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

by S. G. Night

  And he found friends among the Genshwin. A family.

  By the age of nineteen, he had proven himself the finest of the few hundred Genshwin. He was elevated to the rank of Talon, one of the Genshwin Patriarch’s personal assassins. He had grown to be a true Majiski, strong as any five Humans combined, fast as a stallion, lethal as a snake’s bite. And angry, too.

  And that, I would expect, is where it really begins. In the capital city of Litoras, where he uncovered a plot that would eventually bring him into contact with the mythological Scorpions…and put him on the path toward destroying the Demons.

  Yes, it began then, right before he met the girl with golden hair.

  But his name! you ask me. What was his name?!

  Of course. How could I forget that part? What is a hero without his name?

  It’s an Elven name, oddly enough. In retrospect, I suppose that fits — an Elf-named Majiski who fought for Humanity.

  But that’s just his given name. Throughout his life, he’s been known by dozens of other names. More names than you can count, even more than I have myself. The Genshwin called him a Talon. But they would eventually come to know him as the Patriarch himself. Among the Genshwin elite, he was Skorpija — Scorpion. To the Humans, he is Azrael, the Angel of Death, and Comfort and Wrath. The Elves knew him as Fax Ardor, the warder of God’s flaming sword. The Demons knew him by another name, a name born from hatred and fear: Fire-Thorn.

  He is Krilati. He is Dragon Amongst Wolves. He is Liberator. Savior. Demon Hunter. Sky-Freer.…Godkiller.

  His is the name of fire, the name that rides the whisper of the candlelight. His name was…is…Racath Thanjel. And this is his story.

  ***

  Litoras. The 20th day of Tamur. 107th Year of the Fourth Age.

  A summer evening, not that you could really tell. The Demons’ cloud-cover rarely ever parted over Io’s urban sprawls, making all the seasons seem to blur together. It was Daratag — for the Humans, just another workday. But tomorrow was Aztag, and the week’s end would follow close behind.

  The day was ending, the light fading behind the hills beyond the sheer city walls. The Humans were retiring for the night, closing up their storefronts and putting out the lights. Those who could afford it were beginning to congregate in the city’s taverns. Those who could not were spending the evening at home.

  But for one particular Human, a man named Unin Tangaree, the end of the daylight brought no respite. He felt no need to leave his riverside offices for home tonight — he didn’t have anyone to go home to, anyway. The taverns weren’t really an option either. Those establishments near his offices were too cheap to be worth the resentful glares of the other patrons who noticed the embossed ring he wore — a symbol of his direct employment to the Demonic Dominion.

  No. Unin Tangaree, Lieutenant Minister of Dominion Intelligence, was perfectly content to remain in his cushy, second-floor bureau on the edge of the Litoran River. There was, after all, still work to be done if he were to earn his keep with the Demons. He was parched, however…and a drink did sound rather nice….

  He sent a runner to fetch him a few amenities from the nearby commissary (reserved for Dominion workers only, of course). Before long, a knock came on the door to his offices as the runner returned. Unin grunted as he pried his portly girth out of his armchair and plodded across the plush rug to answer.

  Opening the door, he was greeted by one of the many Arkûl that comprised much of his personal staff. It looked no different from any other Arkûl that Unin had ever met: repulsive, dimwitted, a little taller than he was. The thick, carmine skin of its face was slicked with sweat from the haste of its errand, and its tangle of stringy black hair clung to the flesh around its dull yellow eyes. The standard-issue, black iron armor it wore creaked and grated together as it panted for breath.

  Between gasps, the Arkûl addressed Unin in the broken, guttural speech he had come to associate with its kind. “The items yer asked for, milord,” it rasped through a forest of crooked, yellow teeth.

  It extended a greasy hand, presenting him with a silk bag emblazoned with the emblem of the Dominion commissary services. “And a messenger from Milonok showed up just a sec ago, carryin’ this.” The Arkûl produced a sealed envelope and offered it to Unin. “Yer secretary told me yer’ve be expectin’ it.”

  Unin gingerly took the articles by two fingers, careful not to touch the Arkûl’s oily flesh.

  “Thank you,” he answered in a mumble that lived somewhere far away from sincerity. “As you were. Tell my secretary to listen for the bell, though. I will most likely have need of him to carry a response shortly.”

  The Arkûl bowed crookedly. “As yer say, mi—”

  Unin shut the door in its face. Murmuring to himself, he trundled back to his grand oak desk. Sinking into the well-upholstered armchair, he extracted a small box and a dark bottle from the silk bag. His favorites: pomegranate juice (pressed and imported straight from Dírorth) and candied pecans made right here in Litoras.

  Excited, he poured himself a glass of burgundy juice and popped open the box. He ate one of the nuts, the sugary coating slicking his fingers and lighting up his mouth with sweet flavor. He washed it down with a delicate sip from his goblet. The juice was rich, potent, too tart to gulp. Just the way he liked it.

  With an appreciative sigh, he slit the envelope open and unfolded the letter within. As his eyes slid languidly down the page, his brow knitted together and his lips pressed into a tight line. Periodically, he would take a sip from the crystal goblet or pilfer a pecan from the box, but his movements were slower, troubled.

  Eventually, he set the letter down and brought out ink and paper. Hurriedly, Unin wiped his sticky fingers off on his shirt and began to draft a report of his own, occasionally glancing back at the letter for reference. After a few discarded drafts, he finalized the report and was about to have his secretary write up copies, but he stopped himself. No, he thought. This was not for a secretary’s eyes, not even the secretary to the Lieutenant Minister of Intelligence. Sighing, he grudgingly dipped his pen in into the inkwell again, and began to make out the duplicates. When he finally finished, he slipped them into separate envelopes, sealed them, and addressed them to various recipients.

  He rang the silvery bell on his desk and went to the door where he met his secretary, a pale young man with watery eyes.

  “Have these sent to the post station on Quarry Road,” he instructed, handing the man the bundle of envelopes. “Give them to the man in charge there. He knows me. Tell them that they are to be delivered as soon as possible — by special Demonic courier only. What are you waiting for? Go! Now!”

  The secretary hurried back down the hall to the stairs. Unin shut the door and returned to his desk. Slumping into his chair, he rubbed his brow, musing over the significance of what he had just read.

  He idly reread the letter from Milonok, just to have something to do. This news was big. Very big. It was going to bring a lot of change for the Dominion. And Unin couldn’t imagine that it would be any good kind of change.

  He shuddered a little, shaking his head, and tried halfheartedly to enjoy his candied pecans.

  ——

  Not far away, a blur of black darted from rooftop to rooftop. It moved so quickly that if you had happened to look up from the street to see it, you probably would think it a trick of the light. Soon enough, the streak of darkness came to a stop on a roof across the street from the Litoras offices of the Ministry of Intelligence.

  It was a man. A Majiski, in fact. While no one could have possibly have identified him as such, he was one of the Genshwin. He was dressed entirely in midnight-black: a cloth-and-leather cloak-coat — something the Genshwin called a “Shadow” — that fell to his ankles, sleeves covering to his mid-forearms where they met a pair of leather gauntlets. The front of the Shadow was open, but prevented from billowing about by an assemblage of crisscrossing leather straps that also housed a family of elegant throwing knives. A
long knife sat over his shoulder, and a folded throwing weapon — a Genshwin vindur’scain — was strapped to his belt alongside a half dozen pouches and satchels. A hood covered his head, casting dark shadows over a young face, unruly black hair, and a pair of sharp green eyes.

  Racath Thanjel stood tall on the edge of the roof. He folded his arms as he looked across the street into the open window of a well-lit office. Inside, the fat man, Unin Tangaree, sat at an over-large desk, slurping at a glass of dark juice as he examined a letter. Racath watched as Unin fumbled around with a box of candied nuts, stuffing them into his mouth before drinking again. Racath’s teeth ground together and his eyes grew hard.

  Out of the skies, a raptor — a gyrfalcon — fluttered down and settled on Racath’s shoulder. Slipping her head into Racath’s hood, the bird chirped several times in his ear.

  Racath smirked and stroked the gyrfalcon’s head. “Welcome back, dear. You ready?”

  The gyrfalcon, Sokol, chirped again. She almost seemed to nod.

  “Go on, then.”

  Without pause, Sokol took off again. As she flew, she released a proud, predator’s cry. Racath ran, his Majiski strength and speed propelling him from the roof and across the street. He latched onto the outer wall of Unin’s offices, blending perfectly into the shadows cast by the architecture. Graceful and swift as a nighttime god, he moved along the ledge and made his way inside.

  ——

  A chirp tore Unin from his revelry. Looking up, he found a large, proud falcon perched on the sill of his open window. The raptor fixed him with an unwavering stare.

  Curious, Unin pushed himself back from his desk and warily moved to approach the bird. The gyrfalcon ruffled its white, black-speckled feathers, chittering softly, but did not fly away.

  Moving slowly, lest he frighten it off, Unin reached out a hand to the falcon.

  “Hello there,” Unin entreated awkwardly, gentle as he could. “What are you doing up here?”

  His fingers stretched out to touch it. Suddenly, the gyrfalcon shrieked, flaring its breast and spreading its wings. And before Unin could even jerk his hand back, Racath dropped from the ceiling.

  Grabbing the fat man by the nape of the neck, Racath planted a powerful kick into the back of Unin’s leg, driving him to his knees. In his right hand, Racath held the bottle of pomegranate juice. Unin flailed, struggling with all the fervor of his being, sweat and panic drenching his face. But it was useless: Racath’s hold on him was strong as several Human men combined. Strong as a god. Strong as a Majiski.

  The Human tried to cry out, but the vice like grip of Racath’s hand pinched the sound in his neck. Only a rasping cough sputtered from Unin’s lips. Beneath his hood, Racath’s handsome face was hard as brittle iron.

  “Thirsty, are we, Tangaree?” he seethed, eying the bottle of juice.

  Unin thrashed and gargled some more.

  “You must be parched,” Racath said, his eyes full of angry fire. “All those years licking the dust off the Demons’ feet. Here. Have a drink.”

  He thrust the bottle into Unin’s open mouth, pushing it as deep as he could. Unin’s eyes bulged to the size of dinner plates as the pomegranate juice cascaded down his throat. His desperate, scrabbling fingers floundered for something, anything to latch onto. Inadvertently, he swatted the ornate box off his desk and candied pecans scattered across the floor, sullying the plush carpet with sticky-sweet sugar.

  The combination of the juice’s potent taste, Unin’s own gasps, his feeble struggling, and the sheer volume of liquid soon proved too much. The Human gagged and crimson fluid sprayed out around the bottle in his mouth, spattering over himself. It soaked his face, shirt, and sleeves, trickling down to stain his pudgy fingers, like a brand of blood. Blood on his face. Blood on his hands.

  Unin gagged again and his throat closed, the bloody fountain finding its way to his windpipe. He was dying, suffocating, drowning in his own drink.

  A thousand panicked questions babbled behind the bottle in Unin’s mouth. Who? Who are you? Why? Why do this? Why me? Why not someone else? What did I do to deserve this? What do you want from me?!? But all he could manage was a feeble gargle.

  The squelched questions brought a scowl to Racath’s face. He bent to Unin’s ear, still pressing the bottle deeper, and whispered the only answer the traitorous wretch deserved.

  “Die.”

  Unin’s struggling slowed. His eyes rolled back in his head. He slumped.

  Racath released him. The drowned man flopped heavily onto the floor. Dark juice spilled from his mouth and nose, soiling the carpet.

  The Genshwin cussed at the corpse, and then looked back at the gyrfalcon on the windowsill. Sokol watched him with ebon eyes, calm but reproachful. Racath shrugged at her, wiping his hands off on Unin’s shirt.

  “Don’t look at me like that. He deserved it.”

  Sokol seemed to roll her eyes.

  “The pathetic bastard was working for the Demons,” Racath argued at the bird. “He was thriving off the enemy. I should have killed him more slowly.”

  Sokol ruffled her wings, as if shrugging.

  It was Racath’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on,” he said. He searched Unin’s desk until he found his objective — the letter the Human had received from Milonok. He stuffed the parchment into one of the pouches on his belt. “We should hurry.”

  Just then, a pounding sounded on the door and a muffled voice came from the hallway outside. “Milord!? What's goin' on in there, milord!?"

  The Arkûl guards. They had undoubtedly heard the racket of Unin’s struggling.

  “Piss,” Racath swore, looking back at Sokol.

  The gyrfalcon jerked her head at him as if to say come on, let’s get out of here.

  He shook his head at her. “No. Go on, I’ll deal with them.”

  Sokol glared at him.

  “Go on!” Racath said. “I’m not just going to run off. Go. I’ll meet you at the temple spire.”

  The raptor ruffled its wings in another shrug and took off, vanishing into the growing night. Racath turned his attention back to the door. The knocking came again.

  “Milord!?”

  Racath clenched his fists. He gave a simple mental command inside his head — in response, a mechanism triggered inside his gauntlet. A blade sprang open from a sheath hidden between the layers of the gauntlet, emerging from a slot on the top of his wrist. The blade locked into place, forming a fixed, arm-mounted shortsword that extended six inches over his knuckles.

  With a second mental directive, an identical Genshwin Stinger snapped out of his other gauntlet: a splinter of glinting Ioan steel.

  Stepping lightly, Racath maneuvered around, pressed his back against the wall directly adjacent to the door, and waited. Soon, the door burst open and a pair of Arkûl in black armor carrying halberds stumbled into the room, completely failing to notice the assassin that hid behind the door.

  The guards barely had enough time to take in the scene of Unin lying in a pool of his own beverage before Racath stepped out from behind the door. He slipped his hand over the first Arkûl’s mouth, and shoved his fist into its spine. His Stinger punctured armor, skin, lung, and heart. The Arkûl went slack in Racath’s grip.

  With a squeal of steel grinding on iron, Racath pulled his weapon free and pushed the Arkûl face-first onto the carpet. The second Arkûl spun on its heel, halberd raised, face stricken with alarm.

  “Oi!” The guard lunged, swiping the pole-arm at Racath’s head.

  Racath raised his arms up and crossed his stingers into an X, catching the wooden shaft of the halberd. He squeezed, scissoring the blades and cutting the halberd’s head clean off. The Arkûl stumbled forward, off balance. Racath snatched the bladed head out of the air before it could fall, whipped it up and around in an over-handed swing, and cleaved the Arkûl’s skull down the middle.

  “Halt!” another Arkûl voice shouted from down the hallway. Racath turned to find half a dozen guards spilling onto the s
econd floor from the stairway. A crossbow bolt whistled through the air, hissing angrily past Racath’s ear before burying itself in the wall

  Alright, now he could run.

  “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

  Racath dodged sideways and ran for the window. Planting his foot on the sill, he vaulted out into the night. He landed, tucked, and rolled onto the adjacent roof — a dozen feet away. The guards still shouting from the window, Racath ran. A few more crossbow shots chased after him, but none found their mark. Before long, he had melted into the thickening darkness.

  ——

  While official investigators were brought in to inspect the scene of Unin Tangaree’s assassination and slaves cleaned up the mess, Racath made his way over the rooftops and across the city. Eventually, he found himself atop the pinnacle of the ruins of the old Jedan temple.

  The temple sat just a block away from what had been the westernmost entrance to Litoras, Pilgrim’s gate, facing east. Perched as he was, nestled comfortably into an alcove carved into the marble of the tallest steeple, he could look out and see the entire capital city sprawled out before him.

  The unending cloud-cover and rainfall that blanketed the entire country was thinnest here in the capital. Tonight, a wide rift in the clouds allowed the light of the pale, waxing moon to peer down on Litoras. It painted the greater buildings of the city with a soft, blue light, casting shadows over the smaller structures.

  In the northeast, a trio of dark, gargoyle-infested towers rose up out of the sea of stone buildings: the Basilica of the Gods, the center for the Mnogo clergy. It was the Demons’ replacement for the temple, erected in homage to the deities of the Mnogo Pantheon — the religion they had brought with them when they invaded.