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

by S. G. Night

  Racath pursued. His footsteps soundless on the plywood walkways, he ran, hurdling the watery gaps between docks, tucking, rolling, using crates as sporadic cover. Oblivious of his pursuer, Zayne skulked a few walkways distant, meandering past a trio of dinghies, towards a pier that jutted farther out into the river.

  Racath sprinted, somersaulting off the wharf onto a docked fishing boat, and hurtling over the opposite railing. He landed on the pier again, rolling back to his feet. Zayne’s back was to him, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Racath ran in a half crouch, matching his footsteps with Zayne’s. He saw an opening; part way down the pier, a tiny, dilapidated shed squatted on the edge of the platform, its door bent off at the hinges.

  Just as Zayne passed the shed’s entrance, Racath dove. His shoulders connected with the back of Zayne’s legs, knocking the Human off his feet. In a single fluid motion, Racath twisted around as Zayne tumbled over top of him, regained his footing, and grabbed Zayne by the throat before he could land on the docks.

  The Human’s startled exclamation was squelched beneath Racath’s fingers. His eyes were wild with shock. Without pause, Racath dragged him by the neck into the shed.

  The small building reeked of neglect. Rust and river slime covered the piles of fishing equipment sitting on broken shelves. In the corner, a hole opened up where decay had collapsed a section of the floor, allowing the river to lap hungrily at the planking.

  In Racath’s hands, the Human struggled and sputtered fruitlessly. Racath slammed him into the wall. The feeble little shed shook under the force of the impact. Racath pinned him there against the wall, holding his feet several inches off the ground.

  “W-what the faul, you bastard!” Zayne gasped as Racath loosened his grip just enough for him to speak. The fear in his one good eye was covered by outrage. “We agreed that this was just going to be a conversation! I held up my end — no guards, just like I promised! What the faul is your problem?!”

  “I’m not your contact,” Racath scowled. “But I have a vested interest in both of you.”

  “Then who the faul are you?! What do you want from me?!” Zayne demanded, pulling uselessly at Racath’s grip on his neck. Then he looked more closely into Racath’s eyes. “Wait…you’re that damn scamp from the Rivet! How…how do you know about—”

  Racath answer came in a flash of Ioan steel as he opened the Stinger on his free hand. The new blade seemed to glimmer menacingly, bloodlust on its virgin edge.

  Zayne blanched at the sight of the weapon. “Bloody piss…you’re…” he trailed off, mid-word, terrifying realization striking his face. “Oh, gods—”

  “Last I checked,” Racath cut him off, his tongue sharp as the Stinger’s blade. “Your Church frowns on gambling. Or is it only a sin if you lose money? Either way, I don’t think your gods are going to save you tonight.”

  Racath watched the indignation in Zayne’s eye melt away, exposing the fear beneath. Racath had chosen his words carefully, and his intentions seemed to click in Zayne’s mind with the word save. The Human panicked.

  He thrashed against Racath’s grip and one of his arms broke free. There was a hiss sliding metal as Zayne grabbed an ornamental knife that adorned his waist. Before Racath could stop him, Zayne rammed the weapon into Racath’s side.

  However, Zayne, in his fright, had failed to understand something. You see, the Genshwin Shadow was long ago designed to allow unhampered motion, and nighttime camouflage — but also offer a limited amount of protection, should the wearer be attacked. The cloak-coat of a Shadow is made of thick leather sheathed in black cloth. In some places, the leather is as many as two or three layers thick. And, unfortunately for Zayne, his knife was more of a fashion statement than a weapon, something dainty and jewel encrusted. He had bought it as a way of boasting his gambling winnings, not as a defensive tool. The blade was just dull, friable tin — it wasn’t even designed to be drawn.

  Thus so, the ornamental knife met dismal failure. It hit leather over Racath’s rib and bounced off. Irritation flared from the offended point on Racath’s body like flash-fire. He let Zayne drop from where he held him against the wall, at the same time jerking one leg upward.

  As Zayne’s feet had a reunion with the rotted floor, Racath’s knee cordially introduced itself to the Human’s genitals.

  Zayne made a sound that I find difficult to describe.

  Racath did not stop there. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted, and broke every bone in his hand. He ripped the knife away from Zayne’s mangled fingers, tossing it through the hole in the floor. The water swallowed the gaudy thing with a frothy gulp.

  Zayne wailed a wretched cry, a cry that could have woken the residents of a cemetery. But the river ate the sound, covering it with its own churning before it could reach the ears of anyone beyond the pier.

  Snarling, Racath grabbed the man again by the throat, holding his Stinger aloft. “Nice try,” he spat. “Next time, I break your neck.”

  “What do you want from me?!” Zayne bawled again, tears spilling down his face from both the blind eye and the good. “Merciful gods, what do you wa-ant?!”

  “I want your informant,” Racath growled. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know!” Zayne sobbed, his face a sickly green and twisted in agony. “We’ve never spoken in person before! I’ve never even seen his face! He contacted me, indirectly, told me he could sell out some Majiski cult in exchange for asylum!”

  “Asylum from what?” Racath demanded.

  “How the faul should I know?! I’m just—”

  “Tell me about tonight,” Racath interrupted, shaking him.

  Zayne groaned pitifully. “Tonight was supposed to be our first face-to-face. There’s an old fishing sloop at the end of the docks. Big twenty-footer, the owner’s lent it to Dominion Intelligence for the night. I’m supposed to meet him on the deck. He said he’d give me some more details on the Majiski in exchange for lodging at the city barracks until we can confirm his information.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that he…he—” Zayne bent at the stomach, and Racath narrowly sidestepped the deluge of vomit that erupted from the Human’s mouth. Coughing, Zayne surfaced from his fit and wheezed weakly at Racath. “He said…after that he’d give…give us…the rest….All of it. Names, maps…everything he’s got on them.”

  “How does he know?” Racath asked, his teeth grinding.

  “Do you think he told me?!” Zayne tried to shout. “I dunno, maybe he got piss-drunk with one of them and it spilled everything.”

  “It?” Racath repeated, anger prickling the hair on his neck.

  Zayne furrowed his brow, confused. “One of them freak Majiski cultists,” He said it like he thought Racath had misunderstood him. “Gods, man, I wasn’t being literal—”

  Racath smashed his forehead into Zayne’s face. The Human’s head bounced off Racath’s hard skull, cracking hard against the wooden wall. Zayne yelped in pain again, like a kicked dog.

  “What the faul—!”

  “Those cultists?” Racath seethed. “Those freaks? Are my family.”

  Realization dawned in slow horror on Zayne’s face. “You’re…”

  “Is there anything else I need to know about tonight?” Racath asked coldly.

  “N-no, man!” Zayne stammered, the wild look back in his eye. “I swear! That’s everything, seriously!”

  “Absolutely everything?” Racath emphasized, his voice a low omen.

  “Yes, that’s all! I swear to Xaoc!” Zayne said. “Now, look, will you let me go? I’ll leave, I promise, I’ll walk away. I’ll never touch this again.”

  Racath glared at him for a moment, then looked back at the hole in the floor. “Remind me,” he said slowly, thinking. “Who is Xaoc again?”

  Zayne looked perplexed by the question. “Uhm…he’s the god of chance and unpredictability.”

  Racath turned his eyes toward the hole in the floor. “Your patron as a gambler, then.”

&n
bsp; “That’s right…” Zayne said, confused. “Look, are you gonna—”

  “And if I remember right,” Racath continued. “He’s also the god of the sea, and by extension the lord of rivers. Yes?”

  “Yes…” Zayne answered slowly. “Where are you going with this?”

  Racath turned his eyes back onto the Human, doing his best to wither him with his glare. “You’re a parasite, Zayne Alyward,” he stated. “You leech off your people’s oppressors so that you can play games. Every time you rolled those dice, every time you prayed to Xaoc for luck, you betrayed Humanity. Betrayed Io. Just like your superior. And his superior in turn.”

  Zayne stared at him, dumfounded. “I…pardon?”

  Racath felt his face return to a scowl. “You’re an addict,” Racath told him, shutting his Stinger. “So I have a new game for you. I think you’ll enjoy it. Here’s how it goes.”

  He kicked twice, slamming the heel of his boot into each of Zayne’s knee caps. Zayne’s legs bent backwards with wet, unnatural snaps. Zayne screamed again. Racath clamped his hand down over Zayne’s face, stabbing his fingers into both eye sockets. The agonizing wails were stifled under Racath’s gauntlet.

  “You pray to that heathen god of yours,” Racath continued spitefully. “You pray for luck, and take your chances with the river. Your odds aren’t so great with three broken limbs, but who knows. Maybe Xaoc will hear you. Maybe he’ll come for you. But I doubt it.”

  Holding the gambler by the face, Racath shoved him toward the hole in the floor. Zayne staggered, fell backward, only barely catching himself by grabbing onto an old fragile shelf. He scrabbled, body suspended over the watery maw, desperately trying to get a better purchase, but his broken legs betrayed him. He looked pleadingly at Racath with watering, bloodshot eyes.

  “Please, don’t—!”

  “Goodbye, Zayne. Tell Felsted that Azrael says hello.” Racath planted his foot on Zayne’s chest and shoved.

  Zayne splashed into the water, his scream cut short as he submerged. The river grabbed him, pulling him under. He clawed at the surface, frothing foam curdling up as he tried to grab the edge again, frantic prayers sputtering from his mouth. But the hungry current swept him up, dragging him away from the hole. The ravenous river sucked him down, devouring him in its starving, suffocating jaws. He sank. His prayers faded away. No god heard him. No god saved him.

  Racath brushed off his hands, adjusted his Shadow, and left the shed. He’d heard drowning was an agonizing way to die. He hoped it was true.

  The spot on his side where Zayne had tried to stab him throbbed obnoxiously. It would be a lovely bruise by tomorrow no doubt, but it was merely painful. Nothing serious. A small price to pay.

  ——

  At the end of the wharf, Racath found the sloop that Zayne had spoken of. He boarded it via the narrow gangplank. The deck was flat and broad. A single sail rose up near the bow, and a blocky cabin squatted at the aft end.

  He crouched behind a trio of barrels near the cabin door and waited, watching for any approaching silhouettes on the pier.

  After a minute or two, a noxious smell reached his nose. It reeked like a soup made of curdled milk and rotted eggs. After a moment, he discovered source the source of the stench — one of the barrels. Looking around to make sure no one was coming down the pier, Racath stood and pried the lid off the barrel.

  The smell washed full force from the open barrel and into Racath’s face. Gagging, he looked inside. The inside of the barrel was solid iron — strange — and it contained a transparent, watery fluid that gave off the awful smell. What the hell was this stuff?

  Curious, Racath peeled a splinter off the barrel’s outer casing and dropped it into the fluid. The second the splinter hit the surface, the liquid bubbled and hissed. In a few short seconds, the splinter disintegrated into a powdery puddle on the surface.

  Racath realized now: this was drep. An acid that fisherman used to clean guts off their equipment. It wouldn’t corrode metal, but anything organic would break down and dissolve on contact. Good God, what kind of idiot would put something like this on a rocking boat?

  Footsteps on the gangplank startled him. Racath ducked back behind the barrels, the shadows shrouding him. Heart pounding in his ears, he watched between the deck between the barrels.

  Someone stepped onto the sloop. A man. He wore a dark cloak, his face hooded. His posture was tall, proud, straight. From this angle, the man was silhouetted against the horizon, obscuring any details of his figure.

  So this was he. The one who planned to sell out the Genshwin. The leak. Some Human, maybe a former Genshwin asset like Elias, who the Genshwin had trusted with their secrets.

  In the distance, the bell towers rang out. Eleven o’clock. The man looked out over the railing, momentarily turning his back on Racath. Racath took that brief opportunity to turn and climb onto the roof of the cabin, giving himself the higher ground. Dropping to a prone position on the roof, he waited for the man to get closer. Maybe he could end this with a single pounce.

  “No need to hide, Zayne,” the man called, looking around. His voice was deep, smooth and dark like molasses.

  The voice tickled something in Racath’s mind. Memory. Recognition. An itching familiarity stopped him cold. He knew this man…but who was he…?

  “I have your information, Human,” the informant called again in the same smooth, familiar voice. He drew a parcel from his cloak and placed it on a crate that sat next to the mast. “As promised, the location of the assassins’ safe-houses in the city. Come on out.”

  Human. The man said the word the same way a Demon might, as though he himself were not Human. Racath looked again, his new position offering him a slightly better view. There was something achingly familiar about the cloak the man wore. The way it fell around his ankles and…wait….

  No….

  There was a long knife strapped to the man’s left shoulder. His cloak was open at the front, but kept from billowing about by a chest-piece that housed a half-dozen knives. On his hip was a glinting curve of metal — a folded quad-bladed throwing weapon. A vindur’scain. And he wore leather gauntlets. Sickeningly familiar leather gauntlets.

  Stingers.

  This man was a Genshwin.

  And Racath knew him. The broad shoulders, the beguiling serpentine voice, the way he held his hands slightly out in front of his body.

  “Jared?” Racath hadn’t even realized he was standing, hadn’t even planned for the word to escape his lips.

  The man tensed. Slowly, he turned, looking up from the deck to see Racath standing atop the cabin, Shadow against sky. Beneath his hood, the man slowly shook his head.

  “I should have figured Mrak would send someone…” he said, almost to himself. “Is that you, Thanjel?”

  “Yes—”

  “I thought as much,” the other Genshwin sighed. “Where’s Zayne?”

  “Dead,” Racath answered. The word sounded distant even as he spoke it. Detached. Like someone else had said it. The shock had turned his tongue heavy and cold, like icy lead. “But…so are you! Jared, you’re supposed to be—”

  “Dead?” Jared repeated. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Sorry to disappoint you, Thanjel.”

  “Jared…” Racath whispered, his voice breaking. “What…what the faul are you doing here?”

  “You know exactly what I’m doing,” Jared replied, dispassionately. He absentmindedly brushed at the sleeve of his Shadow, as though Racath’s astonishment were boring him. “I’m sure Zayne told you. Before you killed him.”

  Every beat of Racath’s heart was panging with confusion and betrayal. It felt like broken church bells in his chest. “But…why?”

  “Survival,” Jared answered dismissively, like it should have been obvious. “The Genshwin’s fight was lost a hundred years ago, Thanjel. Mrak is on the losing side. So I got out. It was easy, really — no one looks for you when they think you’re dead. And now I’ve gone searching for new patrons, as it were.
”

  “How could you?” Racath choked out, his voice cracking again, tears burning in his eyes.

  Jared shrugged. “You’re a Majiski, you should understand. You’ve felt the desperation, the fear. I didn’t want that anymore. The Genshwin are going to die, Thanjel. Do you not understand that? Between Mrak’s insanity and the Demon’s efforts, the Genshwin won’t last another ten years. It’s inevitable. All I want is to be on the winning side. Surely, you cannot condemn me for that.”

  “Condemn you?” Racath repeated incredulously. “I trusted you…we all trusted you. You were a Genshwin, you were family! You spent your whole life fighting against the Demons, fighting for Io, and now you’re just going to turn around and throw that away?! You’re going to just…leave us, your family, to our deaths because you’re afraid of dying?!”

  “Yes,” Jared said impassively. “And for what it’s worth, Thanjel, I’m sorry.”

  Racath shook his head. The vacuum of despair that had racked his heartbeat a moment ago became a bellows, fueling the blameless rage rising in his chest. The pain was still there, tearing at his soul, but it was buried now, covered by the rousing hurricane.

  “Sorry?” Racath echoed. “That’s all you have to say? Sorry?! You would kill everyone who ever loved you, and all you can say is sorry?!”

  Jared turned away from Racath, as though he might walk toward the gangplank. “Yes.”

  “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” Racath yelled, his hands balling into shaking fists. “God damn you, Jared, look at me!”

  Jared paused and looked back over his shoulder.

  Racath shook his head a second time, teeth grinding. “God damn you, Jared,” he said again. “You’re no better than the gambler I just pushed into the river. You’re no better than the cowardly officer I poisoned. And you’re no better than their fat, wretched superior in Litoras, who betrayed his countrymen in exchange for candied pecans and pomegranate juice. You’re just like those men, Jared. A traitor.”

  Jared laughed a mirthless laugh. “Oh, look at you, Thanjel. All grown up now, all high and mighty. What gives you the right to stand up there and call me a sinner? What makes you any better? You’ve always talked about just how precious Human life is, and yet you revel in the blood of the men you’ve killed? Humans who you slaughtered so brutally? If I’m a traitor, than aren’t you just a murderer? Your soul is just as forfeit as mine. What makes you any different from—”