Chains of Mist Page 15

  “The people here are uncivilized—but that does not mean that they are not dangerous. I miscalculated the effect of the planet’s innate power on its inhabitants. Certain of this world’s individuals have the spark of magic about them, and the concentration is greatest and strongest among those who dwell near Nembane Mountain. Now that the seals are being opened, that effect is compounded…and stained, because of the nature of the one who is opening them. The result is a shroud of evil which will further corrupt those inside it with each passing day, and against which I can do little.”

  Drogni let this news wash over him and realized that he wasn’t really surprised. “Sounds like we should join up with Austin before we try to take on this tribe. Can you relay a message to him from me?”

  The reply was immediate. “No.”

  Drogni waited, expecting the Vizier to continue, to offer an explanation, but there was only silence. “No? Why the hell not? Not strong enough, maybe—”

  “That is precisely the reason, and there is no shame in admitting it. If you had any comprehension of the forces at play here, you would understand. The amount of power required to forge even one stable trans-galactic telepathic link is immense. To create a second such bridge would be impossible, and I will not waste my time and energy in the attempt. I will keep my eye on Austin, and protect him as I can—let that be enough for you.”

  Drogni admitted that the Vizier was correct on one point. Drogni don’t know a single thing about magic—at least not the sort the Vizier was talking about—and he was plenty happy to keep it that way. Still, he had no intention of relinquishing sole responsibility for Austin to the Vizier. “Seems to me you can hold two links at once. What about the village girl who you sent to go find Austin?”

  “The cases are hardly parallel—skimming the surface of a mind and implanting an impulse to do something is not the same as linking to its unique psychic signature. The second requires control, precision, and concentration; the first is a momentary exertion of blunt force and no more. Do not test my patience, Ortega—I can do to you the same thing I did to her, and just as easily. Forget about Forgera—he has passed beyond your power.”

  There was something in the Vizier’s voice that still gave Drogni pause, but without being able to see the man’s face he was having difficulty pinpointing exactly what it was. I hate to say it, but the Vizier’s won this one. Sorry, Austin—I tried. Luck be with you. “Fine. He’s your responsibility now, Vizier. But keep me updated on his progress—if anything happens to him, anything, I want to know about it right away. Got it?”

  “I will do what I can, Ortega. But know that my help will be limited. Maintaining this link is exhausting; I doubt I can hold the line of communication open for more than a few more minutes. And once I release this connection I am not sure if I will be able to open it again. Time is of the extreme essence, Ortega.”

  “Fine.” Drogni glanced around. It was still light outside, but for all he knew night could fall quickly on this world. “We should get moving anyways.”

  “Indeed. As I told you, the tribe that lives near Nembane Mountain will not allow you to pass through their lands, and my aid alone is insufficient. You will need to enlist the help of one of the other tribes. As it happens, there is one nearby which should suffice—they are called the Kastria. However, they will not readily accept you; you will need to do something to prove yourselves to them before they will consider helping you.”

  Drogni almost shot back that this was the kind of thing the Vizier ought to be able to handle but thought better of it. That would just start that same old argument again, and right now he just wanted to get the Vizier out of his head as soon as possible. Instead, he merely said, “Any suggestions?”

  “No doubt there are many barbaric rituals that these people employ to test strangers, but we have no time for such things. Fortunately, we do not need them—there is something else that should do nicely. Very close to you, there is about to be a skirmish between two groups of warriors, one from the Traika and one from the Kastria. The Traika warriors are stronger and more numerous than the Kastria; they will win this engagement. You will save the Kastria warriors from death; if you do, they will accept you into their tribe. You will assist them in their war against the Traika—your weaponry should turn the tide of the war in their favor. Once the Traika are dealt with, you should have little trouble reaching the mountain.”

  The Vizier sounded very confident, but Drogni was much less so. Put that way, it sounds very easy…but it also assumes that these Kastria are simple-minded and naïve, to so quickly welcome two foreigners into their midst on the simple basis of one good deed. An arrogant—and often incorrect—assumption. “They’ll be suspicious—and rightly so—about who we are, where we come from, and why we just happened to stop by at exactly the right time. You can’t know that they’ll accept us as allies, just like that.”

  “Again, you have no faith in anything that you cannot see or touch or swing crudely like a club. Leave that to me. They may well feel suspicion after you save them—I am not such a poor judge of behavior as you seem to think. But they will also feel gratitude, and I will magnify that emotion so that it is the only thing that is influencing their actions. I will do the same with the tribe’s ruling body after you reach their village. They will accept you, Ortega—do not worry about that.”

  Drogni flinched at the Vizier’s words. Since they were coming from inside his head, it seemed as if they were his own thoughts, and he felt unclean. Good judge of behavior—what a load of spacedust. How many other cultures has he experienced—not just read about but actually lived in firsthand? Not as many as me—I’ll bet everything I have on that. “Still sounds easy, but I still don’t like it. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but…never mind, that’s exactly what it is. I need a plan that’s a little more real and a little less mystical. Besides, if you can just make them like us, why bother with this charade at all?”

  “Once again you ask questions as though I have not already considered every objection that you might make. I cannot manufacture emotion from nothing—I cannot simply force them to accept you unless the desire is already within them. As for your hesitancy to trust your life to magic, this is not the time or place for it. By now, you should have seen enough to convince you that what you call mystical is just as real as that gun in your hand. If you would like to propose an alternate plan to see you safely to Nembane Mountain, feel free to do so; however, bear in mind that the Traika have mystics of their own who will certainly be able to sense your presence on their lands. You will not be able to sneak past them on your own; you will not be able to fight past them on your own. Your choice is this: either accept my plan or fail. There is no other way.”

  “There’s always another way!” Drogni shouted. The anger in his voice surprised him, and he wondered why the Vizier’s plan was affecting him so strongly. He’d been a soldier for decades, and he knew there were often times when a soldier just had to accept that the higher-ups had information that he didn’t and proceed towards an objective on faith. Hell, I’ve been the higher-up, I know exactly what it’s like…so I know how frustrating it is when a soldier refuses to do something until everything’s been explained to him. There’s a word for that soldier—sacked. Sure, the Vizier isn’t military, and this isn’t a military operation, but I’m military, and that’s all that should matter. Yet he still found himself resisting. It was the idea of trusting something that he couldn’t see and didn’t understand—and which could affect him without his even knowing it. He remembered Hilthak, when Rokan Sellas’s magic had turned him into a mindless monster who reveled in destruction. All of Drogni’s training, all of his discipline, might as well have not even existed for all the good they had done him. And it was hard to trust his life to the same force. Yeah, it’s irrational—like not using a prosthetic limb with a metal frame because a metal gun can kill people—but there you have it. “I refuse to accept that choice, Vizier. There is another way—and I w
ill find it.”

  “No, Ortega.” The Vizier did not sound particularly angry, merely irritated and impatient. “You will accept that choice. Perhaps there is another way, some means to transport you to Nembane Mountain without the use of magic, but time is not on your side. Need I remind you of the oath you swore before you left? Did you not swear, on the souls of five dead soldiers, to kill Rokan Sellas? What of that oath, Ortega? Will you disregard it so easily?”

  And as the Vizier’s voice was replaced by utter silence, Drogni remembered the words that he himself had uttered. ‘I swear, for Daniel Lester, Tina Galdro, Palis Denar, Sara Westan, and Gregory Daalis. No matter what it takes, I will kill him.’ Words spoken in anger, but he had meant them. He could not unsay them. Such an oath was not uttered lightly—he was bound by it. Lester, Galdro, Denar, Westan, and Daalis might never know if he broke his promise…but he would. And he would never be able to forget it.

  I swore to avenge them, yet here I am hesitating already. And for what? Fear? For shame, Ortega—for shame. Remember their deaths—remember how they died. And let them not have died for nothing.

  “My word is my life,” he said, no trace of indecision in his words, nor a hint of fear. Only anger—at Rokan Sellas, for all that he had done, and at himself, for his moment of weakness. “And I will not break it.”

  -10-

  Roger awoke with a gasp. Pain exploded in his chest, a telltale sign of one or more broken ribs. Both of his shoulders felt like they were on the verge of being wrenched out of their sockets, and when he tried to move his hands he realized that they had been tied at a very awkward angle behind his back. His legs were bound in a similar manner, his feet pressing painfully against the backs of his thighs. The fact that he was upright told him that he was bound to a pole or stake, rather than lying tied up on the ground. Great—caught like a fly in a web. Now, where’s the spider?

  Something sharp prodded him roughly in the chest, sending fresh waves of pain shooting through him, but he suppressed any outward display of agony. Let them see that torture, if that’s their plan, won’t work. He raised his head, blinking through dried blood, and saw a tall man wearing some sort of animal skin brandishing a spear at him. Seeing that Roger was awake, the man jabbered something in a language Roger didn’t understand. When Roger didn’t reply, the man repeated himself more loudly and poked Roger again, harder this time. This time Roger couldn’t restrain himself. “Hey, cut it out!” he yelled. He probably can’t understand what I’m saying, but he’ll get the gist.

  The man paused, then retreated out of Roger’s field of vision. Groaning, Roger tilted his head further upward. Several men and women, older than the man with the spear but similarly garbed, were seated in a semicircle a few meters away from Roger. After several moments of muted, unintelligible conversation, one of the old men raised his hand and called out to someone in the shadows. Another figure shuffled into view. Shorter than the others, his face and torso were covered with piercings and tattoos. He raised a hand and made an imperious gesture towards Roger, and Roger saw tiny burn marks all along the man’s fingers and wrists. The new arrival stared at Roger quizzically. Roger met the man’s gaze, wondering what his purpose was, when suddenly he tasted bitterness in his throat and a foreign voice blared out within his mind. “The kat’ara wants to know what your purpose is within the lands of the Traika, stranger.”

  In spite of his determination to show no signs of weakness, Roger’s mouth dropped open in shock. Whoa. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised—after what I’ve seen the last few days, this isn’t really too spectacular. But still…whoa. He wondered how to respond and immediately heard the voice again. “Simply speak, and I will hear the echo of your words in your mind.”

  Roger wasn’t sure what that meant, but he complied. “I need to get to Nembane Mountain.”

  The tattooed man’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I recognize ‘Mountain’ but not ‘Nembane.’ Do you refer to Kil’la’ril?”

  Roger remembered that Talan had mentioned the mountain’s native name but couldn’t recall what it was. That’s gotta be it, though; there’s only one mountain around here. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  The tattooed man conferred with the others, then turned back to Roger. “For what purpose do you seek Kil’la’ril?”

  “I—” Roger stopped. He didn’t really have a good answer to that. I never got the details of what exactly we’re supposed to be doing here. “I’m meeting up with a friend of mine,” he said, then continued with a burst of inspiration, “A very powerful wizard who knows I’m here. He’ll come looking for me—”

  The tattooed man cut him off. “If that was an attempt at intimidation, I warn you not to try it again. The kat’ara do not respond well to threats, stranger. These are our lands—we alone control their power. Your wi’zerd would be helpless against us.”

  Roger wasn’t so sure about that. When Talan was talking about Espir’s magic, he didn’t mention the natives. That means he probably doesn’t think that they’re a threat. Then again, he might’ve just thought that we wouldn’t be running into them, so there’d be no point mentioning them at all.

  The tattooed man continued. “Where are you from, stranger? What tribe holds your family blood?”

  Roger said nothing—how would I respond to that?—and the tattooed man’s eyes narrowed. “The Traika do not suffer intruders into our lands, stranger. We have many enemies…and we have not become the largest tribe between the seas by being overly trusting. What tribe holds your family blood, stranger? We will not ask you again.”

  Getting angry now, Roger almost told them the truth, but his common sense stopped him in time. I did attack their warriors, so right now I’m firmly an enemy. If they think that I’m a spy of some enemy tribe, they may keep me alive for ransom or interrogation…which might not be pleasant but would be better than death. If I tell the truth, they’d probably think I was simply insane, and thus useless to them. It certainly won’t help me. So, once again, he said nothing.

  The tattooed man, seeing that Roger was not going to respond, turned back to the others. After a short conversation, the tattooed man spoke again to Roger. “The kat’ara will give you time to think on your impertinence. When next they speak with you, stranger, you would be wise to tell them what they want to know.”

  * * * *

  Lerana was meditating in the shade of one of the towering stefia trees, listening to the melodic trills of the hand-sized meekara soaring overhead, when a youth with gangly limbs and shoulder-length dark hair came hurrying up to her. He knelt and made the sign of Ja’nal. “Honored to’lak,” he said. “The revered Jo’ma requests your presence.”

  Lerana rose immediately to her feet. “You have done well,” she said, placing her hand on the youth’s brow. “Ja’nal bless you.”

  The young man’s eyes shone with pride. “Thank you, honored to’lak.” He stood, turned, and hurried back towards the village.

  Lerana took a moment to gather herself, then set off after the youth. She did not run; such blatant demonstrations of haste were unseemly for a to’lak, even for a junior member such as Lerana. Yet her steps came quickly. It would not do to keep the Jo’ma waiting, after all. Soon she reached the Traika village. The guards made the sign of Ja’nal as she passed them, and she dipped her head respectfully in reply. She made her way quickly through the village, and found the leader of the Traika to’laka sitting by a firepit, her back turned as she tended to the flames. She approached the old woman, then knelt and lowered her head. “Revered Jo’ma.”

  “My child.” The old woman’s voice was like the creaking of the slender tuari tree in a heavy storm. “Sit with me.”

  Lerana settled herself next to the old woman. She took care to avoid the hungry, malevolent gaze of the huge terek perched like an otherworld demon on the Jo’ma’s shoulder. She tried not to imagine the bird’s sharp talons gouging out her eyes, or tearing through her skin to feast on her flesh. “You wished to see me, rever
ed Jo’ma?”

  “Indeed I did,” replied the old woman. “You have heard of the disturbance from earlier today.”

  Lerana clicked her tongue in confirmation. She had been communing with her e’tana since early morning, and so had not been in the village when the scouting tar’keta had returned, but news of such a nature spread faster than a terek diving from the heavens towards its prey. “The prisoner. The man with the strange garb and jabbering speech.”

  A faint smile touched the old woman’s face. “He is a peculiar one, that is for certain. But he is not unintelligent. And he possesses a great power. It feels ancient, almost as ancient as Kil’la’ril itself. It may even be greater than my own.”

  Lerana had to fight to keep the shock from her face. She had seen the Jo’ma perform feats of raw magical ability far beyond anything that she herself was capable of. The thought that someone else might be more powerful than the Jo’ma was nearly impossible to comprehend. “Do we know his purpose here?”

  “The kat’ara believes him to be a spy. They are convinced he is an agent of one of our enemies, sent here to learn our secrets…or possibly to kill our leaders and leave us defenseless.”

  Lerana gave another affirmative click of her tongue. If he were a spy, he would not be the first who had attempted to sneak onto Traika lands. The Fifth Rule of Den’ja forbid the use of espionage during war, but that meant little. The Traika had many enemies who would not hesitate to stoop to such trickery to see them defeated. “What do you think, revered Jo’ma?”

  “He is certainly not a spy,” replied the old woman. “That much is obvious. He cannot speak our language and his gaudy attire makes him stand out like a bortath among chakkata. Beyond that I am not sure. He claims that he came here with another and that they have some purpose on Kil’la’ril. He called this second individual a wi’zerd, which I believe to be a barbaric equivalent to our to’lak. But I have already cast out my senses towards Kil’la’ril and I can find no trace of this person. So that, too, must be false.”