by S. G. Night
Racath frowned. Reaching down, he wrenched the axe out of the lynchman’s foot, engendering a muffled cry of pain from the Arkûl. Wordlessly, he held the weapon out to Quentin. “He is yours to deal with,” Racath said. “His crime is yours to punish. Do as you please.”
The boy looked at it thoughtfully, his eyes raking the curved, bloodied edge. Carefully, he took the axe — it looked heavy and oversized in his small hands.
Racath could hear Quentin’s teeth grinding. The boy turned a hard stare onto the lynchman.
“My name’s Quentin Cantrell,” he said, his voice sharpened with painful experience that far outstripped his age. “And ya killed my sister.”
Blood frothing in his mouth, the Arkûl spat at the boy.
Lifting the axe high overhead, Quentin let loose a primal scream. He swung the axe down hard, striking lynchman’s damaged neck. The weapon split the red-black skin, but Quentin’s young arms couldn’t quite cut all the way through. Quentin yelled again, the sound ragged in his throat. Blow after blow rained down on the Arkûl’s neck, gouging deeper into flesh and bone. Blood soaked the boy’s arms and shirt.
The head came free. Without pause, Quentin hoisted it by its stringy hair, holding it aloft. Another wordless cry ripped from his mouth, and the crowd shouted back, fists striking the air.
“This,” Racath shouted to them. “Is freedom! Feel it, let it carry you! This is your first lesson.” He went from Arkûl to Arkûl, taking spears, belt knives and shortswords from their corpses. When he was finished, he tossed the weapons into the crowd.
“A man without a weapon is a subject,” he said to them as they snatched up the new tools. “A man with a weapon is a citizen! You have your power now, so go! Go and use it save yourselves! Save yourselves and give others the means to fight as well! Rise, free yourselves, and take back your city!”
The crowd erupted into a tumult of cheers, applause, and furious shouts. The sound was like rain, lifting up a sprout of pride in Racath’s chest. He was proud, not of himself, but of them.
But not all was well. Innocents were still dead. Beautiful things had been destroyed, and that thought tugged him back down to reality. Turning away from the mob, he looked back at the bodies on the platform. Four men, young and full of hope. A little girl. All dead. Shaking, he put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry....” The words snagged in his throat.
“Ya tried,” Quentin shrugged. The motion of his shoulders was stiff and jerky, but he was smiling weakly up at Racath. “That’s wha’ counts.”
The icy feeling of failure around Racath’s heart thawed a little. He smiled back. “You’re strong, kid. You’ve suffered a lot, more than any one should have to.”
“We all ‘ave,” Quentin replied, nodding at the crowd. “But I think ya just changed that. Fer all of us.” He frowned and looked Racath up and down, taking in his Shadow, the weapons that bristled from his body, the Stingers….
“Sir…who are you?”
Racath squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I am your humble servant.” He held out his hand for Quentin to shake — it was a Human gesture, one that felt awkward for him, but it felt right in that place and time.
Taken aback, the urchin stared at Racath’s hand for a moment. Then he shook it. “Ya honor me, sir.”
“It’s a pleasure to serve.”
“You there!” a voice shouted from a side street. “What’s going on here!?” Another squad of Arkûl bumbled into the square, their weapons trained on the mob. At the sight of the bloodied ground and the corpses of ten Dominion guards, their captain called out:
“Murder! Treason! Call for reinfor—!”
Someone threw a rock at him. There was no hesitation. The Human mob charged en masse, trampling the guards and claiming their weapons. Quentin joined the fray, brandishing the heavy axe. Racath couldn’t help but grin.
——
The mob swelled larger and larger with every minute. As it moved through the narrow streets of the Burrows, more Humans emerged from their hovels and alleys, swept up by the infectious enthusiasm of the crowd. People rushed to their homes, calling their friends and neighbors, recruiting more and more rioters to join the fight.
Racath made for the rooftops again, following the mob from above. The riot overwhelmed three full Arkûl patrols in a quarter hour. Each guard that fell was stripped of armor and weapons as the rioters equipped themselves. Soon, the fight became a constant battle in the streets.
There was only one Arkûl garrison — one guard tower — on this side of the river, and its claxon alarm began to ring across the city. By the time the Humans reached the garrison, the mob was starting to look more like a small army, two hundred strong and growing. The Arkûl rushed to set up emergency fortifications, to arm the full force of the garrison with all possible haste. But they were too slow, too unprepared. The Humans overran the guard-post in a matter of minutes, massacring the Arkûl and plundering the armory.
Racath climbed the guard tower as the Humans mopped up the remaining resistance. Above him, the bell clanged loud and high, grating on his ears. When he reached the belfry, he paused just long enough to grab the Arkûl ringing the bell and pull him out the window. The guard yelped and tumbled end-over-end, crunching onto the street below. Racath ascended to the tower’s pinnacle, grasping onto the flagpole that bore the Dominion’s colors.
From that vantage point, he could look out over most of the city. It seemed as though the insurrection had spread throughout the entirety of the Burrows. Smoke and the clanging of metal-on-metal could be heard from every corner of the slum. At this rate, the entire western city would be clean of the Dominion by sundown.
But on the Bridge, the only bridge that spanned the Milon River, Racath could see a massive square of black armor assembling. The eastern garrison, perhaps five hundred Arkûl in all. They were preparing to march across the river, come to quell the uprising.
Racath had no doubt that the Humans could beat them, take control of the western walls and seal the Dominion out. He knew that Jax and his gentry would get ahold of the rebellion and organize it into a powerful force indeed. But one thing was certain — if this revolt, Racath’s revolt were to survive, then that Bridge had to go. Else, the Dominion would have a clear path to send army-after-army to attack the Burrows. Somehow, he had to destroy it.
But how?
Sokol dove from the sky, nearly smacking into Racath’s shoulder. She twittered and chirped madly, her eyes abnormally wide.
“Whoa, whoa!” he soothed, stroking her as his brow furrowed. “Slow down. What is it?”
Sokol paused a moment as if to regain her composure, then chirped once more.
Racath’s hands grew cold. “No….”
In disbelief, he looked again at the bridge. Squinted. To his dismay, he caught sight of a figure at the front of the Arkûl battalion. Even from a mile away, he could see that the thing towered over the Arkûl soldiers by several feet, dark skinned and massive. A pair of great, impossible wings sprouted from its back, and a bulky tail trailed on the stone behind it. Not an Arkûl. Not a Goblin. Not a Human.
Sokol chirped again, the same chilling message as before.
Demon.
They would be butchered. The Humans could overwhelm the Arkûl assault on their own, but that single Demon could eviscerate them like lambs at the slaughter. Even if somehow they managed to defeat the thing, it would cost scores of lives. Too many lives. And that left only one option.
He had to kill it.
Reaching up, Racath tore the ebon flag of the Dominion from its pole. He swung around and leaned out over the side of the tower, Sokol taking flight once more.
“Good people!”
The Humans below paused to look up at the striking specter in the billowing black cloak.
“Fight on!” he yelled to them. “The west is nearly free! Purge the Burrows of what remains of their filth! Organize yourselves, give Jax Tollo your trust and he will guide you safel
y! Stay strong. Stay together. Stay standing. I promise you, freedom is coming!”
He held his first two fingers aloft — the Majiski gesture for victory. He almost shouted the Genshwin creed, Zauvijék Nijem. But something stopped him. Forever silent…was the wrong sentiment.
He felt a sardonic grin climb his cheeks. No, today he had broken the silence. He had come out of the dark, into the light of day, to show the people their own potential. In that shattered silence, he had found victory where Mrak never could. Where’s your precious discretion now, master?
So instead he raised his voice, mighty as a dragon’s roar, and shouted: “Slobada Zauvijék!!!”
It was a Rotenic phrase. He was sure none of them knew it. But it didn’t matter. The people below cheered in reply, their newfound weapons held high in salute. They understood him. They knew his meaning, if not his words: freedom forever. Freedom, undying.
FOURTEEN
Day of Severance
Barricades had been erected at the mouth of the Bridge to keep the riot contained to the western city. Racath vaulted them, landing on the Bridge. He moved in a low run. Halfway down the bridge, the mass of Dominion forces milled about, positioning themselves into a solid phalanx of spears and shields. The Demon stood at the front, its back to Racath as it directed the Arkûl.
A pack of Goblins flanked the creature. It was a small horde, only a dozen or so strong. But they were different, different from any pack Racath had seen. They lacked the usual Goblin hunch in their posture, instead standing straight and proud. Unlike the rusted, scavenged equipment most Goblins carried, these sported high-quality gear, clearly crafted specifically for them. Snug-fitting steel plates and chainmail sheathed their bodies, complete with ornate helmets fitted to their canine skulls. Each Goblin carried a sturdy buckler, embossed with Dominion inscriptions, as well as a straight, broad spatha.
Huntsmen. Racath had heard of them before. Small Goblin packs bred to track, pursue, and eliminate. Disciplined, less rabid and wild than their common kin. Faster and more agile too, trained to make use of their lupine bodies to run down and overwhelm prey.
Racath wasn’t concerned. Elite or not, they probably bled just like everyone else.
About fifty feet short of his target, one of the huntsmen spotted him. The Goblin barked something to the Demon, pointing its spatha at him. In the back of his mind, Racath registered something strange about the creature’s voice. It sounded almost…feminine.
He halted, standing tall as the Arkûls’ eyes followed the Goblin’s pointing blade. He stood against the wind, alone in the center of the bridge. A single man in defiance of an army.
I’ve seen Racath do this before. There is something about him when he stands like that. Something in the way he holds himself. His face shrouded beneath his hood, his Shadow billowing about his feet. Arms lowered by his sides, muscles taut, Stingers pointing down over clenched fists, one foot slightly ahead of the other, like he was about to spring. I’m not sure if he does it intentionally, but when he does, he becomes striking. He becomes more than just a man to those who see him. More than just a mortal.
The Demon turned, and Racath finally saw the monster’s full form. It stood more than a head taller than Racath, its flesh thick with bands of rippling muscle. The skin was coated in a layer of glossy, night-blue scales. A spiked, whip-like tail snaked out from its lower back, and pair of massive, leathery wings sprouted from its shoulder blades.
The Demon’s head was smooth and perfectly round. A pair of cunning, acid-green eyes dominated most of its face. Hairless, no ears, nose, or even nostrils. Its lipless, crescent-shaped grin lacerated across its face, overflowing with shark-like rows of yellowed incisors.
The Arkûl readied their spears, preparing to march on Racath. But the Demon held up a thick, clawed fist, halting them. The devil chuckled, scornful laughter rolled across the Bridge like the rumbles of a distant storm.
“You have daring, Human,” it said. It had a voice like a lion — a lion made of brimstone and tainted fire. The sound of it left a humming in Racath’s ears, resonating deep in his ribs. He could almost feel the Bridge vibrating beneath his feet. “But I fear you waste it needlessly.”
Racath’s nerve faltered for a moment and he said nothing. In Velik Tor, the Genshwin archivist, Virgil Tarem, had spent several years devoted to the research of Demonic morphology. From the limited information he could acquire, he concluded that while Demons manifested themselves in diverse and unique forms, they could all be categorized into one of several archetypes — a way of mortalizing them, so to speak, reducing their ethereality. Racath recognized the general shape that this Demon took, fitting the description of one of Virgil’s many archetypes.
But when the monster spoke, all that rational nomenclature drained from his mind. He could even remember what the archetype was called — all he could think of was the myths of the abominable offspring of witches and dragons. Creatures like naga, and dalkanari. It was like watching a very evil faerie walk out of his closet.
The creature rumbled, smoke puffing around its thousand teeth. “Perhaps fate placed you on the wrong side of the river,” it said, almost musing with that wicked grin. “The Dominion may have been able to find use for someone with a spine like yours.”
Indignation gripped him, overriding the fear as quickly as it had seized him. An unfamiliar audacity rose up inside him, and without even meaning to, he pushed off his hood, revealing his face. “Look more closely, Demon!” he shouted down the Bridge.
At this distance, the Arkûl soldiers probably couldn’t see anything of interest in his face. But Racath knew the Demon’s eyes would be much sharper, sharp enough to see detail at fifty feet away. Details like the double-pointed-teardrop shape of Racath’s pupils.
And indeed, the man-dragon saw. The evil smile widened. “Ahhh…” it said. “I see. So it would not have mattered which side of the river you were born on.”
“No.”
“What is your business here, quicken?” the Demon asked. A new aspect had entered the monster’s tone — beneath the disdain, a strange echo of deference had appeared. Like a rival’s respect. “Speak quickly. As you may have noticed, events on the other side of the river demand my attention.”
Racath bristled. “I am here on behalf of the people of the west. I speak for the Burrows.”
“Ohh,” the Demon said, mockery dripping from the word. It made an exaggerated bow, its movements smooth as flowing magma. “An emissary! How quaint. I would expect introductions are in order, then. I am called Briz’nar, Greater Demon, Hand to the Duke of Milonok, and Commander of the Guard.”
“That’s delightful,” Racath scowled. “You can call me Azrael.”
The Demon made a face as though raising its eyebrows — only it had no eyebrows. “Azrael? An intriguing name, quicken. What terms does the nighttime angel have to offer the Dominion today?”
Racath’s eyebrows drew together. “Terms?”
“Yes, terms,” Briz’nar replied, a forked tongue dancing behind its sharkish teeth. “Conditions for the riots to cease. The rabble must have some sort of price if they are sending one of your kind to do the bargaining. What is it, then? Coin? Food? Perhaps a much needed bath?” Some of the Arkûl chuckled.
Racath rolled his eyes. “I’m not here to negotiate with anyone!” he answered incredulously. “The only terms I have are that you die, this Bridge is destroyed, and the Dominion never even thinks about looking at the Burrows ever again.”
Briz’nar made a hmming sound, ruffling its great wings. “I do not believe that the Duke will find those terms acceptable. Might I convince you to reconsider—”
“Dear God, go faul yourself, you self-important gecko!” Racath shouted. “I’m don’t play these games.”
The patronizing smile that Briz’nar had worn faded into a leer. “Very well, then,” it said, anger swelling in its earthquake voice. It looked down at the captain of the huntsmen, the Goblin that had first spotted Racath. “
Kill him.”
The Goblin bowed sinuously to the Demon. “As you wish, Your Stewardship.”
It was unmistakable this time. The Goblin’s voice was female. Racath had never seen a female Goblin before, and it was only then that he noticed the differences. Her fur was darker, more of a grey in contrast to the dusty taupe of the males. She was taller, too. More limber.
The she-Goblin loosed a vicious growl to her male subordinates, and they replied in kind. The howls echoed over the river. The huntsmen darted forward, sprinting at Racath on all-fours, some jumping up to run along the stone parapets, like ten mad dogs.
Racath had only a few seconds before they’d be on top of him. He cleared his head and focused. He knew his enemy. He knew himself. He knew that they had the numerical advantage. He knew that retreating would bring the game onto their playing field, the playing field where Goblin huntsmen do what they’re trained to do: run down and swarm. There was no doubt that they could run just as fast as he could, and in a chase their numbers would easily overtake him.
But these were chasers, hunters — they were trained to eliminate fleeing prey, not go toe-to-toe with an enemy. In a head-on fight, the game would be on his terms. And while they might be able to match a Majiski’s speed, Racath doubted they could ever compete with a Majiski’s strength.
Racath closed his Stingers, and drew two knives from his Shadow’s chest piece. He spun them between his fingers as the Goblins closed on him. Come and get it, you filthy bastards.
When the huntsmen were halfway to him, Racath threw both weapons. Two Goblins yelped and slid face-first across the stone, killed by the knives that punctured their helms.
With artistic ease, he drew, twirled, and launched his last quartet of throwing blades. Each triple-pronged dagger became lethal-black pinwheels, whistling a macabre elegy as they found homes in the huntsmen’s eyes, brows, and necks.
Six down. The remaining four were stilling coming, jaws snapping with hungry froth. Racath reached for his vindur’scain, hoping to kill off the female before they reached him — then realized that he had left it buried in the chest of the Mnogo priest back at the gallows.