The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (4 page)

The men pulled Rande away from the horses and toward the fire. A twisted expression of pain was etched on Rande’s face, and although his jaw quivered and his eyes watered, he choked off any shouts of anguish.

Rowan laid hands on the boy and prayed silently, trying to soothe him, but the bite of the demon dog was vicious and cruel. “I have to see the wound,” he said when he finished the prayer.

Reluctantly, Rande let Rowan pull his good hand away from the bite. The paladin studied the damage with a grim expression. “Find something to make a tourniquet out of,” he told Jazda.

“Is it—?”

“Quickly!”

Rande closed his eyes to escape the frightened looks on the others’ faces. Tremors began to shake his body, and occasionally a spasm racked him, causing him to wince.

Tala had settled the horses and knelt beside Rowan. “The dogs have moved off.”

“I know,” Rowan said. He held Rande’s arm, one hand on each side of the bite, and the boy calmed a bit.

Tala stood silent until Rowan finally made eye contact with her. The question on her face was obvious. Rowan tried to shrug, as if he was unsure, but his head shook side-to-side ever so slightly.

Jazda had torn some strips from his cloak. “Where?” he asked.

“Here, just below the shoulder. Tie it as tight as you can.”

Rande gave small grunt of pain as the strips were pulled taut. A tear trickled from each closed eye.

“What kind of shape are the horses in?” Rowan asked Tala.

“Two dead. I had to put the second down; the dogs had killed the first. Another one is injured and might heal, but he will not be able to bear a rider and may not be able to move at more than a walk. The other three are spooked but fine otherwise.”

Rowan shook his head. “We have little choice. We have to flee quickly. I fear the dogs will return in greater numbers.”

“What about Rande?” asked Jazda. “Can he travel?”

“He will have to. There is no more I can do for him here. We must wait and pray.”

“I’ll take him with me,” said Tala. “Less weight on the horse.”

Rowan nodded. “But we should switch from time to time. We will need as much speed as the horses can give us. The dawn may be our salvation, but I do not trust even the sun in these dark days.”

A moment later they were away. Somewhere in the distance a keening howl rent the night. A hundred similar voices answered.

*          *          *

Alexis had chosen a course that hugged the northern coast, and while rumors of unnamed beasts prowling Arkania further south abounded, they were no more than distant talk here. Alexis wondered, though, if the coming of spring would bring fouler things as well.

Their time in Lumia had been far too short, and was now a week in the past. They had six fresh horses and plenty of supplies—too much on both accounts, but Alexis accepted it with a quiet grace. It was enough to ask that her warriors allow her to venture into the Shadowlands with only a goblin as a companion, and they would not have her do so ill-prepared. She had grown accustomed to missing meals or eating child-sized portions, and now she found that even when ample food was available she needed little to sustain her strength. Lucien only took what he needed as well—whether out of politeness or a shrunken stomach she could not say, and he wasn’t going to volunteer the information. The goblin still said little.

The journey to the west bank of the Wandering River had been swift and uneventful, and they forded it near the sea without much of a struggle. They could only hope their friends moving south were having as easy a time.

The land to the west of the river was no different than it was to the east, but Alexis surveyed it solemnly. A year ago she would not have considered being here without an army at her back. The Dark One had changed many things in her world, and while most were for the worse, a few things were actually better.

Lucien moved his horse ahead, exchanging a nod with Alexis as he did so. This was his land now, and he would take the lead. “We move southwest now. My pack there when I leave.”

“You have no idea where they are now?”

“Who knows what Legion has done,” he stated.

As they moved on they passed through gently rolling hills, and beyond these they would reach the Great Plain which stretched from the Westerland in the east far into the goblin realm in the west. They picked their way easily through sparse woods and shallow streams, and with six horses at their disposal their mounts did not grow tired. On the sixth day since they had crossed the Wandering River, Alexis commented on how quiet the land was. “I thought we would have encountered your pack by now.”

“I think same. Game scarce too. Do not need food, but it like land itself died.”

They camped that night under the shelter of a small cluster of oaks, then set out again as the sun rose behind thick clouds. A gentle mist of cold rain had started to fall during the night, the first poor weather they had seen since the storm at sea, and it continued on and off throughout the day. As evening fell, Lucien suddenly reined up, sniffing the air.

“What is it?” Alexis whispered.

“Battle fought close by here. Today, I think.”

Less than ten minutes later they came upon the scene. Corpses littered the ground—all goblin. The blood from their wounds had yet to be washed from the ground by the sporadic rain. Alexis and Lucien dismounted and walked through the carnage in silence, leading their horses carefully. Near the center of the battlefield Lucien stopped and studied what surrounded him for a time.

“Delosh and Omwee,” he said finally.

“The packs?”

He nodded. “No other colors here. These were living when they fought. Goblin fight only, not goblin against Legion.”

“Is there a history of conflict between these packs?”

Lucien grunted. “Between all packs. That much of what humans think of goblins true. But has been peace for years. Now is not time for this.”

Alexis agreed. “When we fight one another, it only serves Solek.”

“We circle field to see which way armies—or victors—left.”

“To follow them or avoid them?”

“Not know yet. Want to know where they are though.”

They were able to find signs of the departing forces—all moving off to the west. Whether the marks were those of only one army, or a victor in pursuit of the vanquished, they could not tell.

“We go south,” said Lucien. “May find friend or foe if overtake them. Rather find own pack first.”

“Is it safe to camp nearby?” Alexis asked.

“Want to get away from open grave. Go another hour, carefully, then can look for place to camp. Tonight we have no fire. Not sure what or who is close.”

“I heartily agree,” said Alexis.

They slowly rode off into the night, leaving the dead to stare up into the black rain.

*          *          *

For six days Demetrius and Corson had neither seen nor heard anything of the odd creature that had attacked them. Whether it had crawled off and died from its injuries, not been able to keep pace with the horses, or simply decided to look for easier prey was uncertain, but the men enjoyed the relative peace regardless.

They had forded the Wandering River without too much difficulty, and had made steady progress across the eastern portion of the Great Plain, crossing the road connecting Western City and Arna’s Forge earlier in the day. Home was starting to feel close.

Demetrius studied his younger friend, who had taken the lead. Corson had always been a competent horseman, and he guided his mount now with a firm, steady hand. They talked frequently as they traveled, and easily, as friends do. But Demetrius had noticed a change in Corson since they had set out months ago on their quest, and it had become more pronounced since they had parted ways with the larger company. They had both aged, yes, but this was something different.

Demetrius clicked at his horse and moved up beside Corson. “You’re not as quick with a joke as you used to be.”

Corson rubbed the stubble on his chin as if thinking. “Okay. There was a farmer—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” A few seconds passed before Corson went on. “Maybe I have seen too much. Maybe I’m just tired of being the jester.”

“I never saw you that way. Even I know the value of a laugh and smile.”

Corson chuckled. “Well, why don’t you do the jokes for a while?”

“Always been afraid I’d show you up.”

Corson’s laugh was deeper this time, and more genuine. “You’ve been holding back your good material?”

“Unfortunately you’ve already heard my best. That’s why I stick to swords.”

Corson let his gaze fall to the ground. “Maybe I should stick to jokes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

Demetrius did not stir as Corson’s words trailed off. He knew him well enough to wait.

Corson continued after a long pause. “I’ve begun to wonder if the jokes are just a way for me to hide my fear.”

“So what if it is? We all have our own ways of hiding our fear.”

“You?”

Now it was Demetrius’ turn to laugh. “If you think I have no fear, you don’t know me as well as I thought.”

“I’ve never seen any sign of you being afraid of anything.”

“Good. Fear can be used by an enemy. If a joke hides yours, so be it. But believe me, I’ve been afraid many times in the last year. Far more often than I thought possible, actually. But these are…unique times.”

“That they are.”

“Corson, when I tried to send you away before I set out to find the prince, it was out of friendship and a belief that you could help lead our people in Corindor. I’ve never doubted your courage, or your friendship. I believe in you, as do Tala, Lucien, and the others. And I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well, I’d prefer to be in front of a fire, with my love beside me and a warm meal and a cold mug of mead before me. But I guess you’ll do.”

Demetrius smiled and shook his head. He moved his horse forward to take the lead.

“Demetrius?”

Demetrius glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Corson said.

Demetrius nodded once, and then turned away and left his friend to his own thoughts.

That night they built a small fire in the shelter of a half-dozen large rocks that were clustered together in an otherwise flat, grassy, treeless plain. They ate a humble meal and set the watch.

Demetrius wrapped himself in his cloak and tried to settle in for a few hours of sleep. He watched scattered clouds drift by overhead, the moon playing hide-and-seek and the stars joining in as well. He heard the sound of the horses grazing, and Corson’s light footfalls as he circled the rocks. The steps stopped, and Demetrius listened for them to resume. When they didn’t, he silently got up.

Corson had his back to the camp. He was staring into the darkness, in a ready pose, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Demetrius carefully approached him.

“Something out there,” Corson whispered, not bothering to look at his friend. He knew Demetrius’ footfalls well enough.

A half-dozen forms, then more, seemed to materialize before them and advanced slowly on their position. At first they were no more than short, broad shadows, but as they moved nearer the light of the campfire it was plain that they were dwarves. They wore heavy chain mail and helms, and the axes they wielded were notched from use and stained with dried blood. Even in the light, their faces were dark and grim.