Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  The three remaining warriors, however, seemed in no hurry to engage him again. They eyed him warily, weapons held defensively; the one whom Drogni had punched wiped blood from his nose and spat out more. Their faces were still flush with anger and battle-rage, but their eyes told a different story. Their confidence was wavering; Drogni had felled one of them and bloodied another, and they had yet to land a single blow. Surely by now they were wondering what manner of monster they faced, this short, strange-garbed demon who moved like lightning and attacked four armed men with only his fists.

  Yet they were still warriors, in an environment where battle prowess meant both prestige and far more importantly survival, and Drogni knew they would not back down. The Traika exchanged a glance, and then they divided, moving slowly until they formed a rough triangle with Drogni at its center. Drogni’s eyes flicked from one to another, but still he felt no fear. There was only excitement. Now things get interesting.

  The Traika circled him slowly, feinting attacks but staying back for now, waiting for Drogni to make a mistake. Drogni could tell that they had realized that they could not win with mindless, predictable charges and were instead determined to wear him out. Eventually, it might work; they had numbers and superior positioning, and Drogni was tired from the two-hour march to the outpost and the sixty-second sprint across the field. It would be hard for him to win a drawn-out battle, and he could not count on reinforcements to save him.

  An ugly scowl twisted across his face. Reinforcements? I don’t need reinforcements. I am Drogni Ortega—who are you?

  You are nothing. You are weak, worthless, helpless.

  And I will break you.

  Still the Traika circled, feinting and jabbing, confidence beginning to return to their faces as they sensed weakness. Drogni forced himself to wait, to watch for an opening. Come on, come on!

  One second passed, then two, then thr—

  There!

  One of the spears dipped slightly—perhaps a few centimeters, no more—and Drogni launched himself feet-first at the wielder. Before the man could react, Drogni was upon him, connecting with his lower abdomen in a solid kick. The impact sent the Traika flying backwards, spear dropping from suddenly limp fingers; for a moment, he was completely airborne.

  A moment only. A meter or so behind the warrior was a building; he smashed into it full-force with a sickening crunch and did not get up.

  Two down.

  Drogni caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he instinctively ducked; the spear-thrust was so close that he felt the air whistle as it passed over him. Before the Traika could attack again, Drogni seized the spear’s haft and wrenched the weapon from the warrior’s hands, simultaneously dealing the man a flat-palmed blow to the chest. As the Traika staggered backwards, Drogni stood and turned to face him. It was the man Drogni had hurt earlier, and blood still dripped across his lips and chin.

  Drogni tossed the captured spear aside and advanced on his enemy.

  The fourth Traika dove at Drogni, but the Tellarian sent the man reeling with a powerful blow to the throat, and immediately focused his attention on the blood-faced warrior. He could sense that this man was the leader of the attackers; it was he who had spoken, he who had been foremost in the first charge, and he who had most quickly recovered from the initial failed attack. Here, perhaps, was a warrior worthy of Drogni’s skill, a man who would at least be able to last for more than a few heartbeats before succumbing to the inevitable.

  The blood-faced Traika snarled, launching himself at Drogni, but the move was a feint; he pulled up before making contact and settled back warily. Drogni unleashed a right uppercut, but the Traika dodged it, dancing back out of Drogni’s reach. Calmly, Drogni advanced, throwing the occasional punch, methodically driving the Traika in the direction that Drogni wanted him to go. The warrior, sensing that he was being herded, suddenly let loose a wild yell and charged, fists swinging with crushing power.

  But not with skill. Such a tactic might have served him well against his fellow tribesmen, all of whom had probably learned to combat brute force with more brute force. Drogni, however, had skill borne of specific martial arts training on his side. He was invincible, unstoppable; there was nothing this primitive being could do to stop him. Dodging the tribesman’s errant blow, Drogni’s reply punch caught the Traika in the chest, forcing him back. His second lashed across the man’s face, splitting skin and sending a spray of blood spattering in its wake. His third followed the course of his second, a sharp jab to the right eye. This all happened in the space of a few seconds, and the Traika made no move to defend himself. His eyes stared off sightlessly, arms hanging limply at his sides.

  Time to finish this.

  Drogni pulled back his fist for one final strike. He imagined that the enemy standing bleeding before him was Rokan Sellas and felt his vision clouding with anger. Take THAT, you stelnak!

  The blow lashed out, striking the Traika’s throat with sledgehammer force, and the warrior sank to the ground with a final gasp.

  Drogni spun, focusing in on the final Traika, who still lay gasping on the ground, clutching his throat. One to go.

  But before Drogni could move, a particle beam lanced from the shadows and struck the wounded warrior in the chest, killing him instantly.

  Drogni froze for a moment, staring in disbelief and anger at the dead warrior, then turned to see Aras Makree emerge from the shadows. “That one was mine!” Drogni snarled, striding towards Makree with fists still clenched. “This was my battle—”

  “Admiral.” Makree’s voice was calm, and he did not back down in the face of Drogni’s anger. “Look around you.”

  Drogni paused, looked—

  And eyes which had been all but blind suddenly refocused.

  To his right lay one warrior, his face and chest covered in blood, his expression one of pain and terror. To his left sprawled another, his body twisted and broken against the building that Drogni had smashed him against. And behind him was the third, the leader, whom Drogni had taken such pleasure in killing slowly; his neck was bent at an impossible angle, his nose smashed, his eyes reduced to a bloody pulp.

  The scene was so…savage. The work of a crazed animal, not a thinking, intelligent being.

  Drogni felt his anger leave him, and it seemed that with that anger went all of his energy, for he suddenly sagged and almost fell. What am I doing—what have I done—?

  But even as the question crossed his mind, he knew the answer. It was Hilthak all over again. The same destruction, the same bestial rage. He stared at the terrible scene before him, willing it to be an illusion, a dream, even though he knew it was only too real. Oh, no! Please, gods, no!

  “It is Rokan Sellas, Admiral,” said Makree quietly. “His power…the same as we faced on Hilthak, only magnified by Nembane Mountain. You were not expecting it.”

  Drogni did not reply. He heard Makree’s words, but he knew that they were only partially true. I was expecting it. I knew it was coming—I knew what would happen. Maybe I wasn’t prepared for Nembane Mountain making my enemy stronger, but that’s no excuse—I should have been prepared. I should have been! All the elation, all the euphoria of battle drained from him, replaced by sickening revulsion, and he almost retched. The words of Rokan Sellas arose in his mind: ‘I enjoyed watching you surrender your morals and honors, to brutalize everything you saw like a common animal. I enjoyed it…and so did you.’

  Once again, Rokan Sellas was right. Drogni had enjoyed it, surrendering to the same intoxicating urge that had nearly seen the end of him on Hilthak, becoming once again the beast of chaos. Despite it all—despite his promise to himself, his promise that he would never again surrender to that darkness—still it had taken him. Utterly.

  Effortlessly.

  He clenched his fists as first anger and then despair swept through him. Am I so vulnerable? he wondered. So…helpless? How can I beat Rokan Sellas…if I cannot even control myself?

  “Come, Admiral,” said
Makree. “The Traika shamans will have sensed the battle. We have to go, before they can send reinforcements.”

  It took a moment for Makree’s words to register. Finally Drogni heard, but he could not meet his fellow soldier’s gaze. Without saying a word, he retrieved his pistol, and then strode away.

  It was as Rokan Sellas had said, back on Hilthak: ‘You are the Destroyer, Ortega. You are the Sword of Chaos.’

  He left destruction in his wake. But the truth was worse; a truth he supposed he had known all along.

  The truth: he carried destruction in his heart.

  -14-

  The hawk-nosed Penar fixed the three of them with a cold gaze, his wrinkled face alight with anger. “Explain yourself, Arex,” he said.

  The Kastria Dar’katal stood defiantly, not yielding before the cumulative wrath of the kat’ara. “I was not aware, Penar, that my actions required any explanation,” he replied calmly.

  Standing next to Arex, Drogni tried to mirror the Kastria Dar’katal’s confidence, but it was difficult. In his mind, all he could see was the Traika he had killed, scattered like broken leaves in the wind. The death he had caused, had glorified in, despite his promise that he would not let himself become the monster. What good are oaths against such power? What good is anything?

  Penar’s eyes bulged with fury, and he jabbed a bony finger derisively at Arex. “You enlisted the aid of outsiders in an act of war—a direct violation of the Third Rule of Den’ja, given to our people by the war goddess herself! Do not deny it—through the to’laka, we have seen your blasphemy with our own eyes!”

  “Blasphemy?” Arex’s voice was soft, but Drogni heard anger rippling beneath the Dar’katal’s words. “Be warned, Penar: that is not an accusation to be uttered lightly. It is my right, should I choose it, to challenge you to mortal combat over such an insult, should it prove false. Tread carefully, old man.”

  “Is that a threat?” Penar’s thin mouth twisted into a sneer. “Do you think that you can frighten us with heavy-handed words, Arex? You are not the supreme power in this land, Dar’katal—we are.”

  “Calm yourself, Penar.” The speaker was the blind woman, Celora. “We discussed this before we called this meeting of the kat’ara—Arex has earned the right to explain himself. And as distinguished members of the kat’ara we have a responsibility to listen to our Dar’katal before passing judgment on his actions.”

  Penar turned his angry gaze on Celora, but it was not possible to intimidate a blind person in that fashion, and he subsided. “Very well. Arex, please speak.”

  The Dar’katal inclined his head slightly, the smallest possible gesture of respect. “Thank you, Penar. You are correct in some of the facts. This last night I, along with my personal dar’kata, raided an outpost of the Traika. I requested the aid of our two guests, and they agreed to help. However, this raid was not an act of war—its purpose was to free eleven of our warriors, who had been captured by our a’dia enemies. The destruction of the outpost was incidental. We were successful—of those eleven, nine have been returned safely, and the final two gave their lives valiantly to aid the escape of their brothers. Were it a common act of war, of plunder and slaughter, then I would not have included the outsiders—I know the customs, and I have followed them. I have complained of them, I have at times raged against them, but always I have followed them. There is precedent for my actions: when the children of the Most High Ja’nal were captured by the Demon Prince, the god sought the aid of Skar’ska, the barbarian Dar’katal, to recover them. Blasphemy, you say? I say: curb your tongue, before you say something you will regret.”

  “We know the story of Skar’ska,” said Penar in a scathing reply. “Do not lecture us on the gods. The cases are different; the Most High Ja’nal was acting as fai’la’if against the Demon Prince. You, Arex, are no fai’la’if, and we all here know that your true purpose was not rescue—it was slaughter. That makes it an act of war—a violation of the Third Rule—”

  “That is my defense,” Arex interrupted, his voice low and deadly. “If I am guilty of blasphemy, then so are the gods.”

  That statement seemed to disturb Penar, for he did not reply immediately and a worried look came over his eyes. “You claim that it was a rescue mission, but the gods will see your true purpose and punish you as they punished the Helion of legend,” he said at last, but his voice was unsure. “You can lie to us, but not to them. If you have broken the Third Rule of Den’ja, the gods will punish you—”

  “Then so be it.” Arex folded his arms across his chest, as if daring the white-haired elder to defy him. “I did what I did; if that damns me in the gods’ eyes, then so be it. I would not change my actions, even if I could.”

  Penar thought on this, his eyes still flitting nervously at the implication that condemning Arex’s actions might be akin to condemning the gods. “This changes nothing,” he said. “You may have found one loophole to use these outsiders in your war, but you will not find another. They are still not of this tribe; they cannot fight alongside us. Understand, Arex, that what you do reflects on us all in the eyes of the gods—I have no wish to suffer eternal damnation because of you.”

  “Then the solution to this problem is simple.” Arex turned his gaze upon each member of the kat’ara in turn. “Accept these two into the tribe. You, Celora, said that they had to earn our trust. I believe they have done so. What more do you need? Without them, the Traika will destroy us. With them, perhaps we have a chance. Choose.”

  The elders exchanged glances, and on their faces Drogni saw apprehension and fear but also determination. In times of great danger, those in power had to be prepared to consider actions that they would never entertain otherwise, and the Kastria kat’ara was beginning to realize this. After several long moments of silence, Celora spoke. “Your words—your ultimatum—troubles us, Arex. And yet you are not wrong, which is even more troubling. We will discuss the matter, and we will not punish you for your actions last night.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Arex.

  Penar gave a gesture of dismissal. “Leave us. We will send a messenger to you when we have reached a decision.”

  * * * *

  Austin stood in a dark room. Cold air swept over him, fetid and dank, and he shivered. The only light came from an unidentified source above his head, a faint, feeble illumination that sent long shadows everywhere.

  An archway stood in front of him, beyond which yawned a gaping chasm that appeared to have no end. Just beyond the archway stood Justin, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, his face haggard. There was fear in his eyes, as if he could see his death coming for him but was powerless to stop it. His mouth opened, but Austin could hear nothing. All was heavy silence.

  Austin tried to step forward, stretching his arms out, but a pair of hands reached out from behind him, grasping his wrists and holding him fast. He struggled, his movements growing frantic, but the hands that held him might as well have been hewn from stone. He could not break free. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he called out in desperation, “Justin! Justin! I’m here—I’m coming for you!”

  Justin met his gaze then, and he bowed his head. You cannot save me, he seemed to be saying. You cannot…

  “No!” Austin screamed. “I can save you. I will…save…”

  But Justin turned away from him and began to fade away into the darkness.

  “No!” Austin screamed, writhing futilely against his captor. “No! Justin!”

  But he could not break free. And a moment later Justin was gone.

  Austin felt himself go limp, as if his life force had just been drained from him. “No!” he repeated weakly, the sound a whisper that barely escaped his lips. He sagged, but even then his captor held him fast, unwilling to let him free even though what he sought was gone, unwilling to relinquish its prisoner.

  Austin turned his head, and saw the man standing behind him, holding him back.

  The face he looked into was his own.

  Austin awo
ke in a sweat. He sat up and ran a trembling hand through hair that was damp and matted. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart and clear his mind. But he could not shake the image of Justin disappearing into the shadows, or of his own hands preventing him from saving his friend.

  The Belayas had been housing him in the a’kali’a, the same small building where he had first met with Sho’nal Taralen. Rising to his feet, he walked to the entrance, pushed aside the bo’al weave, and stepped outside. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to peek over the western horizon. Distant bird calls danced through the air, light and melodic as they ushered in the dawn. Dewdrops clinging to the low-cut bo’al made the village sparkle like a huge diamond.

  Austin looked around him. It was still early enough that there was little movement. A few sentries stood guard in the watchtowers, and a handful of bleary-eyed villagers were already up and about, stoking low fires and tending to other similar tasks. Other than that there was nothing of movement or sound. All was quiet and peaceful.

  Looking around at the sleeping Belayas village, Austin knew what he had to do. He had spent too much time here as it was; every moment he delayed was another moment when Justin was enduring unimaginable torments at the hands of Rokan Sellas. The Belayas can’t help me. And even if they could, the cost to them would simply be too high. I can’t ask that of them. I have to do this on my own. Whatever the consequences of my actions, I and I alone will bear them.

  At some level, Austin had known from the start that it would come to this. But fear had kept him within the confines of the village. Fear of the Traika, and what their magic-users might do to him if they caught him trespassing on their land. Fear of the various deadly beasts that he knew prowled the wilds. But mostly fear of Rokan Sellas, of the impossible and horrific feats of magic Austin had witnessed on Hilthak. Of Mari’eth warriors dissolving into dust, of five Tellarian soldiers drained of their life essence and tossed aside as empty husks. It was a power that Austin didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand. The thought of facing it a second time shivered him to the core, a terrifying feeling of helplessness.