Chains of Mist (37 page)

“This man also had a wife, the most beautiful woman in the tribe, and they were very much in love. They had a young daughter, very talented and bright. His family was very important to him, and he had often told his warriors that the greatest honor a man could aspire to was to die protecting the ones he loved. And they lived by this code, because he told them to, even though some of the tribe’s elders disagreed.

“Now, at the time this man’s tribe was locked in war with another tribe. It was not war in the conventional sense; there were no battles, no wholesale slaughters, no capturing of villages and enslaving of the inhabitants. Rather, the war was a series of individual blood feuds. The
kat’arai
of each tribe wished for the war to end, but the cycle of revenge could never stop. A warrior from one side would kill another when their patrols crossed paths, then the son of the dead man would kill the other warrior’s brother, then that man’s family would take vengeance, and so on. It raged this way for years, and then finally it seemed as though both sides would come to peace. Talks were arranged, and the man who would be
Dar’katal
was selected to speak for his tribe. It was a shining moment in his life, to be accorded such a great honor.

“Then, on the eve of the peace talks, there was another raid. Three warriors from the other tribe appeared in dead of night and captured one woman from this man’s tribe. Captured and then killed. The woman was this man’s wife.

“The next day, when the woman’s body was discovered just beyond the tribe’s borders, there was an outcry among the man’s warriors. They called for blood, a full-out attack against the other tribe, to punish them for their villainy. They recalled what this man had told them about the importance of family, and the best way for a man to die…and even though it was not their wife who had been taken, they were all willing to die for her. For they considered this man to be family.

“However, as this man looked into the eyes of his warriors, he saw in his mind’s eye the ultimate result of such retaliation. Both tribes would be destroyed, with countless atrocities committed on both sides. And he thought of his daughter, and how he wanted to see her grow, and see her married, and see her bear him grandchildren. And so he made a choice, the hardest choice he had ever made or would ever make again, and he went to the other tribe, and spoke with their elders. And there was peace.

“But when this man came back to his tribe, he found that everything had changed. He had gained the respect of the
kat’ara
, for finally bringing an end to the war, but no longer did the warriors treat him as one of their own. Instead, they spat at his feet, and called him
a’di
—soulless—and cast him from their ranks. Whenever he looked into their eyes, he saw the wounded look of betrayal, and he knew that he could never again be accepted as their brother. In their eyes, what he had done was unforgivable—he had betrayed everything that he had claimed to hold dear.

“And now this man lives cut off from his brothers, prematurely relegated to a life of sitting around circles and discussing policy with men and woman twice his age. Yet his daughter still lives…and there is still peace.”

The
Sho’nal
sighed, and for just a moment the impassivity on his face fell away, the stony shell of the wise ruler cracking beneath the pressure of memory. Austin saw the same weary man whom he had glimpsed back in the
a’kali’a
, when Taralen had first declared that he could not help Austin reach Kil’la’ril. “The man in your story is you,” Austin said. “And the other tribe is the Traika.”

Taralen, his emerald eyes looking beyond Austin at something only he could see, gave a faint, pained smile but did not speak.

“I’m sorry—I had no idea.” Austin paused, wondering what else to say. The
Sho’nal
wouldn’t have told this story if he wasn’t prepared to talk about it…
but just because he
was
prepared when he started doesn’t mean he still is.
The silence stretched, and finally Austin asked, “Do you regret what you did?”

Taralen blinked, and his eyes focused on Austin. “Ah, a good question, Austin Forgera,” he whispered. “And the answer, to my simultaneous pride and shame, is no. I did what I needed to do—what no one else was
willing
to do—and I do not regret it.”

His voice shook as he spoke, but Austin heard the truth in his words.
So, is that the point of the story? To make me feel guilty about throwing away my own life to save Justin’s? Or to make me realize that Justin’s fate is beyond my control, and the best thing I can do is live my life the best way that I can?
“But…are you happier because of it?”

It was a brutal question, a terrible thing to ask a man in such pain, and Austin knew it. But it needed to be asked. The
Sho’nal
closed his eyes, and a single tear leaked across his cheek. “That, Austin Forgera, is the question you need to ask yourself. And only when you are sure of the answer should you act. I wasn’t sure.”

With that, Taralen fell silent. Austin thought about what he had said.
So, this is my choice. I can go after Justin now, and probably die in vain, or I can give up, wait for the Vizier to send a ship to take me back to Tellaria, and live the rest of my life wondering if I should have done differently.

But here’s the difference between our stories: his wife was already dead. He could not have saved her; he could
only
have died. Justin is still alive, I
know
it—and I can save him. I will save him.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” Austin’s voice was quiet but firm. “But my story isn’t over yet.”

Taralen opened his eyes and met Austin’s gaze. “I believe that it is not,” he said, his voice soft and sad. Abruptly his face cleared, and the mask of stoicism fell back into place. “If that is in fact what you want, I will not stand in your way. If you are content to die saving your friend, then so be it; there are worse things to die for. My rational mind urges you to reconsider, but I will not try to convince you further. I still want to help you. By Ja’nal, I have no love for the Traika, and it would give me great satisfaction to see you set foot on Kil’la’ril. But I have said everything that I can say. If you must go, then go. I will not stop you. But I also cannot help you.”

Austin nodded gratefully. “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

“Please, do not be.” The
Sho’nal
shrugged. “You get what you want, and my people do not suffer for it—everyone wins.” He stood and extended his hand; Austin stood and shook it. “I wish you luck, Austin Forgera.”

“Thank you,” said Austin again. He reached for his rucksack, turning to go.

And at that moment they were interrupted by a man entering the
a’kali’a
.

Both Austin and
Sho’nal
Taralen turned. The newcomer was a warrior whom Austin didn’t recognize, with a slight hunch in his back and darting, nervous eyes. “Hail, Tarik,” said Taralen, raising a hand in greeting.

Tarik reached them and paused for a moment to catch his breath. He did not return the
Sho’nal
’s greeting. “The
Dar’katal
has called a meeting for all of the warriors. He specifically requested that you be present as well.” The last sentence was spoken with obvious distaste, spat out as if its residue left a foul taste in his mouth.

Assuming that Tarik was speaking to Taralen, Austin turned and again started to leave. “He has requested that
both
of you be present,” interrupted Tarik, roughly grabbing Austin’s shoulder. “The stranger
and
the
a’di
.”

“Both of us?” Taralen repeated, mystified. “Why? What has happened?”

“It is the
Dar’katal
’s son.” Tarik turned his gaze back towards the
Sho’nal
, and something like mocking scorn entered his voice. “He was returning from a diplomatic journey to the Gaura when his envoy was attacked. They were all killed.”

Taralen’s eyes widened, and he stood frozen for a moment in stunned silence. “By the Traika? No…it cannot be. We are at peace—”

“The peace is over,
a’di
. The Belayas go now to vengeance.” Tarik turned to Austin. “Do you want our help, stranger? Here is your chance to get it.”

* * * *

Later that day, Arex sought out Drogni and Makree. “Congratulations,” he told them, a broad smile across his scarred face. “The
kat’ara
has agreed to my requests. By tonight, you will officially be members of the Kastria tribe in the eyes of the gods.”

“Thank you,” replied Makree. “I hope our presence has not harmed your stead with the
kat’ara.
”

The
Dar’katal
laughed. “Oh, it has, warrior of
Tel’aria
! They are not pleased with me at the moment, but their anger is immaterial. If that is the cost for us to defeat the Traika, then I will pay it gladly. Now, come with me. We must begin the acceptance rituals at once, if we are to finish in time.”

“In time for what?” asked Makree.

The
Dar’katal
’s face twisted into a snarl, and his eyes were dark with fierce anger. “For war.”

-18-

The acceptance process into the Kastria tribe took the rest of the day. Finally, with night looming heavy around them, Drogni found himself accepting a clay bowl of liquid from the blind elder, Celora. Following Makree’s lead, Drogni drank—not much, for the liquid was powerfully alcoholic and burned his mouth and throat like fire. Celora took back the bowl and made a sign in the air. Then the
kat’ara
proclaimed in one voice, “Blood of the tribe. Flesh of the tribe. Spirit of the tribe.”

Dar’katal
Arex stepped forward. “Greetings, warriors of
Tel’aria
, brothers of the Kastria.”

And it was done.

Mere moments later, the
Dar’katal
pulled them aside. “Something is happening in the west. That is why we have hastened through the acceptance ritual; our time is nearly up. My
to’laka
tell me that the Traika are in the process of an attack on a tribe called the Belayas; as we speak, many of the Traika warriors are deep in Belayas territory, leaving their village vulnerable. It is not completely undefended, but it is no longer impregnable. This is the chance we have been waiting for, and possibly the last real opportunity to defeat the Traika.”

Drogni blinked against the ferocity of the
Dar’katal
’s words. It took a moment for them to fully sink in. “Wait, the Belayas?”
Austin!

“Indeed.” The
Dar’katal
eyed him curiously. “Your reaction seems…personal.”

Drogni barely heard him. His thoughts were only on Austin.
Yet another person who will die on my watch.
It was Makree who replied. “We have a friend who went to the Belayas to seek their help, just as we are seeking yours.”

The
Dar’katal
bowed his head. “Ah, now I see.” Sadness came across his face. “I am sorry, warrior of
Tel’aria
. The Belayas—and, I fear, your friend as well—are doomed. We are too far away to save them. But we can make their deaths mean something. Let us avenge them, warriors of
Tel’aria
!”

Drogni felt a wrenching in his chest. He did not want leave Austin to die, not after all those he had already lost. But Arex was right; there was nothing they could do. Austin was tough and skilled. He had survived Leva and Hilthak; Drogni had to believe that he could survive the Traika onslaught as well.
Sorry, kid. It looks like I’ve let you down. Godspeed…and good luck.

Drogni allowed none of his inner strife to reach his expression. To Arex, he merely nodded. “To war,” he said, but there was no fire behind his words, only a dull emptiness.

“Excellent!” In the descending darkness, Arex’s face appeared almost demonic. “Tonight, we will finally turn the tide of this battle against the Traika! Tonight, we will finally show
them
what it means to know fear!”

Now, scarcely two hours later, Drogni crouched at the edge of the forest overlooking the main Traika village, flanked by Makree and the Kastria
Dar’katal
on either side. The village below was quiet, but that silence was deceptive. A battle had taken place here not long ago—the land just outside the village wall was thick with corpses, and dark sorcery emanated from the village in a tangible, fetid wave. Across Drogni’s back,
Ss’aijas K’sejjas
burned with searing cold, and a low hum buzzed from the weapon’s rune-carved blade. His par-gun felt surprisingly heavy, and it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking. He tried to tell himself that this was just like every other battle he had fought, but his mind rejected that thought for the lie it was. He remembered the last two times he had gone into battle, and recalled his helplessness in the face of the rage within him—the rage that, twice before, had consumed him.
This makes three times I’ve fought this enemy. Will I win this time?
“Are you sure about this?” he asked Arex, his voice low.