Authors: T. C. Metivier
Drogni had to admit that Makree had a point.
I don’t know if that’s
worse
than death, mind you, but that’s a matter of opinion.
“But you got out eventually.”
“Yes, I did.” Makree paused, and his eyes flickered with emotion. “In fact, I may be the only person in the history of the Legion who has left their service with his memories intact. But it was not easy.” His voice grew soft, regretful. “No, not easy at all.”
There was great pain in his voice, an emptiness that pierced to Drogni’s heart, and a part of him wished he could just let the matter slide. But any little detail might be relevant to stopping Rokan Sellas. Makree was a soldier—he would understand. “How?”
“This man of vision knew of the Blood Legion, and he had prepared a solution, a way to leave the Legion by faking my death in such a manner that they would be
certain
that I was dead—else they would simply track me down. In exchange, I agreed that, when the time came, I would lay down my life to protect another, and I would do so on one of the Planets of G’Char. By doing so, I would set into motion a chain of events which would prevent this apocalypse. How he knew this, I do not know; he said it was a prophecy, one of thousands…but that is not important. Since that time, I have lived in fear—yes, fear, although I didn’t realize it until recently—and anticipation of the moment when I would have to fulfill my end of the bargain. That moment is now upon me…and I am not as ready for it as I thought I would be.”
With that, Makree’s voice trailed off into silence, and Drogni was left to consider what he had heard.
It matches what he told me about the Legion before. Doesn’t mean it’s true—he could be backing up a lie with another lie—but I think it is. It’s hard to fake that kind of emotion.
“So I’m guessing you learned every language spoken on the Planets of G’Char?”
Makree nodded. “Not all of them, of course. Only those I might need if I ever came to one. Fortunately, it was not difficult; Marthun and Kholaz are completely uninhabited, while most people on Vellanite speak Standard. The only language I had to learn was the one spoken here, in the lands surrounding Nembane Mountain.”
“I see.” Drogni took a few seconds to study Makree, examining his eyes, expression, and body language.
No sign that he’s lying. Good.
“I guess that answers my questions, then. But next time you think about holding back information that could keep us alive, don’t. Got it?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Makree nodded. A sad smile came across his face. “Thank you…for listening.”
Drogni paused, unsure how to respond, and then settled for a simple, “Don’t mention it.”
They sat in silence for a time, until it grew dark, at which point they retired to the sleeping mats. Makree appeared to have shed the dark malaise that had been haunting him, at least for the time being, for he fell asleep almost immediately. It took Drogni slightly longer, and when he eventually did sleep he dreamt of Hilthak. He stood before his enemy, holding aloft both Mari’eth blades. But as he swung, Rokan Sellas laughed, and Drogni looked down to see himself dissolving, just as the Mari’eth had. He dropped his swords, trying vainly to hold himself together, but his hands and then his arms turned to dust, while in the background Rokan Sellas laughed—
Drogni awoke with a start. Someone was shaking his shoulder, whispering in his ears for him to wake up. He was alert instantly, hand already drawing his par-gun…but then he saw that it was only the Kastria
Dar’katal
, Arex. “What is it?” Drogni asked.
“Do you still want the aid of the Kastria?” asked Arex softly.
Drogni sat up and saw that Makree was also awake and listening intently. “Yes.”
Arex stood and moved back a few steps, and Drogni saw that the entrance to their hut was crowded with silent Kastria warriors. “Then come with us.”
-13-
As they stepped over a low-handing juraa
tendril and neared the last row of trees, the Kastria
Dar’katal
raised his hand in a signal for them to stop. He motioned for the two Tellarians to come forward. “There,” he whispered, pointing at something in the distance.
Drogni followed Arex’s finger. Just beyond the trees, the faint light of Espir’s two moons illuminated an open plain devoid of bo’al, though it was too dark for Drogni to tell whether that was because it had been cleared away or because it simply did not grow here. A small walled encampment rose from the field some four hundred meters away. It was ringed with watchtowers, in which Drogni could make out the shadowy figures of bow-wielding warriors gazing out into the night. “How many of them?” he asked.
“Ten towers, two guards each,” replied Arex, “With probably twenty-five more inside the outpost. They outnumber us, but only just, and we have surprise as our ally. . We will show the Traika that the Kastria are still a force to be reckoned with!”
The
Dar’katal
’s eyes lit with excitement, but it was a sentiment Drogni did not share. He was worried that Arex was letting the apparent battle prowess of the two Tellarians blind him to the fact that the Traika were the dominant power in the area for a reason. There were some enemies that Drogni and Makree could not defeat. He thought back to what the
Dar’katal
had said as they had made their way silently through the forest:
“The
kat’ara
are uncertain whether to take up your cause as their own,” Arex said, “Once they decide to—for I am confident that they will—you must be formally accepted as part of the tribe. That can be done quickly, once the decision is made…but it could take many days for the
kat’ara
to agree to support you, a delay that none of us can afford.”
“What do you mean?” asked Drogni. He spoke without worry; it was dark enough the Arex and the other Kastria would not be able to get a clear view of his face or mouth.
The
Dar’katal
was silent for a moment. “There are some on the
kat’ara
who do not trust you,” he said. “There are some who think that you are spies and will lead us to ruin. But I do not believe that you are, and my judgment has served me well over the years, so I feel safe answering your question. Our war with the Traika has raged for years, and yet at no point has either tribe been close to destruction. We skirmish, we raid—and yes, there have been many deaths—but there have been no serious assaults on either main village, even though the Traika have always outnumbered us. They have shown little interest in annihilating us. But over the past days, our
to’laka
have felt a…darkening…coming from Kil’la’ril, a dread aura that has swept across the Traika. They have suddenly become more aggressive, with an insatiable thirst for destruction. There is another tribe, called the Seramor, which is also at war with the Traika. My scouts report that the Traika have attacked the village of the Seramor and killed its every inhabitant. It will not be long before they seek to do the same to the Kastria.”
“And the
kat’ara
knows this?”
At first, Arex did not reply, then suddenly he lashed out at a tree with his flint-bladed sword, cutting completely through one of the thin, low-hanging branches. “The
kat’ara
are fools,” he said, his voice thick with anger, and he yanked his sword free. “They have heard the warnings of the
to’laka
, and I have told them the dangers we face, yet they do not listen. You were there, you heard them; they will do nothing unless in accordance with tradition. They listen for the words of gods, and when they hear nothing they assume that the gods wish for them to do nothing. Deep inside their hearts, each one knows that I speak the truth, each one
knows
that idleness will lead only to destruction. But they are so bound by tradition that none will raise a voice to agree with me. And so they debate whether or not to accept your aid, even though they know that by the time they make a decision it will be too late.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “But I will not let that happen! By the spirit of the Sky Lord Ja’nal, I will not let our people die!”
Drogni empathized with the
Dar’katal
’s
anger. He, too, knew what it was like to be answerable to a man whose favorite plan of action was total inaction. “So is that what we’re doing? Forcing the
kat’ara
’s hand?”
“I do not know the phrase you used,” replied the
Dar’katal
, “But I suspect that it is correct. The
kat’ara
may not be willing to act, but I still have a war to win. And I have no compunctions against asking for the aid of foreigners to do it. Which brings us to tonight. The Traika have captured eleven of our scouts and are holding them at a military outpost not far from our border. Normally, this would not be a great cause of concern, as this sort of thing is common in war, and captured warriors are ransomed back to their tribe within a few days. But the dark power of Kil’la’ril has changed that; I am certain that the Traika no longer have any interest in negotiation. We will attack the outpost and rescue our men…and kill every Traika we find.”
The
Dar’katal
had been confident then, and he was confident now, but Drogni could not dispel his nagging worry. It was not the Traika warriors that bothered him; unless there were over a hundred of them crammed into that little outpost, the Kastria force should be able to defeat them handily. What concerned him was the Traika magic, which both the Vizier and the Kastria
kat’ara
had asserted was very powerful within the Traika borders. When he had mentioned that to Arex, the
Dar’katal
had assured him that they would be able to sneak in, raze the outpost, and sneak out before the Traika shamans had a chance to muster their power, but he had offered no factual evidence to corroborate that claim. In his mind’s eye, Drogni saw again the horrible deaths of Daalis, Lester, Westan, Galdro, and Denar, and shuddered.
I’m prepared to die fighting—but not like that.
Hopefully, the
Dar’katal
was right. If not, Drogni still had the Mari’eth sword,
Ss’aijas K’sejjas.
If the Traika brought sorcery to this battle, then that blade would be his only defense.
“Warriors, weapons ready!” The
Dar’katal
lifted his sword, the flint blade glinting faintly in the pale light of Espir’s double moons. “Fight for our captured brothers! Fight for the pride of the Kastria! And fight for the blood of the Traika!”
The warriors raised their own weapons in response. Drogni felt his heart begin to pound, and adrenaline pushed his fears to the back of his mind. But even as he prepared for battle and destruction, he forced himself to recall once again his actions on Hilthak. There, he had let Rokan Sellas in, allowing the darkness to control his actions and wield its destruction through him. He forced himself to remember the allure he had felt, the tantalizing promise of easy power that he had so unthinkingly accepted on Hilthak. This time he would be ready for it. This time he would overcome it.
A sliver of doubt crept in.
But am I strong enough?
Narrowing his eyes in determination, he clasped the hilt of
Ss’aijas K’sejjas
, and felt a warm swell of protective sorcery surround him.
Yes, I am. Because I have to be. Not for myself, but for Tina Galdro, Palis Denar, Gregory Daalis, Sara Westan, Daniel Lester.
Yes, I will have to fight. Yes, I will have to kill. But I am a soldier. I kill to accomplish an objective, no more.
Rokan Sellas, you will not take me again!
The Kastria uttered a second war-cry, and then charged onto the open plain.
* * * *
Drogni was the last to reach the Traika outpost, unable to match the fluid, effortless speed of the long-legged Kastria or the loping gait of Aras Makree, and he mentally cursed his aging limbs and sore, weary muscles. Even though in reality it took him perhaps ten seconds longer to cross the plain, it seemed like an eternity, and by the time he reached the encampment the Traika had raised the alarm. This would be no slaughter in the night—Drogni had known that from the beginning. The sounds of battle echoed from within the camp, the cracks of wooden spears and the thrums of animal-sinew bow-strings.
Yet at last, at long last, he reached the outpost and charged into the battle.
Everywhere, men fought, and in the confusion Drogni could not tell friend from foe, so he ignored the melees and focused on the warriors he could be
sure
were Traika—the bowmen in the watchtowers. They knelt behind waist-high walls so that only their heads and upper torsos were visible, but thanks to Drogni’s decades of training they might as well have had targets painted on them. Still at a dead run, he fired with precision, one shot for each enemy, the tiny lances of energy burning through the Traika. He cleared one tower, then two, then three, making his way deeper into the encampment.
The cries of the fighters and the ringing of their weapons receded behind Drogni as he paved his own path of death, but he soon heard footsteps in his wake. He turned to see four warriors bearing down on him. Their faces were afire with anger, and they carried flint-headed spears. “Now you die, Kastria
chak’rat
!” yelled one, angling his weapon towards Drogni’s heart.
Drogni brought his par-gun to bear—the warriors were closing quickly, but he still had ample time to shoot them before they reached him—but then stopped mid-motion. Something was wrong. He staggered back a step, his eyes widening, and suddenly the sounds of the battle raging around him vanished. Time slowed to a crawl. All he could see and hear were the four Traika charging him, anger and hatred in their eyes, so strong that it seemed to radiate from them. Such power, such raw strength—how could his calm precision possibly stand against it? Surely it could not—surely they would have him. The only way to stop them would be to harness his own anger, to give them something to fear. Yes, that was the only way, the only—
Or was it? Something was scraping frantically in his mind, some memory that the chaos of the battle had blocked away from him. What could it be? He knew it was important, whatever it was. A warning, perhaps?
Still the Traika drew closer. And still he hesitated.
What do I do?
He took another step backwards, but he knew that he could not retreat.
There’s only one way to win. I have to fight—I have to match their hatred with my own.
Yes, he had to stop them, at any cost.
Ss’aijas K’sejjas
slipped through his fingers, falling with a dull
thump
to the ground. The promise that he had sworn to himself not five minutes before vanished like smoke. The insistent buzzing in his mind, the voice that he now realized was only a distraction trying to lead him to his death, quieted to a whisper, then faded away.
This is the only way.
He squared his shoulders, settling into a defensive stance. He tossed his par-gun to the side, and a smile came across his face. He could not lose to such as these. These
savages
were no match for Drogni Ortega.
And I was a fool to ever think that they were.
The gap closed, and suddenly four spears cleaved the air towards him. Drogni saw his death written in the faces of the Traika.
No, not
my
death
, he thought. His mind empty of any fear, he felt a surge of raw adrenaline course through him like fire.
Theirs.
At the last moment, Drogni suddenly leaned to his right. Extending a hand, he caught the leftmost spear halfway up the shaft and redirected it towards two of the Traika, forcing them to dive for cover. In almost the same movement, he stepped towards the man whose weapon he had caught. Snarling, the warrior charged, his long arms snapping out towards Drogni, but the Tellarian weaved easily through the attack, and his fist connected with the Traika’s jaw with a thunderous crack. The man swayed, dazed, and Drogni followed up his punch with a kick that slammed into his enemy’s chest. Drogni heard and felt the snap of ribs breaking. He lashed out again, catching the gasping warrior full in the face with the heel of his palm, and the Traika collapsed without a sound.
The entire fight took less than two seconds.
One down, three to go.
Drogni spun back to face the others. He leaned away from a spear-thrust that would have pierced his heart and hammered his fist into the attacker’s face, driving the man back. The other two warriors attacked simultaneously, one spear high and the other low, but their weapons struck only air as Drogni dove to his left and out of harm’s way. He turned the dive into a roll and was back on his feet immediately, settling back into his defensive stance, waiting for the Traika to attack.
The three remaining warriors, however, seemed in no hurry to engage him again. They eyed him warily, weapons held defensively; the one whom Drogni had punched wiped blood from his nose and spat out more. Their faces were still flush with anger and battle-rage, but their eyes told a different story. Their confidence was wavering; Drogni had felled one of them and bloodied another, and they had yet to land a single blow. Surely by now they were wondering what manner of monster they faced, this short, strange-garbed demon who moved like lightning and attacked four armed men with only his fists.
Yet they were still warriors, in an environment where battle prowess meant both prestige and far more importantly survival, and Drogni knew they would not back down. The Traika exchanged a glance, and then they divided, moving slowly until they formed a rough triangle with Drogni at its center. Drogni’s eyes flicked from one to another, but still he felt no fear. There was only excitement.
Now things get interesting.
The Traika circled him slowly, feinting attacks but staying back for now, waiting for Drogni to make a mistake. Drogni could tell that they had realized that they could not win with mindless, predictable charges and were instead determined to wear him out. Eventually, it might work; they had numbers and superior positioning, and Drogni was tired from the two-hour march to the outpost and the sixty-second sprint across the field. It would be hard for him to win a drawn-out battle, and he could not count on reinforcements to save him.
An ugly scowl twisted across his face.
Reinforcements? I don’t need reinforcements. I am Drogni Ortega—who are you?
You are nothing. You are weak, worthless, helpless.
And I will break you.
Still the Traika circled, feinting and jabbing, confidence beginning to return to their faces as they sensed weakness. Drogni forced himself to wait, to watch for an opening.
Come on, come on!
One second passed, then two, then thr—
There!
One of the spears dipped slightly—perhaps a few centimeters, no more—and Drogni launched himself feet-first at the wielder. Before the man could react, Drogni was upon him, connecting with his lower abdomen in a solid kick. The impact sent the Traika flying backwards, spear dropping from suddenly limp fingers; for a moment, he was completely airborne.
A moment only. A meter or so behind the warrior was a building; he smashed into it full-force with a sickening crunch and did not get up.
Two down.
Drogni caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he instinctively ducked; the spear-thrust was so close that he felt the air whistle as it passed over him. Before the Traika could attack again, Drogni seized the spear’s haft and wrenched the weapon from the warrior’s hands, simultaneously dealing the man a flat-palmed blow to the chest. As the Traika staggered backwards, Drogni stood and turned to face him. It was the man Drogni had hurt earlier, and blood still dripped across his lips and chin.
Drogni tossed the captured spear aside and advanced on his enemy.
The fourth Traika dove at Drogni, but the Tellarian sent the man reeling with a powerful blow to the throat, and immediately focused his attention on the blood-faced warrior. He could sense that this man was the leader of the attackers; it was he who had spoken, he who had been foremost in the first charge, and he who had most quickly recovered from the initial failed attack. Here, perhaps, was a warrior worthy of Drogni’s skill, a man who would at least be able to last for more than a few heartbeats before succumbing to the inevitable.
The blood-faced Traika snarled, launching himself at Drogni, but the move was a feint; he pulled up before making contact and settled back warily. Drogni unleashed a right uppercut, but the Traika dodged it, dancing back out of Drogni’s reach. Calmly, Drogni advanced, throwing the occasional punch, methodically driving the Traika in the direction that Drogni wanted him to go. The warrior, sensing that he was being herded, suddenly let loose a wild yell and charged, fists swinging with crushing power.
But not with skill. Such a tactic might have served him well against his fellow tribesmen, all of whom had probably learned to combat brute force with more brute force. Drogni, however, had skill borne of specific martial arts training on his side. He was invincible, unstoppable; there was nothing this primitive being could do to stop him. Dodging the tribesman’s errant blow, Drogni’s reply punch caught the Traika in the chest, forcing him back. His second lashed across the man’s face, splitting skin and sending a spray of blood spattering in its wake. His third followed the course of his second, a sharp jab to the right eye. This all happened in the space of a few seconds, and the Traika made no move to defend himself. His eyes stared off sightlessly, arms hanging limply at his sides.
Time to finish this
.
Drogni pulled back his fist for one final strike. He imagined that the enemy standing bleeding before him was Rokan Sellas and felt his vision clouding with anger.
Take THAT, you stelnak!
The blow lashed out, striking the Traika’s throat with sledgehammer force, and the warrior sank to the ground with a final gasp.
Drogni spun, focusing in on the final Traika, who still lay gasping on the ground, clutching his throat.
One to go.
But before Drogni could move, a particle beam lanced from the shadows and struck the wounded warrior in the chest, killing him instantly.
Drogni froze for a moment, staring in disbelief and anger at the dead warrior, then turned to see Aras Makree emerge from the shadows. “That one was mine!” Drogni snarled, striding towards Makree with fists still clenched. “This was
my
battle—”
“Admiral.” Makree’s voice was calm, and he did not back down in the face of Drogni’s anger. “Look around you.”
Drogni paused, looked—
And eyes which had been all but blind suddenly refocused.
To his right lay one warrior, his face and chest covered in blood, his expression one of pain and terror. To his left sprawled another, his body twisted and broken against the building that Drogni had smashed him against. And behind him was the third, the leader, whom Drogni had taken such pleasure in killing slowly; his neck was bent at an impossible angle, his nose smashed, his eyes reduced to a bloody pulp.
The scene was so…
savage
. The work of a crazed animal, not a thinking, intelligent being.
Drogni felt his anger leave him, and it seemed that with that anger went all of his energy, for he suddenly sagged and almost fell.
What am I doing—what have I
done
—?
But even as the question crossed his mind, he knew the answer. It was Hilthak all over again. The same destruction, the same bestial rage. He stared at the terrible scene before him, willing it to be an illusion, a dream, even though he knew it was only too real.
Oh, no! Please, gods, no!
“It is Rokan Sellas, Admiral,” said Makree quietly. “His power…the same as we faced on Hilthak, only magnified by Nembane Mountain. You were not expecting it.”
Drogni did not reply. He heard Makree’s words, but he knew that they were only partially true.
I
was
expecting it. I knew it was coming—I knew what would happen. Maybe I wasn’t prepared for Nembane Mountain making my enemy stronger, but that’s no excuse—I should have been prepared. I should have been!
All the elation, all the euphoria of battle drained from him, replaced by sickening revulsion, and he almost retched. The words of Rokan Sellas arose in his mind: ‘
I enjoyed watching you surrender your morals and honors, to brutalize everything you saw like a common animal. I enjoyed it…
and so did you
.’
Once again, Rokan Sellas was right. Drogni
had
enjoyed it, surrendering to the same intoxicating urge that had nearly seen the end of him on Hilthak, becoming once again the beast of chaos. Despite it all—despite his promise to himself, his promise that he would never again surrender to that darkness—still it had taken him. Utterly.