Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  Makree fell silent, his words hanging ominously, and Drogni knew with terrible certainty that the Sergeant Major spoke the truth. He had felt Rokan Sellas’s power, and had proven helpless against it. His thoughts returned to Hilthak. He remembered the Mari’eth that he had slaughtered in his rage, remembered the exhilaration he had felt as they had died—he broke off that thought, shuddering with fear and revulsion. I would have killed them all that day. By the gods, I would have killed them all.

  Makree spoke again. “Regardless, that is the Legion’s mandate. And it is a noble one, and for my eleven years I served them proudly. But then it all changed five years ago, when I met a man whose name I do not know—a man of mystery, but yet a man of power and vision. This man spoke to me; he told me of a future in which the apocalypse that the Blood Legion feared would come to pass. He told me this, and I believed him—why, I cannot say, but in his own way he was as persuasive as Rokan Sellas. He told me that I could stop it—but the only way to do so would be to leave the Legion behind. However, as you might imagine the Legion does not allow its members to simply leave its ranks—the knowledge they safeguard is far too important. Desertion is not possible; they have ways of finding deserters. There are only two ways out: death, and banishment. Death was obviously not an option. And banishment carried with it a punishment more terrible than death.”

  More terrible than death? The way Makree said it sent chills through Drogni’s spine. “Explain.”

  “There is a technology that is spoken of in whispers even among the Blood Legion elites. A weapon so terrible that it is only used in the direst of circumstances, the last of which was centuries ago. Those whom the Legion banishes, they first punish—by erasing their memories. Not completely…but in a way this is worse. The victim has flashes of remembering, moments where he thinks that he is about to stumble upon some great secret, but then that revelation never comes. A perpetual state of existing on the threshold, never able to cross it. This weapon had only ever been used on criminals, beings who had committed crimes terrible beyond words. I could not face becoming the first to willingly choose such a fate; the thought of becoming such a…husk…terrified me more than anything else.”

  Drogni had to admit that Makree had a point. I don’t know if that’s worse than death, mind you, but that’s a matter of opinion. “But you got out eventually.”

  “Yes, I did.” Makree paused, and his eyes flickered with emotion. “In fact, I may be the only person in the history of the Legion who has left their service with his memories intact. But it was not easy.” His voice grew soft, regretful. “No, not easy at all.”

  There was great pain in his voice, an emptiness that pierced to Drogni’s heart, and a part of him wished he could just let the matter slide. But any little detail might be relevant to stopping Rokan Sellas. Makree was a soldier—he would understand. “How?”

  “This man of vision knew of the Blood Legion, and he had prepared a solution, a way to leave the Legion by faking my death in such a manner that they would be certain that I was dead—else they would simply track me down. In exchange, I agreed that, when the time came, I would lay down my life to protect another, and I would do so on one of the Planets of G’Char. By doing so, I would set into motion a chain of events which would prevent this apocalypse. How he knew this, I do not know; he said it was a prophecy, one of thousands…but that is not important. Since that time, I have lived in fear—yes, fear, although I didn’t realize it until recently—and anticipation of the moment when I would have to fulfill my end of the bargain. That moment is now upon me…and I am not as ready for it as I thought I would be.”

  With that, Makree’s voice trailed off into silence, and Drogni was left to consider what he had heard. It matches what he told me about the Legion before. Doesn’t mean it’s true—he could be backing up a lie with another lie—but I think it is. It’s hard to fake that kind of emotion. “So I’m guessing you learned every language spoken on the Planets of G’Char?”

  Makree nodded. “Not all of them, of course. Only those I might need if I ever came to one. Fortunately, it was not difficult; Marthun and Kholaz are completely uninhabited, while most people on Vellanite speak Standard. The only language I had to learn was the one spoken here, in the lands surrounding Nembane Mountain.”

  “I see.” Drogni took a few seconds to study Makree, examining his eyes, expression, and body language. No sign that he’s lying. Good. “I guess that answers my questions, then. But next time you think about holding back information that could keep us alive, don’t. Got it?”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Makree nodded. A sad smile came across his face. “Thank you…for listening.”

  Drogni paused, unsure how to respond, and then settled for a simple, “Don’t mention it.”

  They sat in silence for a time, until it grew dark, at which point they retired to the sleeping mats. Makree appeared to have shed the dark malaise that had been haunting him, at least for the time being, for he fell asleep almost immediately. It took Drogni slightly longer, and when he eventually did sleep he dreamt of Hilthak. He stood before his enemy, holding aloft both Mari’eth blades. But as he swung, Rokan Sellas laughed, and Drogni looked down to see himself dissolving, just as the Mari’eth had. He dropped his swords, trying vainly to hold himself together, but his hands and then his arms turned to dust, while in the background Rokan Sellas laughed—

  Drogni awoke with a start. Someone was shaking his shoulder, whispering in his ears for him to wake up. He was alert instantly, hand already drawing his par-gun…but then he saw that it was only the Kastria Dar’katal, Arex. “What is it?” Drogni asked.

  “Do you still want the aid of the Kastria?” asked Arex softly.

  Drogni sat up and saw that Makree was also awake and listening intently. “Yes.”

  Arex stood and moved back a few steps, and Drogni saw that the entrance to their hut was crowded with silent Kastria warriors. “Then come with us.”

  -13-

  As they stepped over a low-handing juraa tendril and neared the last row of trees, the Kastria Dar’katal raised his hand in a signal for them to stop. He motioned for the two Tellarians to come forward. “There,” he whispered, pointing at something in the distance.

  Drogni followed Arex’s finger. Just beyond the trees, the faint light of Espir’s two moons illuminated an open plain devoid of bo’al, though it was too dark for Drogni to tell whether that was because it had been cleared away or because it simply did not grow here. A small walled encampment rose from the field some four hundred meters away. It was ringed with watchtowers, in which Drogni could make out the shadowy figures of bow-wielding warriors gazing out into the night. “How many of them?” he asked.

  “Ten towers, two guards each,” replied Arex, “With probably twenty-five more inside the outpost. They outnumber us, but only just, and we have surprise as our ally. . We will show the Traika that the Kastria are still a force to be reckoned with!”

  The Dar’katal’s eyes lit with excitement, but it was a sentiment Drogni did not share. He was worried that Arex was letting the apparent battle prowess of the two Tellarians blind him to the fact that the Traika were the dominant power in the area for a reason. There were some enemies that Drogni and Makree could not defeat. He thought back to what the Dar’katal had said as they had made their way silently through the forest:

  “The kat’ara are uncertain whether to take up your cause as their own,” Arex said, “Once they decide to—for I am confident that they will—you must be formally accepted as part of the tribe. That can be done quickly, once the decision is made…but it could take many days for the kat’ara to agree to support you, a delay that none of us can afford.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Drogni. He spoke without worry; it was dark enough the Arex and the other Kastria would not be able to get a clear view of his face or mouth.

  The Dar’katal was silent for a moment. “There are some on the kat’ara who do not trust you,” he said. “There are some w
ho think that you are spies and will lead us to ruin. But I do not believe that you are, and my judgment has served me well over the years, so I feel safe answering your question. Our war with the Traika has raged for years, and yet at no point has either tribe been close to destruction. We skirmish, we raid—and yes, there have been many deaths—but there have been no serious assaults on either main village, even though the Traika have always outnumbered us. They have shown little interest in annihilating us. But over the past days, our to’laka have felt a…darkening…coming from Kil’la’ril, a dread aura that has swept across the Traika. They have suddenly become more aggressive, with an insatiable thirst for destruction. There is another tribe, called the Seramor, which is also at war with the Traika. My scouts report that the Traika have attacked the village of the Seramor and killed its every inhabitant. It will not be long before they seek to do the same to the Kastria.”

  “And the kat’ara knows this?”

  At first, Arex did not reply, then suddenly he lashed out at a tree with his flint-bladed sword, cutting completely through one of the thin, low-hanging branches. “The kat’ara are fools,” he said, his voice thick with anger, and he yanked his sword free. “They have heard the warnings of the to’laka, and I have told them the dangers we face, yet they do not listen. You were there, you heard them; they will do nothing unless in accordance with tradition. They listen for the words of gods, and when they hear nothing they assume that the gods wish for them to do nothing. Deep inside their hearts, each one knows that I speak the truth, each one knows that idleness will lead only to destruction. But they are so bound by tradition that none will raise a voice to agree with me. And so they debate whether or not to accept your aid, even though they know that by the time they make a decision it will be too late.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “But I will not let that happen! By the spirit of the Sky Lord Ja’nal, I will not let our people die!”

  Drogni empathized with the Dar’katal’s anger. He, too, knew what it was like to be answerable to a man whose favorite plan of action was total inaction. “So is that what we’re doing? Forcing the kat’ara’s hand?”

  “I do not know the phrase you used,” replied the Dar’katal, “But I suspect that it is correct. The kat’ara may not be willing to act, but I still have a war to win. And I have no compunctions against asking for the aid of foreigners to do it. Which brings us to tonight. The Traika have captured eleven of our scouts and are holding them at a military outpost not far from our border. Normally, this would not be a great cause of concern, as this sort of thing is common in war, and captured warriors are ransomed back to their tribe within a few days. But the dark power of Kil’la’ril has changed that; I am certain that the Traika no longer have any interest in negotiation. We will attack the outpost and rescue our men…and kill every Traika we find.”

  The Dar’katal had been confident then, and he was confident now, but Drogni could not dispel his nagging worry. It was not the Traika warriors that bothered him; unless there were over a hundred of them crammed into that little outpost, the Kastria force should be able to defeat them handily. What concerned him was the Traika magic, which both the Vizier and the Kastria kat’ara had asserted was very powerful within the Traika borders. When he had mentioned that to Arex, the Dar’katal had assured him that they would be able to sneak in, raze the outpost, and sneak out before the Traika shamans had a chance to muster their power, but he had offered no factual evidence to corroborate that claim. In his mind’s eye, Drogni saw again the horrible deaths of Daalis, Lester, Westan, Galdro, and Denar, and shuddered. I’m prepared to die fighting—but not like that.

  Hopefully, the Dar’katal was right. If not, Drogni still had the Mari’eth sword, Ss’aijas K’sejjas. If the Traika brought sorcery to this battle, then that blade would be his only defense.

  “Warriors, weapons ready!” The Dar’katal lifted his sword, the flint blade glinting faintly in the pale light of Espir’s double moons. “Fight for our captured brothers! Fight for the pride of the Kastria! And fight for the blood of the Traika!”

  The warriors raised their own weapons in response. Drogni felt his heart begin to pound, and adrenaline pushed his fears to the back of his mind. But even as he prepared for battle and destruction, he forced himself to recall once again his actions on Hilthak. There, he had let Rokan Sellas in, allowing the darkness to control his actions and wield its destruction through him. He forced himself to remember the allure he had felt, the tantalizing promise of easy power that he had so unthinkingly accepted on Hilthak. This time he would be ready for it. This time he would overcome it.

  A sliver of doubt crept in. But am I strong enough?

  Narrowing his eyes in determination, he clasped the hilt of Ss’aijas K’sejjas, and felt a warm swell of protective sorcery surround him. Yes, I am. Because I have to be. Not for myself, but for Tina Galdro, Palis Denar, Gregory Daalis, Sara Westan, Daniel Lester.

  Yes, I will have to fight. Yes, I will have to kill. But I am a soldier. I kill to accomplish an objective, no more.

  Rokan Sellas, you will not take me again!

  The Kastria uttered a second war-cry, and then charged onto the open plain.

  * * * *

  Drogni was the last to reach the Traika outpost, unable to match the fluid, effortless speed of the long-legged Kastria or the loping gait of Aras Makree, and he mentally cursed his aging limbs and sore, weary muscles. Even though in reality it took him perhaps ten seconds longer to cross the plain, it seemed like an eternity, and by the time he reached the encampment the Traika had raised the alarm. This would be no slaughter in the night—Drogni had known that from the beginning. The sounds of battle echoed from within the camp, the cracks of wooden spears and the thrums of animal-sinew bow-strings.

  Yet at last, at long last, he reached the outpost and charged into the battle.

  Everywhere, men fought, and in the confusion Drogni could not tell friend from foe, so he ignored the melees and focused on the warriors he could be sure were Traika—the bowmen in the watchtowers. They knelt behind waist-high walls so that only their heads and upper torsos were visible, but thanks to Drogni’s decades of training they might as well have had targets painted on them. Still at a dead run, he fired with precision, one shot for each enemy, the tiny lances of energy burning through the Traika. He cleared one tower, then two, then three, making his way deeper into the encampment.

  The cries of the fighters and the ringing of their weapons receded behind Drogni as he paved his own path of death, but he soon heard footsteps in his wake. He turned to see four warriors bearing down on him. Their faces were afire with anger, and they carried flint-headed spears. “Now you die, Kastria chak’rat!” yelled one, angling his weapon towards Drogni’s heart.

  Drogni brought his par-gun to bear—the warriors were closing quickly, but he still had ample time to shoot them before they reached him—but then stopped mid-motion. Something was wrong. He staggered back a step, his eyes widening, and suddenly the sounds of the battle raging around him vanished. Time slowed to a crawl. All he could see and hear were the four Traika charging him, anger and hatred in their eyes, so strong that it seemed to radiate from them. Such power, such raw strength—how could his calm precision possibly stand against it? Surely it could not—surely they would have him. The only way to stop them would be to harness his own anger, to give them something to fear. Yes, that was the only way, the only—

  Or was it? Something was scraping frantically in his mind, some memory that the chaos of the battle had blocked away from him. What could it be? He knew it was important, whatever it was. A warning, perhaps?

  Still the Traika drew closer. And still he hesitated. What do I do? He took another step backwards, but he knew that he could not retreat. There’s only one way to win. I have to fight—I have to match their hatred with my own. Yes, he had to stop them, at any cost.

  Ss’aijas K’sejjas slipped through his fingers, falling with a dull thump to the ground. The promis
e that he had sworn to himself not five minutes before vanished like smoke. The insistent buzzing in his mind, the voice that he now realized was only a distraction trying to lead him to his death, quieted to a whisper, then faded away. This is the only way.

  He squared his shoulders, settling into a defensive stance. He tossed his par-gun to the side, and a smile came across his face. He could not lose to such as these. These savages were no match for Drogni Ortega. And I was a fool to ever think that they were.

  The gap closed, and suddenly four spears cleaved the air towards him. Drogni saw his death written in the faces of the Traika. No, not my death, he thought. His mind empty of any fear, he felt a surge of raw adrenaline course through him like fire. Theirs.

  At the last moment, Drogni suddenly leaned to his right. Extending a hand, he caught the leftmost spear halfway up the shaft and redirected it towards two of the Traika, forcing them to dive for cover. In almost the same movement, he stepped towards the man whose weapon he had caught. Snarling, the warrior charged, his long arms snapping out towards Drogni, but the Tellarian weaved easily through the attack, and his fist connected with the Traika’s jaw with a thunderous crack. The man swayed, dazed, and Drogni followed up his punch with a kick that slammed into his enemy’s chest. Drogni heard and felt the snap of ribs breaking. He lashed out again, catching the gasping warrior full in the face with the heel of his palm, and the Traika collapsed without a sound.

  The entire fight took less than two seconds. One down, three to go.

  Drogni spun back to face the others. He leaned away from a spear-thrust that would have pierced his heart and hammered his fist into the attacker’s face, driving the man back. The other two warriors attacked simultaneously, one spear high and the other low, but their weapons struck only air as Drogni dove to his left and out of harm’s way. He turned the dive into a roll and was back on his feet immediately, settling back into his defensive stance, waiting for the Traika to attack.