Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance Page 3

  To the east, Racath could see the snaking Litoran River that bisected the city. It was sleek, sparkling silver under the moonlight, like mercury speckled with crystal. Several bridges cut from bank to bank in places where the river was narrowest. In the very center of the river — the center of the city — the rocky crags of Litoran Islet arched upward like a giant turtle, the water following around it. The Islet rose several dozen feet from the surface before leveling out into a broad, flat plateau.

  That plateau served as a foundation for an edifice that dwarfed the temple ruins: a massive bastion, all dark stone walls and great spires that pierced the skies like black spears. Castle Io.

  Almost four hundred feet high at the tallest tower, it was the Demons’ seat of power, the most heavily defended fortress that had ever existed. Only those directly tied to the Dominion — Arkûl, Goblins, and those Humans like Unin who had taken to the Demons’ coin — were permitted to cross the Castle Bridges that tethered Litoran Islet to the riverbanks. And only the most trusted of those were permitted to enter its gates. It was built to last, reinforced by enough Arkûl guards to stave off an army. No one, not even a Genshwin, had ever breached its walls.

  Farther east, on the other side of the river from Racath, a gargantuan stadium occupied a massive plot of land. Its outer walls were festooned with wooden ramps and scaffolds. The coliseum: a project the Demons had started several decades ago as a monument to themselves. They had a name for it, of course, something horridly long-winded and esoteric, but to the people of Litoras it was known bitterly as “the Hollow”. The slaves (those Humans that the Demons had plucked from the population to chisel and haul stone from the nearby quarry for its construction), had a different name for it, too. In memory of all their fellows who had been beaten, crushed, and worked to death: “the Tomb”.

  Rumor was that it was almost finished.

  And, of course, there was the temple upon which he sat. The Demons had had the area immediately around the building, as well as the Pilgrim’s Gate, sealed off shortly after they ransacked it during the Occupation. In an effort to keep all knowledge of the old religion from the Humans, they had built a rough wall of wood and stone that isolated the western piece of the city. The barricade also served to fortify the city’s Arkûl garrison, just a few blocks south of the temple…as well as the burnt-out corpses of the old Litoran University and the High Library, just a few streets to the north.

  The wall was an effective barrier against the Humans, but it didn’t have a chance in hell at keeping out a Genshwin.

  Once upon a time, this temple had held weekly worship ceremonies, weddings, and baptisms. Racath would have given more than a few fingers to have been able to see one. During his childhood, before the Demons found his family, his mother had taught him what she could of the old Jedan religion, hoping to keep the old traditions alive. He understood some of the principles, but he had only been nine when his family was killed. Much of the nuances were still unknown to him.

  There was a rustle of quiet wings, and Sokol fluttered out of the sky to rest on his shoulder.

  “Took you long enough,” Racath said, stroking the gyrfalcon’s head. “You had a head start and I still beat you here. I don’t even have wings.”

  Sokol nipped his ear in retaliation.

  “I think we’ve been in this city long enough,” he mused. “Time to go home?”

  Sokol bobbed her head.

  Racath sat up and stretched, letting his feet dangle out over the edge. He took one last look at the dilapidated face of the temple and sighed. Sokol took off and Racath began to descend the spire.

  As he went, he offered a silent prayer. A prayer for strength and success, that the Majiski might survive. If God were still out there, maybe He’d hear it.

  ——

  It was too late to find passage out of Litoras that night. The next morning, Racath concealed his more conspicuous weapons within the folds of his Shadow and melted into the crowds on the eastern side of the river. The Humans milled about their business as usual, buying and selling wares out of stores and carts. A band of small children darted past him in the street, laughing delightedly at whatever game they were playing.

  On a street corner, a Mnogo deacon in a creamy robe waved his hands about dramatically and shouted a never-ending stream of invitations.

  “Come all, come and kneel before the gods! Offer a prayer to them who bless thee and keep thee! For a mere penny’s tithe, beseech the Nineteen after thy heart’s desires! Yes, come all! Come and kneel before the gods!”

  Laid out in a half-circle around the deacon were nineteen ornate figurines set on wooden pedestals. Each idol was unique, representing one of the Mnogo deities.

  Racath recognized a few of the statues. A ruby-encrusted statuette of a muscle-bound man with a flowing beard was Tayran, the lord of war and metal. A golden man-dragon who stood on a pile of treasure: the god Garish. A robed, skeletal being — that was Lavethion, lord of death. A voluptuous woman in the red dress, Lady Kynn, mistress and goddess of love and lust. I was probably in there too, but Racath wouldn’t have recognized me then.

  Each god presided over dozens of miscellaneous elements, and each was patron to several occupations. A small line of Humans collected, most of them wild-eyed with some desperation. One by one, they placed a copper penny in the collection tin before kneeling in the street to offer prayers to which ever god they sought blessings from.

  Racath admired them — well, most of them. Not the deacon. People like the deacon had spent their lives down on their knees while others had fought and died defending them from the Demons. Shameless swine.

  But these Humans were different. They did not fight against the Demons, no. And yes, they did live on their knees, worshipped the Demons’ gods, obeyed the Demons’ laws, and so on But only because they didn’t have the strength to save themselves.

  And while they were misguided, taken in by the Demons religion and kept in ignorance by isolation, they had their own way of fighting their oppressors. They fought them by getting out of bed each day to face another rainfall. They fought them by shooting resentful glares at patrols of Arkûl guards. They fought them by putting on a smile as they lived their lives under someone else’s thumb.

  Racath entered Vagrant’s Lot, a large square just inside the northeast gate. The place was so named for the caravans of Drifters who came in and out of this gate and congregated in this square.

  The nomadic people gathered around their clusters of wagons, sticking close to the other members of their caravan. Each advertised the various services that the diversely talented individuals had to offer: entertainers juggled and sang for pennies, tinkers traded and bartered, grinders sharpened knives on grindstones, and mercenaries offered their craft with signs that displayed their daily fees and weapon licenses.

  While the Demons had restricted almost every aspect of Human life, they had allowed the Drifters to keep their itinerant culture. They had always been essential to society, and they were among the few commoners the Demons allowed to carry travel permits. As such, they were one of the very few forms of transport between the cities.

  Racath moved through the crowds of people, oxen, horses, and wagons, searching until he found a grizzled man with copper skin and dark, Drifter eyes. He was leaning on a wooden sign that read CARAVAN LEAVING TODAY. EAST.

  But it wasn’t really the sign that attracted Racath, but rather the ring on the man’s finger.

  “Hail, traveler!” the man said as Racath approached. “Fine morning, isn’t it? My name is Joseph. Anything I can help you with?”

  “Good morning, yourself,” Racath answered with a smile, brushing back his hood. “I’m looking for a ride.”

  “You’ve found it,” Joseph smiled. “Where you headed, then?”

  “Oblakgrad, by way of Vale. You headed that way?”

  The Drifter nodded. “We’re stopping off in a town near Vale, yeah. We’re not headed any farther than that, though, but we can drop
you just outside Vale. How much are you lookin’ to spend?”

  Racath grinned slyly. “Do you discount for friends?” He extended his arm, displaying a silver disk laid into the leather of his Stinger gauntlet. Etched into the metal was an emblem: crossed knives over a compass rose.

  “Ahh,” Joseph said, mirroring the same grin. He returned the gesture, showing Racath the ring on his hand. It was emblazoned with an identical pictogram, the Genshwin’s insignia.

  “Zauvijék nijem, friend. Haven’t had one of your variety with the caravan in a long while. How goes the effort?”

  “Slow, like always,” Racath answered, doing his best not to sound bitter. “Still picking at shadows, I’m afraid.”

  “Ahh well,” Joseph shrugged sympathetically. “I’ve got some faith in your kind, son. Things will change, I’m sure.”

  “One would hope,” Racath muttered. “But anyway. Your fee?”

  Joseph’s eyes glinted with a businessman’s eagerness. “Indeed. Well, as much as I’d like to, I can’t just bring you on free. Gotta to make a living somehow, you know how it is. Not to mention the risk I take on by bring you with us….” His voice curled upward meaningfully at the end.

  “I can provide insurance against any issues that my presence might cause,” Racath assured him. “Plus, any other trouble that might crop up.”

  “Hmm,” Joseph shrugged. “Good point. Who needs a caravan guard when you’ve got a Genshwin? Well then, that considered…I’m prepared to go as low as one solid.”

  Racath inclined his head. “That seems more than fair.” He picked a silver obul out of his purse and handed it over to Joseph.

  Joseph quickly tucked the coin into a pocket. “Most excellent, my friend. I’ll tell the others we have one of our special guests joining us. We’ll be heading out just after noon. Do you have any livestock you’ll be bringing? A horse, perhaps?”

  High above them, a gyrfalcon’s cry split the skies. Racath looked up and smiled.

  “Nope,” he answered. “Just a bird.”

  ***

  TWO

  The Scorpions

  Before I go any further, I should clarify something. While Racath Thanjel would eventually become the man we tell stories about — the man who incited the Day of Severance in Milonok, the man who would lead the War of Fire — he did not do any of this alone. There were others, people would prove important both to him and to the people of Io. In a way, this is their story, too.

  Two of these were the Scorpions. I doubt you’ve heard of them; the reference is rather esoteric. Their history is long and complicated, and I won’t go into it now. But let me say this much: by this point in time, the Majiski had become faerie tales that parents would use to frighten their children into behaving. Myths. The Genshwin were a layer deeper in secrecy — very few people were trusted enough to know of their existence. But the Scorpions…they were legendary even to the Genshwin.

  They were legend, even to the Majiski. A secret cell of the Genshwin’s finest assassins. And, at that time, there were two of them: Rachel Vaveran, and Notak et sine Nominé.

  ——

  For an Age, rain had saturated the Dominion of Io. The rain, the stories said, had accompanied the Demons when they invaded a century ago. And it had remained: a permanent, unpleasant houseguest following the rise of the Dominion. But once…there had been sunshine. Before the fall.

  But this was not entirely true for Oblakgrad. Even before the invasion, the city had been wrapped in a ubiquitous cloud-cover and downpour. The misery that walked hand-in-hand with the Demons’ clouds did not take hold over the weathered Humans of Oblakgrad, who had faced the grey storms long before the Occupation.

  Against all odds, Oblakgrad prospered. It was the only large city east of the Spikes, yet it could sustain itself without total dependency upon imported goods. The rain that had often flooded other cities was diverted by the ingenious infrastructure of pre-Demonic eras, and converted into pure drinking water. While places like Dírorth or the Piedmont had enough respite from the rains and clouds to grow wheat and barley, the watery lands around Oblakgrad were home to thousands of rice paddies. The city streets were nearly vacant, but inside the covered bazaars and magnificent buildings that acted as roofed avenues filled with the homes of artisans and servicemen, the people flourished. And despite the pockmarks of rain on the surface of the Dír River that cut through the city, the anglers still tilled the water for fish to fill their nets.

  The squads of Arkûl guards were few and far between, and were often found shirking their patrols in favor of shelter beneath an awning. The Dominion and their pet gentry were confined to the small district on the eastern side of the river. The people were happy to disregard the Demons’ presence altogether and live their lives.

  But there was a chill in the air today, something distinctly other. Something unnatural. A feeling of foreboding running down your spine like a sliver of ice. It was alien, yet distantly familiar, a feeling that made the Humans in their houses shiver and double-check the locks on their doors.

  Indeed, something was not quite right today. Today, a Demon stalked the side-streets of Oblakgrad, its breath leaving a trail of evil in the air. It was a rare sight — the Demons were usually content to stay within the safety of their castles, allowing their Arkûl and Goblin minions to enforce their laws.

  This Demon was surrounded by a battalion of Arkûl body guards in escort; they gave the devil a wide berth, their expressions mixed with both rapture and fear. As every Demon does, it manifested had its own unique shape: it bore a great resemblance to the bastard offspring of a Human and a ram. Short for a Demon, it stood only slightly taller than its guards, its body hirsute with thick, white fur. A breastplate of cold iron was fastened over its chest and greaves braced its thighs, but its loins were left exposed to the gloom. On its back, it wore a large, curved sword; the wicked hilt jutted over its left shoulder to compliment the twisting horns that sprouted from its goat-like skull.

  There was, however, another stranger in the streets of Oblakgrad. But this one was almost impossible to notice. A cat-like pair of eyes glinted in the shadows of an alley that branched off the side-street the Demon walked. Those eyes were nestled within the impassive face of an assassin, much like Racath Thanjel. Another Genshwin.

  The owner of those eyes flexed his muscles, stiff from his crouch in the back of the alleyway. His tapered ears twitched as he listened for the approaching footsteps of the Demon and its guards. Patient as a waiting spider, the Genshwin waited, allowing a tingle of magic to broil on his fingertips, ready for release.

  In the side-street, the Demon halted, just short of the alley’s entrance — and just out of the assassin’s line of sight. The Arkûl, surprised by the sudden stop, stumbled to a standstill, two or three stepping into the Genshwin’s view. The assassin frowned, but did not attack. He waited for the Demon to step into sight.

  Come on…come on….

  The Demon lifted its snout and inhaled sharply, its lip curling over a straight set of square, yellow incisors.

  “Milord?” one Arkûl asked uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”

  “That stench…” the Demon hissed, sniffing the air again. “I know it.”

  The Arkûl lifted their noses, but their senses were not as acute as their master’s.

  Suddenly, the Demon stiffened, recognition flashing across its face. “Majiski. I smell quicken blood!”

  Instantly, the Arkûl snapped to attention, their pikes at the ready. They surrounded their master in a circle of bristling spearheads. Their eyes darted about in a panic, breathing with labored anticipation.

  “Where?” another Arkûl asked shakily.

  “Close,” the Demon snarled.

  “I thought they was all dead,” one Arkûl whispered to another, panic spreading across his dark red face. “I thought they was all gone.”

  “They can’t all be dead,” the other answered. “There’s a reason the Imperator wanted them all killed off, th
ough. Too powerful to let live, see? They say that them Majiski can walk on yer shadow, so no matter where yer turn, they’re always at yer back.”

  The first guard turned bright red — the Arkûl equivalent of blanching ghost-white. “Horse piss,” he said, trying to shrug it off as nonsense, but foiled by the quavering in his voice. “Yer don’t really believe that, right?”

  “Yer should,” a third Arkûl interjected. “My grand-da fought them in the invasion, see? He told me stories about ‘em. Said they could run like horses and break boulders in their hands.”

  “Quiet!” the Demon snapped, silencing the nervous chatter. “I cannot think with you whimpering in my ear!” It paused, sniffing again.

  Down the alley, the wind picked up and blew through the rain at the assassin’s back, towards the Demon.

  “Another is here...” the Demon snarled again as the assassin’s scent found its muzzle. “A different smell….”

  The Arkûl waited, watching their master anxiously. Eventually, the Demon furrowed its brow. It looked…puzzled. Confused.

  “Sire?” the second Arkûl asked.

  The Demon’s response was distant, more of a question than an answer. “…Elf flesh?”

  The Genshwin in the alley frowned. Faul it.

  He called up the energy in his limbs and electric-blue light arced over his arms. In the darkness of the alley, he stretched out his hand and projected the magic outward. There was a crack of thunder, and a bolt of bright lightning erupted from his palm.

  The crackling lance caught one Arkûl in the chest. The guard was blasted off his feet, slamming into a nearby wall. He crumpled to the cobblestones, his breastplate scorched and smoking. His eyes were dead and empty.

  The other guards and the Demon recoiled. The Arkûl waved their pikes around at nothing, searching about in a frenzy for the source of the attack.