The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard (43 page)

Rowan tried to strike while his foe was distracted by the burn, the Avenger blade vibrating in his hand in expectation of tasting demon blood. The demon blocked Rowan’s sword arm with its injured hand, then found Rowan’s throat with the other. With frightening ease it lifted him off the ground and slammed him back into the wall, pinning him there.

The force of hitting the wall nearly knocked Rowan unconscious. The demon’s face swam in front of him, grotesque and distorted, and then everything started to go dark. He felt the clawed hand tighten, a vice on his throat, choking the life from him. His right hand pawed uselessly at the demon, while the left started to go slack. He sensed the sword slipping from his hand, felt the vibration lessen. Distantly he heard Tala’s voice, screaming his name. Something inside him awoke, a drowning man fighting for one last gasp of air before he was pulled under forever.

The demon had its face inches from Rowan’s, those terrible glowing eyes boring into him, its breath hot and foul. Rowan forced himself to smile. The demon cocked its head to one side, trying to understand this strange creature it was killing.

Rowan brought the sword up, striking the demon just under the ribs. An ordinary sword would have cut the monster but done little permanent damage. But Rowan wielded an Avenger blade, the sword of a paladin, forged in times beyond the history of Arkania. The blade hummed and tore through the demon as if it were no more than thin paper. The sword exited the demon through the opposite shoulder, near the neck. Rowan felt the grip that held him lose its strength, and the red eyes dimmed. The demon fell, cloven in two parts, dropping Rowan to the stairs.

Rowan regained his breath and his feet. He looked at the sword, which showed no signs of having just been through flesh, blood, and bone. If anything the white light was purer and brighter. He turned back in time to see Demetrius waving Tala onward. She touched his brow gently, smiled, and then ran to Rowan.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Well enough,” he replied. “Demetrius?”

“We will get him on the way back.”

Rowan nodded his understanding. It would be just the two of them. He eyed the open doorway, took a deep breath, and led the way up.

A soft yellow light, faintly visible from the stairs, illuminated the chamber. Rowan was torn between the desire to sheath his sword, the light of which made him feel exposed and far too easy a target, and the need to be prepared for who—or what—awaited them in the upper chamber.
He already knows we’re here
, he reminded himself. He held the sword before him and stepped through the shattered remains of the door.

The atmosphere in the room was thick, pungent with the smell of decay and death. Oil lamps with dirty glass covers cast a muddy light that struggled to illuminate the whole chamber. Two windows which in the past might have given breathtaking views of the city and the sea had been covered with stone, the outline of the newer additions still apparent as the older stone had blackened over time. Shelves and a pair of tables held sheaves of paper and bottles of various sizes, some empty and others filled with strange powders, leaves, or roots. Closer to the center of the room a brazier held a few embers from a dying fire, and near it a large crystal ball sat atop a pedestal, its top surface covered with dust. The roof was high—maybe fourteen feet from the floor—and was barely visible in the meager light of the lamps. On the floor a large pentagram had been drawn in uneven lines, and within the figure the stone had a subtle, shifting color—yellow, orange, and red—as if a fire burned within the rock.

Beyond the brazier was situated a throne of stone, a simple square seat hewn from gray rock flecked with black. Upon this throne sat Solek. His eyes were closed and his bearded chin was on his chest as if he slept. His hair was gray, long and unkempt, as was his mustache and beard. He wore a robe that might have been white once, but was filthy with dirt and stains. His skin was deeply wrinkled, and his visage was worn and haggard, no peace there even in repose. His hands were thin and frail, the fingernails long, thick, and yellow. Blood, still wet and bright red, trickled from his nose and the corner of his mouth, coloring his facial hair. If Solek was aware that Rowan had entered the room, he hid it well.

Tala stepped into the room and touched Rowan lightly on the shoulder. “Be careful,” she whispered.

Rowan did not need to be told. Solek’s near-death appearance hadn’t stirred any false confidence within him. With his sword held before him, a weapon, a light, and a warding device, he moved toward the throne. Before he finished his first step, the pentagram flared brightly, and a clawed hand reached out, trying to grip the stone floor. It seemed a disembodied appendage, melding into the stone floor just below the wrist. A second hand rose up, joining the first in trying to find purchase and draw the as-yet-unseen body upward.

Rowan lunged forward and brought his sword down on one of the hands, slicing through it easily. The remaining portion pulled back, trailing black blood, and vanished through the floor, as did the other hand. Rowan noted that the sword had penetrated into the stone as easily as if it simply sliced through the air. He drew the Avenger blade above his head, and then slashed down on the pentagram, still half-expecting the shock of metal hitting unforgiving stone. Instead it went into the floor without resistance and he started to lose his balance. Tala grabbed his arm and steadied him. He turned the sword with little effort, made a quick back-and-forth slash perpendicular to the first, and then completely withdrew the sword.

Tala looked over his shoulder at the figure drawn on the floor. The stone was simply gray now, no fiery shades tinting it. The pentagram’s outline remained, and she could now see in the white fire cast by Rowan’s sword that it had been drawn in blood. The stone itself was scored where the sword had penetrated it, leaving the shape of a cross which had closed the door to another plane and sealed it.

Rowan and Tala now turned their full attention to Solek, who had still not stirred. Rowan pointed to a spot a few feet to the left, where they could get an unobstructed view of the throne. Tala slid over to the point and nocked an arrow in her bow, ready to let fly. Rowan circled to the right to keep out of her line of sight, then approached the slumped form on the stone chair. He froze a half-dozen feet away as Solek slowly lifted his head and his eyes fluttered open.

Those eyes were solid back, no sign of any iris, and possessed an almost tangible hunger that contrasted with the rest of his worn-out form. He turned his head a bit so that he could regard Tala fully, and when he spoke to her his voice had an echo to it, a shadow speaking from unimagined depths. “You have done well. Have you brought the Sphere as I commanded you?”

“I do not answer to you,” Tala said, her voice betraying her with a slight tremble.

Solek laughed, a deep, evil sound. “All answer to me, now or later. It is only a matter of time.”

“We do not,” Rowan said, “and will not.”

“Bravely said, paladin. You may take longer to break than some, but break you will. Are you aware that the she-elf was bidden to bring the Sphere to me? You are just an added prize.”

“Seems you fought quite hard to keep us away.”

“A trifle, meant to show your so-called army that they stood no chance. But the she-elf, my agent among you, was to come to no harm until she delivered the Sphere to me.” He raised a hand, causing Rowan to back up a half step, but he simply held an open palm toward Tala. “Give me the Sphere, and receive your reward.”

“You have nothing that I want,” Tala said, her voice now as taut as the muscles which kept the bowstring pulled back. “We are here for the final shard, not because you desire us to bring the Sphere to you.”

“You are here because I allow it. Your destruction could have been accomplished with ease a dozen times over, but you have proven your mettle. Serve me now and live.”

“Even if I had to die a thousand deaths I could never be your servant,” Rowan said.

“Ah, yes, the Savior,” Solek said with a sneer. “And where is he? Surely he is not here. Have your prayers struck me down, brought you peace and security? It is I who deign to walk among mortals, I who strike them down or raise them up to be kings and queens. Sit at my right hand, Rowan. Be my captain and I will give you kingdoms to rule.”

“Why do you waste time with such words? If you could truly give and take as you say, you would not need to ask for my allegiance. There is only one with such power, and you are his enemy. He will see your ruin in the end, and despite your lies and bravado, you know the final fate prepared for you.”

“You are a fool, paladin,” Solek answered, his voice rising in anger. “You will be struck down, and you will be mine.” His tone lowered, softer but full of threat and malice. “You will suffer by my hand for all eternity.”

“You can strike down my body, but my soul belongs to another, and no power you possess may claim it.”

Solek gathered himself as if to rise, and Rowan pointed the sword at him. The blade was lost in the blinding white light it cast. Solek slumped back into his seat and sighed. “It matters not. Strike me down, an old, frail man, and tell yourself you have won. But to me a thousand years are but an instant in eternity. Men will never change. They yearn for power and they forget the past. Cut me down, brave paladin. I am defenseless. Claim your hollow victory. But know that some day what has happened will be forgotten, and I will return, more powerful than ever.”

For a moment Rowan simply held his ground, studying the defiant look on Solek’s face. When he finally acted, it was not with the sword, but rather with his empty hand. He slid his fingers about the cord around Solek’s neck, and pulled out the small amulet that hung from it and was hidden beneath his robe. Inside the faceted glass the final shard was held, giving off its faint yellow-green glow.

Solek did not resist, only staring at Rowan with those bottomless eyes. When Rowan yanked the cord and it snapped, Solek lowered his head, beaten. He took a few deep breaths, almost as if he was falling asleep, then with an effort lifted his face. Fresh blood poured freely from his nose. As he raised his eyes the black was gone, leaving eyes bloodshot and yellow but far more human. He coughed hard, a small spray of blood escaping with each racking spasm. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and then said, “Leave me now. Let me die in peace.”

“And why should you have such a reward?” Rowan asked. His voice was deep and dark. And wrong.

Tala shivered at the menace she heard in Rowan’s tone and words. “Rowan, give me the shard.”

“In a moment. I will deal with Solek first.”

“Once we complete the Sphere he can do no further harm. Look at him. His treacherous alliance with the Dark One has left him a worn out shell.”

“In that you speak truth. But it is because he was weak that he is like this. He is pathetic. The strong will have the victory. The strong will rule.”

“Rowan,” Tala said. “Listen to yourself.”

“The time for talk is done.”

Tala called his name again, louder, as Rowan pulled back his sword arm. He ignored her, instead driving the blade into Solek’s heart.

The old mage grabbed at the hilt of the sword and the hand that held it, and then his hands fell away. He opened his mouth, the teeth red with blood, but his strength fled before he could speak. He slumped to the arm of the stone throne, dead.

Tala closed her eyes for a moment, the bow she held dropping a bit as her arms went slack. “Why?” she finally asked. “There was no need to do that.”

Rowan wheeled on her, his blazing sword before him. “You are weak, just like Solek,” he said. As he let the sword drop to his side, she could see that his eyes had a red glow. He smiled at her, a cruel, malicious look.

Tala’s bow was back up in an instant, leveled at Rowan’s chest. “Toss me the shard, Rowan.”

He advanced a step. “Give me the Sphere.”

Tala tried to slide backward, but the wall soon met her back. Her hand strained against the bow, which was pulled fully taut. “Rowan…do not make me do this.”

“Make it a good shot,” he said, his tone taunting. “You’ll only get one.”

“Come no further!” she cried, trying to put on an air of command.