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

by S. G. Night

  Tayran looked nervously at the two girls at the mention of the Nineteen and his real name. “Vorture…” he said warningly.

  I bulled ahead. “And while we’re on the subject, have you taken care of Vale yet?”

  Tayran’s eyebrows knit together. “Vale?”

  “Yes, Vale,” I reminded him, exasperated. “Little mining town in the spikes? The place where Vrag the Red got his head chopped off? Where the 23rd Horde of the Ministry of Enforcement of Compulsory Law was decimated by two unknown perpetrators? Ring any bells?”

  “Right…” Tayran said, as though suddenly remembering. “Vale. Right. What about it?”

  “You were supposed to have sent a battalion to render the penalty for insubordination and treason on the place, per the Imperator’s wishes. A month ago. That is still your job, right? You are still Lord Commander of the Dominion military? Or has that changed since I saw you last?”

  Tayran sneered and waved me off with a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, I’ll deal with it. I’ll give the order in the morning.”

  “Make sure you do,” I said. “It’s even more important now, since it’s more than likely that the perpetrators were among the Majiski Tangaree warned us about.”

  “Why are these Majiski suddenly my problem?” Tayran demanded. “What am I supposed to do about them? Aren’t you the expert on quicken?”

  More memories. I shrugged them off. “This isn’t about dealing with them directly,” I snapped. “This is about the fact that, if they want to bring down the entire Dominion, all they need to do is come after the Nineteen. We’ve kept a closed chain of secrets for a long time now, but if they really are on to us, they’ll come after the weakest link. And that would be you.” I stabbed my finger at him. “The Imperator sent me here to inform you that he’s none too pleased to hear about your antics.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?!” Tayran demanded.

  “We’re in crisis,” I told him. “We are under attack by enemies we can’t see. All of the Nineteen need to be doing their part to make sure these Majiski don’t destroy us. When the Imperator made you the Duke of Dor’mon, he did it because he thought you could handle yourself. He thought you could balance the responsibility with being Lord Commander. And can you?”

  I shook my head. “No. You can’t. We’re scrambling to cover our weak spots, and what you doing? Quite frankly, I have no idea what you’re doing. But I’ll tell you what you’re not doing — what you’re supposed to be doing. You should be in Castle Dor’mon, fulfilling your obligations as Duke: tending to the Imperator’s interests in this duchy, overseeing the troops, keeping the Dominion secure, staying out of the Humans’ sight like a good Mnogo god, remaining faceless and inconspicuous while the lesser gentry liaisons with the nobles.”

  The god of war glared at me dangerously. “Please, friend, not in front of the ladies,” He hissed. “They don’t need to—”

  “And yet here you are, spending your time playing make-believe with a toy estate and a fake title. Were two titles not enough for you? You’re neglecting your job because you’re too busy pretending to be Baron Monger, sniveling little socialite of the lesser gentry so you can throw spark-parties for your sycophantic friends and bait Human women into your bed.”

  Both the blond and the brunette stopped kissing Tayran, looking up at him. “M’lord? What’s he talking about?” the blond asked.

  “Yeah,” the brunette followed. “What does he mean fake—”

  Tayran sighed resignedly. He took the brunette gently by the chin, quieting her. He looked deep into her eyes. Then snapped her neck.

  Before the blond could even think to scream, Tayran reached over and killed her, too. He did it gracefully, remorselessly, in the time it takes to crush a rose between your fingers. The brunette’s head lolled back on the bed, a ring of purple bruises encircling her broken neck. Her lifeless eyes stared blankly into mine. They were empty, hollow, but questioning. It was like she was asking me why. She reminded me of someone else. I looked away.

  “Now look what you’ve done, Saccarri.” Tayran complained. “I wasn’t done with those two, yet.”

  “I’m just a messenger.” I said. “The Imperator wants you to know that your toys can be taken away, too. And they will be, if you don’t get your head on straight. We’re bleeding secrets here, Tayran, and you are the wound. You and your hobbies. Fix it, or one of these days you’re going to bring a woman in here, get her clothes off, and have just enough time to notice her markara before she guts you. And once you’re dead, once your link is broken, the rest of the chain — the entire Pantheon — will be in jeopardy.”

  Tayran scowled at me. “Saccarri? Piss off.”

  “With pleasure,” I shot back. “I was done anyway. Goodbye, Baron — I mean Lord Commander — I mean Duke Tayran. What title were you going by today?” I rolled my eyes. “Have fun cleaning up your mess.”

  I turned and left the same way I came in, Shadow-stepping through the keyhole into the hallway.

  As I left Territh Umbra, the clouds parted briefly overhead. Through the gap, I saw the stars. I hadn’t seen them in…I didn’t know how long. They were familiar, bright and burning, like nightfire in the sky. I could almost see a face among them….

  But the nightfire that had once brought me joy, comfort, turned away from me now. It seemed to reject me, despise me. The clouds sealed themselves again, and the stars were gone. As they vanished, it felt like they were dragging my heart out of my chest.

  The pain sparked remembrance. The memories were surfacing. The memories I’d fought for so long to bury, roused by the name Tayran had called me, the things he had said, and the empty stare of the dead woman in his bed.

  I remembered nightfire, nightfire that was now lost to me. A girl, who had long ago set my night sky ablaze…the girl whose face was in the odious stars.

  Hollow, and unable to explain where this feeling had come from, I shambled on toward the docks. I was suddenly very cold, and no cloak could drive away the chill that rode the rain.

  ***

  THIRTY-NINE

  Nest of Scorpions

  Sokol fluttered into the cottage and chirped the news in Oron’s ear: the Scorpions were only a few hours away. That meant that before nightfall, Racath would be leaving the domus. Leaving the peaceful, sunlit paradise that had been home to him for the past few months…to return to the cold gloom of reality outside.

  At midday, he donned his Shadow: cloak-coat, Stinger gauntlets, boots, throwing knives, vindur’scain, long knife, belt pouches and satchels, bolter…and Daragoian, strapped tight to his back.

  Nelle and Oron were already waiting on the edge of the grassy plateau when Racath came outside. Racath came to stand beside the augur at the edge of the slope, silent. Following their gaze, he looked out toward the midnight-blue hole in the domus’ distant wall: the tunnel that led in and out of the mountain.

  Nelle turned to look at him, glancing at the katana on his back. She smiled. “You look nice.”

  Racath grunted, too focused on the distant tunnel to think of anything witty in reply. The three of them waited, watching. Slow, silent minutes dragged by, and Racath’s mind began to wander.

  What were Notak and Rachel like, he wondered. What if they didn’t like him? What if he didn’t like them? Sudden anxiety filled Racath’s stomach. Oron had said that he was meant to lead the Scorpions, right? What if Notak and Rachel didn’t take kindly to the idea of the new-blood being in charge? How could he, an intruder, possibly earn their respect? From what he’d heard, Rachel already had enough issues respecting Oron himself — how would she respond to him trying to tell her what to do?

  And then there was Notak. How could Racath hope to gain the esteem of a century-old Elf whose experience went far beyond his own? Oh God…Notak was an Elf. The Elf. Racath had never seen one before. How was he supposed to act? Impressed? Reverent?

  Beside him, Nelle made a face and looked down at Racath’s hands. “Stop that.”
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br />   Racath frowned down at his clenched fists. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been flicking his Stingers open-and-shut unconsciously with a constant click-clack, click-clack. Sighing, he shut them again and did his best to relax, loosening his tight shoulders.

  Nelle took his hand in hers for a moment, threading her fingers with his. “Breathe,” she whispered, as though she didn’t want Oron to hear. “It’ll be fine.” She squeezed his hand, then let go.

  The way she touched him was so comfortable, easy. It actually helped settle his stomach. And when she let go, the spaces between his fingers suddenly seemed noticeably empty.

  Oron spoke for the first time. “They’re here.”

  Racath’s attention snapped back to the tunnel. Two smears of blurry black, nearly invisible in the distance, emerged from the darkness. As they came gradually closer, the blurs resolved into a pair of figures swathed in the familiar profile of Genshwin Shadows.

  One walked tall and straight, moving with a grace like liquid mercury. Elegant, deliberate, like every step he took was choreographed down to the finest detail. The other was petite, feminine. Her arms swung carelessly at her sides as she strutted beside her companion.

  Oron, Nelle, and Racath watched the approaching Scorpions, waiting as the pair of them crossed the long stretch of hills and streams between the wall and the plateau. They reached the slope and ascended. They looked up at him from as they climbed, and he heard the smaller one mutter something indistinguishable to the other. They came to stand on the grass, removing their hoods and unveiling their faces.

  Immediately, Racath’s mind analyzed both of them, starting first with the woman.

  She was Rachel Vaveran, a Genshwin who had disappeared from Velik Tor some time ago. She looked about his age, maybe a year older. Her skin was fair, a wary expression painted across her face. Thin creases in her forehead spoke of a frequently-worn scowl. Fine, light brown hair fell just past her chin, disheveled by her hood. She stood with her feet planted, her shoulders pointed at him, like a cat ready to pounce. Her fingers twitched spastically like she couldn’t control them.

  Her pupils had the notable double-tapered shape of a Majiski, ringed by silver irises — a Kinetomancer’s eyes. And, even though it was covered by her Stinger gauntlets, Racath could feel the faint halo of power emitting from the Rotenic rune branded into the back of her hand: forren, the glyph for force.

  Next, Racath examined the tall one. Notak. He proved slightly more difficult to read than his counterpart, since Racath was preoccupied with the feeling of awe as he stood before the last Elf in Io.

  He had heard stories about the Elves before, myths formed by the Majiski in Velik Tor and the Humans in the country. Speculations about their nature, their cultures. Racath knew the truth about them now, of course, after reading the majority of Oron’s library. But the Elves had been gone from Io long enough that most people had stopped considering them to be real. Instead, they were perceived as somewhat akin to faeries or dragons, or otherworldly spirits.

  But here, before Racath’s eyes, was something, someone, that only a handful of people in Io had ever had the privilege to see: a true Elf. It made him wonder how a Human might feel when they met a Majiski — was it the same awe and wonder he was feeling now?

  Racath knew that the Elf was over a hundred years old, but Notak’s features could put a masterfully-carved sculpture to shame. He looked like he couldn’t have been more than thirty (much like Majiski, Elves’ bodies age much slower than Humans after they reach adulthood, and live for even longer). His skin was smooth — a flawless, medium-grey. Racath hadn’t fully comprehended the Elf’s height before; he realized now that Rachel was not nearly as short as he’d thought she was — she’d just been dwarfed by Notak’s six-and-a-half foot stature. Despite his height, he wasn’t bulky or clumsy like Toren was. His entire body was lean, hard muscle. A pair of pointed ears protruded from his deep-black hair, and beneath his bangs a pair of bright blue cat’s-eyes glinted with lightning.

  He wore no expression.

  “Welcome back, both of you,” Oron greeted them.

  Rachel grunted a little in acknowledgement, but she did not take her eyes off Racath.

  “Master.” Notak gave a small bow to Oron. His voice was like deep, dark honey.

  The two of them watched Racath closely, inspecting him the same way he had inspected them. He noticed their gazes flicker over the fiery color of his Pyromancer irises, the scar that ran over his eye, and Daragoian’s hilt over his shoulder.

  Oron gestured at the Scorpions. “Racath, this is Notak et Sine Nominé: Electromancer, illusionist, tracker, and life-long Scorpion.”

  Notak crossed fingers at Racath. “Pleased.”

  Surprised at the gesture coming so easily from non-Majiski, it took Racath a moment to mirror the motion. “Likewise….”

  “And this is Rachel Vaveran,” Oron continued. “The Scorpions’ resident Kinetomancer, acrobat, locksmith, and thief.”

  Rachel didn’t move or speak. She just stared at Racath with silver eyes.

  Oron then nodded at Racath. “Notak, Rachel — this is Racath Tarek Thanjel: formerly the Genshwin’s finest and youngest Talon, master practitioner of the Stingers, Pyromancer, linguist, steward of Daragoian, and the fulfillment of Vae Valores Krilati.” The older Majiski beamed at Racath. “Your new leader.”

  Nelle snuck a furtive smile at Racath; he felt himself flush and he fought to keep himself from grinning stupidly at Oron’s praise.

  Rachel stuck out her hand to shake. “Charmed.”

  I’ve said this before — Majiski don’t shake hands. It was a trap and Racath knew it. Oron had only mentioned it once, during their first session in the pit, but Racath remembered perfectly what he had said about the Scorpions —

  They’ve learned to understand people through fighting; you can bet your teeth that they’ll both rush you as soon as you’ve crossed fingers. And they won’t be considerate about it. They won’t ask if you’re ready.

  He could see it in Rachel’s stance. Her motions were too stiff, too wooden, her single word quavering with latent anticipation. At her side, Notak was eyeing Rachel’s outstretched hand, his shoulders coiled, ready to spring.

  Allow me to clarify something. It might seem that the signs I’m describing, these indications of intent that Racath was seeing in Rachel, were easy to spot, so plain and obvious that a drunk could notice them from a mile away. They were not. They were minute, subtle, and almost impossible to see. The only reason Racath could notice them at all was because he had trained himself to see the unseen for years.

  Racath looked from Rachel’s hand, to her silver eyes, then back again. There was only one way to proceed: spring the trap.

  He clasped her hand. Rachel shook it once, all too casual. Then her fingers clamped down on his like a vice. She yanked Racath towards her, trying to pull his face into her free fist.

  Time slowed. Etheria poured into Racath’s veins, igniting him with Majiski instinct. His mind working at ten times normal speed, his second-nature performed a reactive analysis of the situation.

  Disadvantage: Rachel had his hand, and her grip was impossibly strong, fortified by telekinesis.

  Advantage: he had seen the attack coming, so she had no element of surprise on her side. Also, Rachel had made a fatal mistake — grasping the palm of a Pyromancer.

  Tactical adjustment: Racath locked his shoulder, resisting her pull, and called the Pyre. Thermal energy dumped into the apex of his markara, his palm boiling with red-hot fire. Rachel recoiled and cried out as her skin blistered underneath her gauntlet. She released Racath’s hand.

  He jumped back, setting his feet into a ready stance. Enraged, Rachel snarled and threw herself at him, bombarding him with her fists.

  Disadvantage: Rachel was fast. Shockingly fast.

  Advantage: her style was rage-driven like a berserker. Ruthless and bombastic but too uncontrolled to prove effective against another Scorpion-trained Majisk
i. She punched with her fists, too, contrary to Oron’s instruction. Racath held his stance, refusing to give ground as he deflected Rachel’s punches with slaps and elbow-blocks.

  New threat: Notak jumped into motion out of the corner of Racath’s eye. In his hand, the Elf held what looked like a flail with a bladed head. The lanac axe — Oron had mentioned it before. An old Elven weapon that served as an all-in-one hand axe, chain whip, and bladed morning-star.

  Racath caught both of Rachel’s hands mid-punch, spun her around, and kicked her in the small of the back. The she-Majiski sprawled headfirst down the plateau’s slope. Gravity rolled her end-over-end down the hill, spitting and swearing as she clawed at the grass, trying to bring herself to a stop.

  With that problem dealt with, Racath turned to face Notak. His grey face was an impassive mask, his movement deliberate and refined as he swung the chain at Racath’s legs.

  Disadvantage: Notak certainly had height on his side. Plus, the alien utilities of the lanac gave Racath an unfamiliar threat to try to counter.

  Advantage: Racath was a Majiski, stronger and faster than the Elf. Notak would have to devote a large percentage of his internal supply of raw magic to amplifying his strength in order to compete, so Racath probably wouldn’t have to tussle with Notak’s lightning magic. Thank God.

  Also, the advantage that Notak gained with lanac axe swung both ways, if you’ll pardon the pun. A lanac takes an immense amount of skill to wield, and its usefulness depended heavily on not missing your target. If you did, you would have to recover from the chain’s momentum before attacking again.

  Racath jumped, the silver chain passing underneath his feet. But Notak was better prepared than Racath had expected. He used the wild momentum to bring his foot around and strike Racath in the chest. The kick caught Racath in mid-air. He grunted, toppling backward and thumping breathlessly on his back in the grass.