by S. G. Night
The thugs cried out in surprise again, going for their weapons. Their shouts mingled together as they bumbled and stumbled over each other. Chaos erupted; it felt like home to Racath.
The men scattered. As they scrambled, Toren landed between two of them, claymore raised. He swung the sword left, then right, almost like he was sweeping. The pair of tall, muscle-bound Humans fell beneath the cleaving blade.
Two of Brahn’s workers moved against Racath from both sides; one rushed him, trying to ram his knife into Racath’s gut, while the other attempted to grab his shoulder and bring down his short blade on Racath’s neck.
Racath shrugged off the grip of the second man like a horse shakes off a fly, and grabbed the first thug by the wrist of the hand that held the knife. He threw the first attacker headlong into his friend — the Humans collided in a tangle of limbs, grunts bursting from their mouths.
Casually, Racath flipped Daragoian around and stabbed, running them both through.
“Watch it!” Toren shouted as he fended off four of the remaining thugs with wide swipes of his claymore, keeping them at a distance.
Racath looked. Out of the fray, the one called Jeremy was bolting toward the exit on the other end of the warehouse. Racath grabbed his vindur’scain off his belt and flicked it open. The four blades spread wide; he sidearmed it. The weapon pin-wheeled through the air, streaking for the runner.
But Jeremy ducked at the last second. The vindur’scain buried itself in a crate, splintering the wooden side. Jeremy sprinted — but before he could take three more steps, Rachel stepped out from behind a stack of boxes.
“Going somewhere?”
Jeremy skidded to a halt, swinging madly with his knife. Effortlessly, Rachel strode around the wild strikes, like she was executing a well-practiced, choreographed dance step. Ebony stilettos held between her fingers, she drove her fists into Jeremy’s torso, impaling him.
Rachel made Push of Glass.
Now, when Racath had learned Push of Glass, he had succeeded in creating a powerful burst of kinetic energy from his markara, like a concentrated hurricane wind. But when Rachel made it, her Magick made Racath’s attempt look like a soft summer breeze.
With a thunderous roar, a cone of concussive force exploded from her fists. It cut a swath of destruction across the piles of boxes and wooden pallets. The very air rippled beneath the energy, like looking at something through a film of water. Jeremy was ejected off Rachel’s weapons. He was tossed — no, shot backward with the speed of a stone thrown from a sling. He smashed into the wall, cracking the stone, then fell face-first to the floor, his body mangled.
Nonchalant, Rachel plucked Racath’s vindur’scain from the box. She threw it lazily overhand, like she was playing catch with a child. It streaked back toward Racath, fast as a crossbow bolt. Racath didn’t even have time to react before the throwing-weapon hissed past his ear and lodged itself in the forehead of a thug who had been about to attack Racath from behind.
“Oh look, you left some for me,” Rachel remarked, stepping to Racath’s side. “How thoughtful.”
“Toren could use a hand,” he said, nodding at the big Majiski. Toren was still swinging his claymore in broad circles, dissuading the final three thugs from attacking. They were circling him, knife-hands twitching, like a pack of wild dogs snapping at their prey. For Humans, Brahn’s men were all large and powerful-looking, the kind of men you would hire to guard a caravan. Racath, however, had no doubt that Toren could singlehandedly dispatch three brawny Human men without a problem. Still, even a Genshwin wasn’t immune to a lucky strike to the liver. He’d rather not leave it to chance.
“I can give him two,” Rachel said chillingly. She darted forward, stilettos in hand, just as one of the thugs tried to rush under Toren’s attack. “Valgance, go low!”
Toren feinted sideways, dodging the stab. He came back around and swiped out the man’s from behind. The Human squawked as his feet went out from under him. Before he could fall, Rachel caught him in the throat with one of her stilettos.
Once again the violent dancer, she spun once, pulling the stiletto free, and lobbed it at the second-to-last thug. He grunted, the weapon piercing him in the shoulder. Rachel spun again, and the second stiletto caught him in the gut. Toren’s claymore came down on his neck.
The final man balked and panicked. Racath reacted. He called the Pyre, Daragoian’s tip pointed at the Human. He made Red Lance — mage-fire streamed from his markara, down the katana’s length, and shot outward in a bolt of crimson flame. The missile screamed outward and struck the thug broadside. He vanished in a gout of bright fire.
A silent second passed as the skirmish ended. Panting, his claymore held loosely in his fingers, Toren looked from the charred remains of the final thug, to Jeremy’s broken body near the wall, to Racath and Rachel. “Well,” he said dryly. “Clearly you were busy these last few months. What the hell was that?”
Rachel snorted condescendingly, shrugging off her hood. “Magic. Nothing special, really. Just parlor tricks.”
“Uh huh…” Toren muttered dubiously, prodding the blackened body with a boot.
Racath sheathed Daragoian. “How’s Nelle?”
“She’s with the girls. Trying to get them out of their cells.”
He nodded. “Good. We should run a check, make sure we got all of them. Once Notak and Alexis are back and we’ve got this place locked down, we’ll give Nelle a hand getting the girls out of here.
“I certainly hope that no one from Westward Trade comes to check up on their little off-the-books warehouse…” Toren commented, almost to himself. “What a mess.”
Racath noted how uncomfortable Toren sounded. He knew what the big Majiski must’ve been thinking — Mrak would throw a fit over this. Frankly, Racath didn’t care.
FORTY-FOUR
What Needs to be Done
“So how are we going to handle this?” Notak asked.
They had piled the bodies of Brahn’s men in the newly-vacant cells in the basement of the warehouse. The unconscious Brahn himself had been dumped inside one of the larger cells, one with a solid wooden door instead of iron bars. After Nelle had returned from the nearby inn where they had taken the newly-freed girls — a place run by a kind-looking middle-aged man and his wife, with whom Nelle had left explicit instructions and reimbursement for the girls’ needs — the six of them had congregated outside the door. Now, all that was left, was to wait for Brahn to wake up.
“I’ll take a run at him first,” Racath said. “I’ll try to reason with him, see if I can convince him to talk on his own.”
“Reason with him?” Rachel repeated. “This man is a fauling wretch. He’s a rat dressed like a Human. He doesn’t deserve to be reasoned with.”
“I can’t help but agree,” Alexis murmured.
“Things will be smoother in the long run if we can get him to cooperate willingly,” Racath said placatingly. “We have plenty of leverage over him. He’s completely in the dark. No one is coming for him. No one is going to protect him. His only chance is to cooperate.”
“What’s your play?” Toren asked.
“Enigmatic and indirect.”
“I do not think that will work,” Notak contributed. “I watched this man stare down a Demon without flinching.”
Racath shrugged. “We don’t have anything to lose by trying, do we?”
There was a shuffling sound on the other side of the cell door. Racath looked through the peep hole. By the light of the lone candle within, he saw a disheveled Brahn sitting at the small table they had left in there with him.
“He’s awake,” Racath announced, lifting his hood. “I’ll give it my best shot. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll try something different.” He entered the room and shut the door behind him.
Alexis shuddered and leaned against the wall, rubbing her forehead.
“You okay?” Nelle asked her.
Alexis sighed and shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just…I’ve spent
most of my life underground. I don’t think I ever really realized just how bad things are out here. The things that man does….How he can sit there and live with himself every day…it…makes me sick.”
Rachel's eyes were dark. “You and me both, kid,” she grumbled, putting a hand on Alexis’s shoulder. “You and me both.”
The three she-Majiski shared a melancholy nod, their eyes saying more than their mouths.
Toren looked at Notak again. Notak shook his head silently. There is a certain camaraderie that exists between women joined together against a man like Brahn. Something that no male could ever fully understand, even me. There is a raw power to it, a terrifying energy and anger that could make even the strongest man quake in his boots. Women are strong creatures — and those three women in particular were even more so.
——
Brahn’s bloodshot eyes rose as Racath entered the cell. The after-effects of the drug had left Brahn peaked and sweaty. Strands of greasy hair had broken free from their slicked-back shape, hanging in loose strings from his head. His eyelids drooped slightly with residual unconsciousness.
The Majiski took slow, calculated steps forward, each footstep echoing in the subterranean space. He pulled back the chair across the table from Brahn, letting the wooden legs scrape noisily on the stone floor. He sat, resting his elbows on the table and twining his hands together in front of his chin.
In that tiny room, Racath moved with all the shadowy grace of a nightmare. The dim light of the single candle cast stark shadows, shadows that hid Racath’s face completely under his hood. He was a shade — cloaked, faceless, merciless. No skin to see, no eyes to meet, nothing to suggest he was even mortal at all.
For a moment, Racath watched Brahn wordlessly from beneath his hood. Brahn stared back at him — despite his pallid skin and red-rimmed eyes, he looked impossible calm. Bored, even. Bored, and unimpressed.
“If its ransom you people want,” he finally said, his voice a disinterested drawl. “I’m sure my company will be happy to oblige. I’m worth quite a bit of gold to them, you see.”
Racath waited before responding, letting the silence hang in the air like a great obscuring cloud between them. “We do not want money.”
“Oh?” Brahn raised his eyebrows. “So you’re not just common kidnappers. Interesting. Well then, if ransom isn’t your thing, then who are you people? What are you called?”
Another short silence. “What makes you think I would tell you that?”
“No reason,” Brahn shrugged. “But if I don’t even know the name of my host, then how am I to thank you for the wondrous hospitality?” He rapped meaningfully on the stiff-backed chair with his knuckles.
Racath thought for a moment. “You can call me Azrael.”
“Cute.” In a remarkably business-like manner, Brahn said: “So, what is it you want? I assume you didn’t drag me down here to test your furniture.”
“It’s your furniture, actually,” Racath answered darkly. “We’re in the basement of your warehouse.”
“Oh, really?” Brahn made a face of casual surprise, looking around the room as though examining it for the first time. “Huh. Almost didn’t recognize the place. Not surprising though. I’m usually not inspecting the room when I come down here, if you know what I mean.” He gave a suggestive smirk. “So, what’d you do with my men?”
“They’re in another cell,” Racath replied. “Breathing through each other’s blood.”
Brahn’s placid demeanor did not falter. “Sounds uncomfortable. But back to the point — what is it I can do for you today?” He grinned a toothy, businessman’s grin.
“We’re interested in the contraband goods you supply.”
Brahn snorted. “You could have just made an appointment, you know.”
“We aren’t interested in purchasing your product. We’re interested in who’s buying it.”
“Oh yeah? Who exactly are you thinking of?”
“A client of yours,” said Racath. “A Demon by the name of Baron Monger.”
“Well then, you’re out of luck, Azzy,” Brahn said, holding up his hands. “I can’t help you.”
“Do not lie to me, Brahn,” Racath warned; his whisper was as dangerous as broken glass. “You do not want to play ignorant with me.”
“Oh, I’m not playing anything,” Brahn said innocently. “I know the Baron, sure. I just can’t tell you anything about him.”
“We know you’re his supplier,” Racath hissed. “We know that he’s hosting a banquet soon, and that you are providing him with saffron sap and other unsavory items. We know about the little off-the-books operation you run here for Westward Trade. We know the lesser Demonic gentry keeps the Church from shutting you down because they like what you sell. And we know that Baron Monger made a special order, something expensive and difficult to acquire.”
“Well, you’ve just got everything figured out then, don’t you?” Brahn sneered. “What the hell do you need me for?”
“We want to know when the banquet is. We want to know which estate he owns. We want to know what his special order was. And we want to know everything else that you can tell us about the Baron Monger. Don’t act like you don’t know anything — we know that you do.”
Brahn waved his hand in negation. “No, no, no, you misunderstand. Let me rephrase: it’s not that I can’t tell you anything, it’s that I won’t tell you anything.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “What kind of businessman would I be if I violated the privacy of my clients? A pretty gods-awful one, that’s what. So, sorry, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. Go ask someone else. Someone with a more pliable spine.”
Racath ground his teeth. He held out his hand, and the candle flame leapt off the wick and landed in his palm. It flickered an inch above his glove, tingeing scarlet as it turned to mage-fire. The ruddy light illuminated just enough of Racath’s face for Brahn to see his eyes. His fiery, double-tapered, inhuman eyes.
“You will tell me everything,” he stated, rolling the fire between his fingers.
“And if I don’t, you’ll cut out my tongue and make me eat it, right?” Brahn scoffed. “Please, give it a rest. The whole intimidation shtick doesn’t work on me.”
“You have no idea who we are,” Racath whispered.
“You don’t scare me, Azrael,” Brahn said dryly, crossing his arms.
“You will tell me everything,” Racath commanded again. “Hairtelt sen allt.”
The Rotenic words echoed faintly around Racath’s mouth. The glamoury found Brahn’s ears and worked its way into his mind. Brahn’s face went blank, his eyes distant. Then he blinked, shook himself, and glared at Racath, defiant.
“What, you think jinxing me is going to work? You think no one’s ever tried that on me before?” He shook his head in derisive exasperation. “Gods above and below, who do you think you are? You have no idea who I am, no idea who you’re dealing with.
“All those puffy nobles with all their power and money — they’re child’s play for me. I eat them for breakfast. I deal with Demons every day of the week. Demons. And you think that you can scare me? Break me with your witchcraft?
“Listen: you don’t make it very far in my line of work by being afraid. You don’t make much money unless you have the guts to look a Demon in the eye and tell him to go screw himself. You. Do not. Scare me.” He sat back in his chair, glowering at Racath, arms folded over his chest. “And I’m not gonna tell you piss. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
Racath watched him closely for a moment, returning the flame back to the candle wick. “Very well. I have a different question to ask. One of a more personal nature.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“How do you live with yourself?”
Brahn blinked, surprised, but otherwise did not betray his stony stoicism. “What do you mean?”
“The things you did to those girls,” he said. “How can you reconcile that?”
Brahn released a single, barking laugh. �
��Reconcile? Gods, you’re so naïve. I don’t need to reconcile anything. I make money, my clients are happy—”
“And someone’s daughter is enslaved, beaten, raped, and killed by a Demon.”
Brahn gave an indifferent shrug. “Not my daughter. Not my whore.”
It took all of Racath’s willpower not to reach across the table and throttle the Human with his bare hands. He was gripping the table so hard that the wood was splintering.
He could do it. He could do it in an instant. He could reach across the table and crush Brahn’s skull with one hand. He could draw Daragoian and cut the Human’s face in half. The Pyre stirred inside him, growling like a hostile lion, begging to be set loose — pleading for Racath to set Brahn aflame. To watch him writhe and scream as mage-fire consumed him.
“You’re sick.”
“I don’t need to defend myself to you, Azzy,” Brahn spat, then gave Racath a patronizing grin. “So why don’t you go screw yourself.”
“Gladly.” Racath hissed. He got his feet and went to the door.
“If I may be so bold,” Brahn said as Racath reached for the door-handle. “Might I inquire as to why you care if reconcile it or not?”
“No reason,” Racath whispered, not looking at the Human. “I just needed to justify what I’m about to do to you.” He left the room, slamming the door shut in his wake.
——
The others were waiting for him outside.
“I take it,” Notak remarked, observing Racath’s furious expression. “It did not work out.”
Racath didn’t answer. “Rachel,” he looked at her murderously. “You’re up.”
A malicious glint appeared in Rachel’s eyes. “Do I get to kill him when I’m done?”
Racath shook his head. “No. We might need him later. Nothing too crippling, either.” His eyes were full of hatred. “But…have fun with it.”
“You bet I will.” She looked at Nelle and Alexis. “Care to join me, ladies?”
Both of them rose to follow her without hesitation. Hoods up, the three of them pushed the cell door open and entered the small interrogation room.