Nor was Talan acting like a prisoner. The wizard seemed slightly ill at ease, but his focus was not on the others; rather, his gaze was fixed firmly on Nembane Mountain. And if they’re not worried about him, and he’s not worried about them, then that means…
The man glanced over at Talan and said something that Roger couldn’t make out. The old man’s reply was equally quiet, his voice calm. He pointed towards the mountain, the air in front of his finger shimmering with some kind of sorcery, and the man nodded.
Their short exchange eliminated all of Roger’s doubts. The reason they’re not acting like enemies is that they’re not. Anger swelled within him. And that means Talan knew they’d be here—he let me get attacked and stranded in the wilderness. He was working with them the whole time! And to think that I trusted him—
Then something else suddenly clicked in Roger’s mind. Something almost too terrible to contemplate, but which he knew instantly had to be true. He remembered what Talan had said to him back on Pattagax: “You will not find the Legion…but perhaps they will find you.”
And then he all but forces me to come to Espir, where these red-uniformed soldiers are waiting to attack me. Me…but not him.
Red-uniformed soldiers.
Blood Legion.
Rage greater than anything that he had ever felt burgeoned within Roger, growing until he felt as though he would burst. His hands clenched into fists, and his spear snapped like deadwood. Blood pounded in his ears, and a red film of fury obscured his vision. Jolts of electricity crackled spasmodically from his ring, and pain swept through his hand, but he did not care. He lied when he said he didn’t know where the Legion was based. He knew they were here—he knew the whole time! And he let them attack me! He let them take me!
He’s working with them. My enemies—and he’s working with them!
He will pay for this! Fires of Muntûrek, he will pay!
Throwing aside the broken fragments of his spear, Roger strode out into the clearing. The voice that emerged from his mouth was more bestial than Human.
“TALAN!”
The three of them turned as one. The Shalator whipped out her weapon, aiming it at Roger, but Talan stayed her hand. The man stepped forward, placing himself in Roger’s path. “The wizard is not to be disturbed—”
Without pausing, Roger unleashed a punch that lifted the stranger clear off his feet and sent him smashing to the ground a few meters away. You picked the wrong guy to mess with today, pal, thought Roger darkly. The Shalator moved to defend her fallen comrade, her weapon still trained on Roger, but he ignored her. She did not concern him; her presence and the danger she represented only registered faintly in a remote corner of his brain. Either she’ll shoot or she won’t; it doesn’t matter to me.
Talan still hadn’t moved. Roger took another giant stride towards him, reaching back with a punch that would break the wizard in half. But he collided with some unseen shield, and at the same time he sensed cords of arcane energy snaking out to imprison him. He twisted away, snarling and spitting like a rabid beast.
“Fight me!” he roared as the icy grasp of bonds stronger than any that could be forged by technological craft encircled him. “Fight me, you coward!”
An almost tangible power echoed in Roger’s voice. Talan still said nothing. “You lied to me!” yelled Roger. “I trusted you, and you betrayed me!” Unable to turn his head or move his legs, Roger spat derisively, and drops of saliva spattered against Talan’s robe. “I oughta gut you like a lokka, you piece of—”
“Your anger is understandable,” interrupted Talan softly. “I am not proud of what has happened, and I offer no excuses for my actions…but neither will I apologize for them. Some things, even I am powerless to act against.”
“Oh really? ‘You were powerless to act,’” mimicked Roger, his voice ugly with biting sarcasm. “Then explain this, pal—how come you’ve been here, with the enemy, while I was stranded in the forest? I nearly died—more than once, and in horrible ways, I might add—and then I come back here to find you—with them? Those guys are the enemy, and you’ve got ‘em eating out of your hand. Whaddya say to that?”
Talan sighed, and Roger felt a growing sense of savage triumph. Got him this time; let’s see him talk his way outta this one. “That is…complicated,” the wizard said finally. “To begin with, the Blood Legion soldiers who have joined us are hardly ‘eating out of my hand’. They are here because I was able to convince the Legion Admirals of the danger we face—temporary allies, no more.”
Once again, he gives me an answer that only raises more questions. “Okay then. Well, if they’re just ‘temporary allies’, then you won’t mind if I slice up a couple of ‘em then, will you?”
“Roger, stop this foolishness. I understand that what happened to you was terrible, but taking out your anger on these soldiers will do you no good. They are not your enemy.”
“Yeah, well it looks like they’re gonna have to do, doesn’t it?” The sarcasm dropped away, and Roger’s rage came roaring back. “They all look the same to me. Since it doesn’t look like I can dice you up—believe me, I’d really like to right about now, but that doesn’t seem to be an option—I’ll take what I can get. And that means your friends here are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe they weren’t responsible, but I’ll bet at least one of them knows something about what happened to me, and I swear by Muntûrek’s flames I’ll cut ‘em down one by one if that’s what it takes to get someone to talk!” And I mean it. I don’t make that oath lightly.
Your move now, old man.
And in the face of Roger’s fury, Talan flinched.
It was barely perceptible, a slight tightening of the shoulders beneath the brown robe, but Roger saw it. Gotcha. The old man turned, and Roger could finally see his face.
He looked so…old. So tired. “That will not be necessary,” he said in a voice as soft as wind rustling over desiccated leaves. “I know why you lost your memories.”
“You know? You know!” Roger writhed against the invisible chains holding him, shaking like a man possessed, which was not so far from the truth. “Those are my memories, not yours—what makes you think you have the right to keep them from me! What, Talan? Answer me—what!”
Talan bowed his head. “You are right, Roger Warbanks. I offer no excuse, for there is none. You have the right to know the truth.”
“So tell me!”
“I will do more than that, Roger.” Talan lifted a hand, and a bright light suddenly ignited in his palm. “I will show you.”
The light expanded, flooding out to engulf Roger. Instinctively, he closed his eyes—
And opened them to behold a scene from a forgotten past.
Roger stood upon the surface of a dying world. Rain and fire plummeted down around him, scorching a landscape already pockmarked with a thousand gaping fissures. In the skies above, a shattered moon loomed impossibly large, so close that it seemed he could reach out and touch its blasted surface. Beneath him, the ground shook with tremors, and cracks appeared not five meters from his feet. He leapt back and felt a hand grasp his shoulder.
He turned, and saw Talan. The old man, light shining through his ethereal form, pointed at a ruined building in the distance. “Come,” he said, and before Roger had a chance to respond he found that they were inside the ruins.
And they were not alone.
A man stood with his back to Roger and Talan. He had the build and stance of a warrior, and he wore the red and black uniform of the Blood Legion. In his hand, he held aloft a pulseblade, the weapon crackling and hissing as rain spattered along its electrified length.
The man’s gaze was fixed on a shadowy spot a few meters in front of him. “I will not fight you,” he said. “It doesn’t have to end this way.”
A second man emerged from the shadows—
And Roger saw himself, five years younger. The same, yet different, and Roger realized that this man’s eyes were not haunted by despair. He knows who he
is, and was, and could be. Like the first man, the young Roger wore the uniform of the Blood Legion and wielded a pulseblade. “It is too late for that,” the young Roger said. “You have made your choice…and I have made mine.”
The first man tossed his weapon aside. “You won’t kill an unarmed man,” he said. “You’re better than that—I know you are. Don’t do this.”
The young Roger gave a cruel smile. “You know nothing,” he said. “That was always your problem. If you will not fight me, then you will die.”
And he suddenly lunged, blade extended, to cleave through skin, through flesh, through bone.
Roger watched with horror as the first man gave a sigh and slumped to the ground. No. No! It can’t be true! It’s impossible!
The young Roger stared down at the corpse, and in his voice there was nothing of regret or sadness. “Good-bye, my friend.”
With a flash of light, Roger stood on Espir once more.
“I am sorry, Roger,” said Talan softly. “I wish there was another way. But there is not—there is only the truth.”
“No, no, no.” Roger stared at Talan with unseeing eyes. He felt as if the earth had suddenly dropped beneath his feet, as if the very air itself had gone barren and dead. He staggered back, his gaze still fixed on Talan—but all he could see was himself, killing an unarmed man. Not just that—a companion, a friend. And I killed him. I killed him!
No—NO! This has to be wrong! It has to be!
But he knew it wasn’t. He knew, deep in the innermost part of his soul, that what he had seen was true.
From behind him, Roger heard footsteps. He turned his head, the world spinning wildly before his eyes, and saw more Blood Legion soldiers appearing from inside the ship. A Valancian, huge and menacing, yellow eyes glimmering on his snake-like head, gave a roar and began to draw a weapon from its back, but suddenly Talan was there, holding back the alien’s scaly hand. Roger stumbled back, bile rising in his throat; he retched, but nothing came out. He heard the wind in his ears, the chirping of birds, the rushing of streams—all of it harsh and pitiless, accusing him, condemning him. You did this! they said. You deserved this! You, Roger Warbanks—you!
A veil seemed to fall across his eyes. Through it, there was only darkness and despair.
No—this isn’t how it was supposed to happen! I have seen this moment in my dreams; for five long, lonely, empty years, this moment has sustained me. It was supposed to be triumphant! To know the truth—that was everything. But not like this.
Not like this.
Revulsion swept through Roger. He raised trembling hands up to his face, staring at them with unbridled horror. With these hands, I killed one of my own. With these hands, I sealed my fate.
The veil lifted, and again—no, for the first time—Roger could see. The truth—the ugly truth. The truth I thought I wanted—and here it is.
And it is worse than I could have ever imagined.
A voice reached his ears, soft but with an undercurrent of anguish, of empathy. “Roger, the truth was always there. This changes nothing. You must not—”
“No, Talan! Don’t you see—this changes everything!” Roger blinked, focusing his gaze on the old man. His voice sounded like a stranger’s in his ears. And I am a stranger. I never knew myself. I thought I did…but I was wrong. “I killed him! I killed him—a friend, a companion in arms, and I killed him, just like that! That’s why they took my memory—because of something I did.” He reeled back, recoiling from the old man…but really recoiling from himself. “All this time, I’ve been imagining them as the bad guys, heartless monsters, for what they did to me. But now I see. This wasn’t a random act of cruelty—it was punishment. It wasn’t them. It was me.”
All this time, it was me.
Damn it, Talan! Why did you tell me?
“Roger—” Talan tried to say something, but Roger raised a hand to cut him off.
“No—please. Just…don’t. I need to be alone for a while.”
Talan nodded, and the sadness in his eyes would have torn at Roger’s heart if it hadn’t just been shattered into a thousand pieces. “As you wish. I will be here.”
Roger barely heard him. He turned and stumbled away like a blind man. His feet turned him towards the ship, instinctively carrying him towards the most familiar and comfortable object that they could. Around him, everything faded in and out of focus; he perceived more figures back away from him as he passed, but couldn’t remember who they were. It didn’t matter who they were. It only matters who I was. Who I still am. A killer.
I spent five years raging against my fate. I didn’t think there could be anything worse than not knowing the truth. I was wrong.
Oh, how I was wrong.
-17-
Austin awoke to bright sunlight. He groaned, squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes. His entire body ached, and his joints felt as if they were caked with rust. Pain radiated through his right shoulder, and every breath sent waves of pain rippling through his chest. An odd taste sat on his tongue—heavy and bitter, with a bit of a spicy kick that he couldn’t identify. It was enough to make him gag and send him into an excruciatingly painful fit of coughing.
A shadow suddenly rose up next to him. “Austin!” said a voice. “Austin, you’re awake!”
With an effort, Austin rolled over onto his side. Katrina crouched next to him, her face tight with worry. He cleared his throat and forced a smile through his discomfort. “Hi, Katrina.”
The little girl’s expression melted into relief. “Thank Kat’aia! Daddy wasn’t sure whether you would wake up. He said that you had one foot in our world and one foot in Lai’kar, and that your di’ua was in Ja’nal’s hands now.” She shuddered at the thought, but quickly brightened, breaking into a huge smile. “But I knew. I knew you wouldn’t die. You are a fai’la’if—and nothing can interfere with the quest of a fai’la’if.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” Austin replied. He brought himself carefully to a sitting position and saw that he was back inside the Belayas a’kali’a. His pack sat beside him, and atop it rested his pulseblade, dried purple blood still clinging to the blade. “Where is your father?”
“Oh, of course!” Katrina bounded to her feet. “Daddy said to tell him when you woke up. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She was gone before Austin had a chance to say anything, dashing off in a whirl of youthful energy. Austin was still trying to rub the stiffness from his joints when Sho’nal Taralen pushed through the bo’al mat covering the entrance to the a’kali’a. Katrina half-ran, half-skipped behind her father. Austin raised a hand as they approached him. “Greetings, Taralen.”
“Greetings to you, Austin Forgera.” The Sho’nal came to a stop a few meters away from Austin, his daughter beside and slightly behind him. “I am glad to see that you have returned to us.”
“Yeah, me too.” Austin experimentally worked one arm in a slow circle and was relieved to find only a small twinge of pain accompanying the motion. “What happened?”
Taralen lowered himself into the same comfortable crouch that he had assumed during their first meeting. “Do you not remember?”
“I remember…” Austin blinked, clearing his head, and memories flowed back over him. He shuddered as he recalled the nightmarish visage of the huge beast bearing down upon him, felt again the dagger-like talons tearing into his shoulder. “What were those things?”
“They are called fenail’a,” replied Taralen, his voice soft and almost bordering on reverent. “The undisputed ruler of the grasses, the most fearsome predator put on this world by Ja’nal. Stronger than any ten men together and faster than an arrow in flight, with hide tough enough to break blades and turn aside spears.” Something like amusement suddenly sparkled in his emerald eyes. “Next time, Austin Forgera, might I advise that you not engage a fenail in combat. Especially not a mother and father defending their young.”
“Yeah, I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Austin coughed, and the st
range, bitter taste rose suddenly rose up again in his mouth. He grimaced, fighting back the urge to vomit. “What did you give me?”
“That is feerak,” said the Sho’nal. “The juice from the berries dulls the senses.” He looked at Austin with gentle eyes. “We were not certain that you would survive, Austin Forgera, and you were in great pain. The least that we could do was ensure that your final moments were not spent in suffering.”
“Oh. Well, thanks, I guess.” Austin worked up some saliva and swallowed several times; the unpleasant taste receded but did not go away completely. “How did you find me?”
“Katrina noticed that you were gone.” In the corner of his eye, Austin saw the little girl practically swelling up with pride. “She alerted me, and I was able to persuade the kat’ara to send a tar’keta to find you. The rest was fairly simple. Our scouts are very skilled, and you left a path that a blind chakka could follow. Even so, we barely reached you in time. A few more heartbeats, and you would have been firmly along the path to whatever next life your people believe in.”
Austin looked at Katrina and tilted his head in a formal bow. “Thank you,” he said. Katrina beamed but said nothing.
Taralen gazed fondly at his daughter for a few moments. When he turned back to Austin his eyes were serious. “You were lucky,” he said gravely.
“Lucky?” Austin glanced down at his shoulder, and grimaced at the four long stripes of dried blood, a souvenir of the fenail’s claws. “I don’t feel lucky.”
“Yes, lucky,” repeated Taralen. “First, that you are alive at all. Few who are attacked by the fenail’a live to see another dawn. It is not uncommon for a single beast to defeat an entire tar’keta in battle; overcoming two adults at once is a feat that is reserved for our greatest warriors of legend. Second, because the fenail’a attacked you before you reached the border of Traika lands. Had you passed beyond that threshold, your life would have been forfeit. The Traika would have demanded that we surrender you to them, and we would have complied. As it is, nothing has changed. With the blessing of Ja’nal, we may yet discover a way to see you safely through to Kil’la’ril.”
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