Chains of Mist (46 page)

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.

Lightning erupted from the old man’s palm, striking Rokan Sellas full in the face, but although the blow spun him around it did not appear to do any damage. His riposte came with impossible speed, a web of stinging fire that encircled the old man.

Drogni slashed again; although his attack failed, ricocheting off the same unseen shield as before, it distracted Rokan Sellas, forcing his attention back to Drogni just long enough for the old man to burn free from his fetters. Once again, sorcery lit the air.

Drogni knew that they could not continue like this. His own attacks were more annoyance than danger, a biting fly to Rokan Sellas’s nethcat, and, while the old man was fighting valiantly his best efforts were barely enough to keep the enemy at bay. Already, the strain was showing in his face. The two red-uniformed soldiers were bravely firing their weapons, but as far as Drogni could tell they were doing no damage whatsoever. Rokan Sellas was smiling, eyes afire with maniacal rage; he appeared to be toying with them, holding back just enough to make it seem like both sides stood an equal chance. With every second that passed, Drogni could feel their chances of victory slipping further and further away. In a battle of attrition, they could not win.

Still, he hung onto hope.
I just need one moment. One moment, to take advantage of one mistake…

* * * *

Talan felt his energy fading. Every attack was more and more of an exertion; with each such exertion, he paid a heavier and heavier price. He could feel the strain tugging at his flesh, at his very essence of existence, and knew that, even if his enemy did not kill him, his own efforts soon would.
No well is limitless. Everyone, strong and weak, novice and master, has a breaking point. It may be pushed back, delayed…but always, it must be faced. Always, it must be accepted.

Every beginning has an end. And mine is near.

He had already lasted far longer than he had believed possible. He could see it in the enemy’s eyes; the scar-faced man had expected the battle to be over by now and was growing irritated by the delay. Not worried—
no, he still knows that his power exceeds mine
—but frustrated nonetheless, a frustration compounded by the furious, single-minded assaults of the man with the golden sword. Attacked on two fronts, the shadow was being tested in a way it had not expected.
Not expected…and not prepared for. And there, perhaps, lies our one chance. One hope—that, in that singular moment when overconfidence gives way to determination, he will err. Will lower his defenses. It may happen for one second only. But maybe one second will be long enough.

Talan thought of the sacrifice that had been required, to give them this small glimmer of hope. Not his own sacrifice, no. Nothing so simple, nor so easy.
Four soldiers, who fought and died to defend me, to defend Roger Warbanks, and two more who may soon join their kin beyond the veil. Who never questioned why I held myself back when I could have saved them. Who fought fiercely, unflinchingly, against an enemy far beyond them. They did not know why they fought; they did not know for whom they gave their lives. They did not even know whether from their sacrifice might come victory. They did not know…but it didn’t matter.

For they
believed.

As Talan fought, as he was forced closer and closer to annihilation, it was that belief that sustained him. That blind leap of faith.
It is not an easy thing to do, for a man who has lived as long as I have—to step out into the unknown. To accept that there are some things that cannot be controlled.

I see you, shadow. I see you, and I acknowledge your power. I acknowledge your superiority.

And I defy you.

I defy you!

* * * *

Makree dodged an errant spear of black fire. The battle was growing more chaotic, less precise, as the combatants wearied. Lashes of sorcery sprayed out randomly, both light and dark, and everywhere stalagmites and stalactites exploded into showers of cutting rock.

Across the room, Roger Warbanks still stood unmoving, his gaze roving without interest. Several lances of power struck very close to him, searing past him mere centimeters away, but he made no move to avoid them. He merely stood there, a statue of flesh and blood.

The sight made Makree want to weep.
Has it been like this, all these five years? A world of emptiness, of utter loneliness? Is this what we did to you? Yes, we—for I share equally in the blame. More than equally, even. I could have stopped it, I could have saved you…but I did not. May the gods forgive me, I did not.

It is too late to change what happened. You have your fate, I have mine. And, in the end, we both lost.

As that bleak thought crossed Makree’s mind, an explosion detonated with a fiery crack from within the spinning maelstrom of sorcery. Two figures were hurled from the battle, sent tumbling to within a few meters of where Makree stood—the crimson-uniformed warriors of the Blood Legion. The first was a female Florca, the second a Human male. The man had an angry red slash across his right cheek, and his right eye was blackened and bruised. They sprang up almost immediately, reaching for their weapons, and it was then that they noticed Makree.

At first, they showed no reaction. The man took a step back towards the battle; the Florca lined up for a shot at Rokan Sellas, both of their gazes swinging away from Makree.

Then, almost simultaneously, they froze. They looked back at Makree, and for a moment they seemed to forget about the raging battle behind them. Their eyes grew wide with shock, and then as one, they twisted, back towards Roger Warbanks. They looked at Roger, then back at Makree, then back at Roger. Surprise and disbelief gave way to horror.
Yes, now you see,
thought Makree with an almost savage pleasure.
Now you see the truth. Now you see what we have done, in the name of justice.

The question is: did we do right?

* * * *

Roger watched the battle unfold with little interest. A part of him, the part that craved action, wanted to step into the fray. But that voice was small and easily drowned out by the others, the ones who whispered,
Why bother? Win, lose—what does it matter?
Besides, he felt certain, in a way that he couldn’t explain, that the battle would sooner or later find him.
Talan said I was important. Said that there was a reason I had to be here. He’s been right too often to be wrong now. I sure as hell wasn’t fated to come here and just stand around. Eventually, that fight will come to me. And then we’ll see what happens, won’t we?