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

by S. G. Night

  Something inside his head nudged him. It felt like a tiny being was knocking on his brain, trying to get his attention. What…?

  It was the Pyre. The fiery, recently-domesticated beast, leashed on the other side of the rift. It pushed at him like a hound trying to rouse its sleeping master. It was begging to be unbound, to be set loose upon the enemy that was binding his body. It was offering him its service, its loyalty. Offering to save him.

  Racath unleashed it.

  The Pyre roared, filling his limbs with its scorching voice. The surge of heat shredded the Magick that held Racath, tearing it to tatters and burning the pieces. The hex broke. The Pyre trotted pompously back through the rift, bedding itself back down in its comfortable den.

  Racath’s eyes popped open. His body relaxed, his muscles sore with cramps that the Bind had inflicted on him. He stood up, spitting sand.

  Directly in front of him was his Shadow, hanging between two tall torches on a man-shaped stand. All of his equipment was there too, including the bolter and the plain steel sword.

  A brass plaque hung around the stand’s neck, dangling by a heavy metal wire. The plaque’s surface was embossed with line upon line of ornate characters — Rotenic glyphs.

  Stretching his stiff limbs, Racath hobbled closer to get a better look. As quickly as he could, he translated the characters in his head and picked the words apart. It read:

  Skorpija,

  Ex færetoh lesek vae, ansin petoh vinneko teh mon’prof. Vae shaey, allt vait petoh læreko jelm profeko. Ped jem mon dese — fianet sen e triûmet sen, prec fianese toh.

  — Oron

  It was a challenge. A test. His final examination, like the Probationary Trials he had had to pass before advancing in the Genshwin hierarchy. And, according to the plaque, there was only one objective: fianet sen e triûmet sen, prec fianese toh — find Oron and beat him, before Oron beat Racath.

  Very well, then.

  Racath reached out to take his Shadow from the rack, but stopped himself. It felt too easy. Oron wouldn’t just give him his equipment. It had to be a trap.

  The sensation of being watched tingled the hairs on the back of Racath’s neck. He spun around, his heart pounding in his throat. But the pit was empty. Shaking himself, he returned his attention to the problem at hand: the Shadow.

  He blinked, made the Eye, and when he opened his eyes again he could see the energy in the world like a sheet of glittering jewels. He examined the Shadow and quickly spotted a silvery sheen of latent energy that coated the rack. A ward — a telekinetic trap, to be precise. It was probably set to trigger when the Shadow’s weight was lifted from the stand.

  Child’s play. With a gentle application of telekinesis, Racath was able to apply enough pressure on the stand to fool the ward into thinking the Shadow remained on top of it, even after he removed its weight from the stand.

  Quickly as he could, he donned his boots, belt, and cloak-coat, slipped his six throwing knives into the Shadow’s chest piece, strapped his vindur’scain and sword to his hip and the long knife to his shoulder, and slung the bolter.

  But before he could put on the Stinger gauntlets, the nearly silent whisper of soft footfalls rustled the sand behind him. Racath rounded again, and this time found himself face to face with an assailant that was launching an open-handed strike aimed at his head.

  The attacker wore a suit of black fabric, as well as a hood and cloth mask that hid their face. They held a simple shortsword in a reverse grip in one hand; their other hand was empty.

  Racath moved in time to deflect the attack. With no Stingers on his arms and no time to draw his sword, he was forced to fight bare-handed against the faceless enemy. The dark figure came at him with the short sword, using its empty hand to grapple, block, and push him away. The assailant was fast, almost as fast as Racath. But not quite.

  Racath leaned, evading the short sword. The blade hissed past his nose. He caught the assailant’s arm, twisted, and kicked it chest. Hard. It toppled backward, hit the sand, and evaporate into dark trails of smoke.

  A shade? Oron was really making every effort tonight.

  No time to waste. Racath pulled on his Stingers, lifted his hood over his head, and sprinted straight at the wall, his feet carving deep gouges into the sand. Vaulting ten feet straight upward, he somersaulted over the edge of the pit and landed firmly on the grass. Then he ran, melting into the night, a plan already brewing in his head.

  Racath knew that Oron wasn’t going to make this easy for him. The domus’ massive size would be to his master’s advantage. He needed to find a good vantage point. Higher ground. The waterfall above the bathing pool would be ideal — which was exactly why Racath would avoid it. The cliff would be the first place Oron would think to set up an ambush for him.

  He thought of the bluffs near the northwest wall of the domus that Nelle had once shown him during their many wanderings. There was a stone spire there, a pillar that rose nearly three dozen feet into the air. It was easily the highest point in the domus. The bluffs were a good mile or two distant, so Oron might not have bothered to fortify it with shades. The perfect crow’s nest.

  So Racath ran northeast, stealthy but fast. Over hills and streams, through valleys and small groves of autumn trees. The silhouette of the spire appeared against the midnight-blue of the illusionary, star-strewn sky. He reached the bluffs before his breathing even became labored, found the base of stone monolith, and began his ascent. Reaching from handhold to handhold, Racath climbed skyward, scaling the face of the spire. It took him less than two minutes to reach the pinnacle.

  The spire’s summit was flat, just large enough for one person to sit comfortably on its surface. Crouching down so that he wouldn’t cast his own silhouette against the sky, Racath looked out over the vast lands below. From there, Racath could see most of the domus, bathed in dim, artificial moonlight. His sharp Majiski eyes could see clearly for several miles into the distance.

  He made the Eye again. The world became a tapestry of illuminated spots of energy. Squinting, Racath could see glints of golden flares dotting the hills — those had to be Oron’s shades. Several of them moved in groups, their paths crisscrossing in like a grid: search patterns. They were looking for him.

  More golden lights twinkled in other places around the domus. At least three of them waited inside the cottage on the plateau — sentries, no doubt, in case Racath came calling. A few were scattered around the cliffs near the bathing pool. And a massive cluster of them glittered on the ridge where the waterfall tumbled down into the pond.

  A pair of bright blue lights sparkled amidst that last squad of shades. Light blue, Racath recalled, was the color that members of galdur-born races would give off when seen through the Eye. That had to be Nelle and Oron.

  Releasing the Eye, Racath unslung the bolter and sighted through the telescope mounted on its top side. The cliff was far beyond the weapon’s range, but the scope had enough power to magnify the distant ridgeline. There, standing on the cliff, Racath saw a group of identical black-clad figures, standing in a defensive circle, waiting. Oron and Nelle were apparently dressed exactly like the shades. A shell game, then. After quick check with the Eye, Racath could tell which of them were shades and which of them his targets were.

  He reslung the bolter and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Following a hunch, Racath counted the number of glittering golden lights he could see around the domus. At least ten of them hunting for him on the field, plus the three in the cottage, the guards on the cliffs, and Oron’s circle of fighters…it added up to more than twenty active shades. Racath couldn’t fathom the amount of concentration it must have taken to puppeteer so many illusions at once.

  That, at least, was a point in Racath’s favor: Oron would be too busy working the shades to fight Racath off if it came to a direct confrontation. And if Racath could break Oron’s concentration, the shades would vanish. Not to mention the energy Oron must have been draining from his getu by sustaining a small ar
my of illusions.

  Alright, then. He had a plan. Pointing his hand toward one of the shades scouting the distant hills, Racath called on the Pyre again. It complied, and he effortlessly made Red Lance. A missile of compressed mage-fire rocketed from his palm. The fireball streaked across the night like a brilliant, falling star. Impacting the ground near two of the shades, the Red Lance exploded into a massive orb of crimson fire.

  Racath watched as the rest of the shades abandoned their search patterns and began scurrying toward the spire, following the trail of the projectile. He fired a second explosive shot, just to give them something to follow, then created an illusion of himself atop the spire beside him — the bait. Next, he projected a pattern of invisible wards up and down the face of the spire — the trap.

  Oron’s shades would certainly spot the illusionary copy of Racath on the spire’s peak and come climbing up after him, where they would be met by his field of fire-filled wards. A merry wild-goose chase. And meanwhile, he would be on the run again, heading toward the waterfall while the shades were busy.

  The scouts were nearing the base of the spire. He had to move now, or they’d see him. Bracing himself, he built up raw strength-magic in his muscles, tensed, and leapt out in the air. The magic-fueled power in his legs — in addition to a healthy telekinetic boost — sent Racath flying out over the heads of the oblivious shades. The ground came rushing up to meet him, and he slowed his fall with a gentle application of telekinesis, allowing him to alight gracefully on the grassy earth.

  And then he was on the move again. The shades went to investigate the spire, and Racath ran in the opposite direction, towards the waterfall. He used more strength-magic to amplify his speed, traversing the domus swiftly under the cover of darkness.

  By the time the shades began to climb the spire and the wards started exploding in response, Racath reached the path that led up to the cliff. In a low crouch, he moved up the path, keeping the Eye active to watch for any more opponents. Rounding a bend, he spotted two sentries flanking the path near the top. He ducked behind a boulder before they could see him.

  He sat there in the shadows for a moment, calculating. Destroying the shades would be easy enough. But if he did, it would alert Oron to his presence. He could use the ‘Flage to sneak past, but there was no easy way to skirt around them — if he wanted to get through without destroying the shades, he’d have to walk right between them, and the ‘Flage — while useful at a distance — would still leave him partially visible.

  That left one alternative: the Shroud. Racath grimaced to himself; he hated the Shroud. It was a shadow-magic that operated in a similar fashion as the ‘Flage. But rather than forcing light to bend around the caster, it instead wrapped them in an envelope of dark energy, allowing the light to pass through them without distortion. Not only that, but it also muffled any footsteps, breathing, and body heat that might give him away. True invisibility.

  It also required an ungodly amount of concentration, and drained energy like a hole in a beer keg — unbelievably difficult to conjure while stationary, let alone while running between a pair of shades.

  No other option, though. Racath gritted his teeth and attempted to make the Shroud. The shadow-magic flickered on his body for a moment…then failed. He could feel the Pyre churning in his head, like it was rolling its eyes at him. Irritated, he tried a second time…and failed again.

  This time, the Pyre was definitely laughing at him.

  It took all Racath’s willpower not to swear aloud. He set his jaw, focused. He made the Shroud…and it held. The Magick covered his entire body, rendering him invisible even to his own eyes. Perfect. Time to go before he lost focus.

  Racath burst out from behind his boulder and ran past the sentries, silent and unseen.

  He hadn’t gotten more than ten feet past them before a sudden pain exploded in his head and his stomach lurched. The Shroud flickered away and he became visible again as he dropped to his knees, struggling not to throw up. He knew what this was. He’d felt it before. His getu was empty — Racath had drained his entire supply of raw magic.

  Stupid, he spat at himself. He hadn’t realized just how much energy he’d expended in the jump from the spire, not to mention the sustained strength-run on his way to the cliff, or the two dozen wards he’d left on the pillar.

  Fighting through the nausea, he struggled to remember the equation for the rate at which the getu replenished itself. The number he came up with made him curse: it would take him more than thirteen hours before his getu would completely refill. That meant at least twenty minutes before he could make any significant Magick. And he didn’t have twenty minutes.

  The Pyre stirred again, as though to remind him that it was still there. Racath grinned: his getu might have run dry, but for him, the fire was infinite. Thank God for corobna dosdom.

  Getting to his feet, Racath pressed on until he reached the top of the ridge and spotted his quarry. Beside the waterfall, the circle of black-garbed shades were waiting. They were watching the spire in the distance, illuminated as it was by tiny explosions as the scouts fell right into Racath’s traps.

  He moved quickly, hiding behind another boulder as he watched them. There wasn’t enough energy left in his getu to make the Eye, and he wasn’t quite sure which of the targets were Oron and Nelle. There was no way to be sure without breaking cover. Racath crouched behind the boulder for a long time, thinking….

  Oh, screw it. Racath stood up, his arms spread wide, and clapped his hands together as hard as he could.

  There was a concussive boom and a gust of super-heated air erupted from his markara. The blast moved with the speed and force of a boiling hurricane wind. It caught the shades in their backs, causing them to flicker and stagger forward.

  The heat wave couldn’t have killed anyone, or even knock someone off their feet, but it had enough kick behind it to break the concentration of whichever one Oron was. All but two of the figures evaporated into smoke; the remaining duo — who must’ve been Oron and Nelle — stumbled forward, knocked off balance and caught by surprise.

  “Gotcha.” He drew the steel longsword and opened his left Stinger. Oron and Nelle regained their balance and turned on him, shortswords ready. “Come get me.”

  The pair of them lunged. The smaller one (obviously Nelle) jumped, flipped over Racath’s head, and landed at his back. Oron came at him from the front. They were trying to sandwich him.

  Oron feinted right, then left, then stabbed. Racath had already entered his modified Kestrel pose: Stinger held like a shield in front of his chest, right arm cocked back with the sword pointing straight forward, parallel to the ground. He deflected Oron’s thrust with the Stinger, pivoted to the right, and parried Nelle’s attack from behind.

  They charged him again in tandem, perfect mirrors of each other as they swung at him from both sides. He met both blades with his own, knocking their swords back. Taking the opening, Racath stepped forward and drove his elbow into Oron’s chest. The impact sent Oron sprawling backward, leaving Racath to tend with Nelle alone for a few seconds before Oron recovered and rejoined the fight.

  It didn’t take long for Racath to realize that Oron had intended to test everything they had practiced together. Set up like he was, Racath’s skills with sword, Stinger, empty hand, and magic were all on trial against multiple enemies. Furthermore, they were all using real weapons with sharpened blades. As a result, Racath was forced to exercise the restraint and cunning necessary to defeat both Nelle and Oron without accidentally killing them in the process.

  The fight intensified. Collisions of metal sent sparks dancing through the night. Racath fought each of them in turn. He began switching to modifications of the other Stinger echelons to keep his two opponents at a disadvantage. From Kestrel to Lioness, to Bear, to Hedgehog, to Spider, to Fox and back again.

  Minutes dragged on as the three of them fought mercilessly on the cliff. Racath used sword and Stinger in equal measure, interspersing his attacks
with gusts of mage-fire to distract and suppress.

  Soon enough, the two of them had managed to back Racath to the edge of the cliff, pushing him further and further with every attack. It occurred to Racath then that some of his getu had regenerated by then. Just enough to…an idea came to him and he grinned. And he let them drive him back towards the cliff.

  Just as he was about to lose his footing, Racath released a gout of flame that enveloped his entire body. The sheer heat from the magic forced Nelle and Oron to recoil and shield their masked eyes. When they looked back, Racath had disappeared. They looked at each other, then down over the edge of the cliff. No body lay at the bottom.

  Nelle looked at Oron again. “Where did he—?”

  Racath reappeared behind Nelle and grabbed her sword-arm from behind. Caught completely by surprise, Nelle was unable to counter the grapple before Racath had immobilized her with the Bind — the same hex they had hit him with while he was sleeping — and kicked her legs out from under her. As she fell, Racath stripped her sword from her hand. Nelle landed in the grass, frozen.

  Oron lashed out at him. Racath spun, both swords in his hands, their blades igniting with mage-fire. He slashed sideways at Oron’s sword. The older Majiski’s blade exploded into a storm of shattered steel slivers. As Oron recoiled instinctively, Racath walloped him on both sides of his head with the flat of each sword blade. His balance broken, Oron’s guard fell long enough Racath’s second body-locker hex to land unblocked. Paralyzed, Oron toppled to the ground beside Nelle.

  His breathing heavy, Racath stood over them, swords out. It was over. They would eventually break free of the hex, but that’d take a few hours. He’d won. He’d learned their methods, played their games, passed their tests, and beaten them. He was a Scorpion now.

  “What was it you told me on my first day here?” Racath panted, grinning tiredly to himself. “Never get caught on the ground?”