Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance

by S. G. Night

  The female slammed into him, tackling him to the ground. He narrowly avoided bashing his already-concussed head on the masonry. Reacting, Racath tucked, and they both rolled end-over-end across the Bridge — he had to get her off him before the other three could help pin him down.

  Dragging his feet, he managed to bring himself to a stop on his back, the Goblin on top of him. Pushing upward, he shoved skyward. Her momentum carried her forward and she was tossed farther west down the Bridge. She yalped and scrambled in the air, landing in a tangle of limbs and clanging armor somewhere behind Racath.

  Racath spun in a flat circle on his back, lashing out with his boot to catch one of the other Goblins in the snout. Inertia carried its body forward, but not its face. Racath heard something snap inside the Goblin’s neck as its feet went out from under it. The creature flipped over him to land in a heap. Dead.

  Back-flipping to his feet, he reopened his Stingers and caught the next Goblin mid-lunge, driving both bladed fists into its armored chest. Dead.

  He pivoted. Spun. The final huntsman flew past him. Racath slashed outward with one Stinger, and upward with the other. Two bloody rips rent the huntsman’s breastplate, the Stingers painting the flesh beneath. The Goblin took another running step as the blades tore through it, then crumpled into a ball, sprawling to the stone. Dead.

  Something smashed into Racath’s back — the huntress, back for more. They landed heavily on the bridge, he on his chest, she on top of him. She growled and snapped her teeth viciously, trying to get his head in her jaws. Racath elbowed the she-Goblin in the temple, just hard enough to give him enough leverage to flip himself over onto his back. The huntress snarled and came back at him with her teeth again.

  He struggled, pushing against her chest with his half-pinned arms, keeping her jaws just out of reach. Spittle and savage snarls spilled from the she-Goblin’s jowls, getting closer to his nose with every snap of her teeth. His hands were stuck under her weight, his Stingers pinned down uselessly. To make matters worse, Racath realized she had her spatha in one hand and was trying to slip the shortsword between his ribs.

  Grunting, Racath lashed out with the only weapon he head — his face. He smashed his forehead into the huntress’s snout. Inside his head, the broken bell that was his concussion clanged beneath the foggy blanket of the painkiller he’d drunk. His vision blurred and his ears rang. But it worked. The huntress’s head was knocked backwards and she made a sound like a kicked dog.

  Racath knew he had only a half-second to act. Before the huntress could recover, he wriggled one arm free and smashed his fist down onto her hand that held the sword, breaking the fingers against the stone. The Goblin recoiled, and suddenly Racath was free of her weight. He trapped her other wrist in his left hand, drew his long knife from his shoulder, and shoved it through her mandible.

  The she-Goblin’s yellow eyes bulged as the knife nailed her lower jaw to the roof of her mouth. The tip pierced her pallet and found comfortable lodging inside her braincase. The huntress warbled weakly, the sound muffled by her sealed jaws. Racath punched her in the snout with every ounce of strength he could find. The blow lifted her off his chest. She flipped onto her back near his feet, the knife protruding from her red-stained fur. Very, very dead.

  Head throbbing, Racath crawled back to his feet, slightly off-balance. Down the bridge, the lines of Arkûl shuffled their feet, some taking a step or two back. Racath could see them eyeing the corpses of ten elite Goblins at his feet. The Demon, Briz’nar, chuckled like thunder once more.

  “Well played, quicken. Well played, indeed. But as amusing as this is, I’m afraid I cannot let you live.”

  “I’m not so easily rid of, Demon!” Racath shouted back, holding his pounding head with one hand. “I’ve killed your kind before! I’d be overjoyed to do it again!”

  Briz’nar’s eyes lit up with a cruel smile. “Is that a challenge, mortal?”

  Shaking his head clear, Racath unslung the bolter from his back and put the stock to his shoulder. Looking down the telescope sight, he could see the Demon’s wretched face in perfect detail.

  “Faul yes!”

  He pulled the trigger. The crossbow’s steel-wire cables snapped forward, launching a steely blur across the distance between them. There was an echoing thud, and the heavy bolt sank into Briz’nar’s forehead. After a brief instance, Alexis’s rotendry kicked in, and the bolt vanished, reappearing back in the weapon’s cylinder as the weapon redrew and reloaded itself. But Briz’nar did not fall. The point of impact was no more than a dent in its draconic scales.

  The Demon just grinned. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “Ahh.” Racath lowered the crossbow. “Piss.”

  Briz’nar roared a challenge, the bellow shaking the bridge to its foundations. Racath dropped the bolter and opened his Stingers once more, sprinting headlong down the Bridge. The Demon flapped its massive wings, gusts of air thudding out beneath them. With a single, earth-shattering pump of the bat-like limbs, it rocketed forward, feet skimming over the bridge, clawed hands opened wide.

  Just before they collided, Racath jumped six feet straight up, planting a foot on the Demon’s head and pushing off. He somersaulted over Briz’nar, landing behind it. Turning, he jammed both Stingers into the back of the Demon’s leg, behind the knee where the scales looked thinner. The blades penetrated the chitinous scales, shattering them, and found their way down into the flesh beneath. Apparently Briz’nar’s ligaments weren’t as unbreakable as its face.

  Briz’nar roared again — this time in both pain and rage. The devil lashed out with its tail, swatting Racath away like a fly on a horse’s ass. The blow drove the wind from Racath’s chest, knocking him flat on his back five feet away. His gauntlets were nearly pulled off as the Stinger blades were ripped from the Demon’s leg. But, to Racath’s satisfaction, they came away sticky with thick, purple blood.

  The Demon tried to turn to face Racath again, but its damaged leg buckled and it dropped to one knee, cracking the stone under its weight. Ignoring the breathless pain, Racath sprang to his feet and rushed Briz’nar a second time. This time, his Stingers carved a gash across its face — shallow, but still painful.

  Shrieking again, Briz’nar flapped its wings again, nearly buffeting Racath off his feet. Slowly, the Demon bobbed into the air. Before Racath could attempt to catch it, Briz’nar flew out of reach. Angling its impressive wings, Briz’nar swung around, hovering just beyond the parapet, over the river. It buoyed in the air with each flap of its mighty wings, suspended out of Racath’s reach. Racath seethed. He was out of options. Out of weapons. Trapped under an enemy he couldn’t fight.

  Briz’nar grinned that vicious grin again. It inhaled a deep breath, smoke and sparks in its mouth.

  “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” Racath leapt sideways just in time to avoid the plume of bright red fire that blasted out of the Demon’s gullet. The torrent of flame consumed the air where Racath had been standing, scorching the stone. And, in a second, the stream of heat cut short as Briz’nar shut its mouth and reoriented, trying to get another shot at Racath. The next mushroom of fire erupted, and Racath rolled away again, hungry tongues of flame lapping at his ankles.

  Briz’nar huffed, irritated, and blasted another jet of dragon-breath at him. Then another. And another. For what felt like an eternity, Racath jumped and dodged spray-after-spray of roiling fire. Briz’nar circled him, blackening the bridge in sooty patches with each attempt catch Racath in the blazes of crimson heat.

  Sweat saturated Racath’s limbs and his breath came in short gasps that clawed at his lungs. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. Eventually, Briz’nar would get lucky, or just —

  The Demon surged downward in a sweeping dive, swiping at Racath with vicious claws. Racath was tossed backward again, rolling and sliding over the rough stone. He felt his Shadow tear under the friction, his bare ribs scraping on the bridge. Briz’nar landed again with a boom that made the army of Arkûl stumble. Lea
ning heavily on its good leg, the devil loomed over Racath.

  Dazed, Racath dragged himself to one knee, the world spinning around him. His vision blurred and twisted. Then refocused, just as the titan above him reared back, maw open wide. Racath threw up his hands in a meager, instinctive defense. And fire engulfed him.

  It scorched him. Burned him. It was clawing him. Biting him. Tearing at him like the brimstone claws of a monster born in the heart of hell. His entire body was a torch of shrieking inferno and scalding pain. He cried out, fell to his knees. His eyes saw nothing but the horrible light of ten thousand tongues of fire.

  He tried to move, but the column of fire held him prisoner, trapped inside an infernal cage. He screamed, but the sound was lost in the deafening roar of the flames, like the fire itself was drowning him out with its own terrible laughter. Laughed at his feeble attempts to resist its control. And now it was eating away at his flesh, gnawing, ripping, searing. He was dying. Burning.

  Burning!

  Then his markara arched. It seemed to scream at the fire, defying it with a wordless howl. A blistering, raw-throated battle-cry. It reached out, grabbed the fire and began to drink in its flames. Like water sucked from his skin by a spring zephyr, Racath felt the fire’s claws rush off his body and begin to drain into his markara, The fire screeched in chagrin and rage, wailing as Racath’s markara soaked up the ten-thousand tongues of flame.

  And Racath felt power. Power like he had never felt before. Power filling his limbs, his veins, his beating heart. In an instant, he was full, brimming with unprecedented energy. The weariness and pain in his body dissipated, faded. Vanished. It felt like a gallon of brisk etheria was pouring into his bloodstream. He laughed in spite of himself, amazed at the impossibility of it all.

  Then the fire ceased as Briz’nar stopped the flow of burning breath. Racath was a statue, a smoking effigy on scorched stone, glaring up at the Briz’nar. He watched the Demon’s triumphant sneer devolve into a puzzled frown.

  Through the searing heat inside his body, Racath mustered grin, fire brimming on his markara as he held it in. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  Roaring, the dragonish Demon sucked in one final breath of screeching wind. A sudden impulse seized Racath. Instinct took over and he reacted just as Briz’nar released a third explosive column of flame. Without any idea of what he was doing, Racath braced, squeezed his eyes shut, thrust out his hands, palms up —

  — and caught the fire.

  The spray of flame constricted, forked, becoming two lengths of shining rope that met Racath’s palms. And then was absorbed. It felt like he was drinking it in, his markara was inhaling the flame…and then he realized that that was exactly what was happening. Beneath his gauntlets, he felt his markara flex and tense as indescribable power was sucked into the apexes at his palms. Fire saturated the coils of his markara, filling his limbs, his veins, his beating heart.

  This was magic, it had to be.

  Briz’nar’s mouth expanded to a hyperbolic stretch, dumping out more and more flame, as if to overwhelm him. But the fire betrayed the Demon. No longer was Briz’nar pouring an inferno down upon Racath — now Racath was drawing the fire out.

  But this…this was worse than before! The fire filled him like boiling tar, taking up all the space in his body. It was in his throat, his lungs, his stomach, his head. There was too much of it.

  Soon he could hold no more, stretched to the point of fracture — but his markara just kept inhaling more and more of the unending fire. He was expanding, cracking, breaking! The fire had no place to go, so it just packed itself tighter and tighter, burning his insides just as it had his outsides.

  Racath’s body shook, vibrating, quaking — shattering under the pressure of the ten-thousand tongues of flame. He could feel Briz’nar’s fire killing him from the inside out, burning him up with its fury, even as he tried to capture it inside his body. Try as he might to hold it, to be the captor rather than the captive, he could hear its sweltering cackle echoing inside his brain: the fire’s torrid triumph as it destroyed him.

  All coherent thought left him. Nothing existed anymore. There was only pain. There was only death. There was only fear.

  But above all else, there was only fire.

  …And, just as the world began to fade, the Demon’s endurance gave out. Exhausted, Briz’nar stumbled forward, the last of the fire soaked up by Racath’s markara. Clutching at its chest, the Demon raised confounded eyes to stare in awe at Racath. The thunderous voice had faded to a hollow, defeated whisper. “How…?”

  Racath did not reply. He was full, brimming with unprecedented energy. Saturating. Filling. Overflowing. Excess fire spilled from his markara, the air around him rippling with heat. It was killing him. He had to get it out — get it out!

  He cocked both fists back, shaking, then shot both his hands out at Briz’nar.

  The entirety of the fire he had absorbed erupted out of his markara in a solid lance of crimson light. The power rushed out of him in a single instant, leaving him empty. The clouds tinged red from the illumination of that enormous spike of flame. A deafening crack shattered the stillness of the Bridge. Like an arrow shot by God Himself, the fire caught Briz’nar in the chest.

  A great hole appeared in the Demon’s torso as scales, flesh, and bone vaporized beneath the spear of flame. Briz’nar’s face wore no expression — no fear, no surprise, no shock; it was already dead.

  The Arkûl troops watched in horror as body of their immortal leader wobbled and staggered back. A coal-warm glow began to burn beneath Briz’nar’s scales. The body arched, locking upright like electricity was flowing through it, and the glow grew from a warm crimson to a burnished orange. Scales cracked and flesh seared; charred holes appeared as Briz’nar’s body broiled. Soon the dragonish corpse was scorched and pockmarked with flaming spots, and the light in his chest intensified to a purifying white, illumination spilling out in a kaleidoscope of sunlight.

  Racath could guess what was coming next. Before he could even revel in his own survival, in his blessedly not-roasted insides, instinct took over. He bolted, running for the edge. Vaulting over the parapet, he jumped, diving feet-first into the Milon River far below.

  What happened then, well…what always happens when a Greater Demon is destroyed. What always happens when a being so full of power dies, and that power is left with nowhere to go. The only thing that could happen as a result of so much energy released in a single instant: three seconds after Racath hit the water, Briz’nar exploded.

  The middle third of the bridge — nearly twenty-five hundred feet of stonework — disappeared in a sphere of pure, unadulterated combustion. The granite bricks were blasted apart, thrown through the sky in all directions. The river dimpled with the splashing impacts. Beneath the explosion, the overpressure wave displaced the water, compressing it downward; it rushed back into place a moment later, erupting into a violent fountain. For nearly a full minute, stone, water, and the charred remains the Arkûl garrison rained down on Milonok.

  Racath resurfaced, gasping and shaking his hair out of his eyes. Treading the water, he watched the aftermath of his efforts. The smoke cleared above the frothing river…and revealed a newly severed Bridge. An impassable chasm between the east and west.

  A massive stone block landed in the river nearby, the water spraying his face and causing him to bob up and down and as the water rippled in deep waves. But he didn’t care. Racath’s work was done. No Dominion forces would be passing into the Burrows. No insurgents would be slaughtered by a Demon. By nightfall, the west would be clean of Dominion control. And the Burrows would be free. Racath couldn’t help but smile. Turning, he swam downriver. His battle was done, at least for the moment.

  ——

  Over the next two weeks, the Burrows organized and consolidated their new infrastructure. With plenty of seized weapons to spare, they organized patrols to police the narrow streets and river banks — Humans guarding Humans for the first time in a centu
ry. Commandeered ballistae and other small artillery were mounted on the walls and wharfs to ward off any Dominion counter attack. The defiant Human gentry took charge, and the people looked to Jax Tollo to keep them safe. They gladly placed their trust in him, and he gladly proved that he deserved it.

  Farmers from the surrounding countryside heard the news and reached out to the Burrows. Jax had them escorted into the city by nighttime sorties, bringing with them their families, flocks, crops, and seed. They were met with enthusiastic welcomes. Jax had Elias and his family snuck over the river into the Burrows to oversee construction of new in-city farming areas on plots of fertile soil beneath the freshly torn-up cobblestones. In the coming months, the plants would grow and the animals would be mature enough for the slaughterhouse, and the rotting slum would transform into the first free paradise in Io.

  The people of the Burrows expected a force from Litoras to arrive shortly to take the Burrows back, to break down the walls and push them back down into submission. But no army came. Not one of any significance, really. An Arkûl detachment was dispatched to assault the western gates the following week. But they were a mere battalion of three hundred soldiers…facing a well-armed, well-equipped, fully-entrenched city of thousands of angry people. Everyone, young and old, men, women, and children took to the walls and rained down arrows and stones on the invaders. The siege didn’t last a full day.

  The only other attack came when the Dominion sent assault boats across the river in the dead of night. But the rebel patrols spotted them and ignited barrels of oil on the water. Assisted by the light of the conflagration, archers and ballistae made short work of the enemy.

  No one really understood why the Demons didn’t send a larger army to take the Burrows back. To this day, no explanation has ever really been given. But I can tell you this much: the Demons didn’t try too hard to retake the Burrows because, quite frankly, they didn’t care to. At the time, there were other things occupying their attention, and — with the Burrows essentially sealed off from the world — they had no worries that the rebellion might metastasize. The Burrows held no real importance to them. Why waste the Arkûl trying to take back a slum?