Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  Talan shook his head. “I am sorry, Roger Warbanks, but I cannot answer your questions now. Our time is short, and we must go at once.”

  Immediately, Roger’s initial wariness returned in full force. If he thinks that I’m gonna follow him like some blind kala dog, he’s got another thing coming. “Keep talking, pal,” he said warningly. “Where are you going?” He laid extra emphasis on the word. Not ‘we’—‘you’. My road is my own, and I travel alone.

  “I have sensed an imminent burgeoning of power from the planet Espir, in the D’lai Sector,” said Talan. “I have felt a confrontation brewing in the planet’s depths, a convergence of powers whose outcome will be critical in determining the course of prophecy. You must be there, for it is here that your path will cross with another’s; your destiny is inextricably intertwined with his.”

  Espir? Roger felt like he should recognize the name for some reason, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what. “Never heard of it,” he said with a shrug.

  “I’m not surprised. It is not part of the Federation, nor is it located along any major trade routes, which will make securing passage to it somewhat difficult. But I believe that we can—”

  “Wait a moment—you don’t have a ship?” Looks like I’ve finally found some leverage. “That’s interesting.” And he purposefully left his statement unfinished. Now, I’m the one giving vague answers—let’s see how he likes it.

  But Talan seemed infuriatingly unperturbed. “I take it that you do have a ship?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a ship,” said Roger. “Well, at least I think I do. And here’s the way it’s gonna work. You go to Espir in whatever way seems best to you, and I take my ship and make my own path. Imminent burgeonings of power sound exactly like the kind of things I’d like to avoid.”

  “You will not outrun your destiny, Roger Warbanks. But…that is not what you are doing, is it?” Talan’s eyes narrowed and light flared in his palm. Roger felt a sudden pressure on his temple. Images flashed before his eyes, moving so quickly that he could not distinguish them. He stood transfixed, held prisoner by the old man’s magic, and suddenly he realized that the images he saw were of his own life, working backwards from planet to planet. Anger swelled within him, but quickly faded. Instead, as his memories played back before his eyes, he felt suddenly very alone, remembering the despair and desperation that had marked his entire life. He saw the bounty hunters closing in on him in the rain of Melian II, and felt again the same terror he had felt that day, certain that his life was about to end, that he had finally run out of places to hide. He saw the space station Valkara, where he had gone after escaping the clutches of the Dark Star pirates, and the putrid stink of the sewers that he had been forced to live in for three days after they picked up his trail rose in his nostrils. He saw Denster and the mines of Nereen; Vellanite and Tertran and Vecral and many more. They jumbled together into a single, continuous montage, racing faster and faster and faster and then—

  Nothing. There was only darkness, a blank abyss where memory should be but was no more.

  The pressure on Roger’s temple ceased. Released, he reeled backwards, instinctively raising his pistol, but before he had a chance to do more he realized that the emotion he felt was not anger. Instead, he felt…empty, like a book with no words written in it. There it is—the sum and total of the life of Roger Warbanks. Five years of scurrying from place to place, never settling, never living. Always running.

  “I see now, Roger Warbanks,” said Talan. “You are a man in search of your own answers…and more than that, in search of your own past. A terrible thing has been done to you, and for that I am truly sorry.”

  Roger barely heard him. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—I haven’t learned anything here that I didn’t already know. I knew I had no memories beyond five years ago, and the rest—the running, the fear, the gangsters and criminals and filth—well, like it or not, that’s my life, the only one I’ve got. All choices I made—choices I have to live with. I may not be proud of it, but I’ve got to own up to it. “Thanks—I guess. But that’s…”

  The words died on his lips. His eyes widened as Talan’s words sunk in. “A terrible thing has been done to you.” Not ‘happened to you’—‘done to you.’

  Anger exploded within Roger. How could he have been so blind? All this time, I thought that my amnesia was caused by something natural—a genetic defect, or maybe a rare disease. But what happened to me wasn’t nature, wasn’t just bad luck. Someone did this to me. Someone stole my memories. “You know what happened,” he said; although his anger was not directed at Talan, his words came out like an accusation. “You know who did this to me.”

  Talan looked momentarily alarmed at the change that had come over Roger. Emotions flitted across his face, too rapidly for Roger to identify, and then abruptly the old man’s features settled into an expressionless mask. “I do not know for sure, Roger Warbanks. But I can guess. There is only one thing that I know of that could have this effect—that could erase a person’s memory so abruptly. Your amnesia is imperfect, correct? You occasionally have flashes of almost remembering, where it is as if your past lies behind a translucent wall, dancing just out of focus?”

  Roger went cold. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Then it is as I feared.” Talan sighed. “I have long known that such a thing was possible…but I have never heard of it actually being done. Truly, these are dark times.”

  Roger waited a moment, but Talan seemed lost in contemplation or reminiscence. “And?” Roger prodded.

  Talan blinked, and his silver eyes focused once again on Roger. “Have you ever heard of the Blood Legion?”

  Roger ran the name through his mind, but came up empty. “No.”

  “I thought not,” said Talan. “They are quite practiced at secrecy. Even I have only heard of them in passing. I do not know their origins, but what I do know of them is this: they have existed for thousands of years, watching the galaxy advance, manipulating events in secret…to what end, I do not know, but their motives have always seemed benevolent, or at least benign.” A pained look suddenly came across his face. “Had always seemed benevolent, at least. I do not know why they took your memories, Roger Warbanks…but the circumstances must have been extreme. And deeply troubling. If they have done this, I fear what it may herald for our future.”

  Roger felt a chill run through him. “What do you mean?”

  “The technology that erased your memories is the least of the Legion’s powers. Or, if not precisely least, then perhaps least destructive. The Legion possess countless technologies of astonishing advancement—millennia ahead of the most brilliant scientists of the Federation. Technologies that could make the galaxy tremble. The fact that they have allowed civilization to progress uninhibited is what has led me to believe that the Legion was a force for good. Although perhaps they have only been waiting, biding their time before striking. I do not know.”

  Roger considered this. Something about the name ‘Blood Legion’ sent goosebumps pricking across his skin, but Talan’s tone was enough to make a sliver of doubt enter his mind. “So you’re saying it might not be them? Maybe someone else got their hands on the tech. A pirate gang, or even the SmugCo.”

  Talan shook his head. “I suppose that it would be simpler if that were the case, Roger…but also infinitely more terrifying. If the Smuggler’s Corporate Alliance had compromised the Blood Legion and stolen their technology, the galaxy would already be trembling, and the creature that attacked you would be the least of our worries. No…I am afraid that there is no other possibility. The Blood Legion are the only ones who could have done this to you.”

  Talan’s voice was so open, so plain, that his revelation felt very anticlimactic, and it took a moment to fully register in Roger’s mind. Roger felt a thrill of excitement creep over him, mixed with pent-up anger that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. Somewhere in my subconscious, I must’ve always known the truth. I must’ve known that
I wasn’t just a victim of chance, but rather that there was someone responsible for what happened to me. Someone that I can punish.

  Punish horribly.

  When I get my hands on them, this Blood Legion will wish that they had killed me.

  Roger’s voice, when he spoke, was barely more than a growl. “Where can I find them?”

  Talan shook his head, his eyes downcast. “I am afraid that I cannot help you, Roger. The Legion bases are mobile and cloaked by technology that I cannot pierce. We could search for a thousand years and never find one. I fear that such a quest would be doomed to failure from the start.”

  Through his anger, the logical part of Roger’s mind had expected such an answer. Any organization that has managed to exist in secret for thousands of years is way beyond my ability to track. “So what now?”

  Talan’s brow furrowed. “Were I ignorant of your situation, I would advise you to forget about the Blood Legion entirely. If you value your sanity, do not waste a lifetime searching for something that is impossible to find. However, I know as well as you that you would not heed that advice—I can see the anger in your eyes, hear the revenge in your voice. You will not stop until you have righted the wrongs done to you…and I will not say that you are incorrect to do so.” He paused, his silver eyes studying Roger. “Considering that, the best advice I can give you is simply to wait for an opportunity to present itself. You will not find the Legion…but perhaps they will find you.”

  “Oh yeah? And what makes you think that?”

  Talan held up a finger in warning. “Do not mistake the Blood Legion’s secrecy for apathy, Roger. They have spent millennia watching and waiting, but as we near this critical juncture in destiny they will be drawn out of hiding. They will not be content to stand idly by. And they will certainly not ignore the fact that a man whose memories they erased has now reemerged as one of the central figures of prophecy. Yes, Roger Warbanks…I think that the Legion will find you.”

  Roger took a moment to let that sink in. The way Talan said ‘central figures of prophecy’ made him very uneasy. That sounds like something that I’m not gonna be able to walk away from. Time to face the facts, Roger old boy—you’re in for some rough times ahead.

  But if it means that I might get a shot at the bastards who stole my memories, I guess I’ll take it. “So, Espir?”

  The old man nodded. “Espir,” he replied.

  * * * *

  Two nights after receiving the vision of the scar-faced man and the cavern of black ice, Lerana of the Traika again sat in a circle of her fellow magic-users. The air around her was cool and crisp, alive with the chirping of insects and the warbling of nocturnal birds. The stars twinkled brightly, and the twin moons loomed huge and comforting overhead.

  But the to’laka had not gathered to admire the night. A grim purpose sat upon their hearts.

  They were here for war.

  War was a constant presence in the lives of the Traika, as unceasing as the spring rains or the gentle rays of Kat’aia. To Lerana, peace was a thing of stories and legends, a fanciful concept that had no place in the harsh reality of the world. She had never experienced it firsthand, nor did she expect to.

  Enemies surrounded the Traika, hemming them in on all sides like a pack of koffana surrounding a mighty fenail. To the east lived the Seramor and the Edala; to the west were the Gher’ana, who dwelt along the shores of A’chen’has, the Great Sea. And southward lay the warlike Kastria, brutal savages who would not rest until they saw every Traika child killed, until they had razed the Traika forests and burned every Traika building to the ground. Over the past seventeen years, more than a hundred Traika lives had been lost beneath Kastria spears and arrows.

  It was because of the Kastria that the Traika to’laka had gathered tonight. A small band of Kastria warriors had infiltrated Traika territory and launched a cowardly raid against one of the southern outposts. The pattern was simple and familiar; the Kastria scum would kill the defenders and burn the outpost to the ground before vanishing into the night.

  But they would soon learn the folly of attacking the Traika within their own territory. Here, within the shadow of Kil’la’ril, the Traika to’laka reigned supreme. Tonight, we will remind them that our power is absolute. We will make them pay for their arrogance. We will answer their brutality with our own.

  Lerana waited as the Jo’ma passed the ritual bowl to the gray-haired man to her left. When her turn came, she took a handful of the small blood-red berries. She chewed slowly, savoring the bitter taste of the berries in her mouth. Feerak juice was a powerful painkiller and a necessary component of any ritual. Without it, the pain from harnessing the magic would be too great.

  Even so, the rituals were not without cost. The magic left its mark.

  When each of the to’laka had partaken of the bowl of feerak, the Jo’ma raised her arms skyward. “It is time,” the old woman intoned.

  Lerana closed her eyes and let her mind relax. Immediately, she felt herself lifting free from her earthly form. She did not know how she separated her spirit from her body, nor could she explain her ability to pull power from the air and release it in gusts of wind or daggers of lightning or waves of fire. It was the gift of being to’lak; the use of her power came as naturally as breathing.

  Lerana could sense the presences of her fellow to’laka around her, flitting through the air as gracefully as any bird. At their head hovered the Jo’ma, an indomitable force of pure will and awesome power. The old woman’s voice beamed directly into Lerana’s mind. “Follow me, my children.”

  The to’laka flew south, and within moments they came upon the outpost. The ground below them was alive with movement. The sounds of battle spiraled up towards Lerana—the cracking of spears and the thrumming of bow-strings and the battle-cries of warriors. Her nose was filled with the acrid tang of blood and the fierce aroma of smoke. Fire roared everywhere, huge fountains of destruction and death consuming the outpost like a pack of ravenous bortath’ana.

  The Kastria warriors fought soundlessly, ruthless demons sliding through the night. The stone tips of their spears gleamed faintly in the dim light of the twin moons. A few carried torches, heavy shafts of wood dipped in bo’al sap and then set ablaze; the sap could burn for hours without damaging the wood or harming the wielder.

  Several Traika warriors stood against the raiding Kastria. The defenders battled valiantly, their spears flickering like lightning, but they were outnumbered. Three of them lay dead, their throats cut, their skulls smashed.

  Anger surged within Lerana. The Kastria would pay for what they had done. Her kinsmen would be avenged; she would see to that.

  “They have brought fire against us, so we shall use it against them,” said the Jo’ma. “But take care. The Dar’katal wants them alive.”

  Lerana took a deep breath and merged her mind with the rest of the to’laka. Again, she did this instinctively, with neither knowledge nor understanding of how she did so. Her vision splintered as she suddenly saw the world through fifteen sets of eyes, and a rush of thoughts and emotions washed over her. While in this state of fusion, she retained her consciousness, but only barely. She was no longer merely Lerana; she was to’laka. She was Traika.

  Lerana reached out her incorporeal form to the air around her, and felt her fellow to’laka do the same. Reached…and pulled.

  Power rushed over her like an ocean wave. Were she alone, she would have been swept away by it. But she was reinforced by the strength of her fellow to’laka. Together they stood against the wave, drawing the power out of the air and into their own bodies. As it always did, a bitter taste rose in the back of Lerana’s throat as she harnessed her power. A frigid wind whipped around them and frost blossomed on the rooftops. The raging fires faded away, their energy absorbed by the Traika to’laka. The warriors paused, their heads turning and their weapons dipping. Joy came over the faces of the Traika defenders, and they began to fall back into the night. They knew what was happening; they kn
ew that their salvation was at hand.

  Still the to’laka pulled, pulled…

  And released.

  A conflagration ignited around the Kastria warriors. Great gouts of fire that burned higher and hotter than any natural flame wreathed the eleven enemy tribesmen in a cage of infernal fury. The Kastria did not panic—they were seasoned warriors who had been warned of what to expect. But fear danced in their eyes, and their spears shook in their hands.

  Lerana felt the Jo’ma’s spirit swell, and power exploded from the old woman’s ethereal form. The flames leapt higher, dancing far above the warriors’ heads. The Kastria began to panic, their composure cracking as they realized that they were doomed. They were brave and strong, but this was not an enemy that could be fought with spears. They were overmatched and they knew it.

  The Jo’ma spoke again. “Let none escape.”

  One of the Kastria warriors lowered his shoulder and dashed towards the flames. Lerana concentrated, hurling the man back towards his fellows with a thrust of invisible power. He fell heavily and did not rise. A second warrior also tried to escape and met a similar fate. The others clustered together, their weapons raised defensively. But within moments their spears began to waver in their hands as the heat and smoke leeched away their strength. They swayed, their eyes drooping. One by one they toppled to the ground like dead tree branches.

  When the last Kastria lay motionless, Lerana relinquished her grasp on her power. Immediately, the roaring fires faded away. The Traika defenders emerged from the night; some moved to gather up the fallen weapons, while others bound the unconscious Kastria with thick ropes. One of the Traika, a tall man marked as their leader by the sleeve of blood-stained dairang-hide around his right forearm, glanced skyward and made the sign of Ja’nal, passing one closed fist diagonally across his face.

  “You have done well, my children,” murmured the Jo’ma. “Ja’nal praise you.”