The first to move was Arex. The Kastria Dar’katal ran over to Drogni, blood running down his side, his eyes flush with rage. “What is the meaning of this, warrior of Tel’aria?” he whispered furiously. “We have them—we have them! The battle is ours—we must finish it!”
Drogni adjusted the volume on his translator back to normal. He met Arex’s angry gaze without flinching. “The battle is over,” he said.
“It is not over!” Arex turned, gesticulating wildly with his flint-bladed sword at the Traika who still lived. “It is not over, warrior of Tel’aria! We can end this, here, tonight! We will end this—”
“It is over,” repeated Drogni. “You have won. And hundreds have died, from three tribes. How many more need to join them? Let it end here.”
Arex stared at Drogni, anger turning into disbelief. “Let it end? For seventeen years, we have fought the Traika, always outnumbered, always defeated, and now that we finally have a chance to turn the tide of this war you ask me not to take it? Does your mind turn on itself, warrior of Tel’aria? You agreed that we had to kill them all. This was your plan as much as it was mine—”
“Yes, it was,” admitted Drogni. “And I was wrong. We came here for slaughter, and we got it. And I’ve had enough of it. Enough people have died tonight.”
“If I let them go, they will just rejoin the rest of the Traika and attack us tomorrow, or the next day! We must kill them all; there must be no survivors—”
“And if you kill them all, the rest of the Traika will still attack you tomorrow, and they will still outnumber you.” Drogni met Arex’s angry glare without blinking. “You don’t need more violence; what you need is for the war to end. If you spare these men, that’s a start towards peace. Maybe not enough—but it’s more than you’ve had in years, from what you’ve told me. It’s not easy to take that first step, and I’m not pretending it is. But it’s your best chance. It’s your only chance.”
Arex considered this for a second, then he shook his head angrily. “No! We won tonight, you said it yourself. We can win next time, too. Their to’laka are dead, and if they think to bring the battle into our lands we will crush them. I have waited years for this moment, warrior of Tel’aria—you will not take it from me!”
As Arex spoke, Drogni suddenly heard a buzz of static from inside his head. It sounded like the Vizier was again trying to contact him, but for whatever reason could not. Good—the last thing I need right now is him in my head, disrupting my thoughts. “Yes, you won tonight. But you won’t win next time. Because Makree and I won’t be there to help you.”
The Dar’katal’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat, warrior of Tel’aria?”
“No,” replied Drogni evenly. “We’ll be leaving tonight, regardless of what you decide. I’m just warning you not to make your decision because of what has happened tonight. Make it based on the seventeen years that happened before it.”
Arex’s eyes flashed angrily, and the muscles of his sword-arm bunched. But he quickly regained control. “So what now, warrior of Tel’aria? Shall we just leave and hope for the Traika to repay our kindness? The evil of Kil’la’ril has torched their souls; they will not listen to any emissaries of peace.”
Drogni knew that therein lay the flaw in his plan. The original cause of this war had long since been forgotten, and the reason it had continued for so long was that neither side was willing to make the first move towards peace. Drogni felt certain that—in their normal state—the Traika would now accept peace, especially since half of their warriors had been wiped out. But the power of Nembane Mountain had changed that. Drogni had seen it with his own eyes, felt it in his soul. In their current state, the Traika were not rational. “True. I won’t argue with that. You’re taking a risk by doing this…but it’s a risk either way. What I can say is that I came here to find and kill the man responsible for this evil. When—when, not if—I kill him, the spell should break.”
“Should?” Arex’s voice was low and dangerous. His expression was dark and menacing, like the sky during a storm.
“Yes, should.” Drogni did not blink in the face of the Dar’katal’s anger. “I’m not an expert on this, and I won’t pretend I am—and I don’t want to be! Maybe I’m wrong, and the damage is permanent. In that case, the Traika may destroy you, or you them, and it won’t matter what you choose to do tonight.”
It was a very unsatisfying argument, and Drogni knew it. He knew he was asking a lot of Arex based purely on faith, perhaps too much. For all he knew, there was a custom that prohibited them from sparing enemies in battle, and he was asking the Dar’katal to break it. Were he in Arex’s spot, he wasn’t sure what he would do. But Drogni knew, in an unshakable way that he couldn’t explain, that this was the Kastria tribe’s only chance to survive.
Arex was silent for several long moments. When he finally replied, his voice was still tight with anger. “Even if I spare them, it will change nothing between our tribes. They will still be my enemy in the morning.”
“They are still your enemy tonight,” said Drogni. “And that will never change unless you choose to change it.”
Arex considered this. His gaze flicked towards the battlefield, whose inhabitants had segregated themselves with the Traika on one side and the Kastria and Makree on the other. “I do not like this idea, warrior of Tel’aria,” he growled. “You have helped us to do what I had believed impossible, and the Kastria are grateful…but you ask much.” He looked at Drogni, then back over at his warriors, and suddenly he sighed and lowered his blade. “I trust you, warrior of Tel’aria. You know the art of war better than any I have ever met, and since you have arrived you have brought much luck to our tribe. Perhaps you are blessed by the gods. I do not like it…but I will do it. And I will pray that you are right.”
* * * *
True to his word, Arex quickly gathered up his men and left. Before they went, he spoke with the Traika Dar’katal, Lorann. Arex told Lorann that the battle was over, that the Traika were free to regroup with the rest of their tribe wherever they wished, and that he would send emissaries for peace in two days’ time. Drogni, who was present for this exchange, found it difficult to gauge Lorann’s reaction. Although the Traika Dar’katal did not appear to be consumed by the dread aura of Nembane Mountain, something dark and dangerous still gleamed in his eyes. Then the Kastria departed, vanishing back into the trees like silent ghosts, and shortly thereafter the Traika had followed suit, leaving Drogni and Makree alone with the dead.
As Drogni watched the Traika go, he wondered if he had made the right choice. He had fought in many battles and studied hundreds more. He knew that there were instances where a single act of mercy could lead to an enduring peace, but he didn’t know if this was one of them. The presence of magic muddled everything. For his part, he would be glad to be rid of this world. Only one more thing to do. Let’s do it and go home.
Makree’s face was an expressionless mask. If you were in charge, what would you have done? asked Drogni silently. But the answer to that question was irrelevant; Makree was not in charge, and Drogni was. He had made the choice, and he would live with it. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They walked in silence through the night, and soon the ground began to slope upwards as they came to the foot of Nembane Mountain. The giant peak was even more imposing up close, rising so high that it vanished into the clouds. Drogni could well imagine all manner of nefarious sorcery brewing within its depths.
“Admiral,” said Makree. The other soldier’s voice was quiet, sounding somehow detached. Drogni turned to face his companion. Makree’s gaze was steady, outwardly calm…but beneath that calm lurked something that might have been fear. “I will lead us from here,” Makree continued in that same quiet tone.
“Lead us to what?”
“We are not just looking for the mountain,” said Makree. “We need to go beneath the mountain—and to do that, we need an entrance. A door, hewn into the rock itself, leading deep into the planet.
The mountain’s base is huge, and there is no path to this door. But I know where it is.”
“You do, do you?” Drogni felt his irritation rising. He thought that Makree had come fully clean about everything he’d been hiding, but obviously he’d been wrong. “And how exactly is that?”
“I know for the same reason that I know this world’s language,” said Makree. “There are eight entrances, and I know them all. The tunnels beneath the mountain are nearly endless, a labyrinth within which you could wander for days, weeks, even years. But there are maps, shown to me by the man I told you of, the man with no name. I know the paths we must take.” He paused for a moment. “I know the way because I must know. Because it has become my purpose to know.” He fell silent, breaking off his gaze and turning instead to stare at the mountain looming above them.
“Your purpose—” began Drogni angrily, then cut himself off. There was something in Makree’s voice, something in his stance, that robbed the fire from Drogni’s retort. The other soldier sounded…lost. And very, very alone. He thinks he’s going to die here, Drogni reminded himself. And yet he continues on. In light of that, I can’t blame him for being a little absentminded. I don’t like it…but I can forgive it. Yeah, he should have told me this already, but he knows he’s made a mistake; the last thing he needs is me chewing his head off for it. “Alright, soldier,” he continued, the anger gone from his voice. “Lead the way.”
They walked for several minutes, Makree silently leading, Drogni silently following. For a while, the verdant forest surrounded them, lush and full of life. Then the terrain abruptly changed, as if they had crossed over some invisible boundary into another world. There were no more trees, bushes, even grass—everything living disappeared, replaced by a lifeless blanket of jagged white stones. Makree led them on, his path unerring, and they picked their way through what was now a wasteland.
Strapped across Drogni’s back, the Mari’eth blade began to pulse with a chill heartbeat. The air felt stale in his mouth.
They took a few more steps, and Drogni saw their destination. A stark rock wall stood ahead of them, and in it was a giant crack, twice the height of a man. Beyond the crack was a tunnel, stretching back like a portal to the underworld, a grim entrance leading to a place of death and foreboding.
They walked up to the opening and stopped. “There,” said Makree, though the word was quite unnecessary. Drogni could already feel a pull emanating from the crevice; he could practically feel Rokan Sellas’s presence inviting him in—in and down.
Drogni stared into the dark passageway. He could see nothing within except an endless expanse of emptiness. Unbidden, a dozen images sprung to his mind, terrible creatures of myth and horror that could be lurking inside, but they quickly faded. Save for one—the face of a man, split by a long white scar. The man laughed and demonic fire burned from his eyes.
Rokan Sellas. I’m coming for you, you bastard. Fifteen years late, but I’m coming to finish what I started.
Beneath Nembane Mountain, this finally ends.
-19-
Austin, his face streaked with blood and sweat, tripped on a root and fell heavily. He scrambled back to his feet, ignoring the jagged knives of pain that shot through him. Fear lent an almost inhuman urgency to his movements. Tree branches slapped against his face and the thorny juraa tendrils scraped vicious gouges across his legs and arms, but he barely felt anything. The need for flight—the need to carry himself as far away as possible from the horrors he had witnessed—overrode everything as he continued his panicked dash.
As he ran, his mind returned to the scene he had left behind. How could this have happened? How could everything have gone so wrong, so quickly?
Dar’katal Ulkar had sounded so confident, when he had called upon his warriors for vengeance. His voice had rung like the gong of war, stoking the fires of vengeance in a hundred hearts, fires that for half a decade had lain dormant but not quite extinguished. Standing before them, spear in one hand and stone-bladed sword in the other, he had been the very image of the battle kings who strode proudly in every people’s legends. He had told them that, with the fury of justice on their side, they could not lose. And they had believed him.
Raising his twin weapons high in the air, Dar’katal Ulkar had proclaimed himself fai’la’if. And he had led the Belayas to war.
To war? No. He had led the Belayas to their deaths.
And Austin remembered…
The plan had been simple. The Dar’katal had assured them that, with surprise and nightfall on their side, they would sweep through the Traika village and be gone before their enemies could retaliate. They were not there to take prisoners or steal provisions, enterprises which would only delay their escape and enable the Traika to mobilize their warriors. They were there for one purpose, and one purpose only.
To avenge the Dar’katal’s son by killing any and all in their path.
With that singular goal in their minds, and with slaughter in their hearts, the Belayas had marched towards the Traika. They moved like ghosts through the dark forests, neither speaking nor stopping, transformed from thinking men into mindless machines of battle. Austin had done his best to keep up, though he knew that he had only done so because they were restraining their pace. Waiting for him, so that when they reached their goal he would be there to lead the attack.
Austin would have wondered about such deference, which was such an abrupt reversal from their initial treatment of him, but for the words that the Dar’katal had spoken to him just before they left. An imposing figure, not as tall as his men but far broader, with a fierce shock of deep black hair and an angular face that seemed sharp enough to cut through the long spear he held, he had looked straight at Austin. “Stranger, I have seen you, practicing up on the hilltop, with your weapon of light that burns the very air before it. I know that you slew the bull fenail in single combat—a feat scarcely even imagined, let alone performed in reality. You know the art of battle, better than any I have ever known, and when we are upon our enemy your hand will be the hammer of our attack. My men know your worth; they know your skill, and they will follow you into battle. Lead us against the a’dia, stranger, unleash your magic blade upon our foes, and after the Traika are dead I will personally lead you to the foot of Kil’la’ril. That is my word, my unbreakable bond.”
And Ulkar had meant it. A promise to deliver the one thing Austin needed, the thing that Taralen had been unable to provide. It should have raised Austin’s heart. Yet as he followed the Belayas, he did not feel hopeful, not happy, not determined. He did not think of Justin, and how his steps were finally taking him towards rescuing his friend.
Instead, his thoughts were on the Traika, and on the slaughter he was about to unleash upon them. His blade, a weapon that symbolized peace throughout the Federation, would now be used as a tool of war. His pistols would wreak death on a people completely unprepared to fight such technology. He himself would now be turned into an instrument of destruction. And why? For justice? For honor?
The Dar’katal said that was their purpose, and his men believed it. But to Austin, it did not feel that way. It felt only like slaughter. And it sickened him that he had stooped to such a level.
Yet he marched on. And he never considered turning back. This was not just for the Dar’katal and his son. This was for Justin, for the chance to save him from a fate that he did not deserve. No matter the cost.
At last they came upon the Traika village. Although larger by far than that of the Belayas, the Traika settlement was much less fortified. It was walled, but there were no defensive towers, and the north wall was waist-high and only fifty or so meters from the forest. With less open ground to cover, they could reach the village in moments and be inside before an alarm could be raised. They had already killed several Traika scouts, a minor bloodletting that had scarcely served to whet their appetite for death. Before them sat an entire village, fat and unaware, primed for attack. Helpless before the Belayas spears and arrows.
>
Or so they thought. They should have sensed the trap and fled while they had still had the chance. The whole approach had been too easy, and then to come upon a village with nary a guard or watchman? They should have known better.
But, as was always the case, the fires of fury left little room for rational thinking. They could not see what should have been obvious, blinded by the very anger that they believed would make them strong.
If Sho’nal Taralen had been with them, he would have seen it. He would have warned them to flee, and while they might not have listened, they might have at least been more wary.
But the Sho’nal was not there. He had been left behind in the village, given orders to prepare for the warriors’ triumphant return. Yet another disgrace for a man whose greatest crime had been to save all of their lives.
Which meant that, this time, he was not there to save them.
Instead, it had been Dar’katal Ulkar leading the charge. Dar’katal Ulkar, who saw a defenseless village, and, consumed by his anger, convinced of the righteousness of his purpose, never imagined that it could be anything else. The Dar’katal raised spear and sword, and as one they swept from the forest, crossed the plain in a heartbeat, and swarmed over the low mud-brick walls. Austin was first among them, leaping into the village with pulseblade sweeping through the air like the claw of a demon.
But his blade did not claim a single victim.
For the Traika were waiting for them.
In the time that it took for the Belayas and Austin to recognize the trap, a hail of arrows was already lancing towards them, cleaving through flesh and bone and skewering the would-be marauders where they stood. On instinct, Austin ducked and raised his blade defensively, but a pulseblade was not an effective defense against arrows; only the reinforced fiber armor suit beneath his clothes protected him from suffering the same fate as so many of the Belayas. Other Traika warriors slung spears and threw rocks, to devastating effect.
Chains of Mist Page 29