Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  For a moment, Drogni thought that Rokan Sellas was lying, that this was perhaps some kind of gambit. But there’s no sense to that—nothing that he would gain. “Others?”

  “There are eight—or I should say, were eight, as four of them have already been claimed by the mountain—but only two are of any consequence. They are very close now. I marked one of them, you see, and now he shines like a beacon in my mind; what he sees, I see. The other…” He laughed. “Well, let’s just say that he and I have a history together. We have fought before. He was not able to defeat me then, and now time has ravaged him, left him weak. But he will try.” He paused, and for the barest fraction of a second his smile wavered, his face hardening with anger. “Oh, yes, he will try.”

  Drogni’s eyes narrowed. He knew Rokan Sellas’s history better than anyone else alive, and there was only one person with whom that traitor had a personal vendetta. And that’s me. So who could this other person be? “Enough stalling!” he roared, tightening his grip on Ss’aijas K’sejjas. “What I’m hearing is someone who’s afraid he’s going to lose. And you should be! You couldn’t beat me fifteen years ago, and you won’t beat me today! I swear—”

  “Ah, you swear!” Rokan Sellas laughed. “My friend, do you have any idea how many people have sworn to kill me over the years? Too many to count. And yet, here I stand. And all who have made such an oath are now dead. All…except for one.” He suddenly turned his head towards the ceiling and inhaled deeply. Billowing shadows erupted around him like a cloak, and when he looked back his eyes were afire with demonic flame. “You, Admiral Ortega, are the last. Even the Druid did not make an oath to destroy me, for he at least was smart enough to know his limitations. And he, my friend, is far more powerful than you.”

  Drogni felt his blood rising, but he remembered to control his anger, not let it consume him. He raised the Mari’eth sword. Enough talk. I’ve waited long enough. Daniel Lester, Tina Galdro, Palis Denar, Sara Westan, Gregory Daalis—this is for you.

  Let’s end this.

  He readied himself for the attack, to spring forward and close with his enemy—

  Suddenly Rokan Sellas raised a hand. He sniffed the air, like a hunting dog catching a scent, and then turned to face one of the other entrances. Drogni followed his gaze—

  Four figures emerged from the darkness. Two, a male Human and a female Florca, were garbed in identical uniforms of red. The next was a tall man in rough-fitting spacer’s clothing who walked as if in a daze. Last walked an old man. Slim and unassuming…yet when Drogni looked at him, he felt a rush of power from Ss’aijas K’sejjas. Magic senses its own, he thought.

  Rokan Sellas’s eyes were fixed on the new arrivals. The shadows surrounding him billowed and roiled, churning in an angry maelstrom. Black fire ignited in his palms, and he breathed, “At last…”

  Rokan Sellas took a step towards the four newcomers. His attention was now wholly on them, his back towards the Tellarians. Drogni saw the opportunity immediately. He looked at Makree out of the corner of his eye, and saw the other soldier nod almost imperceptibly. This was their chance; they were unlikely to get another.

  Silently, Drogni raised three fingers. Closed them, one at a time.

  Three…two…one…

  * * * *

  One moment, Roger was walking down a seemingly endless tunnel, and the next he was inside a massive cave. It was truly awe-inspiring—the size of an entire city block in the Grays back on Pattagax. Its walls were too smooth and regular to have formed naturally. This was a place of power; this was a place of destiny.

  But then again, Roger already knew that there was magic beneath this mountain. He had seen it with his own eyes.

  In the hours—days?—since they had entered the tunnels, they had twice been attacked by that power, a formless shadow that had erupted from the walls without warning. Both times, the shadow had been repulsed thanks to the quickness and bravery of the Blood Legion soldiers, whose strange weapons had cut burning swathes of light through the enemy, but both times that victory had come at a cost. When they had begun, their party had numbered eight. Now, they were only four. Four of the crimson-uniformed warriors were now dead, the mountain’s catacombs having become their tomb. And for what? To protect a man who killed one of their own. I was wrong about the Blood Legion. They do have honor. I’m the one who doesn’t. He tried to grieve for them, tried to feel sorrow for the men and women who had laid down their lives for him, who would lie forever within these dark tunnels, but he found that he could not. He could muster only a dull emptiness. He knew that they deserved better from him…but I have nothing left to give.

  In the depths of his despair, Roger had barely reacted to the attacks; he no longer cared if he lived or died. Strangely, Talan had also held back. Roger suspected that the old man was powerful enough to destroy the shadows far more easily than the Legion warriors had—yet for some reason he had chosen not to. Why? Who knows? Who cares? He has his reasons…or he doesn’t.

  With every step, the pain in Roger’s hand had increased. On top of that, he felt a growing weight pressing down upon him, a…presence…of something, unseen yet powerful. Some intangible force, pervading the mountain, through the stone into the air itself. From the start, Roger had known that their footsteps were following a path to the source of that emanation, to the core of that silent power.

  And they had found it. No, not it—him. The enemy.

  At first glance, he appeared to be a normal man, his only distinguishing feature the long white scar running the length of his face. But then it was as if a veil had been lifted, and to Roger’s sight he suddenly exploded into a vortex of darkness, surrounded by an infernal aura of shadow. From within that mass, a single point of burning red light flared.

  On the far side of the cavern, Roger saw two figures. They were too far away for Roger to tell much about them, save that both wore combat fatigues. The shorter of the two also carried a glowing sword which pulsed with white light…but the light bent away from the churning shadow, recoiling and fading. A powerful weapon…but not powerful enough.

  From within the cloud of darkness, the man with the scar watched them intently. He appeared to have lost interest in the other two. His gaze passed quickly over the two Blood Legion warriors, hovered for a second over Roger…

  Stopped on Talan.

  The scarred man’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth bared in what seemed to Roger to be both anger and euphoria. Slowly, he raised his arm, the limb trailing wisps of darkness as it moved, pointing towards the old man. Roger felt a sudden tingling of his skin, as fell power began to coalesce at the shadow’s fingertips, and the bitter taste rose up again in his throat. He braced himself for the attack that was sure to come—

  A hundred meters away, the man with the golden sword suddenly sprang into motion, sprinting towards the shadow; ripples of light resonated from his footsteps. Power surrounded him, sheathing him in a cocoon of white energy—a perfect opposite of his enemy. The blazing sword swept down—

  The man with the scar turned—

  * * * *

  For the first time since landing on Espir, Drogni felt no doubt, no hesitation. His mind was clear and focused, and he felt…pure. Anger still guided his movements, but it was not the blind, bestial rage that he knew came from the taint of Rokan Sellas. Not the anger of vengeance—the anger of justice. For five soldiers who died on Hilthak. For countless more who will die if Rokan Sellas is not stopped. For Justin Varenn, who should never have gone to Hilthak in the first place, who now suffers a fate far worse than death.

  And for me. For my failure. A failure soon to be—

  Rectified.

  Rokan Sellas stood mere meters away, back still turned. Dark power burgeoned from his fingers, but its target was the four newcomers. He was apparently unaware of the danger approaching from behind. The last mistake you’ll ever make, vowed Drogni. He leapt atop the dais in a single bound. Ss’aijas K’sejjas carved down, igniting the air as it passed—
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  At the last moment, Rokan Sellas turned. His mouth twisted in a demon’s snarl; his eyes, blazing coals of indigo, were ugly with rage. Crackling sorcery swept from him, striking Drogni with the wind of a hurricane’s fury, forcing him back. But he recovered quickly, suffused with the invigorating power of his Mari’eth blade, which flickered out like a tongue of lightning—

  Through empty air.

  Before that realization had fully registered in Drogni’s brain, he felt a blow to his back, as if he had been rammed by a flitter. He pitched forward, and although he was able to turn the fall into a clumsy roll, the force of the impact sent him tumbling from the dais. He landed awkwardly, pain lancing through him as he heard and felt his right ankle pop, but he was back on his feet immediately. Every step felt as if his ankle were being smashed by a sledgehammer, but he gritted his teeth through the pain. Doesn’t feel broken, fortunately—and I’ll be damned if I let a mere sprain stop me.

  Rokan Sellas stood ten meters away, atop one of the mounds of black rock. A single point of brilliant red light blazed in his right hand. The light was so powerful that it was visible through his flesh, like he was carrying a miniature star. The Fireblade. The source of his power—or some of it, anyways. If I could just take it from him… It was possible—he’d done it before. Won’t kill him, and probably won’t even weaken him for long—but it’s the best chance I’ve got.

  Drogni rushed towards his enemy. Twisting spines of shadow churned towards him—

  The stone beneath Rokan Sellas’s feet suddenly exploded, and he vanished inside a fountain of rubble. Drogni saw the old man standing with one arm raised; through Ss’aijas K’sejjas, Drogni felt power geyser from him. The old man took a step forward, raising his other arm—

  At the same moment, Drogni felt the ground beneath him begin to vibrate, trembling as if shaken by the hand of a god. Oh, stek—

  A thunderclap rent the cavern, and a wave of concussive force erupted outwards. The ground heaved, the stone rippling like water. Instinctively, Drogni took cover behind Ss’aijas K’sejjas, and he felt the brunt of the billow of dark sorcery bend around the blade—but what remained was still enough to send him hurtling backwards. He landed hard on his back, stunned; he tried to get up, but his limbs refused to respond.

  Over him, a dark mass loomed, chill air whipping into a shrieking tornado of evil.

  And all that Drogni could do was watch it come closer…closer…

  * * * *

  Aras Makree stood apart from the battle. As he watched the Admiral clash with an enemy that far outmatched him, Makree wished that there was something he could do to help, but there wasn’t. The ELX-50 disintegration carbines of the Blood Legion might be able to damage this enemy, but Makree’s weapon was not of that caliber. He was helpless, for the moment, and he knew it.

  Fortunately, he was not here to fight. He was here to die.

  I’m ready. Ready to honor my end of the bargain.

  His gaze drifted back to the other four. Three of them he knew. He recognized the Blood Legion uniforms immediately—crimson trimmed with onyx, that symbol of knowledge triumphing over chaos. It was the uniform he himself had worn proudly for eleven years. Seeing it again brought back so many memories. Most of them good. It wasn’t all bad, even at the end. There were triumphs; there were friends. It broke my heart to give it up, even though I knew I had no other choice. To this day, it still breaks my heart.

  The third man was no longer in uniform, but Makree recognized him nonetheless. Recognized him despite the worn, haggard lines on his face, as if fifty years had passed instead of five. Recognized him despite the rough, ill-fitting spacer’s garb, so different from the clothes he had once worn. Recognized him despite the empty look in his eyes, as if nothing mattered anymore, as if he were a mere shadow, wandering alone through a world of silence. Roger Warbanks, what has happened to you? How have you come to this?

  I know. By the gods, I know.

  By the gods, I am sorry.

  No one should have to suffer your fate.

  Makree looked back to the battle, saw the Admiral hurled back by an explosion of chaotic sorcery. Saw Rokan Sellas standing there, a pillar of black flame, channeling power from the Fireblade. The air around him rippled, like heat rising from a desert, as he brought his power to bear.

  Power that Admiral Ortega cannot match. But perhaps—

  In the midst of that thought, the fourth newcomer, the cloaked old man, raised a hand. The rock on which Rokan Sellas stood suddenly bulged outward and erupted, and he vanished within the explosion.

  —there is one here who can, finished Makree.

  The old man took a step forward, lightning shimmering at his fingertips. Beside him strode the two crimson-garbed warriors, their weapons pointed at where Rokan Sellas had stood. They did not appear interested in Makree or Admiral Ortega; Makree had seen them glance his way once and turn away immediately. They do not recognize me. Not yet. But why would they? They think that I am dead.

  Roger Warbanks did not move. His gaze roved around the cavern—slow, measured, disinterested. His eyes met Makree’s, and Makree felt his heartbeat quicken, and wondered, Does he remember me? But there was no spark of recognition in that dull stare, and Makree thought bitterly, No, he doesn’t. How could he?

  As the old man and the Blood Legion soldiers advanced, the ground began to tremble. Even from fifty meters away, Makree felt it—as if some mythic beast lurked beneath their feet, awakening from his slumber. Awakening…struggling…

  Struggling to break free.

  Stone exploded. Dark power scythed outwards.

  The old man raised his hands, and a shield of white light formed around him and his companions. The shockwave rippled off of that barrier, leaving the three unharmed.

  Admiral Ortega had no such shield. He had only Ss’aijas K’sejjas.

  And that is not enough.

  * * * *

  Talan felt his bones quiver as the wave of dark sorcery rolled over him. He staggered back a step; his shield held, but only barely. And next time it might not hold at all. This creature, this shadow, is too strong for me. I cannot match the Fireblade, nor the one who wields it. Talan’s own power was formidable, but insufficient; the only reason that he had been able to strike the enemy was because that enemy had been preoccupied by the man with the golden sword. I cannot win. But I do not need to.

  I only need to try.

  Talan wondered briefly about these two other warriors whom fate had brought here. He had seen their faces before, in his visions, but had not known when or if their paths would cross his. Neither man bore the spark of inner power; the one who wielded the sword of light used it like a butcher’s cleaver, bludgeoning without skill, without strategy. Talan could feel the sword’s power—based on the way it seemed to instinctively defend, and lost some of its luster whenever its wielder tried to attack with it, he guessed that the weapon was forged with Ur’Yaala, the magic of the Keeper and her kin. But the sword’s power was weak, deteriorated from its true, most potent form; it must be a product of Lesser Magic, able to harness only a portion of the strength of Light instead of its pure essence. As such, it would be of little use in this battle, and thus the one wielding it should be of secondary importance. And yet the enemy, twice now, had focused on this man instead of Talan. There is a connection between them…and it must be strong. As long as this man is alive, his presence—his existence—will distract the enemy. A faint hope…but the only hope I have.

  Talan allowed his shield of light to drop. For a moment, he was defenseless, easy prey for an attack. But the enemy ignored him and continued to advance upon the man with the sword of light. Talan raised both hands, unleashing whips of energy from his palms. They smote the enemy square on his back with a crack like thunder.

  Slowly, the scar-faced man turned. Sorcery swelled from his body, channeled through the Fireblade; it boiled up, reaching to the ceiling, blotting out the light. Darkness descended.

  Talan
brought his own power to bear, and braced himself—

  * * * *

  One moment, Rokan Sellas was there, standing above Drogni like a herald of death, and the next he was gone. With that passing, Drogni found himself suddenly able to move again. He scrambled to his feet, snatching up Ss’aijas K’sejjas from where it had fallen. He turned—

  To witness a confrontation the likes of which he had never seen before. The likes of which, up until a few days ago, he would have thought impossible.

  The old man stood facing Rokan Sellas. The air between them crackled and whipped with sorcery—scything lightning, roaring flames, spears of roiling energy lancing between the two combatants. In the wake of such power, Ss’aijas K’sejjas began to howl, the blade quivering in Drogni’s hands. Although none of the attacks were directed at him, their overflow made his skin tingle.

  As he stood there, he wondered what had made him think that he could stand against such power. What madness had possessed him, to make him imagine that he—a mere man, armed with a weapon he barely knew how to use—could go in battle with this creature of pure evil and survive. Surely mere anger was not enough. Not for this.

  For a moment, he felt himself begin to despair.

  Begin…and end.

  It was surprisingly easy to shed his fear. He simply remembered five names, five faces. Five soldiers who died because I failed. No more names will I add to that list.

  No more.

  He raised the Mari’eth blade, and its howling intensified, a whirling shriek of sorcery that enveloped Drogni in a protective cocoon. And even though he knew that such a defense was not enough, that Rokan Sellas could and had cut through it like thin silk, he did not care.

  With a roar to match the piercing wail of Ss’aijas K’sejjas, Drogni charged. At the sound, Rokan Sellas appeared to hesitate momentarily, and a blast of power from the old man knocked him a step backwards. Drogni swung, sword carving a blazing swathe of flames through the air. But Rokan Sellas recovered quickly, and Ss’aijas K’sejjas crashed against an invisible barrier. Drogni felt cords of sorcery closing around him, but he severed them with powerful strokes of his blade.