steady,” Corson said, regaining balance for both of them. “We can rest soon.”

Demetrius tried to smile but winced instead. He drew air into his lungs in irregular, ragged draughts.

“We’ll find a nice spot, and then—”

A piercing shriek rent the air, causing them to freeze and hold their breath. As far as they had gone—and as much as they had toiled to come this far—the cry sounded far too close.

“Keep moving,” Demetrius finally gasped.

Corson pulled him along a few steps, and then stopped with a sigh. “No,” he said, gently. He lowered Demetrius into a sitting position against the nearest tree. “If they can track us, they’ll catch us soon enough. We can’t outrun them in our current condition. May as well stand and fight.”

“I’m slowing you down,” Demetrius said. “You go on.”

“You know I won’t do that.”

“That’s an order.”

“Then you can charge me with insubordination when this is all over.”

Demetrius beckoned him closer, then took hold of his arm. “I do not doubt your courage or your friendship,” he whispered between uneven breaths. “But one of us must reach our people and call them to arms. The fate of our world may depend on it.”

“Demetrius, I—”

“If we both die here, Arkania dies with us.”

Corson shook his head.

Demetrius drew his sword. “I will defend myself if I must. They may miss me altogether.”

“I can’t leave you here, not like this. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

Demetrius turned the sword about so the point pressed against his own belly. “If I’m dead by my own hand, then you will go.”

“You wouldn’t,” Corson said, but he could not keep the slight tremble out of his voice.

“Only if you make me.”

“You are the most stubborn man I ever met. Why I call you ‘friend’ is beyond me.”

“It is more than I deserve.”

Corson pushed the sword aside and embraced his friend. “Be safe. I’ll be back with help as soon as I can.”

“Take care of yourself.”

Demetrius watched him go, waving weakly as Corson took one last look over his shoulder. Once alone, he readied his sword. He had no hope of killing either wyvern if they found him, or even of doing much damage, but he would give his weapon at least one chance to bite at his enemy before he succumbed. His wait to see what might happen was brief.

A shadowy form came crashing through the brush, sniffing the ground and air. A dozen feet away from him it pulled up, spreading its wings in a symbolic gesture of power.

“Don’t preen for me,” Demetrius spat, his voice far too weak for his own liking. “If you want me, come take me.” He wanted to stand, but his muscles betrayed him. It was all he could do to lift the sword.

The wyvern seemed to understand its advantage, but also to recognize the sharpened steel in Demetrius’ hand. It moved a bit closer, then coiled to strike, its eyes boring into its intended victim.

Demetrius let out a slow breath, shuddered, and then lowered his sword, as if giving in to fate. But his eyes were just as sharp as the wyvern’s, and they never left the creature.

The beast shot forward and the sword swung up. Too late the beast saw its mistake. The sword pierced its breast and exited its back. Before it could bring its tail or head to bear on its tormentor, another sword flashed twice, severing each end of it in turn.

As the wyvern fell aside, Demetrius saw Corson standing there. “You never left.”

Corson shook his head. “Just waited in the shadows. If you want to bait the trap, fine, but I’ll not leave you to die here. And let’s not rehash the argument again. Besides, we’ve taken two down now. If the other tries us, it could meet the same fate.”

“Help me up,” said Demetrius. “Logical arguments are lost on you. I give up.”

Corson laughed. “You’ve known me long enough to know logic is wasted on me. Glad you’ve accepted reality.”

As they moved off, Corson said, “You
were
baiting it, weren’t you? Playing half-dead so it would get reckless.”

Demetrius nodded once. “I feel half-dead, but I was trying to get it to lower its guard. Still, I owe you my life, again.”

“Seems to me you stuck it pretty well.”

“And it would have died eventually from the wound, I’d wager, but not right away. Not before introducing me to that tail or those talons.”

“Well, it’s good—”

Something rustled the trees behind and above them. They just started to turn when they were knocked to the ground by a blow from behind. Each rolled and tried to assume a defensive posture.

The third wyvern stood over them, wings half-spread, mouth open, poised to pounce. But it looked oddly still, like it was a statue that had suddenly appeared in the wood. Corson noticed something else then, a pair of arrows that had pierced its head and entered its brain cavity. A dozen bowstrings sang out, and the creature was filled with the same number of feathered shafts. It backed up a few hesitant steps, then was treated to another volley. It tottered like a tree expertly cut by an axe, and in the same way it fell, crashing to the ground and remaining still.

Corson lay there, stunned. He blinked hard, half expecting the vision of the dead wyvern to vanish or suddenly morph back into a living adversary. He shook himself, and then remembered Demetrius. His friend was lying ten feet away, face down on the ground. Past him lights appeared and advanced, and as they neared he could see they were lanterns carried by men, which had been shrouded by simple dark cloth that had now been thrown aside.