Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  At last, the wait is over.

  At last, my promise is fulfilled.

  Agony engulfed Aras Makree, and his world disintegrated.

  * * * *

  Roger felt a strange sense of confidence as he approached the battle. It was very strange indeed, given that he had no weapons with which to attack the enemy. I can’t win; that’s pretty obvious. So, if winning’s out of the question, what’s left?

  He didn’t have an answer. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. Should be interesting.

  Roger’s hand was awash with agony. His ring was glowing, shining with a pale azure light, no doubt a reaction to the close proximity of hostile sorcery. Whatever magic is in there, it wants to get out. Roger had harnessed its power before, but his thoughts were too jumbled to remember how he’d done it. Would be nice to have something useful to fight with, but it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen. Not that it would probably help me much anyway.

  Ahead of him, the scar-faced man’s head suddenly turned. His glowing eyes stared right at Roger. His mouth twisted in a demonic smile. Roger felt the now familiar burning at the back of his throat as a cloud of spinning, hissing sorcery began to coalesce at the scar-faced man’s fingertips. Roger knew that he was the target of that sorcery. So this is how it ends. Not at all how I thought I would die. Funny how life works sometimes.

  Talan twisted towards him, fear in his eyes. Roger felt the old man summoning up his own magic but knew that he wouldn’t be fast enough. Sorry, pal. I hope this was what you had in mind for me when you brought me here. Strangely, he felt a burst of sympathy for the old man. Sympathy…and gratitude. You gave me what I was looking for, when nobody else would or could. Wasn’t what I wanted to see, but that’s not your fault—you only showed me the truth.

  The growing billow of sorcery leapt from the scar-faced man’s hands. It screamed towards Roger, carving a path of black fire through the air as it passed. A film of blue light exploded from Roger’s ring, forming a translucent shield around him, but Roger knew that such a defense was insufficient. There was nothing he could do to stop this attack; there was nothing Talan could do to stop it. Nothing anyone could do—

  A blur of motion sprang out of nowhere from Roger’s right. A man came between Roger and the scar-faced man, throwing himself into the course of the spear of shadow. His head was turned towards Roger, and although Roger did not recognize the face he had the strange feeling that he knew this man. Knew him from…somewhere. Somewhere in my previous life. But where? Damn it—if only I could remember…

  In the man’s violet eyes, Roger saw recognition. Beyond that, sorrow…and contentment. His mouth opened, and he seemed to be trying to speak, but Roger could hear nothing over the sounds of unleashed sorcery. The attack hit the man square in his back, and he smiled—

  And dissolved. There was no blood, no fragments of flesh or bone. Nothing to suggest that a life had just ended, as thoroughly and completely as if it had never been.

  The man’s sacrifice absorbed much of the blow. Much—and enough.

  But not all.

  What remained struck Roger with titanic force. It was as if his bones were swelling, struggling to be free of their fleshy prison. Stunned, he was thrown back—and, within his mind, he felt something…crack—

  * * * *

  Talan saw the second stranger dash in front of the lance of dark magic, shielding Roger Warbanks with his own body. Saw him simply…disappear…in the face of such power. Talan took a moment to offer up a silent prayer to this man—one moment, to honor his memory.

  Thank you. Thank you…for this opportunity.

  For the enemy, confident of victory, confident that his two assailants were weakened to the point of uselessness, had left himself open.

  Talan tapped into his full reserves, laid himself bare to their might. He turned himself into a conduit of sorcery and felt his power respond, roaring through him like a cataract. He could not sustain this transformation for long, but he would not need to. I have only moments before the enemy realizes his mistake—only moments, to take this one course of action that might save us. He felt the fibers of his soul begin to tear—

  And he…unleashed.

  A wave of sorcery that shone with brilliant white light erupted from Talan. It billowed around the scar-faced man, snatching him up and then slamming him to the ground with titanic fury. The entire cavern vibrated with the force of the blow, and the scar-faced man lay there, stunned.

  Exhausted, Talan swayed and nearly fell. The world tilted before his eyes, and it must have affected his vision, because he thought he saw the enemy rise immediately to his feet—

  No—not affected. Real. But that’s impossible…

  The thought faded away, unfinished. The enemy advanced on Talan.

  And he had no strength left to fight it.

  * * * *

  Through Ss’aijas K’sejjas, Drogni felt the air suddenly…lighten. He felt Rokan Sellas’s attention turn away from him. With a groan, he rolled over, to see what had caused this change. To see if, by the faintest chance, he might have one final hope. His eyes focused—

  He saw Aras Makree appear from nowhere and leap in front of a black bolt of sorcery. The blow slammed into the Sergeant Major’s body. For a moment, he hung suspended in midair, and it seemed as though he would survive…but then he disintegrated, reduced to atoms and bravery.

  Drogni was still reeling in shock at what he had just seen when the old man, who moments ago had seemed on the verge of collapsing, suddenly straightened. His hands blurred, power coalescing around him as if distilled from the air itself. The wave of sorcery leapt forward—

  Rokan Sellas, caught off guard, was lifted and then hurled to the ground with an impact that rattled Drogni’s bones.

  And Drogni saw his chance.

  Ignoring his fatigue, drawing on Ss’aijas K’sejjas for strength, he forced himself to his feet. He swung back the Mari’eth sword for one final strike.

  Rokan Sellas had was already back on his feet. But he ignored Drogni, focusing his attention on the old man. Leaving his back unprotected.

  Five faces loomed in Drogni’s mind, and he hoped that they could see what he saw. Consider my oath…fulfilled. His rage boiled out in an unconscious roar of triumph, and he stabbed out—

  * * * *

  Talan lay, helpless. The enemy stood before him—implacable, unstoppable. Here is my end, the old man thought. It is as I have long known: a Planet of G’Char will be my tomb. He did not close his eyes, did not turn away from his fate. He would face his death head on. The enemy snarled at him, sorcery spitting from his fingertips—

  A blade of light suddenly burst through his chest like the claw of an ancient behemoth. The scar-faced man staggered, his trails of power fading away, and his head tilted down towards the wound in a look of disbelief.

  From behind the enemy, a face appeared, a face twisted with savage victory. The man with the golden sword growled four words:

  “Enjoy hell, you stelnak.”

  -24-

  At Admiral Ortega’s primal roar, Austin turned—and stared in disbelief at what he saw.

  Time seemed to stop, as a mask of shock, then relief, then horror swept rapidly across Rokan Sellas’s face. The demonic light left his eyes, which became twin sunken hollows glowing faintly blue in a face ravaged and old beyond its years, the skin stretched far too tightly over the bones. He twisted back towards the Admiral. In that moment, the two enemies locked gazes, and Rokan Sellas gasped out two words that Austin could not discern. He raised one hand, his eyes pleading…

  And he screamed. He clawed at something unseen on his face, as a shroud seemed to descend upon him. There was the sound of burning flesh, and, as if carved there by an invisible scalpel, a mark appeared on his forehead, that of a sword surrounded by flames. Fresh blood dripped from the wound as he continued to convulse. Beside him, Ortega stood silently, his face turned away so Austin could not guess what thoughts raced
through the Admiral’s mind.

  A wisp of shadow drifted up from the floor, brushed against the leg of Rokan Sellas. Brushed against…and impaled.

  Cords of darkness raced all along the man’s body, crackling with demonic sorcery. Everywhere they passed, they clung to him, like a living cloak of shadow. The cords reached his face, grazed the bloody mark on his forehead—

  Red fire filled Rokan Sellas’s eyes. The smoky ropes wrapping him fell away, though Austin knew that it was not because they had been destroyed. No—it is because they have fulfilled their purpose, and are no longer needed. As he looked over them, the inhuman smile returned to Rokan Sellas’s face.

  And he laughed.

  * * * *

  Drogni watched Rokan Sellas’s transformation with growing horror. At first, he had been certain that he had won, and euphoria like he had never felt before had swept over him. His strike had been perfectly placed, piercing Rokan Sellas’s heart, and Drogni had twisted the blade to widen the wound for good measure. It was a blow that could not be anything but fatal; it was a blow that no man could survive.

  And yet Rokan Sellas had. As Drogni watched, his enemy reached down. He tugged out Ss’aijas K’sejjas and tossed it to the ground at Drogni’s feet. The Mari’eth blade was dark, its magic drained.

  From the gaping hole in Rokan Sellas’s chest, there flowed no blood. In moments, the skin closed over it, leaving no trace of what should have been a mortal wound.

  Impossible! Impossible!

  Drogni heard again the Vizier’s words, when they had first learned that Rokan Sellas was still alive: “The best way? I would say kill him, but I doubt that any weaponry you can summon is sufficient to do so.”

  Throughout it all, Drogni had hoped that the Vizier was wrong. Even after Hilthak, when he had seen with his own eyes that Rokan Sellas possessed powers no ordinary man did, still Drogni had clung to the hope that this enemy could be beaten, could be killed. Rokan Sellas might hold the Fireblade, but he, Drogni Ortega, wielded Ss’aijas K’sejjas—magic to combat magic. What a fool I was. With trembling fingers, he picked up the Mari’eth blade. What a fool.

  Rokan Sellas spoke. “You have fought valiantly, my friend. Truly valiantly. But did you ever believe that you could defeat me?”

  Drogni did not answer. He had no answer.

  Rokan Sellas waited for a moment, then turned to face the old man, who had slumped to his knees. “And you. After all this time, you choose now to challenge me? And you choose these—” he gestured towards the two crimson-uniformed warriors “—as your companions? Have you learned nothing?” He shook his head, disgust in his eyes. “You insult me. You insult fate.”

  The old man looked up, to meet Rokan Sellas’s contemptuous gaze, but if he said anything in reply Drogni couldn’t hear it.

  “And now, you have failed. You have all failed.” Rokan Sellas turned, his gaze landing on each of the survivors in turn before focusing back on the old wizard. “And such a failure it is. One of your champions lies helpless, a victim of G’Char; soon, his transformation from savior to destroyer will be complete. The other has my mark on him; I can sense his presence whenever he is near, and feel his thoughts whenever he is not. Who then will stop me? Who then can stop me? No one—no one. Thus it has been written.” He knelt, so that his head was level with the old man. “It is your fate to die on a Planet of G’Char. You know this, I think…and yet you came anyway. Curious. Did you know that it is not I who is fated to kill you? Is that why you were so bold to challenge me?” He paused, his eyes glinting strangely. “How much do you know of fate, wizard? How much did the Keeper tell you before she died?”

  The old man lifted his head. His voice was barely more than a broken whisper, yet somehow it filled the whole chamber. “I know enough.”

  “You think so, wizard?” Rokan Sellas did not seem upset; in fact, all emotion had completely drained from his voice. “Perhaps. But remember this, wizard: you can know only what the Keeper knew. But even she, with all of her knowledge, could not defeat me. How can you think that you will succeed where she failed?”

  The old man coughed. “I believe,” was all he said.

  “You believe.” For a moment, the emotionless mask was gone, and a sneer slipped into Rokan Sellas’s voice. But then the mask was back, solid and impregnable. “The Keeper thought the same. As did her kin. They always believe, wizard; you are no different. But you will fail, just like she did. Because, despite all of your knowledge—despite all of the Keeper’s knowledge—you are still wandering blindly in the dark. But you will see, before the end. This is my promise, wizard. Before the end, you will see the truth that the Keeper never could. And you will finally know why you were always doomed to fail.”

  Rokan Sellas straightened, and when he next spoke it was to all of them. “And now we part ways. Some of you I will see again, very soon; for others of you, this meeting will be our last. But all of you, know this: what has happened here was only the beginning. Everything that occurs from this point is now fixed, the paths locked in place by fate. For what has been begun can only be ended in one way. You may try to change it; you may think that your decisions can alter the fabric of what must be. But you are wrong. There is only one way this can end. Thus it has always been.” His voice suddenly grew deeper, echoing with ancient power. “Thus it always will be.”

  He turned to face the chained Varenn. He raised one hand, palm outwards. Lightning arced out, to form a bridge connecting the two of them. There was a rumble like thunder, and a flash of light—

  When Drogni looked next, both of them were gone.

  * * * *

  Roger opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and the world swam back into focus. There was no pain; instead, curiously, he felt…whole. Whole…and free.

  And, somehow, alive.

  It defied his comprehension. He had entered a battle he could not win, intent on dying…and yet he had not. Through no design of his own, he was still alive.

  What happened? What…and why?

  A man’s face was burned into his mind, in that single moment before annihilation—that knowing gaze, those calm, steady eyes. Who are you? Roger wondered. Who are you, to sacrifice yourself for me?

  And who am I, to warrant such a sacrifice?

  * * * *

  Talan felt the enemy’s presence suddenly diffuse, felt the shadow suddenly lift from around them. It is over, he realized, relief and astonishment sweeping through him. It is over—and we have survived.

  The old wizard got slowly to his feet, wincing. It would take some time for him to recover from this battle, and he doubted he would ever return to his former strength, but that didn’t matter. If giving up some of his power was the price he had to pay for their survival on this day, then it was a sacrifice he would gladly make.

  Besides, my purpose is not to kill this enemy. Perhaps, once, that was my destiny, but if so I failed long ago. Now that burden passes to others. All that is left for me is to guide them, to stand by them, to shield them from this evil for as long as I draw breath…and, I think, I am content with that.

  Talan looked around. The world was dim and blurry before his eyes, shimmering and flowing as if he stood behind a pane of warped glass. The man with the sword of light still stood where he had failed to kill his foe, the now black-bladed weapon held loosely in his hands. His chest rose and fell in labored breaths. Blood dripped from his face and down his side, but he appeared not to notice. His eyes were fixed on the spot where the enemy had stood, his face frozen in a look of stunned horror. Talan knew that look well, and he remembered, a long time ago, another man with a magic sword, who had also thought to defeat the shadow with the power within his blade. Hold your head proud, soldier. Yes, the enemy survived, but that does not mean that we failed. Darkness may rise…but it is in times of deepest night that the light shines out the brightest. It only takes a single spark to light a raging fire, pushing back the shadows…and bringing hope back to those who had none.

&nbs
p; Be that spark, soldier.

  Talan turned. The second stranger, who had arrived last and had focused his attention on the man on the dais of bone, slumped to his knees and let out a tormented moan that wrenched Talan’s heart. He was your friend, wasn’t he? I am sorry that I couldn’t save him…and sorrier still for what he will face next. His is a terrible fate…but, unfortunately, it is one that he must endure. To rise to the heights of his destiny, first he must fall, and walk the dark roads of the universe, roads which even I fear to tread. Despair threatened to overwhelm Talan then, but as he looked at the grieving man his expression suddenly softened, his face crinkling into a wearied smile. But I am gladdened to know that he has those like you to fight for him. What he will face, no man should confront alone. He will need your strength…and I know that you will stand by his side against the darkness.

  Finally, there was the third—the man who had given his life to save Roger Warbanks, whose sacrifice had nearly allowed them to win the battle that could not be won. Talan saw the man’s face again in his memory, with a mix of sorrow and pride. For, in the moment just before the man’s sacrifice, Talan had seen into his mind, had seen through the walls he had erected to hide himself—walls which, in his final moments, he had cast aside. I know who you are. I know why you did what you did. May you rest easy, brave warrior, knowing that you did not hide from the choice you made—the choice that you had to make, the choice which none should ever be forced to make. In the end, you faced your fear, faced your death, just as you said you would…all to fulfill a promise you made to an old friend whom you knew no longer even remembered you.

  Talan glanced over to where Roger stood. You fulfilled your promise, Aras Makree…the rest is up to Roger Warbanks now.

  Talan took a hesitant step forward. He stumbled and nearly fell, but a crimson-sleeved arm caught him, and he turned to see the Blood Legion Captain. The man’s bearded face was expressionless, but Talan saw the emotions roiling within his gaze. The man opened his mouth to speak, but Talan cut him off. I know what you are about to ask, and I do not have the answer. Or rather, I have only half…the rest, whatever it may be, has yet to be revealed. “Collect the others,” Talan said, wheezing and coughing. “Time slips through our fingers, and our journey is not yet over.”