The Soul Sphere: Book 01 - The Shattered Sphere

by David Adams

  Buried alive.

  “Got it!” shouted Demetrius. The stone enclosure shattered on the floor of the chamber, its weight not enough to puncture through as Corson and Lucien had done. Demetrius grabbed the spear and sprang to the rubble, finding the crystalline shard with ease. “It’s here! I have it.”

  “Corson?” It was Lucien’s voice. “We need rope.”

  Buried alive.

  A distant rumble met their ears and the earth began to move. Everyone went to ground as stone started to crash against stone.

  “The place is tearing itself apart!” Tala shouted. “Hurry!”

  “Throw up the rope!” Demetrius yelled. “I’ll pull you up!”

  Run! Flee! Too late! Too late! Buried alive!

  “No!” Corson roared, defiant. There was something of a perverse pleasure in the tone of these last thoughts that revealed its true source. Corson now understood that the thoughts were not the verbalization of his own doubts, but rather the voice of the phantom they had encountered upon entering the Lost City.

  “The tombs are shaking loose!” Tala warned. “We are out of time!”

  Corson sniffed the air once more, ignoring the calamity all around him, just to be sure he hadn’t been mistaken. What he was considering was an awful risk.

  You removed the keystone! Buried alive!

  Corson called out. “I’ve found another way out! Jump down here!”

  The others hesitated, unsure what to do. The only reply was the horrible grinding sound of the world continuing to crash down around them.

  “We’ll never make it past the traps!” Corson shouted, trying to reason. “We have to try this way!”

  The reminder of the traps was enough for Alexis. She could see the way the tombs were rocking, and that cracks were appearing in the ceiling. Any instant those bars might be triggered… As Lucien had done, she leapt into the pit. Rowan and Tala, their decision now made for them, followed.

  All the dropping bodies made the floor of the chamber more hole than stone. Demetrius took one last glance upward, unable to see anything but hearing the tombs start to come smashing down, and beneath that a more distant rumble—that of the Lost City crumbling as well. He dropped into the sewer.

  Corson herded everyone into the opening he had found. “Weapons ready,” he ordered. “There could be more of those rat-things. Move swiftly.”

  Demetrius gave him a smile and a nod of approval as he passed into the hole. “Well done, Corson.”

  Buried alive!

  I believe you are, Corson thought. He followed Demetrius into the hole in the sewer wall.

  Lucien led the way through the passage, the walls of simple mud. He saw a small den to the right, baby rat-things which were already the size of small dogs cowering in the corner behind two protective females. He ignored them and kept on.

  The tunnel sloped upward past the den, and Corson had just reached that point when it sounded like the whole world collapsed behind them. A rumble like thunder sundered the air, and a wave of dust and dirt flew around them. After a moment all was still except for the choked coughing that escaped from every throat.

  Corson had to fight to open his eyes as they watered from the dust. Once moderately able to see he went back a few feet, just enough that the torch could confirm there would be no retreat. Ground-up hunks of stone filled the sewer right up to the entrance of the rat-things’ lair. He noted with some satisfaction that the voice he had had in his head was blessedly silent.

  It was Demetrius’ voice that interrupted his brief reverie. “That was good thinking, Corson. We owe you our lives.”

  Corson could not suppress the smile that played on his lips, but he knew they were far from saved. “Let’s just hope these creatures burrowed to the surface.”

  The tunnel was uncomfortably small—they were forced to either crouch or crawl—and was as dark as everything else they had encountered in this forsaken forest, but their spirits were lighter, the second shard held in these woods now theirs, another test passed. They knew they were heading out now, even if that journey might take days—they were heading out.

  The tunnel meandered a bit from time to time, but its progress was steadily upward. A sense of claustrophobia naturally pressed on all of them, confined as they were with no retreat, but they spoke not of it. In less than an hour Lucien was pushing aside the mat of sticks and other woodland debris that served as a covering for the hole, and then was helping his companions one by one out of the tunnel.

  “Wow,” said Corson, looking first at his hand and then at the trees beyond. “This place is like a sunny day compared to that underground city.”

  They rested then, but only for a brief time. Being free of the underground city might have been cause for celebration elsewhere, but the deep gloom of the forest reminded them that they were not yet free of its danger.

  Demetrius started to feel the itch to move on building within him. He handed Tala the shard he had recovered. “Which way now?”

  Tala added the newest piece to the incomplete Sphere, the eerie light of the fusion pronounced here in the darkened wood. Once the pieces had bound themselves together, she cast her finding spell. “We go west to the Great Plain.”

  “My land?” asked Lucien.

  “Not that far,” Tala answered, “but nearly to the border. If you wish to visit your people…”

  Lucien shook his head. “While we quest, you are brothers and sisters. If need to go to goblin realm I happy to lead. If not, I stay with you.”

  Demetrius was looking at Tala with a quizzical look. “How does that spell work?”

  “The finding?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I could teach someone unpracticed in the art to cast it.”

  “That isn’t why I’m asking. When you use it, do you see images? Is it like a map in your head to give you directions?”

  “Images. Like a bird flying directly at the object we seek, but incredibly fast. When we are far away it is very vague—just now I passed through the forest and over the Wandering River into the Westerland and the Great Plain in my mind’s eye.”

  “Can you see the shard? How it’s defended? Where it rests?”

  “Not usually. From here I only know it is on the Plain, and seems to be in the sunlight, rather than buried in a pit.”

  “Thank the gods for that,” said Alexis.

  Tala continued. “When we are closer things slow down, and sometimes I can make out surroundings or other detail. Mostly just direction, unfortunately.”

  “Do you have any control of the images? Can you look around?”

  Tala shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know that would be a great help, but I cannot. Nor can I search out alternate paths. We could have stumbled on the tunnel we just escaped through if we had approached from the right direction, but the caster can’t command the spell to spy such things out.”

  Demetrius wore a chagrined expression, then smiled lightly. “I am grateful for what you can do with the spell. I’m just used to weighing alternatives and choosing the best option. It appears, at least for now, that our options are rather limited. We’d best be on our way.”

  Tala’s spell did have one other use—it served in many ways like a compass. They headed directly west, wanting to find the shortest route out of the forest, even though their destination this time was actually southwest of their current position. The woods were no less dark than they had been before the party entered the Lost City, but they seemed less dreary now, and the sense of dire foreboding they had all felt had been chased away. “It’s like it took its best shot at us and we survived,” Rowan said in summary of how they all felt.

  Their guard remained up, however, and their steps cautious. Now and then a faint rustling was heard, and yellow eyes drew close enough to reflect the torch light before they inevitably melted back into the darkness. The party had clearly been marked and given free passage by the wolves. Lucien wondered when he saw those eyes if they might be Krellos’, a
nd his hands reflexively tightened on his warblade while a smile played on his lips. But always the eyes disappeared before the coat of their owner became visible.

  Early on the third day since their escape through the rat-things’ tunnel the forest began to thin and rays of sunlight began to penetrate the wood. The cold air started to bite at them as they reached the edge of the forest, and the growing light stung their eyes. Above, the sun blazed in a brilliant blue sky, while a fresh carpet of snow blanketed the land.

  “What’s that strange yellow orb in the sky?” asked Corson as he shielded his eyes from the glare coming from above and below. “I seem to remember it from my youth.”

  Demetrius took a deep breath, his feet planted solidly in eight inches of snow. He felt reborn. He sucked in the crisp, clear air and then let it out in a long exhale, the weight of the dreary forest lifting from his mind. “We’ll be cursing this snow and cold soon enough,” he said, “but right now it’s a lovely sight.”

  “It is,” agreed Alexis. A single tear trickled down her cheek. “I had feared even the snow would be fouled by the Dark One, just as the land was. It covers the scars of his treachery well.”

  For a moment they all enjoyed the unspoiled beauty of virgin snow on open land, the fresh air, the ability to see without a torch. Rowan looked back at the forest and felt the weight of its closeness pressing in on him. He took a few steps away from it as if it might yet reach out to claim him, thanking the Savior at the same time for delivering them from its grasp. No sooner had the prayer silently left his lips than he spotted something hovering at the fringe of the wood. “Our friend is back,” he announced calmly, careful to point only with a subtle tilt of his head. “He may have never left.”

  Everyone stole a brief glimpse at the Mist before it faded back into the shadows.

  “It’ll be harder for it to stay out of sight on the plains,” said Tala. “At least we have that advantage.”

  Traveling in an open area in broad daylight exposed them, but it also meant they could spot their enemies from afar. Corson felt in his heart that his step was lighter, but after a few hours the snow made his legs sing a different tune. He uttered no complaint, but he dreamed of a hearth with a roaring fire, a comfortable chair with a padded stool, and a hot meal.

  Demetrius nudged him out of his daydream, holding out a cold piece of dried meat.

  “I was just thinking of a meal. Got a chair and a fire in that pack?”

  “Not likely,” Demetrius said with a laugh. “Magic is Tala’s game.”

  “ ‘Magic’ is right,” she called back at them. “Fantasy isn’t my department.”

  “Maybe I can make it mine,” said Alexis. The comment drew hopeful looks from the others. She was looking past them, back in the direction of the forest, and she held up an open hand, as if presenting something.

  One of the white steeds of Lorgras had found them. He raced toward them, his coat nearly as white as the snow. He went straight to Alexis, who stroked his nose and whispered in his ear. The horse bobbed his head twice, backed away and reared, kicking at the air and letting out a joyful whinny. With one last look at Alexis he darted away.

  “He’ll bring others to us,” she said. “We’ll be easy enough to find with the tracks we’re making.”

  “They obey your command to wait,” Lucien stated, clearly surprised.

  “They patrolled the edge of the wood and beyond, awaiting our return.” Her gaze left the departing horse and settled on Corson. “Soon we’ll have mounts. Then we’ll see about finding that fire and chair for you.”

  Corson replied with a formal bow. “I am most grateful, my lady. You will forever have my sword and my heart.”

  “Keep them,” she said with a laugh. “I suspect you’ll need them in the future.”

  Chapter 7: Westerland

  As they trudged on through the snow, they looked often to the horizon with expressions both hopeful and uncertain. Alexis remained resolute in her confidence—this was her land, and she knew the horses. When the thundering hooves of a dozen mounts creased the snow she merely nodded and smiled.

  “Why so many?” Rowan asked.

  “Horses fall in battle, get tired. Even these. Still more may yet join us. They know we may ask much of them, and they are willing to give it.”

  They mounted up and continued to the west. Whether it was the lead horse or Alexis that led the way was difficult to say, but the others—both horses and riders—followed without question. To reach the Westerland from Lorgras they needed to cross the Wandering River, and Alexis knew where the bridges were, and where settlements might be on the way. Here in the south of her land there were a handful of small hamlets and villages, places where farmers could buy and sell. The great city of Lumia, the capital and seat of the Queen, was far to the north.

  Shortly before the sun sank beneath the plain to the west they came upon a farm and were granted shelter and food. The lady of the house was much like Alexis, tall and strong and with a graceful elegance that belied her tired look and worn clothes, while her husband was shorter and stockier, his hands calloused from working the fields. Their daughter was approaching her fourteenth birthday, and she already stood taller than her father. The girl shrank back a bit upon seeing Lucien, but her parents had been satisfied by whatever Alexis had told them as to the goblin’s intentions, and while they could not offer all the comforts of a well-stocked inn, they certainly were excellent hosts.

  Corson did not get the chair he had hoped for, nor a bed, but a warm meal, a warmer fire, and a roof to sleep under were more than enough to bring a contented smile to his face. When the lady and man of the house offered to keep watch through the night he protested like his companions, and like them was easily convinced to accept this great favor. His sleep was deep and undisturbed, and when he woke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon he thought for just a moment that he was back home. He passed through that hazy twilight between sleep and consciousness while wearing the expression of a young boy waking on his birthday, then felt his heart dip as the reality of where and when he was dawned anew. He chided himself for being ungrateful and inhaled deeply, the aroma chasing away the doubts and disappointment. He fixed a smile on his face and greeted his hosts with a hearty “Good morning!”

  The party departed right after eating, their stomachs satisfied and their packs refilled. Demetrius pointed out the gray clouds that were forming to the west, bringing the promise of fresh snow.

  “A storm might slow us,” said Rowan, frowning up at the leaden sky.

  “It would also cover our tracks,” Demetrius replied, indicating the place behind them with a thrust of his chin.

  Rowan followed the gesture and saw the fresh marks the horses had made. If anyone—or anything—wanted to follow them, it would be simple enough to do.

  Before noon the wind kicked up as the front rolled in, driving a dusting of snow into the air, icy particles that bit at the skin and stung the eyes. The wind soon settled and new snow began to fall, large, wet flakes that stuck where they landed. It built up quickly on man or beast if not shaken or brushed off at regular intervals, and started the work of hiding their tracks soon after they were made.

  Tala brushed snow from her hair and flipped up the hood of her cloak. To take her mind off the weather she asked Alexis about the bridges over the Wandering River.

  “We are heading for one of three wooden bridges that connect Lorgras with the Westerland. They are all nearly half-a-mile long. The closest is the Cattering Bridge, named after a small hamlet on the far side. There is a great bridge of stone and metal in the north, where the main road from Lumia crosses the river. That one is over a mile long.”

  “Can the river be forded?” asked Rowan.

  “Only where we crossed earlier, at its source near the mountains in the Garden Valley. It is wide, deep, and swift elsewhere. The bridges are the easiest way. Boats can be used as well, but not many are big enough to deal with the horses. I call them boats, but rea
lly most are little more than rafts owned by the locals.”

  “Can it be crossed on foot in winter?” asked Corson.

  “Only when it has been very cold for very long, and even then only in places, and with great caution. It will still be flowing when we arrive. It is still far too warm.”

  Corson chuckled. “I’d hate to see what you northerners call cold.”

  “Just as I’d not enjoy your southern summer. Lorgrasian travelers have said even the nights are sweltering.”

  “Well, you get used to it.”

  “Ha!” Demetrius exclaimed. “You’ve been known to sleep nearly naked in a shallow pool of water when the weather is hot.”

  “I sweat a lot,” Corson said with an exaggerated pout. “I don’t want to be weakened in the morning from fluid loss. I never know what onerous task my captain might set for me.” He gave Demetrius a mock bow.

  “I, for one, look forward to warm nights,” Tala said, giving a little shiver to emphasize the point. She glanced at Lucien. “I’ve heard goblins are little affected by heat or cold.”

  “Thick-skinned,” Lucien confirmed with a nod. “Why Corson’s insults do not harm me.”

  “Ouch!” said Corson. “I think I’m having my wit impugned.”

  “It’s like any other skill,” Tala said. “It needs to be practiced to keep it sharp.”

  “Lot of practice,” said Lucien.

  “All right, all right,” said Corson. “I’ll work on it day and night.”

  Demetrius shook his head. “Don’t encourage him. He’s had thirty-seven years of practice already.”

  “Then a breakthrough should be imminent,” Corson declared.

  An old abandoned mill provided shelter that night, the stream that had once turned the wheel providing ready water for the party and their horses. The snow had kept up through the day, adding several inches to the ground cover, and Rowan watched with a frown as it increased in intensity just after nightfall. The wind gusted now and then such that visibility was near zero. “Your horses are powerful and large,” he said to Alexis, who shared the first watch with him, “but even they cannot maintain speed in this weather.”