Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  Drogni didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. It will be enough, because it has to be. For those who died on Hilthak—for those who died at Denlar—I can’t fail. “Maybe, maybe not. But I do know one thing—I won’t stop until he’s dead. I swear, for Daniel Lester, Tina Galdro, Palis Denar, Sara Westan, and Gregory Daalis. No matter what it takes, I will kill him.”

  The Vizier appeared to contemplate that for a few moments. Then he leaned forward, until his forehead was mere centimeters from Drogni’s. “And what if I were to forbid it?” he said softly, his dark eyes locking onto Drogni’s. “What if I were to tell you that your personal vendetta with Rokan Sellas is at an end?”

  “I would tell you to go burn in the pits of Muntûrek,” said Drogni immediately, not flinching under the Vizier’s piercing gaze. “You cannot command me, Vizier.”

  The big man raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain of that, Commander?” he murmured, the words rolling out like distant thunder.

  Drogni’s anger burgeoned, straining to be free; it was only with a very great effort that he tamped it down. Instead of replying to the Vizier’s challenge, Drogni turned his gaze for the first time to the final man present. He sat beside the Vizier, his arms crossed on the table and his long fingers crooked against each other in a contemplative pose. His robes were of similar extravagance to the Vizier’s, but they were deep blue, the same color as his eyes. Encircling his head was a slim metal band inlaid with precious stones.

  Jorkan Grallos, King of Tellaria, met Drogni’s gaze calmly. But he said nothing.

  A wave of disgust swept away Drogni’s anger. Damn it, man—show some spine! But I guess that would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it? We all know who’s really in charge here.

  The Vizier regarded Drogni without speaking for several more moments, his dark eyes all but daring the Admiral to challenge him. Then he straightened, and his head turned towards Forgera. “And what about you, Ambassador? What if I were to tell you that your friend is lost, that I would not allow you to spend your life in a futile rescue attempt?”

  Drogni glanced over at the Ambassador. The man’s terror was apparent. His eyes were wide, and his breath came in short, shallow bursts. But his voice, although quiet, was backed with fierce resolve. “You can’t command me either.”

  The Vizier’s eyes narrowed, but the Ambassador held his ground. The two of them held a silent confrontation for a few more heartbeats, then the Vizier abruptly turned towards the man seated at Drogni’s left. “And you, Aras Makree? You have nothing at stake here. No tie to Rokan Sellas, or to Justin Varenn.” As the Vizier’s gaze roved over the Sergeant Major, the dark eyes suddenly widened, then narrowed just as quickly. The big man pointed a finger at Makree, and something verging between suspicion and understanding came into his voice. “Yet you too are a part of this. More than any of us know, I think. It was no accident that you survived Hilthak. Are you also determined to see this matter through to the end?”

  Drogni looked over at Makree, gauging his reaction, but the other soldier could have taught even the Vizier a thing or two about keeping one’s emotions hidden. “I am,” said the Black General calmly.

  The Vizier studied the three of them, and a smile crept slowly across his face. “Good. I had worried that your experiences on Hilthak might have weakened your resolve, shattered your courage. I am pleased to see that that was not the case.”

  Drogni blinked. Was that satisfaction in the Vizier’s voice? A moment ago, the big man had seemed almost angered by their collective refusal to let Rokan Sellas go. Had that been just an act? “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that Rokan Sellas must be stopped. And it may be that you three are the best equipped to do so. You survived Hilthak. You are resilient and resourceful.” The words did not sound like a compliment coming from the Vizier’s mouth; rather, they came out like a manufacturer appraising a particularly high-quality piece of merchandise. “I stand by my original statement—I think it highly unlikely that you can defeat him. But it is not impossible. And if there is even the slightest chance that you will succeed, then we cannot let this opportunity pass us by.”

  Drogni felt a quiet surge of satisfaction. “So, what now?” he asked.

  The Vizier raised an eyebrow. “Now I locate Justin Varenn,” he said.

  Forgera looked up sharply. “I thought you said—”

  “And I spoke truly,” said the Vizier. “I do not know where he is. But I know how to find him.”

  Forgera’s face darkened momentarily, no doubt at the Vizier’s blatant twisting of the truth, but quickly cleared. “So you’re the Druid, then.”

  The Ambassador’s voice was casual, offhand, but the Vizier stiffened as if he had been struck. His eyes narrowed, and fire flashed in their onyx depths. “What did you say?”

  Forgera didn’t appear to have noticed the change that had come over the Vizier. “That was the last thing Rokan Sellas said. He said that the Druid would know when and where to find him.”

  The Vizier suddenly leaned forward, lightning flickering in his dark eyes. His voice was cold, and it bristled with an almost bestial ferocity. “What were his exact words?”

  Forgera shrank back in the face of the Vizier’s sudden intensity. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, it was Aras Makree who answered, his voice calm and precise. “‘I will need a messenger,’” he recited. “‘To tell the Druid that he has failed. And that his failure is about to become his nightmare. I will take his savior…and turn him into the ultimate destroyer. Tell him, my friend—if that old fool has the courage to challenge me, he will know when and where. And I’ll be waiting.’”

  As Makree spoke, Drogni kept his gaze fixed on the Vizier, studying the big man’s reaction. The Vizier’s eyes were wide, his jaw set, his breathing heavy. Drogni thought he saw something in the big man’s expression, an emotion that he had never before seen the Vizier exhibit, one he had doubted that the man was even capable of.

  Fear.

  Well, this is interesting. Whoever or whatever this Druid was, he was obviously a figure of incredible power. But is he on our side? Rokan Sellas obviously considered the Druid an enemy, but that didn’t automatically make him Drogni’s ally. At the very least, he’s a wild card, a free agent who might help us but can’t be counted on to do so. At worst, he’s another enemy who could turn out to be more terrible even than Rokan Sellas.

  That last thought was sobering. Drogni had seen what Rokan Sellas was capable of; the thought that there might exist another individual with even greater power sent chills running through him. But hiding from that possibility would not help him; if it turned out to be true—and if, gods forbid, the Druid turned out to be hostile—then Drogni would need to be prepared to face it. But we’ll get to that when its turn comes. Focus on killing one impossibly-powerful enemy before worrying about a second one.

  The Vizier blinked, and his face settled once again into that expressionless mask. He straightened with a sweep of his shimmering robes. “Rokan Sellas was mistaken,” he said, the words crashing down like thunder. “There are no more Druids. That order died out millennia ago.”

  Drogni made a connection to something the Vizier had said the last time they had gathered here. “This has something to do with that religious group, doesn’t it? The—” Drogni reached back into his memory, searching for the name the Vizier had used “—Antiquaari?”

  “Correct, Commander,” replied the Vizier. “Within the Antiquaari, there were three sects. The Alar Sae’las, whom we might call Sorcerers. The Alar Mox, or Necromancers. And the Alar Duulan, or Druids. Three sects, each with their own unique power.” The Vizier gave a wave of his hand. “However, as I mentioned before, the Antiquaari were destroyed in the Icelord Wars nearly ten thousand years ago. The Alar Duulan are no more, Commander.”

  The deep voice was coldly confident, almost to the point where it sounded as if the Vizier were daring anyone to defy him. But Drogni was not convinced. He found it hard to belie
ve that Rokan Sellas would be wrong about this. No…the Druid is out there, somewhere. The question is: when will he choose to reveal himself? And whose side will he be on?

  “Rokan Sellas called Justin something,” said Forgera suddenly. “Said he was ‘the Heir.’”

  The Vizier pondered that for a moment, then shrugged. “That means nothing to me.”

  Drogni heard the truth in the big man’s words. Forgera, however, did not let the matter drop so easily. “If you’re not the Druid, then how will you be able to find them?”

  “I have my methods, Ambassador,” said the Vizier. “Let that be enough for you.”

  The Vizier’s voice had a dangerous undertone to it, and Drogni sensed that they had reached an area where the big man would say no more, no matter how much he were pressed. Forgera had obviously come to a similar conclusion, for he said nothing. Makree watched the Vizier with that keen gaze, his expression impassive. The King, meanwhile, seemed to be barely paying attention, showing no reaction to anything that was being said.

  Drogni took a moment to evaluate the situation. What he found did not exactly fill him with confidence. Rokan Sellas was still as powerful as he had been on Hilthak—possibly more so—and Drogni still had no idea how to defeat him. His only weapon had already proven to be hopelessly inadequate. Their only source of information was the Vizier, a man who had proven himself willing to manipulate the truth as it suited him, and who also freely admitted that he was operating off of vague hunches and mystical prophecies rather than hard facts. On top of all that, there might be a new player in the game, an individual of enough power to cast fear into the Vizier and whose allegiances were as yet unknown. The Druid, whoever he was—if he even existed at all—might be their best chance to defeat Rokan Sellas…but he might also prove to be an enemy even more deadly than the one whom they had barely survived on Hilthak.

  Again, Drogni knew what his duty as Supreme Allied Fleet Commander demanded. There was no way he would green-light any sort of military operation with so little intel. He should not even be considering it. And yet he was considering it. No, not just considering—he had already made his decision. It might seem a hopeless mission, but Drogni would find a way. He always had. Failure was simply not an option.

  For Galdro, Lester, Denar, Westan, Daalis. For Justin Varenn. For the soldiers who died at Denlar. For everyone else who will die if Rokan Sellas is not stopped.

  “How long will it take to find Justin?” asked Forgera.

  The Vizier’s stony gaze swung back to the Ambassador. “Not long,” he said. “A day at the most. Gather your affairs in order; make whatever arrangements you need.” He paused, and for the first time something like genuine empathy touched his voice. “Luck be with you all.”

  -2-

  Roger Warbanks sprinted through the streets of Pattagax.

  He had been running for what seemed to his haggard mind like an eternity. His lungs burned, the planet’s thin air seeming to offer barely more comfort than hard vacuum. Hard vacuum would no doubt also have been warmer than his current fare; tiny puffs of icy vapor spiraled out from his lips with each ragged exhalation. His arms and legs felt as heavy as lead, and a sharp pain like a dagger of fire split his side just below the ribcage.

  Roger gritted his teeth and pushed through the discomfort. It was an easy thing, really; all he had to do was imagine what would happen to him if he were to slow down, and that thought would give him a fresh surge of strength. The final words of the Karaken crimelord Arakk echoed in his head: ‘They’re coming…coming…coming…”

  “Coming for you, Roger Warbanks…”

  That grim thought sent a burst of speed through Roger’s legs. This was not just mere street rabble that was chasing him. Arakk and his thugs were only the beginning. Soon, they would be joined by professional hunters, ruthless killers in the employ of E’turol D’mact, a Prelatan within the galaxy-spanning Smuggler’s Corporate Alliance and one of the most merciless beings Roger had ever had the misfortune of meeting. He did not need to imagine what would happen to him if his pursuers captured him. The Korvec crimelord had a reputation for torture that Roger had no intention of verifying firsthand.

  Goddammit, he thought as he ran. Why did I have to go to Arakk in the first place? I knew he’d be trouble. I knew he wouldn’t be worth the risk. But I went anyway—and now look where it’s gotten me. I should’ve known he’d recognize me, and send word to dear old psychopathic D’mact. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

  A new voice, biting and sarcastic, cut through his self-deprecations. Yeah, well, as long as you’re wishing for things, you might as well wish that you’d never stumbled onto that SmugCo den back on Felar. Then D’mact wouldn’t be after you, and you wouldn’t be in this mess at all! And, while you’re at it, wish for a billion galactans and the undying admiration of every living creature between Vellanite and H’Grossh! What’s done is done, Rog. Can’t undo the past, so there’s no sense wasting time gettin’ all tied up about it. Worry about the present—and gettin’ the hell outta here before one of those goons puts a par-gun blast between your shoulders!

  Roger had made it clear from Arakk’s labyrinthine underground base in a blur of reflex and panic. He remembered dashing through the tunnels, moving faster than he would have thought possible. He remembered retracing his steps, hoping against hope that his memory wasn’t playing tricks on him. He remembered, multiple times, coming upon one or more of Arakk’s agents, falling upon them with a frenzy that had taken them aback, and managing to push past them even as particle beams and plasma bolts scorched past his fleeing form. And he remembered, finally, bursting out into the open air. The way had been blocked, but he had lowered his shoulders and charged straight at the Shalator guard, knocking the giant winged alien flat on his back. He had rushed past the prone form and down the streets of Pattagax.

  Now, the first cobalt rays of evening twilight hung heavy around him. Although the shouts of his pursuers had long since faded away, he knew that the chase was not over. He kept hearing footsteps behind him, but he didn’t dare look to see if they were real or just the product of his paranoia. Even if they weren’t real now, they soon would be. And this time wouldn’t be like when he’d disposed of the five SmugCo hunters a few days ago. This time, there would be far more of them, and they wouldn’t underestimate him. He had no weapons, no tricks up his sleeve. If his hunters came upon him now, he would be helpless against them.

  Roger rounded a corner and nearly collided with a pair of Erigion. The short insectoid aliens gave identical high-pitched sounds of dismay. Sacks of what looked like groceries went flying everywhere—with four arms apiece, a pair of Erigion could carry a lot of things at once—and Roger tumbled to the ground amidst the chaos. Panicked haste brought him immediately back to his feet, squashing a block of inedible-looking vegetable paste in the process. He dashed off without a word, ignoring the distressed protests of the Erigion. Sorry, guys. Can’t stop now. Can’t stop…

  For once, Roger’s thoughts were not on his search for his past. The quest that had driven him ceaselessly, since the moment five years ago when he had woken up with no memories aboard an abandoned freighter drifting powerlessly through deep space, had been pushed to the periphery, shunted aside by a far more powerful and primal need. One word ran endlessly through his mind, a silent command binding him to a single purpose.

  Survive.

  Roger didn’t slow as he wove through the crowds, sending beings of all species scrambling for cover. His path carried towards a large building in the distance. Please be there, he thought. If she wasn’t here, he wasn’t sure what he’d do; there was nowhere else for him to turn. Please—

  Roger tore down the street, veering towards his target. The front door was locked, and his panic spiked. He tried to pick the lock, but his fingers were shaking too badly. He took a step back, then charged at the door just as he had Arakk’s Shalator guard not too long ago. He was in luck; the frame was made of wood rather than reinforced duranth
ium, and it shattered under his weight. The door flew open.

  Roger barely slowed, dashing through the tiny reception room and onto a yawning field of cementcrete covered with dozens of spaceships and other vehicles in various states of disrepair. Meg!” he yelled, looking around wildly. The piles of storage containers, which had still been there when he’d left about ten hours ago, were now gone, and there was no sign that anyone else was here. Roger remembered that Meg was leaving Pattagax—could she have shipped out already? Panic came over him, magnified by his desperation. No—she has to be here! She has to be! Fires of Muntûrek, where are you? “Meg!”

  Then Roger heard footsteps, and relief flooded through him. “Rog?” said a voice. “Roger, is that you?”

  Thank the stars! “Yeah, it’s me. Meg, I need your help—”

  “Again? Well, what else is new?” Meg Tarroshan appeared out from behind a rack of engine repair modules. The senior mechanic for Lomana Corporation, the multiplanetary resource extraction conglomerate that ran the mining colony on Pattagax, she was nearly as tall as Roger and solidly built. Her skin was cracked and reddened from years of working a little too close to u-drive engine casings. Her hands—both her flesh-and-blood left hand and her gleaming metallic right one—were slick with black grease, and her short golden hair was also liberally splotched with dark oily patches. “By the way,” Meg continued, wagging a metal finger at Roger, “I got a call from Gree. Said you just up and left in the middle of your conversation. The poor guy’s inconsolable—he thinks he offended you. Come on, Rog—you should know better than that. You’ve dealt with Erigion before; you can’t just leave on one—”

  Roger had been trying to get in a word edgewise ever since Meg had cut him off, and his patience finally snapped. He had slightly more important matters on his mind than the soft-spoken Erigion in charge of Lomana Corporation’s cleanup crews. “Shut up, Meg! Let me finish—forget about Gree, okay? We’ve got bigger problems right now!”