Free The Soul Sphere: Book 02 - The Final Shard by David Adams

that had suddenly appeared in the wood. Corson noticed something else then, a pair of arrows that had pierced its head and entered its brain cavity. A dozen bowstrings sang out, and the creature was filled with the same number of feathered shafts. It backed up a few hesitant steps, then was treated to another volley. It tottered like a tree expertly cut by an axe, and in the same way it fell, crashing to the ground and remaining still.
    Corson lay there, stunned. He blinked hard, half expecting the vision of the dead wyvern to vanish or suddenly morph back into a living adversary. He shook himself, and then remembered Demetrius. His friend was lying ten feet away, face down on the ground. Past him lights appeared and advanced, and as they neared he could see they were lanterns carried by men, which had been shrouded by simple dark cloth that had now been thrown aside.
    “Stay your hands,” someone said in a firm tone. “If we see a weapon, we’ll shoot. You’ve seen how deadly our archers can be.”
    Corson held up empty hands. Demetrius did not move. Even with the lantern light, Corson could not tell if Demetrius’ chest rose and fell.
    The man who had spoken came nearer. His face was drawn and tired, his beard tangled and his hair unkempt. His clothes were frayed and tattered, but to Corson they were a beautiful sight, for they were the green and gold of Corindor.
    The man noticed the garb Corson wore as well, but he spoke warily. “You wear our colors.”
    “I served the king, and still serve this land. My name is Corson, and my wounded companion is Demetrius. He led the King’s Guard, and I served under him.”
    The man pondered this and nodded slowly, but behind him someone else called out, “Anyone can wear the colors and claim to have served a dead king.”
    “Thank you, Canon,” the man said with exaggerated emphasis, as if speaking to a child. He waved some men forward, who approached Corson and Demetrius with drawn swords. Corson held his hands a bit higher in supplication as the swords came within easy striking distance.
    “Midras,” the man called.
    One of the bowmen ran to his side. “Yes, sir.”
    “You served in King Rodaan’s Guard, correct?”
    “I did.”
    “These men claim to have done so as well. Corson and Demetrius, by name. Can you identify them?”
    “The names are true,” he said. He stepped forward, looked at Demetrius’ prone form for a moment, and then searched Corson’s face.
    Corson knew him, but he saw the shadow of doubt in the man’s eyes, and felt his heart begin to sink.
    Midras sighed and frowned. “I should say I don’t know you, to avenge your taking all my money at cards.”
    “Took your—” Corson choked on the words. “It was you that cleaned me out.”
    “I know,” he said. His face relaxed and he smiled broadly. “A test. Sorry.” He waved the swordsmen back and addressed the group. “They are true. Looks like they’ve been to hell and back, though.”
    “It feels like we have,” said Corson. “We’ve been away a long time.”
    The leader stepped forward and helped Corson to his feet. “Then we’ll be happy to hear your tale at camp. For now, welcome home.”
    *          *          *
    Rowan sniffed the air, thinking he smelled rain on it. He looked over his shoulder, back toward the Aetos Mountains, and saw deep purple storm clouds towering above them. A second glance assured him that the clouds were moving rapidly in their direction. If the storm did not overtake them that day, it certainly would that night.
    If his company had noticed his looks rearward they did not deem it necessary to see what it was that had caught his eye. Jazda spent most of his time staring mournfully at the ground, while Tala kept her stony gaze forward. They had buried Rande two days earlier, and had covered nearly a hundred miles since then, but a heavy cloud of gloom still hung about them, almost as palpable as the approaching storm clouds.
    Rowan