The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (19 page)

“If you have a better plan, I’d be happy to hear it.”

“My plan is simple,” he said, waving at the table. “Enjoy what little time is left to us. Solek has already won. The land itself dies. If I could find men brave enough to farm the fields, I doubt the crops would be anything but shriveled reminders of our own fate. My people, what is left of them, shelter here and await their doom. It is coming whether the Dead Legion returns or not, whether you succeed or not. Slow or swift, it hardly matters in the end.”

Alexis paused, wanting to respond with measured words, but failed. “You coward.”

Duke Fallo laughed, but the sound held no mirth. “You cannot inspire me to action with your hollow insults. If I choose a different path to death than you, that is my concern.”

“If we are doomed alike then come with us. Die nobly and hurt your enemy in the process.”

“Did you learn that sentiment from your goblin friend here?”

“She did not,” said Lucien, “but there is truth in it.”

“Maybe so,” the duke admitted, “and were I younger and more naïve, I might follow you to be crushed under Solek’s heel. If Solek deigns to strike here again, we will perhaps choose this noble death you speak of. But for now, I will enjoy a roof, a bed, and three meals a day, as will my people.”

Alexis studied the duke and saw a hardness in his expression that had been buried while he ate and played at not caring what went on beyond the walls of his city. Here was a place, the look said, where he could draw a line, and no words or power she had could compel him to change. She allowed herself an exaggerated sigh. “The coming battle will be difficult, and many will fall. We could use your help.”

The duke shook his head. “I’m sorry. You will not have it.”

Alexis bowed her head briefly. “So you have chosen. I would ask leave for the goblin army to march through the Westerland. The longer path would—”

“Stop!” the Duke commanded, slamming a fist on the table. “Enough. I will not allow it, and if you think me too cowardly to move an army beyond these walls, march the goblins this way and find out otherwise.”

Lucien could constrain himself no longer. “You would be destroyed.”

“Maybe if your whole army could reach the city, but passing the wall will do you great harm.”

“Wall is broken and guarded by boys.”

“You might find it otherwise if an army approaches it.”

“Empty words from empty man. I should—”

Alexis stopped him with a gentle touch on his arm. "We will not use our strength fighting our way through,” she told him, “even though I am certain the outcome would be as you say.” Here she spared the duke a quick, icy glare. “If you choose to stay buried in your own tomb, we will trouble you no more. I hope if we’re successful, you’ll find it within yourself to reclaim the heart and soul you seem to have lost.”

The duke’s smile was almost a sneer. “Please, don’t think too ill of me,” he said without conviction. “You have shared my table. Stay the night, take what rest you can.”

“No,” Alexis said firmly. “We thank you for the food, but time is our enemy now as well. We will depart at once.”

“Go then,” said the duke. “I would wish you well, but the words would likely echo hollow in your ears.”

“At least in this you speak the truth.”

*          *          *

There was something foul in the air, and Demetrius stopped in mid-breath with a wince of disgust. It was as if the rot in Veldoon was carried by the breeze, and even on a fresh spring day, where the sun bathed him in warmth and light, the reek was an underlying reminder of the sickness and death that seemed to pervade everything. He tried to remember to be grateful that he could inhale deeply now, his injuries healed to the point that only sudden, sharp motions brought back the pain. It didn’t hurt that he rode while most with him marched on foot. Normally he would have walked as well just on principle, but those afoot cared not for horses, and did not begrudge him his seat upon one.

Before they had broken camp, Granos had made the decision that Demetrius, Rowan, Midras, and another dozen men should ride north to try to reach the dwarves that had offered to join them in battle. They had passed safely through the lands where the wyverns had hunted them, then back into the Westerland. They lost a few days following what signs they could find of the dwarves’ movements, but soon enough found them. The dwarves were ready for action, their axes sharp and a deadly gleam in their eyes. Nearly a thousand there were, a welcome surprise. Dwarves were slow on the march, but hearty, keeping their legs moving long after others would have given out for the day. The long march did not wear on them or dampen their desire to strike at their tormentor, and though there was little singing or light talk at march or camp, there was a certain enthusiasm that bonded the group and helped stifle the feeling of impending doom that came at them as surely as the stench carried on the wind.

The Stone Mountains had formed a barrier to their right for weeks, and Demetrius often looked that way, as if he hoped to see through them to be assured the Corindoran army was making equal progress on the southern side. They would know in a few days, when they reached the end of the range, and if fate really smiled upon them the Delvish forces would be there, too, moving up from the south.

But today fate had other plans. The attack came from the north. The Dead Legion marched brazenly, in the open, unconcerned with surprising the enemy. They came tramping across the grassy fields between the Aetos and Stone ranges, a long line of rotting former humanity. The wind shifted, and the odor that had offended Demetrius only moments before was lost in the foul decay of the Dead.

The leaders the dwarves had selected sprang into action, the slowness of the Dead’s approach giving them time to organize into battle lines rather than being hit while strung out for the march. For that, Demetrius was thankful.

 Corson rode up. “None mounted, no demon lords that I can see,” he said, giving his assessment.

Demetrius had been studying their foe as well. “I see the same. We fight mounted,” he said louder, so that the others that rode from Corindor could hear. “Once they engage, we circle to the right and drive into their flank and rear.”

The dwarves had shown commendable discipline in forming up, but a light was in their eyes, a battle fury. Before the Dead reached them it became more than they could bear. With first a single shout, and then a massed cry, the dwarves moved forward. They were outnumbered three to one, but the Dead fought in a controlled, conservative manner, while the dwarves hacked and hewed with righteous anger. If their strength held out, they could carry the day, but if not…the Dead did not tire.

The Dead had no warriors horsed, but their bowmen understood the threat of the charging riders. They loosed their arrows, but tucked as they were in the center of the Dead line, they found their marks—fast moving and on the flank—difficult to find.

“Watch for more volleys!” Demetrius shouted over the tumult of battle and pounding hooves. “They won’t hesitate to fire into their own ranks to strike at us.”

Demetrius had his sword out, and he swung it once without feeling any pain. Whether he was completely healed from his injuries or simply protected by the rush of adrenaline, he did not question. He nudged his horse for full effort, and it responded, leading the way. Had he had time to look back, he would have seen only Corson, also on a Lorgrasian horse, was able to keep up, and that two of the other mounts, now seeing the Dead for what they were, refused their masters’ commands and turned to flee instead.

Demetrius and Corson cut a swath through the enemy, their rampaging horses doing more damage than their swords. The dwarves cried out upon seeing the riders scatter their foe, and pressed forward all the harder. The Dead’s left flank began to crumble. Demetrius could feel it, could feel the pulse of battle change, the momentum firmly in their hands and brought to bear on the faltering enemy. His sword rose and fell, a scythe slicing through a ripe field. He heard bones snap under his mount’s relentless hooves.

He raised his sword again, and his eyes searched for the next target. Moving against the surge of bodies a foe charged, one only recently dead. The pale gray skin was just starting to decay and the eyes were still intact, but behind them was the subtle red glow that was seen brightly in the empty sockets of most of the Legion. For an instant the face turned upwards and the eyes met his own, and Demetrius hesitated.

It was a young girl who gazed up at him, no more than eleven. Curly locks of red hair fell to her shoulders, the dirt from the grave still tangled there. In her hand she held a leg bone to use as a weapon. She raised it and opened her mouth in a soulless scream. Demetrius felt frozen in place, his sword arm locked in an upraised position. Then she was gone, in a flash of steel. The face and hair spun like a top and then fell to the ground, rolling away from the collapsing body.

The frozen moment ended, and the sounds and smells of battle returned. One of the other riders had struck where Demetrius had paused. Demetrius had known Solek’s spells did not discriminate against any that might be raised to fight, but that knowledge had fled him when he needed it. He roared aloud, angry at his weakness, angry at what was still the image of a young girl brutally slain before him. His anger drove him, and the Dead fell.

*          *          *

The field was quiet, save for the sounds of graves being dug. Time was short, but the dwarves would not leave their dead unburied. They had carried the battle and then done the hard labor of making sure those who had fallen would not rise again to aid Solek, so there was little thought to arguing about the further delay. Demetrius sat alone, wiping blood and dirt from his face in thoughtless little motions, but what he wanted to erase he could not. Over and over he saw the girl’s face, the empty scream, the flash of steel.

“You all right?” asked Corson.

“Fine,” he said. He forced himself to look up at his friend, but could not force a smile. “You look like you came through the battle okay.”

“Better than many.”

“How many did we lose?”

“About three hundred. Dwarves that is. Two riders. Considering the numbers, we should be happy, but…”

Demetrius nodded. “But Solek fights with a much deeper pool of resources.”

Corson sat next to his friend and watched the dwarves work for a time. “They are quick with earth and stone. We’ll be away before nightfall.”

“That is well. We can’t camp on this field tonight, so we’ll need to get a few hours’ march behind us before we rest.”

Corson was silent for a few moments, then laughed softly to himself.

Demetrius looked at him, curious. “What is it?”

“I was just thinking that we won. A pretty grim crew we make, considering.”

“There is always bitterness in war, even in victory,” Demetrius said. “Still, you are right. We bloodied Solek’s nose and gave him something to think about. I’m glad we have the dwarves with us. They do some powerful work with those axes.”

“That they do,” Corson replied. He watched the sun as it passed behind some low clouds in the west. Less than an hour until sunset, he guessed. “I wish I knew how the others were doing.”

“So do I,” said Demetrius. “So do I.”

*          *          *

Rowan led the Delvish army directly up the Bay Road. He rode at
the front of 3,000 men and women, arrayed for battle, and he sat tall and brave in the saddle, an example for those behind him. He had Tala to thank for that. As they had ridden back to Delving, he had pulled
more and more within himself, the weight of leadership and responsibility pressing on him relentlessly. He had no fear for his own life, but leading an army into battle was something he had not trained for, nor did he desire it. He would have preferred making his way into Veldoon alone rather than doing this. One night as they camped in the darkness, Tala had addressed the issue in the most blunt terms.

“You cannot lead an army like this,” she said.