Soon, my debt will finally be repaid.
* * * *
Drogni sat in silence on a rise outside the Kastria village, his par-gun in his hand. His eyes closed, he inhaled deeply through the breathing mask, held the breath for a long second, then exhaled. In his mind, he pictured a river, running calmly through an open field—a scene devoid of violence, of action, of any movement at all other than the casual meanderings of the stream.
A scene of peace.
Inhale…exhale. Inhale…exhale. Inhale…
A low rumble sounded in Drogni’s mind. The peaceful landscape began to shake. A ripple passed over the surface of the river.
Drogni concentrated harder, trying to calm his thoughts, to maintain his hold on tranquility. Inhale…exhale. In—
The rumbling grew louder, and over the shaking of the earth Drogni heard other, familiar sounds. The dull thunk of flint blades against flesh, the whirring of arrows, the sounds of battle and victory and death. Something stirred within him, a voice calling to him. You were born for this, it whispered. Why do you hide from who you are? Why do you deny your destiny?
Drogni shuddered. No! This is my world! I’m in control! But he wasn’t, and he knew it; though he fought against it, his heart racing and sweat pouring down his face, he could feel his grasp slipping. The mental scene began to erode, the ground cracking and the river becoming a deluge. He saw men fighting, their weapons flashing in the sun. Three fighters stood out from the rest, and Drogni recognized the Traika whom he had brutalized. They wandered listlessly, blood streaming from their torn faces. Their voices raised in a cry of agony and lament. “Why?”
Drogni recoiled from the walking dead. I’m sorry, he tried to say, but no words came out. Instead, the field suddenly erupted with fire. A face arose within the flames, a face with burning eyes and a wicked, twisted smile. “Accept your true nature, Ortega!” Rokan Sellas hissed. “Accept that you are mine!
“Accept that you are mine!”
A hand grasped Drogni’s shoulder. His eyes snapped open. Die, Rokan! Strong hands grasped his wrist; he spun, punching out with his free hand, catching a glancing blow against his assailant. Die, you stelnak!
A voice split through the haze of Drogni’s rage. “Calm yourself, warrior of Tel’aria! It is I, Arex.”
Drogni hesitated, and in that moment his vision cleared. The Kastria Dar’katal stood before him, a look of alarm in his eyes. Drogni took a step back, in dismay over what he had almost done. His par-gun dropped from his fingers. “I’m sorry, Arex—I didn’t see you—”
The Dar’katal raised his hand, cutting Drogni off. “Do not worry. You were not yourself. I saw it in your eyes; you were communing with your Inner Self, which we call e’tana. When one sinks into the realm of e’tana, it is often difficult to tell the real from the imagined.”
Drogni shook his head, trying in vain to silence the voice that still echoed there. “Yeah, you’ve got that right.”
The Dar’katal’s eyes grew pensive. “Tell me, warrior of Tel’aria, what you saw in your e’tana.”
Drogni shuddered. “Just an old enemy.”
“The same enemy you are hunting within Kil’la’ril?”
Rokan Sellas’s face rose up again in Drogni’s mind, and he felt bile in his throat. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
The Dar’katal clicked his tongue against his teeth in affirmation, and his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I see, warrior of Tel’aria. And what did your enemy tell you?”
Drogni gritted his teeth against the memory. Accept that you are mine! Aloud, he said, “It doesn’t matter. He was wrong.”
Arex considered this. “Perhaps he was…but the e’tana never speaks idly. The words your enemy spoke may have been false, but they should not be ignored. There is a reason you saw what you saw, and heard what you heard. Remember that.”
“Yeah, I will.” I know the reason. It’s a taunt, a trap. But I won’t fall for it. “So, any word from the kat’ara?”
The Dar’katal sighed. “None yet,” he said, and his frustration was clear in his voice. “They will talk for some time, warrior of Tel’aria. I am confident that, in the end, they will agree with me…but I do not know how long it will take. Every day, every moment that they hesitate could be the one that costs all of us our lives.”
“How long do you think it’ll take before the Traika attack?”
“Not long.” The Dar’katal shrugged. “A few days, perhaps. And when it happens, there will be one battle to determine the fate of both of our tribes—and, if we lose, the fate of every tribe. The Kastria are the only people left with any hope to defeat the Traika. If we fail, all will fail.”
“Have you sent any emissaries to the other tribes? Offered an alliance?”
The Dar’katal laughed humorlessly. “They offered us an alliance—and we turned them down! The kat’ara feared that, by entering an alliance, we would provoke the Traika into all-out war, instead of the inconclusive skirmishes that we had fought until then. And, to their credit, they were probably right. But they did not predict the re-awakening of Kil’la’ril. And now the tribes that could have helped us—the Sandahar, the Kedra, the Daraman, the Seramor, the Edala—are either destroyed or have fled. Those that remain are either too distant to help us or not currently at war with the Traika…although I fear that no peace can survive the power of Kil’la’ril. Warrior of Tel’aria, we stand alone.”
Alone and outnumbered, fighting an enemy beyond their power. And it’s all my fault. Not directly, perhaps…but if I’d done my job right, fifteen years ago, Rokan Sellas would have died and none of this would be happening. “I’m sorry for bringing you into this, Arex. This isn’t your war. Maybe you should just leave. No shame in running from an enemy that you can’t beat.”
The Dar’katal thought about this for a long moment. Then he shrugged again. “Perhaps not. But if we do not stand against the Traika, who will? If we flee, the Traika will win, and eventually they will grow strong enough to destroy every tribe between the seas. If that happens, we will die with no possibility of victory. There are some who might prefer that alternative, to sacrifice any chance of long-term survival in exchange for a few more years of life. But I am not one of them. I will fight to the bitter end, and my warriors will fight beside me. It is likely that we will all die.” Arex chuckled, and a fierce gleam came into his eyes. “But I will go to meet the Sky Lord with Traika blood on my blade!”
Arex was so utterly determined, so utterly fearless, that Drogni felt ashamed for having suggested that he flee. Yes, the Kastria may be alone; yes, they may be outnumbered…but they are not defeated. They are not willing to abandon hope. And if they aren’t, then I can’t either. Meeting the Dar’katal’s gaze, Drogni placed his fist against his chest. “Then I would be honored to fight by your side, if you’ll have me.”
The Dar’katal mirrored Drogni’s gesture. “Warrior of Tel’aria, the honor is mine. However—” and his voice grew suddenly serious “—I must ask of you one favor. After the battle is over, and we have sent the Traika down to A’Lai Mar, you must leave our lands and never return. The weapons you wield are too dangerous for this land and for our people. Already, many of my warriors look upon them with greed in their eyes, and I myself confess that there are moments when I wish that I, too, could shoot fire from my hands. But such weapons would destroy us, warrior of Tel’aria—we would not know how to use them, and in our haste and our greed we would destroy ourselves. I have told my warriors that if they try to take your weapons you will leave and not aid us against the Traika, so for the time being you should be safe. But, once the battle is over, they will forget my warnings…and they will come for you. You must not allow that to happen. You and your people must leave, and never return to our lands. Promise me, warrior of Tel’aria.”
Drogni remembered the greedy, dangerous eyes of Cheradis. Yes, there’s a man who wouldn’t hesitate to cut our throats if it meant taking our pistols. And who could blame him? If I thought I could
get my hands on a weapon that would make me invincible, I’d probably take it too. “You have my word, Arex,” he replied.
* * * *
The midday sun beamed down bright and warm through a cloudless sky. Yet as Lerana looked northward to the majestic splendor of Kil’la’ril she felt a chill spreading through her bones. It seemed as though a shadow fell over her, a shadow cast by no source. A shadow on her soul…and the soul of her people.
A darkness had come over the lands of the Traika. And nothing would ever be the same again.
It had begun two nights ago. A Kastria tar’keta led by their Dar’katal, Arex, had entered Traika land and made for the southern military outpost. They had sought to free the eleven warriors whom the Traika had captured four days earlier.
And they had sprung the trap that the Traika had laid for them.
Lerana and her fellow to’laka had been waiting, hovering over the outpost in spirit form. But when they had tried to harness their power something had blocked them—as if the air itself were shielded, its energy walled off and out of reach. They had been able to do nothing except watch as the Kastria—aided by two strange-garbed warriors wielding weapons that spat fire and lightning—slew the outpost’s defenders to a man, rescued their captured brothers, and vanished into the night.
The encounter had left Lerana and the others shaken. Never before had they been so thoroughly overpowered, so completely helpless—and within their own lands, no less. Even now she shuddered at the memory. It was as if she were a small child again, back before the Awakening of her power, huddled frightened and alone in the dark.
The next day, the Jo’ma had called a gathering of the to’laka. Lerana knew that she would never forget what had been uttered there. The words would echo forever in her mind, burned into her soul.
The Jo’ma stood before them, tall and terrible and magnificent. Her voice was like autumn thunder. “My children. You have many questions, and I have the answers you seek. In my spirit form I have journeyed to the Kastria village. Within its walls I felt a nexus of power. I cannot tell its source, but it is obvious that the Kastria have found a new weapon, a weapon of great and terrible fury. They will seek to use this power to grind us into dust, to erase us from the face of the world. We have no choice but to act. We must destroy them before they can strike against us.”
The dark-bearded man seated three to Lerana’s right asked the question that was on all of their minds. “How, revered Jo’ma?”
The Jo’ma turned towards him. “Do you remember the scar-faced man we saw in our e’tana six days ago?”
“Of course, revered Jo’ma.”
“He is the key.” The Jo’ma paused briefly before continuing. “I believe that he is no mortal man. His power is far too great.”
The man shifted uneasily, his tattoos writhing and twisting as he moved. “But if he is not mortal, then what is he? Do you think him a god returned to us, like Ja’nal among the Helion?”
“I do. But he is not Ja’nal.” The Jo’ma raised a bony finger in rebuke. “He is the Demon Prince, returned to Human flesh.”
A sharp rush of sound split the air as fourteen to’laka drew in a collective breath. Fear lanced through Lerana, and she had to clench her fists to keep her hands from trembling. The Demon Prince! A’Cheran himself, the Lord of Darkness, the Devourer of Souls. Her mind flew back to the legends her father had told her in her youth. Wherever the Demon Prince walked, chaos and destruction followed.
Yet even as terror threatened to overwhelm her she felt a strange thrill surge from somewhere deep within. The Demon Prince was an infernal creature of boundless evil, but he was still a god. He held divine power—power to dwarf anything she had ever seen or imagined. With such an ally, the Traika would be unstoppable. They would sweep over their enemies, bathing their villages with a river of blood. None would survive.
And the Traika would finally know peace.
The slender woman two to Lerana’s left, her dark eyes like chips of cold stone, spoke next. “Are you sure, revered Jo’ma?”
“I am,” the old woman replied.
Silence dropped over them, as thick as morning fog off of A’chen’has. Fourteen sets of eyes watched the Jo’ma, their owners scarcely breathing, tension rippling among them like an ocean wave.
The Jo’ma looked back at them with a gaze of fire and majesty, staring deep into their souls. “This is a sign, my children. An omen showing us the path that we must take. Ja’nal has been unable to deliver us victory. The Rules of Den’ja have brought our people only death and despair. It cannot continue. We all know what must be done. The gift of A’Cheran must be awakened.”
Dread seized Lerana in an icy fist. She recalled the tale of the Demon Prince and the Latikana tribe. The Latikana had beseeched A’Cheran for power, and the Demon Prince had told them of an ancient ritual which would release the darkness chained within them. An ancient and terrible ritual that had given them power, but in return had stolen their very souls. “You cannot! You—”
The Jo’ma slashed a withered hand downwards, cutting off Lerana’s plea. “We will do what we must,” she snarled. “We will save our people.”
Lerana fell into stunned silence. The Jo’ma seemed to transform before her eyes, becoming something savage and inhuman. Wrinkled hands elongated to scything claws and her face twisted into a grotesque visage. Lerana’s thoughts returned to the Latikana of legend. The ritual to A’Cheran required a Human sacrifice. Nor would simply any victim suffice—the Demon Prince demanded a soul of exceptional power.
In the legend, the Latikana had sacrificed their Jo’ma to enact the ritual. But the old woman did not speak like someone offering up her own life. In that moment Lerana realized the truth. “You will sacrifice the stranger.”
The Jo’ma’s eyes billowed with manic glee. “He will be a fitting tribute. And his death will serve a twofold purpose. It will satisfy the Dar’katal’s quest for vengeance. And it will please the Demon Prince.”
Lerana’s gaze swept over her fellow to’laka. They sat in silence, but she saw their thoughts in their eyes and on their faces. They agreed with the Jo’ma. Many of them even seemed eager to continue, practically seething to stake out the stranger and cut out his beating heart. “We cannot! It is not our way. We do not—”
“Our way?” Anger made an ugly mask of the Jo’ma’s wizened face. The terek on her shoulder loosed an earsplitting cry of raw predatory fury. “Our way has seen us hunted and hounded, our warriors slain, our lands burned. Our way is the way of the weak, of the coward. It is time for us to cast it aside. The Demon Prince walks this world, clothed once again in living flesh. He offers us the strength to destroy our enemies. And we shall take it!”
Lerana said nothing. There were no words above the horror coursing through her soul.
The Jo’ma’s voice rolled out deep and terrible like a fenail’s growl. “Will you obey, my child?”
Lerana met the old woman’s imperious gaze. Lightning crackled in those emerald eyes, and Lerana could feel her skin tingling under the fury of the old woman’s power. She swallowed, and that action loosed her tongue. Her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil. “I will, revered Jo’ma,” she said.
When Lerana had said those words, she had meant them. She was a to’lak of the Traika, an obedient disciple of the Jo’ma. She had a sacred duty to protect her people, no matter the cost to herself.
But now, as she looked towards Kil’la’ril, she was no longer sure. She had searched her e’tana for guidance. She had prayed to Ja’nal for wisdom. But she had found no answers. All of her doubts and fears still remained.
It seemed as if she stood at a crossroads. On one path lay the Kastria, their spears sharp and cruel, their faces twisted with greed and fury, their mighty new weapon wreaking death upon the Traika. On the other strode the scar-faced man, majestic and terrible, the blood-red gemstone in his palm rippling with waves of divine fury. The Demon Prince held the power to save Lerana’s people…but at
a terrible price. An unfathomable price which, once paid, could never be undone.
In her heart, she knew that one path led to salvation and peace for the Traika. The other would leave them in smoking ruin.
But in both directions she saw only fire and shadow and death.
-16-
When Roger next saw Lerana, the shaman looked very uneasy, her eyes darting to and fro as if afraid someone was watching her. She did not sit, and her posture was that of a skittish wild animal prepared to bolt at any moment. “I must be brief, Roger,” she said. “The to’laka would not be pleased if they knew that I was talking to you.”
Roger was immediately worried. Something’s changed, and that can’t be good for me. “Why is that?”
Lerana shot a wary glance over her shoulder. “Something has happened. One of our outposts has been attacked and destroyed. When our scouts arrived to examine the wreckage, they found strange scorch marks on some of our dead, as if a tiny fire had seared straight through their flesh. We to’laka expanded our senses to find the source of this new power, and we felt a nexus of energy within the village of the Kastria. Like your power, only more active. A weapon, rather than a shield. A weapon that may be strong enough to defeat us.”
When Lerana had said ‘strange scorch marks’, Roger had immediately thought of particle beam wounds. But that can’t be right. “So what does that mean?”
“It means that the war has escalated faster than I had anticipated. If the Kastria have this power, it will not be long before they bring it all the way to our village.”
Lerana paused, and Roger, sensing that the shaman wasn’t finished, didn’t say anything. “But that is not what worries me, Roger,” Lerana continued softly. “What worries me is what we will do in response.”
Roger felt a chill run down his spine. “What do you mean?”
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