The Soul Sphere: Book 01 - The Shattered Sphere (20 page)

Whether any threat remained just out of sight, none could say, but they passed the day in relative peace. Alexis shared the first watch of the night with Lucien, and when it was over and she curled up to sleep, she was grateful for the extra blankets Ballthor had given them. It was more brisk this night than their last under the stars, the contrast more striking since she had grown accustomed to Ballthor’s fire. She shivered until sleep finally took her some hours later.

Chapter 6: The Lost City

Tala woke with a start, her dreams troubled again. She touched her leg absentmindedly, then realizing what she was doing she proceeded to rub the soreness away. She shook off her blanket, pulled the wrecked Soul Sphere from her pouch, and then mouthed the words of the finding spell. As always, she felt the tiredness come over her as the magic took her energy—something must be given in payment for anything gained, she had been taught, and mages found it was no different with their power. Her mind was sharp, and whatever lingering effects she might feel from the Skezis’ poison was confined to a dull ache in her leg. Once the spell had done its work, she stood, found her legs were steady beneath her, and then blew out a relieved breath.

“Your recovery is nearly complete,” Rowan said with a knowing smile. “You can still use the magic.”

“Without swooning, yes,” she answered with a laugh. “We did well yesterday. We need to keep moving north, a day’s travel, maybe less.”

They marched that day as they usually did in these woods, single file, saying little, torches lit and weapons at hand. Tala took her normal place near the rear, with only Corson behind her. She could fight as well as the rest, not with a sword or a warblade, but her bow was just as deadly. Her life she did not consider of more value than those of her companions, but the magic made her different, and she understood their unspoken concern about what would happen if she died. So she allowed herself to be maneuvered into traveling in a position that was always protected front and rear. She just hoped when they next met a foe she would not be expected to stand behind some tree or rock while the others risked their necks.

Corson preferred any position in line other than the one he was in—the rear. It was simple enough to follow Tala, but the front of the line was only apparent due to the dim flicker of the torches ahead, and behind him darkness closed like a rising tide of foul water. Every time he turned the blackness seemed to be lurching toward him, eager to swallow him up forever. By necessity his gaze frequently went to the rear, as he was tasked to make sure nothing stalked them, and these looks made his pace uneven and the travel even less pleasant. He was always glad when he rotated forward in the marching order.

He stumbled over a root, not for the first time, catching himself against the trunk of a tree, and then quickened his steps to keep close to Tala. Back he looked at the void, forward again, back, forward…

Corson never saw it strike since it came from above. He felt a sudden pressure around his chest and he was yanked into the air, and then toward the black canopy overhead. His sword fell from his hands, which kept him from slashing at his assailant. He gripped the thing that held him, a fleshy appendage that shone metallic green in the soft light of the torches below, his breath gone and the shout he tried to muster refusing to come.

Tala wheeled the instant Corson’s sword hit the ground. Her eyes and arms shot upward, and she caught a glimpse of what was pulling Corson up before she loosed an arrow. It drove home with a dull
thunk
, a foot or so above the flailing man. She called to the others and fired a second shot.

As the arrow found its mark, the pressure on Corson lessened and then vanished. The appendage slithered back into the trees as Corson made a sudden twenty foot return trip to the ground below. He was no acrobat, but his time on the wall at Mill Harbor served him well. He hit the ground and rolled, spreading the shock of impact. He came to his feet intact but for a slight ankle sprain and a set of bruises that would soon be blooming, grabbed his sword and shouted, “Go!”

Some twenty minutes later they stopped, out of breath and warily searching the trees above. Corson thanked Tala profusely, realizing how close he had come to becoming something’s midday meal.

“What was it?” Demetrius asked.

“I didn’t see much,” replied Corson. “A well-muscled thing, like a snake or the arm of a weight-lifting octopus.”

“Tree squid?” Rowan offered.

Corson turned toward the paladin with a look of surprise. Seeing the way Rowan’s eyes danced, he couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps,” he allowed.

“It must have been huge,” said Tala, “to have enough leverage to reach so far down and pull a man up like that.”

“So now we watch up as well,” grumbled Lucien.

“We’re going to get strained necks from all this looking around,” said Corson.

“Better a sore neck than a broken one” said Demetrius. He placed a hand on Corson’s arm, saying quietly, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Not as glad as I am,” Corson answered, rubbing his chest where the thing had held him.

Alexis called to the group, “Let’s be off. The sooner we reach this underground city, the sooner we get out of this wood.”

Late in the day, Tala told them they had arrived as she peered off into the darkness to the northeast. “An entrance, I believe. Five hundred feet in that direction.”

They closed ranks, traveling in a pack now rather than a line, the need for speed giving way to the need for strength. They held their torches before them, but even the combined light did little to overcome the oppressive gloom of the dire forest. Suddenly it appeared, an open doorway framed in gray brick. A ramp angled down just inside the opening, and the stone that framed this descending structure behind the door simply sloped directly through the forest floor. It seemed odd and out of place, standing alone as it did amongst the trees, a stone monolith from another time.

“This was too easy to find,” said Demetrius with a frown. “I don’t like it.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Alexis. “But unless there is another way in, it is the path we must take.”

“Not sure I’d want to take the time to look for another way in, considering that thing in the trees might be coming after us,” said Rowan.

Demetrius grabbed a torch. “I will lead.”

They had traveled for days in darkness, yet somehow the stone door framed a blackness that seemed deeper and thicker. Demetrius took a deep breath and stepped forward, wondering if something in that entrance would extinguish the torch or simply swallow him up, but the light penetrated beyond the door, casting a glow against the inner walls, which were of the same gray brick that outlined the door. He moved cautiously down the ramp, making sure his feet did not slip on the worn surface, finding some comfort in the footfalls he heard behind him. He glanced back once to see it was Lucien, and the sight of the warblade the goblin held in his well-muscled arms bolstered him even further.

The ramp descended a hundred feet to a second open doorway. Beyond this the floor leveled out. Demetrius stuck the torch through this second opening, waving it back and forth a few times like a signal. It was possible the flame drew attention, but it did not draw a reaction.

Holding the torch aloft, Demetrius stepped into what he thought was a large room. But the light could not reach the ceiling or even the walls in any direction but behind him, where he had entered. As the others joined him and extra light was added, buildings came into view, stone facades that had cracked and crumbled with age, empty doors and windows that looked like moaning spirits, hollow and empty and lost forever.

“The Lost City,” Alexis intoned, recalling conversations with Ballthor during Tala’s recuperation. “Ancient beyond recorded history.”

“And holding untold dangers and restless spirits,” Demetrius added, “if legend be true. I’m more concerned with more recent occupants, those in Solek’s employ.”

“The shard?” Rowan asked Tala.

She checked, and then said, “A half mile ahead, but fifty feet below where we stand.”

“Lovely,” Corson said. “Another nest, or a pit perhaps.”

“Not find out talking here,” said Lucien. He took the lead, Demetrius taking a position by his elbow so the way would be lit. Lucien kept both hands on his warblade, ready for immediate action. Three torches were always kept lit as they traveled, either real or magical, but Lucien always requested that he be one of the ready warriors. None had thought to deny him. They had all seen him fight.

Buildings loomed above them like silent sentinels as they walked down what appeared to be the main street of the city, their footfalls echoing dully off distant walls. The glow of their torches did not penetrate the structures’ openings, and none who passed these empty doors and windows wished to explore. If any signs of past life had been left on these streets—a market stall, a cart, a water barrel, a child’s toy—time had long since ground them to dust.

A distant moan wafted through the city, a tired sigh, freezing them where the stood.

“Wind?” Rowan asked hopefully.

“More likely to be the tree squid,” Corson retorted. The air was close here. A breeze would have been a welcome relief.

From the darkness before them a light shimmered to life, then more appeared. They coalesced as they moved toward the adventurers, and something began to take form. In shape it was much like a man, although larger than any who walked Arkania and indistinct around the edges, as if the blackness of the city tried to pull it apart. It shone blue-white, its skin and clothing—a vest, breeches, and heavy boots—all the same glowing hue. Its face appeared pained, the mouth drawn into a permanent cry of agony, and it stared at them with blind eyes. When it walked it did not stir the dust or make any sound. It came to a halt ten feet in front of them.

For a moment all was still as the travelers and the specter regarded one another. Then a moan emanated from somewhere deep within the phantom, rising in volume until it was a wonder the sound did not shake the walls of the city down. The cry went on for a dozen seconds that seemed much longer to those listening, then abruptly stopped.

“I’m not positive,” said Rowan, “but I believe we are supposed to be fleeing in terror right now.”

“I let it taste my blade,” said Lucien. “Then it flees.”

“Not yet,” said Demetrius. “But if it comes closer…”

“I know why you have come,” the specter said in a voice as cold as a winter’s grave.

“Tell us then,” Rowan said with a neutral expression.

“You have come here to die.”

“Not so,” answered the paladin.

“That is the fate of all who enter here. I sense little fear in you, but the end is always the same. Cruel death.”

“We know death,” growled Lucien while he brandished his warblade. “If want to fight, do so.”

The phantom laughed, a harsh, mirthless noise that chilled the blood. It lifted its right arm, grasped its own hair, and then pulled its head off. Tucking the head under its arm like a package, it said, “I have done my fair share of fighting, goblin, but I am beyond the reach of your fearsome weapon.”

“Then why do you speak to us?” Rowan asked.

“The spirits here find no rest. Some call this ‘The Lost City,’ and believe it is so named because it is hidden. They are wrong. Those who perish here are lost forever, their souls trapped as mine is. We want no further company, nor would I wish such a fate on anyone still living. A warning is all I can give, and so I give it. Leave now. If you are so anxious to die, return to the surface and fall on your own swords. At least then your spirits might find rest.” The message given, the phantom simply vanished.

After a momentary pause, Alexis asked, “Should we believe it?”

“Does it matter?” Demetrius replied.

“I guess not,” Alexis said. “We all know we’re going ahead regardless.”

Corson was holding one of the torches, and as they resumed their journey he looked from one building to the next, the light illuminating just enough of the crumbling structures to show how many hiding places there were in the shadows. He mumbled calming words to himself.

You’re going to die here
.

Corson shook the thought away. “Are we almost there?” he asked, more to hear his own voice than anything else.