Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  The blind woman, Celora, spoke before either of the Tellarians had a chance to reply. “You forget your place, Arex. We are not the Belayas or the Sandahar, where the Dar’katal is the unanimous leader in times of war; you are but one voice of the kat’ara. You cannot accept these foreigners without our consent. Custom must be followed; trust must be earned—”

  “Custom be damned!” Arex slammed his fist into his open palm. “Where have our customs gotten us? Our people killed, our lands burned and our food stolen! The Traika expand, while we are hemmed in like a dying fenail, unable to do anything except wait for the killing blow! Our customs kept us from asking for help, our customs drove away the offers of alliance from the Sandahar, from the Kedra, from the Daraman! Our customs are proving a deadlier enemy than the Traika! And now our to’laka have sensed a dark power arising from within Kil’la’ril, a power which will only grow and further strengthen the Traika! The time to attack is now—we have no time to debate this. It is the truth. You must see it!”

  “We do see it, Arex,” said the hawk-nosed man. “We are not the fools you think we are. We see the danger, and we will act accordingly. But there is a way that these things must be done, an order that has been passed down for generations. What good is it to defeat the Traika if by doing so we offend the gods? Would you doom our children and our children’s children to spend eternity in the fiery chasms of A’Lai Mar?”

  “I would do anything—” began Arex, fire flashing in his eyes, but then he abruptly grew calm. “No, Penar. I apologize for my anger. I do not presume to defy the gods.”

  “And in turn we apologize,” said Celora. “We do not presume to demean the deaths of your warriors and the sacrifices that you have made to ensure our continued survival. We want to see this war won. But we must not act in haste, or we risk a punishment far worse than anything the Traika can inflict.”

  “I agree, Celora.” Arex took a deep breath, then turned back towards the Tellarians. “Once again, thank you for aiding our warriors. For that, you are welcome to stay in our village as long as you like. However, I must retract the offer that I made you. The matter must first be discussed among the kat’ara. We will send a messenger for you when we have reached a decision.”

  Makree nodded in agreement, and Drogni breathed a mental sigh of relief. Good. As much as the soldier within him was eager to stop with all this talking and get moving to Nembane Mountain as quickly as possible, the officer within him knew that he and Makree needed to hammer out some kind of unified strategy, and fast. Too much is going on that I don’t know enough about, and that needs to change. And we’re not gonna agree to anything they offer until we’ve had a chance to talk it over. And I mean really talk it over, not just say ‘it has to happen this way’ and be done with it. We’re gonna have a strategy based on more than just some vague wizardry, a strategy that stands a bat’s chance in Muntûrek of actually working.

  And if the Vizier doesn’t like it, that’s just too damn bad.

  -12-

  Lerana knelt and bowed her head. “Revered Jo’ma.”

  The old woman did not bother with formalities. “What have you learned, my child?”

  Lerana sat. “I do not think that the stranger has much control of his power. He told me that he cannot harness ko’sha as we do, but he can sense its use.” She paused, eying the Jo’ma for a reaction, then continued. “He said that he can…see…ko’sha.”

  “He did?” the old woman mused. She reached out one withered hand to stroke her enthralled terek’s dark-feathered head, and the vicious bird let out a low warble of pleasure and pride. “How interesting. And you believe that he was telling the truth.”

  “I do, revered Jo’ma. His mind is a dark place, shrouded with mysteries that I cannot penetrate. But I felt no falsehood within him when he spoke.”

  The old woman considered this, idly tapping a skeletal finger against the back of her hand. “With such a power, we could turn the tide of war firmly in our favor.”

  Lerana clicked her tongue in agreement. “Do you think that he will aid us?”

  “Perhaps,” said the Jo’ma. “But they may not be necessary. He himself is of little consequence. We do not need his help; we simply need to take possession of his talisman.”

  “Of course, revered Jo’ma,” replied Lerana. “But how? Do you propose handing him over to the Dar’katal?”

  The Jo’ma raised a finger warningly. “I think it would be unwise to try to take it from him by force. It may have defensive capabilities beyond its wielder’s control. Recall the tale of the Sky Prince and the Koal’kala. I have no wish to be boiled alive by a storm of divine lightning.”

  Lerana bowed her head, ashamed at having suggested such a foolish course of action. “Yes, revered Jo’ma.”

  “Yet we must have this power,” continued the old woman. “The solution, I think, is plain. You must convince him to remove it himself and give it to us. It should not be difficult; promise him his freedom in exchange for his cooperation. I believe that he will readily accept such a bargain, especially if, as you say, he cannot control the power he wields. He will not risk his life to protect a talisman that he cannot properly use.”

  “Yes, revered Jo’ma,” repeated Lerana. “It will be done.”

  The Jo’ma smiled. “You have done well, my child,” she said. “But the stranger is not the only reason that I called you here.”

  Lerana heard the subtle shift in the old woman’s voice and knew that she spoke of matters of grave importance. “What is it, revered Jo’ma?”

  The leader of the to’laka drew herself straighter and her expression hardened. “These wars must end. Constant battles bleed our people dry while accomplishing nothing. We are no closer to victory now than we were at the beginning. And every year more of our warriors breathe their final breaths, their bodies lying twisted and broken, their di’uana scattering to the winds. It cannot continue.”

  “Of course, revered Jo’ma,” replied Lerana. “But how? The feuds are old, and they run deep. I fear that no amount of diplomacy will be able to heal them.”

  “Diplomacy!” The Jo’ma spat out the word as if it were poison. “Diplomacy is a tool of the weak, a refuge for those who are not strong enough to take their destinies into their own hands. Once, perhaps, I would have counseled such a course of action. But the need for that has passed. Kil’la’ril has awakened. Its power burgeons, and our strength grows with it. No longer must we be content with raids and skirmishes. It is time for us to stop cowering within our own lands, allowing lesser enemies to chip away at our numbers. It is time for us to seize our destiny.”

  Lerana felt a chill run through her. “What do you mean, revered Jo’ma?”

  The old woman clenched a skeletal fist, her expression hardening and fire blazing in her eyes. “We will take the battle to them. To their villages, to their homes. We will strike at them with a fury the likes of which the land has never witnessed. And when the dust settles and the fires have burned themselves to ash, only the Traika shall remain.”

  The Jo’ma’s voice was like winter frost. Lerana felt her jaw sag open in shock. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. The Jo’ma spoke of total war—a war of slaughter, of utter annihilation. But that was a direct violation of the First Rule of Den’ja, the most sacred and unbreakable law of their people. “But the First Rule—”

  “I know the dictates of the War Goddess.” The Jo’ma’s emerald eyes flashed with anger. The terek, as if sensing the change in its mistress’s mood, let out a bloodcurdling shriek and flashed its razor-sharp talons. “Yet I also know this, my child: our people are dying when they could live. We have the power to save them. We have the duty to save them. That is what matters most. Not the ancient commands of an absent deity.”

  The Jo’ma’s words were like a spear shaft in Lerana’s chest. Images rose in her mind. She saw her village burning, her people dying. The harsh scent of charred flesh filled her nostrils and the tortured screams of children tore
at her heart.

  The Jo’ma leaned forward. Her voice whispered out like the keening of an evening wind. “You know that I speak the truth, my child. You can feel it in your soul.”

  Lerana tilted her head to meet the Jo’ma’s eyes. In that moment her mind cleared and her doubts evaporated. The Jo’ma had led the Traika well and wisely; she would not take them astray now. “Yes, revered Jo’ma,” she said. “I hear and obey.”

  “I am glad to hear it, my child.” The Jo’ma smiled. “Now prepare yourself. Gather your strength.” All warmth faded from the old woman’s expression. “It will begin tonight.”

  * * * *

  Roger heard footsteps behind him, and tilted his head up to see Lerana move into view. The shaman settled herself onto the ground next to Roger. “Greetings, Roger,” she said. “I trust that you have not been mistreated.”

  Anger flashed through Roger, augmented by his weariness. Try as he might, he had been unable to get anything even approximating sleep the previous night. But he realized that Lerana did not appear to be making a joke at his predicament. She alternates between politeness and threats, but she doesn’t really do sarcasm. “Not unless you count being tied up like an animal as being mistreated.”

  Lerana raised an eyebrow. “You are not tied up like an animal, Roger. You are tied up like a prisoner. Which you are.”

  “If you really think I’m a god, isn’t it a little risky keeping me tied up like this?”

  Lerana shrugged. “Perhaps. But if you are a god, and you are uncomfortable, then I would advise you to free yourself. Like I told you before, I do not think that you are a god. I do not know what you are. Perhaps you are a demon, in which case it would be a very bad decision for us to free you. Personally, I think you are just a man who has come into possession of a powerful magical artifact. But none of us know for sure. In the meantime, we will keep you tied up as custom dictates. And, if you are a god, and this is some kind of test, then you cannot fault us for obeying the customs set down by you and your kin.”

  Well, hard to argue with that, admitted Roger. But at least she’s not talking about killing me anymore, so that’s an improvement. In truth, he had tried to call upon the powers of his ring, hoping to free himself, but his every attempt had failed. Try as he might, he had been unable to sink into the semi-meditative state that seemed to be required to tap into that magic, and eventually he had given up. Not that it probably would’ve helped much. So far all I’ve been able to do is feel tugs towards other sources of magic and see some kind of fire-aura around living creatures. Neither of which would do me much good against these ropes. “Well, could you maybe mention to the guys guarding me that I might be a god, so they’ll back off a bit? Every now and then one of them comes in and sharpens his spear where he knows that I can see him. If you and your kat’ara don’t figure out what to do with me soon, one of those warriors is gonna get spear-happy and slit my throat while I’m sleeping.”

  Lerana did not seem alarmed or surprised. “As I said, the Dar’katal and his warriors want you dead—rather vehemently, I might add. They are displeased that we have decided to keep you alive. However, they will obey us. The last time a common warrior defied the to’laka, he died horribly. Rest assured, you have nothing to fear from them.”

  Roger did not feel assured. All it takes is one guy deciding for one second to disobey. He’d seen it happen before—no matter the consequences, sometimes people just…snapped However, Lerana seemed pretty sure of herself, so there wasn’t much Roger could do to convince her otherwise.

  “I did not come simply to commiserate over your accommodations,” continued Lerana. “I have good news. I have brought your case before the to’laka, and they were quite pleased with what you told me yesterday. We have discussed the matter at great length. And we have reached a decision.”

  Roger looked up sharply. Hope surged within him, but none showed in his expression or his reply. “What’s that?”

  Lerana gave a broad smile. “We are prepared to offer you a deal. Give us your ring, and you may leave our lands in peace.”

  Lerana’s words felt like a pulseknife in Roger’s side. He felt bitterness and anger twist through him. It was as if the universe were offering him hope, only to dangle it just out of reach. The thing the Traika wanted—the thing that might secure his freedom—was the one thing he could not give them. And this time no amount of quick thinking and clever wordplay would change that.

  Lerana appeared not to have noticed the reaction her offer had wrought in Roger. She leaned forward, her eyes glittering like tiny green gemstones. “If you give us this mighty gift, we will set you free. We will grant you immunity from the wrath of the Dar’katal and his warriors. We will even lead you to Kil’la’ril and help you reunite with your wi’zerd friend. All that you ask for and more will be yours. Just give us the ring.”

  Roger met Lerana’s gaze. From her joyous expression it was obvious that she legitimately thought that she had just saved his life. She had no idea how cruel her offer really was; reacting with anger would only serve to drive her off entirely. He managed to keep from screaming, but only barely. “I can’t.”

  Lerana froze. Dismay flickered across her face. “What do you mean?”

  Roger felt his voice rising in anger and frustration. “I mean I can’t! I’ve tried to take it off—believe me, I’ve tried! But I can’t. The damn thing might as well be melted on.”

  Lerana tilted her head, her gaze flicking back and forth across Roger’s expression, searching for signs that he might be lying. “I believe you, Roger,” she said at last. “But this is an unfortunate turn of events. The kat’ara—and the to’laka—will not be pleased to hear this.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Roger was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, and he spat out the words like acid. “But that’s the way it is.”

  “Indeed.” Lerana thought for a moment. “The to’laka desire your power. Desire it greatly, I might add. We would prefer for you to hand it over willingly. But if that fails, then we will take it by force.”

  Roger felt a surge of fear. “What about the story you told me before? About the guy with the lightning amulet?”

  “The Sky Prince?” Lerana’s mouth contracted to a thin line, perhaps insulted by the idea that she might have forgotten one of her people’s sacred tales. “We remember the amulet of Meskar. The to’laka are still wary; they suspect that there is more to your ring’s powers than you have told us. But that will not stop them for long. They are clever and very skilled in their power. They will find some way to separate you from your ring. That much I can promise you.”

  Roger knew with cold certainty that she was telling the truth. Unfortunately for him, his ring—unlike the lightning-storm-producing talisman of the aforementioned Espirian deity—had no defensive capabilities that he knew of. Once the Traika shamans overcame their wariness and decided to act that would be the end of it. He would die, alone and unmourned, on this distant, backwater world.

  And he would never find out why the Blood Legion had stolen his memories from him.

  Anger flooded through him at that thought, a rush of heat driving aside the icy grasp of fear. No! I will not give up! I will not die here! I’ve come too far for that! Roger harnessed that anger, turning it into cold, clear focus. As far as he could see, Lerana was his only hope of getting out of this alive. So far, she had been the only one to offer him any sort of kindness, to treat him like a human being rather than some kind of rabid beast that needed to be put down. He considered himself a fairly good judge of character—anyone who couldn’t spot a liar or a con artist from a kilometer away didn’t last long on Vellanite or any of the host of other cutthroat neighborhoods where Roger had spent the past five years—and her compassion seemed genuine. And he thought he had seen something in her expression when she had implied that her fellow magic-users would kill him for his power—a glimmer of regret, perhaps even anger at the measures to which her brethren would go to get what they wante
d. Maybe he could work that emotion, convince her to help him. Convince her, somehow, to set him free.

  Or maybe he couldn’t. Maybe her sympathy was all an act, a ruse designed solely to gain his trust. Maybe her loyalty to her tribe and her clan was too strong for him to sway. But it wasn’t like he had any other options. If I’m wrong, then I’m dead anyways. Might as well give it a try and see what happens.

  So he met Lerana’s gaze with his own. He put on his most earnest expression and adopted his most persuasive tone, strengthening it with urgency and just a touch of desperation. “Let me go. You know what they’ll do to me. You know—”

  Lerana cut him off abruptly. “No. I cannot help you, Roger. Or rather I will not. I may disagree with my fellow to’laka and the kat’ara on some matters, but on this one we stand agreed. The Traika need your power. And we will have it—one way or another.”

  Her voice rang with conviction, but Roger was hardly going to give up that easily. “Why do you need it?”

  Lerana’s expression hardened. Determination glinted in her eyes like cold steel. “We are at war, Roger. For decades, we have fought and bled and died against our neighbors. We have no allies, and enemies close in on us from all sides. They will not stop until we are destroyed, and we will not stop until they are. Your power would turn the tide of battle.” She sighed, and her face grew suddenly sad. “Or perhaps it would not. Perhaps it would only hasten our end. But even that, I think would be a kindness. Better a quick end than more winters filled with nothing but hatred and suffering.”