Authors: T. C. Metivier
Roger glanced away from the battle. His gaze found the second stranger, who was also standing apart from the fighting. As if sensing the attention, the other man turned and looked straight at Roger, but Roger had already moved past him. His eyes roved across a pool of crystal clear water, across the majestic pillars of rock, across the mounds of glittering black stone. Past the raised platform of red bone—
And stopped. There was something on the dais, something Roger hadn’t noticed before with his attention occupied by the scarred man of shadows. He couldn’t get a clear view; his vision was obscured by the black lightning, erupting from an opening in the rock fifty meters above his head, that crackled and raged across the platform. He began to walk towards it. The pain in his hand intensified with every step, as though the limb was being encased in a block of ice, but he gritted his teeth and continued onwards. As he drew nearer, he began to hear a low moaning, a sound of unspeakable pain.
Fires of Muntûrek, there’s someone alive in there!
he realized, and for a moment that thought cut through his apathy. For the first time in what felt like days, his inner spirit stirred, re-awakening the fire within him—but then, just as suddenly as it had come, it faded away.
So what? Just more pain. Whoever you are in there, pray for death. Because the pain…it never ends.
Through the lances of sorcery, a figure grew visible. A figure lying against a massive slab of black stone—
no,
Roger realized with a jolt,
Not lying. Chained. With shackles of fire. By the gods, what horror is this?
The man’s eyes were closed, his head flopping limply to the side. His arms and legs jerked as the dark magic coursed through his body. That he still lived was a miracle…but he couldn’t hold out much longer. No one could.
Just a matter of finding the breaking point
, thought Roger bitterly.
Simple as that.
He began to turn away—
The chained man suddenly stirred, his eyes fluttering open—
And Roger suddenly heard a voice from his memories. “
At the heart of G’Char, the Scions will meet. And from that moment, one will begin to lose himself, and the other will begin to find himself.
”
And another, from the alien Fa’ix, the Keeper: “
I see darkness surrounding you, Roger Warbanks. Deep within the bowels of a far-off world, battling an enemy that you cannot destroy, so that the Heir may have a chance to realize his destiny. In that battle, you will face a choice: who will die? Either you or the Heir will die that day; the question is: which one?
”
Now Roger heard his own voice: “
Sounds like a pretty easy choice, pal—I stick my neck out for no one
.”
When he had spoken those words, he had been sure of them. He had been sure that he would never sacrifice his own life to save someone else, much less someone he didn’t even know. But now…
Everything’s changed. I found what I was looking for—like it or not, I know why I lost my memories. That journey’s over, and in its place there is…nothing. No reason to live. No reason not to die. Is this—is what I’m doing—really living? Is there really any reason for it to continue?
This man, whoever he is, has a life to return to. I do not.
Roger found himself astonished by what he was thinking. Was he actually going to do this? Was this how it was going to end?
“
Which one?
”
The question was asked…and Roger had his answer.
Maybe I’m wrong; maybe this isn’t my time to die. Maybe I’m doing this all for nothing.
But if I am…I don’t care.
If I am, then it doesn’t matter.
Roger met the Heir’s tortured gaze. Held it for a second. In those eyes, he saw acceptance. Brotherhood.
Don’t die yet
, Roger thought.
Don’t you dare.
And he turned—
To face his destiny.
-23-
Austin crouched at the entrance to the cavern, surveying the battle. Near the center of the chamber, three figures dueled in a deluge of sorcery—Admiral Ortega, Rokan Sellas, and an old man in a worn brown cloak. Off to one side, only twenty or so meters from Austin, stood Commander Makree and two others—a male Human and a squat saurian Florca who wore identical red uniforms. Those two were firing their weapons towards Rokan Sellas, but Makree was not looking at the battle. Instead, his eyes were locked on the last combatant, standing near a massive platform made of red bone. As Austin watched, this man slowly turned and began to walk towards the swirling storm of magic. The crackling of arcane power was loud in Austin’s ears, drowning out all else; its discharge shook the cavern like the roar of an angry god.
Austin knew that their fight was beyond him. He held his pulseblade in his hand, but the weapon was deactivated; he had been there on Hilthak, and he knew the power that Rokan Sellas wielded. Against such an enemy, Austin could not stand; much as he wished that he could do something to aid Admiral Ortega, he would only get in the way.
I’m sorry, Admiral. But this is your fight. Your enemy.
It felt like a betrayal to even consider such a thought, but it was true. The Admiral had a personal connection to Rokan Sellas; Austin did not. The Admiral had made it his personal mission to kill Rokan Sellas and had even sworn an oath on the lives of the five who had died on Hilthak to that effect; Austin had not.
I didn’t cross the galaxy to kill someone. I crossed it to save someone.
I’m sorry, Admiral. Good luck.
With that thought, Austin turned his gaze away from the battle and towards the altar of bone. Atop it was a man, chained to a slab of black rock with bonds that glowed green and twisted like vipers. Lightning coursed through his body, and his groans of agony were audible even from fifty meters away.
Justin!
It tore at Austin’s heart to see his friend in such pain, but at the same time the sight only hardened his resolve.
I’m here, Justin. I’m here—and I will save you.
Austin glanced back behind him to where Katrina crouched. “Stay here,” he told her firmly. “Don’t move until I come and get you. Understand?”
She nodded, her eyes huge with terror. Austin turned back towards the cavern. The battle raged wildly, no one even glancing at the exit tunnels. Staying low, Austin dashed out, hiding behind the mounds of rock whenever he could. He reached the dais and scrambled atop it. The bone was cold to the touch, a pervading chill that made Austin feel as though he had been submerged in a vat of ice, and he shivered. Pushing back his own discomfort, he stood, swiveled, met his friend’s gaze—
And saw in Justin’s unfocused eyes an endless expanse of terror. It was the look of a man whose soul was on fire.
Austin felt rage boiling up within him.
You bastard! How dare you! How dare you!
He activated his pulseblade and pictured himself driving it through Rokan Sellas’s heart. The image buoyed him, and the chill fled from his body. “Hold on, Justin!” he cried. “I’m here! Hold on!”
Holding the blade close to Justin’s chains, Austin began to cut—
In a shower of sparks, the blade’s power generators shorted out. Almost simultaneously, the metal itself began to melt, liquefying wherever it was in contact with the glowing chain. The hilt abruptly grew scalding to the touch, and Austin dropped it with a cry of pain. He was left staring helplessly as his friend continued to scream.
No!
thought Austin.
I’m so close—so close!
And I can’t help him. I can’t save him.
* * * *
Drogni felt blood dripping down his face. His arms burned, his muscles gasped for oxygen, and his eyesight was dimming. The scream of
Ss’aijas K’sejjas
was now barely a whisper. His conscious mind no longer functioned; every move, every cut and slash at the cloud of shadow in front of him, was an action of pure instinct. He clung to a single command, the command to
fight
, and his muscles obeyed.
For now. But for how much longer?
Rokan Sellas snarled, and an invisible dagger carved an angry red line down Drogni’s left forearm. Green pus bubbled briefly from the wound and then was gone. Ignoring the pain, Drogni pressed the attack, slashing down with the Mari’eth blade. Another blast of sorcery pummeled him, and as he tried to regain his footing his injured ankle gave way. He tumbled down with a cry, and struck the ground hard. Somehow he retained his grasp on his sword, but every nerve was afire with molten agony. With a groan, he rolled over, struggled to his feet—and collapsed. He lay there, gasping for breath, bright lights dancing before his eyes. His strength was utterly spent.
Galdro, Daalis, Westan, Denar, Lester…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
In the heart of Espir, Drogni Ortega lay…and waited for the end.
* * * *
Talan saw the warrior with the sword of light slip and fall. Saw him try to stand, and fail.
Sensing victory, the shadow
swelled
. Stone cracked, then dissolved, pulverized into dust by the sheer force of the enemy’s rage.
Against it, Talan stood alone.
For one final stand.
He readied himself—
In the corner of his eye, Talan saw movement. He risked a quick glance—
A new combatant was entering the fray. One armed with no weapons, yet striding forward with determination. The aura of prophecy surrounded him; to Talan’s eyes, he glowed like a miniature star.
The enemy sensed the new arrival as well. Talan felt its focus shift, its power sliding away from Talan and towards the newcomer. Sorcery burgeoned, swirling in a chaotic frenzy, building up towards a single emanation of power to obliterate its target in one ferocious attack.
Its target—
Roger Warbanks.
As Roger drew closer, Talan felt an icy fist of fear clench about his heart.
No! NO! This isn’t how it’s supposed to end! Roger Warbanks—not here! NOT YET!
Frantically, Talan brought his own strength to bear, summoning every last vestige of power—
Too late.
Tendrils of sorcery scythed towards Roger—
* * * *
When he saw Roger Warbanks turn and walk towards the battle, Makree felt his heartbeat quicken. The time had come—the moment he had anticipated and dreaded for five years.
Five years—five long years. All that time, a part of me held onto the hope that this moment would never arrive, that the man with no name would be wrong. That I would never have to face the consequences of my decision.
That hope…now shattered. And I am glad it is, for it was a coward’s hope, a coward’s escape. I am Aras Makree, Captain First Rank of the Blood Legion, Sergeant Major of the Tellarian Army…and I am no coward. I will not run from my fate. I will not hide from it. I will accept it.
For I am not afraid.
Makree surged forward, past the two warriors of the Blood Legion. His footsteps were surprisingly light, as if the weight of ages had been lifted from his shoulders. His par-gun remained holstered; he would not need it. Every stride brought him closer to his destiny.
As he neared the confrontation, Makree felt his skin crackle, burning beneath the strength of sorcery being wielded here. He had no innate magic, no talisman of power to protect him; the forces being unleashed in this arena were enough to destroy any mere mortal who faced them. Heat engulfed him, but he did not feel it.
Pain is nothing. Pain is temporary. Rokan Sellas, is that the best that you can do?
Another step forward. And another. And ano—
Makree felt a sudden shift in the air, a refocusing of power.
This is it. At long last, I have reached the end of my journey. At long last, I will have peace.
Sorcery exploded outwards, erupting towards its target. An attack that nobody could withstand. An attack to shatter stone, to crack the very foundation of the world.
Makree did not hesitate. He leapt forward, into the path of the missile. It struck him full in the back. The pain was indescribable, yet Makree barely noticed it.
There is nothing more that you can do to me now. Nothing more that can hurt me.
At last, the wait is over.
At last, my promise is fulfilled.
Agony engulfed Aras Makree, and his world disintegrated.
* * * *
Roger felt a strange sense of confidence as he approached the battle. It was very strange indeed, given that he had no weapons with which to attack the enemy.
I can’t win; that’s pretty obvious. So, if winning’s out of the question, what’s left?
He didn’t have an answer.
I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. Should be interesting.