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

by S. G. Night

  “Shut up!” Racath roared, his shout echoing over the water. “Every target I’ve chased down in these last few weeks — Unin, Felsted, Zayne, and now you — all of you are wretched failures! Too scared to fight, too frightened to die on your feet, so you just give up and lie down. Caring more about your own skin than doing what’s right. Willing to let the weak suffer so you might survive! So don’t you dare try to make this about me and my sins. This is about people like you. People like Unin, Felsted, Zayne, and you, unwilling to sacrifice — you’re just as evil as the Dominion. People like you are the poison on the Demons’ teeth. You’re like lead in Io’s veins. You sicken me. All of you. You sicken me!”

  Jared threw up his hands in frustration. “What do you want from me?! To die for the Humans? Why should I sacrifice my life for them? Why do I owe them a single drop of my blood?”

  “Our fathers died so we could live, Jared!” Racath raged. “So that we could live to protect Io, not abandon it!”

  Jared shook his head incredulously. “I can’t believe that you buy that old-world piss, Racath.”

  Racath jumped down from his perch and alighted on the deck, a mere ten feet from the other hooded Majiski. “I can’t believe you don’t,” he said, standing straight — he stood taller than Jared. “And I can’t believe you, of all people, can stand there and betray everything we ever stood for.”

  “Save your breath and tears for someone else,” Jared barked. “I’ve made my decision. You can’t guilt me. I just wish that you would see reason like I did. Come to your senses.” Suddenly, his anger relented. He held out his hands to Racath, inviting, his voice mellowing again into the familiar saccharin smoothness. “Come with me. It’ll be just like old times. You and me? We can survive together.”

  “Faul you,” Racath answered. “I don’t want to survive. I want to live, or die fighting.”

  Jared’s hands lowered, turning to fists as they fell. “You’re a fool, Thanjel.”

  “And you’re toxic.”

  “So what happens now?” Jared asked casually. “Zayne’s dead, but I can always find another just like him. And I will not allow you to stop me.”

  Racath took a single, deliberate step forward. “And I won’t let you destroy everything that I believe in.”

  “An impasse, then?” Jared chuckled.

  He drew his long knife in his left hand, and his Stinger opened over his right. Holding the Stinger slightly behind him and the knife in a reverse grip out in front, he shifted smoothly into an expectant stance. It was the primary pose for the Adder, Jared’s preferred Stinger echelon.

  Racath responded. Both Stingers opened, the blades shining furiously in the faded light. With fluid familiarity, he stepped into a half crouch, right arm drawn back in a cocked fist, the other held out parallel to his chest. This was his own favored echelon — the Kestrel.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Jared asked. His face was still hidden, but Racath could hear the mocking smile on his words. “You never could beat me before.”

  “You’ve been gone a while,” he shot back. “Things change.”

  “Goodbye, Racath,” said Jared. “I really am sorry.”

  They faced each other, two Shadows at odds in the thickening darkness. The Kestrel and the Adder, the raptor and the serpent.

  Warily, they began to circle each other, each step precise and calculated. Silence reigned over the deck — even the sounds of the city and the lapping of the river seemed to pause, as if to reverence the impending conflict.

  Racath watched every movement Jared made, and he could see his enemy doing the same. Searching for an opening or a tell that might betray an attack. The minutes dragged on, and they circled…circled…

  Without warning, the Kestrel attacked: Racath pulled a knife from his chest-piece and hurled it at Jared. Jared spun sideways. The weapon narrowly missed his ear, and embedded itself in the wood of the starboard railing.

  The Kestrel dove — Racath closed the space between them in a single lunge, striking low with one Stinger and stabbing high with the other. But the Adder recovered in time to slither out of range of the lower attack and parry the thrust with his knife.

  Racath spun on his heel in a full circle, putting as much momentum as possible into his arm, and launched a forehanded strike at Jared’s neck. Jared bent backward to evade the attack, but the tip of the Stinger slipped just under his hood, barely grazing his shadowed face. Snarling, Jared swung his knife under Racath’s follow-through, attempting to bury it in Racath’s ribs.

  One of the beautiful things about Genshwin Stingers is that they’re bound to your arm, leaving your hand free. This fact allowed Racath to use his left hand, still wearing the Stinger, to catch Jared’s wrist. The knife halted just short of piercing Racath’s side. Racath whipped his right arm back around and smashed his elbow into Jared’s temple.

  Jared staggered, and Racath ducked under the arm that he held, pivoting so that his back was pressed into Jared’s chest. With a savage yank, he pulled Jared’s arm down over his shoulder, flipping the treasonous bastard onto the deck with a grunt and a bang.

  Racath stomped down, aiming to crush Jared’s face into the deck. Jared rolled away, scrambling back to his feet as the heel of Racath’s boot put a splintered crater into the wood. Pouncing, Jared slammed a turning kick into the side of Racath’s head.

  Racath was knocked off his feet. It felt like his brain was bouncing around inside his skull as he crashed to the planks. He gasped, his vision tinted by a smear of crimson.

  With a deep, cruel laugh, Jared bent and stabbed down at him. Racath rolled onto his back. The knife missed him, burying itself deep the deck planks. Bringing his foot up, Racath hooked his leg around the back of Jared’s neck. He jerked his foot downward, using Jared as a lever to somersault back to his feet. The force of the maneuver pulled Jared’s face-down onto the deck.

  As Jared tried to wipe the blood from his eyes and crawl back upright, Racath came back around and planted a powerful side kick into Jared’s ribcage. Something cracked under Racath’s boot and Jared was thrown more than five feet into the portside railing.

  The Kestrel dove again, reaching for the wounded Adder: Stinger raised, Racath leapt, but Jared somehow stood fast enough to parry the strike with his own Stinger, deflecting Racath’s blade into the wooden railing.

  Before Racath could pull the weapon free, Jared snapped his own kick into Racath’s sternum. The impact knocked Racath backwards, nearly dislocating his arm as his Stinger was wrenched free from the rail. Slivers of shredded wood sprayed like the needles of a shaken pine tree.

  He rolled end-for-end three times before he managed to get enough leverage to plant his feet and skid to a stop. Jared growled low in his throat, stepping back into Adder stance, replacing his lost knife with a second Stinger. Racath tried to stand, but nausea and dizziness throbbed from the blow to his head. Seeing his opening, Jared lunged.

  Shunting the pain to the back of his mind, Racath mirrored Jared’s movement and the two blades of Ioan steel met in a flash of sparks.

  The Adder made war on the Kestrel, and the Kestrel returned in kind. Stingers became blurs of silver like dancing ribbons, more sparks flying as edge grated against edge. With the ferocity of two colliding storms, the Genshwin swung, stabbed, kicked at each other — chained together dozens of forms and strikes and stances, meeting in a rage of opposing wind. The ringing peels of ricocheting metal melted together into an unending song that shook the air.

  Racath moved as the Kestrel, striking from above, employing strings of flat and vertical blows and fluid pivots. Jared, the Adder, parried and countered with his pair of fangs, always returning to his defensive stance, ready to rear and snap his teeth at the Kestrel.

  Both struggled to compensate for their own injuries: Racath battled through the foggy delirium in his skull, and Jared nursed his broken ribs. They each sought to exploit the other’s weakness, searching for the single upper hand that would decide the vic
tor.

  Ducking under another counter-attack, Racath spun and lashed out with a low forehand aimed at Jared’s belly. Jared jumped back, then forward again to stab at Racath’s face. The Kestrel leaned to the side, the Adder’s strike overextending.

  Racath smirked: mistake. He snaked his arm around Jared’s, pinning it to his side. Racath flexed, twisting. A wet snap sounded; Jared yelled in painful frustration as his arm broke at the elbow. He thrashed wildly with his left Stinger.

  Releasing the neutralized appendage of his enemy, Racath flicked his own Stinger inside Jared’s attack. Jared shouted again — Racath’s blade glistened a satiated sanguine as it severed the tendons of Jared’s bicep, biting into bone.

  Blood sprayed. The Adder’s fangs were broken. The Kestrel wasted no time in seizing his serpentine foe. With both of Jared’s arms nullified, Racath grabbed the traitor by the Shadow and dragged him to the guard rail. Shoving Jared’s torso most of the way out over the side, Racath held him suspended over the water.

  “I told you,” Racath spat. “Things change.” He punched Jared in his broken ribs.

  The traitor coughed and wheezed, then laughed a laugh that was wet with blood. “Maybe,” he said. “But killing me won’t change anything. The Dominion will find the Genshwin eventually.”

  “Eventually, maybe.” Racath hissed. “Not tonight.”

  “Perhaps,” Jared choked out, his arms flopping as he struggled fruitlessly to pull himself back onto the boat. “But it’ll cost you some of those precious Human lives.”

  Racath felt a chill run down his spine. “Why?” he demanded, shaking Jared by the collar. “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” the traitor laughed weakly. “The Dominion passed an edict today. Thanks to me, they know the Genshwin exist, even if they don’t know where to find you. So, in response, they will punish any death — any killing they can pin on the Majiski — with the execution of Human citizens. Starting tomorrow.”

  Jared lifted his head, and his hood fell away, revealing his face for the first time. Racath swore, surprise jolting his whole body.

  Jared’s eyes, once a pleasant chestnut color, had changed. Now they were bloodshot, snake-like and scarlet. He was strangely bald, his head entirely devoid of any hair. Bulging veins splayed out under alien, waxy white skin. His nose was sunken like that of a decayed corpse. His pointed teeth were dyed red as blood dripped onto his wicked smile.

  “And I wouldn’t doubt them, if I were you,” he hissed, his tongue purple and forked. “Believe me when I say the Demons tend to keep their promises.”

  Panic seized Racath. He suddenly didn’t care what had happened to Jared, what had made him like this. He didn’t care how this could have happened. He didn’t care about this thing that had once been a friend. All he wanted was for it to die.

  Looking around in a frenzy, he saw salvation — the barrel of drep, its smell wafting from the sloshing surface. He dragged the creature that had once been Jared over to the barrel, gripping it tighter as it cackled madly in his arms.

  Taking the not-Jared by the throat, Racath dunked it, head-first, into the barrel of acid. The cackling cut short as the monster was submerged up to its shoulders in the liquid. With no working arms to save itself, it splashed and flailed uselessly in the drep, kicking wildly.

  Racath recoiled and scrambled away. The acid splashed over the lip of the barrel, bubbling and turning spots of the deck to sludge. Jared flailed like a beached fish for more than half a minute, then his flopping slowed and grew sluggish. The crippled body went limp, sliding deeper into the drep. The clear fluid grew cloudy as it filled with dissolving flesh and the melting fabric of Jared’s Shadow.

  Panting, Racath sagged against a crate, struggling to regain his composure. Exhaustion and confusion were catching up to him. Shutting his eyes, he put his head back against the box. His concussion — he definitely had a concussion — beat a tattoo in his skull.

  Painfully, he leaned to the side and vomited onto the deck. He could feel the color leaving his face, his skin becoming slick with sweat.

  A worried chirp sounded above him. Racath smiled weakly as he wiped his mouth with shaking hands. Looked up, he saw Sokol perched atop the mast. The gyrfalcon watched him with dark, concerned eyes.

  Racath nodded at the mess of vomit, a product of his concussion, anger, disgust, and shock. “I’m afraid I don’t feel so great, dear,” he called up to her.

  Sokol fluttered down to land on his shoulder. Racath shut his eyes again, enjoying a moment of mild respite.

  The gyrfalcon tweeted again and nuzzled his clammy cheek.

  He stroked the crest of Sokol’s head half-heartedly, his mind bleary and far away.

  “No,” he answered. “I have no idea what the hell that was….And I’m not sure I want to.”

  Sokol seemed to shrug sympathetically, nipping his ear.

  “God…” he grumbled. “I’ve got to get out of this city.”

  THIRTEEN

  Slobada Zauvijék!

  Racath couldn’t remember how he had gotten back to the Manji Tor. Somehow he had stumbled back down the wharf and over the Bridge, ending up passed out in a chair inside the safe house.

  Waking up again was a bleary, nauseating process. He slid in and out of consciousness for a good three hours, his head lolling back and forth as he tried to come to. When he finally managed to rouse himself, his vision was smeared and blurry, and his heartbeat sounded like a gong inside his skull.

  With difficulty, Racath extracted himself from his chair and dragged himself over to the small pantry in the corner, home to the safe house’s stock of remedies and medicines. His forehead held gingerly in one hand, he squinted into a small mirror mounted inside the cabinet. A bloody lump had formed on his head where Jared had kicked him — Racath needed no reminders that the only thing that had prevented the blow from killing him a dozen times over was his the rock-hard density of Majiski bones.

  Fumbling around inside the cabinet, Racath sifted carelessly through a clutter of vials and bottles until he found what he was looking for: a small bottle of thick, pink fluid. He took a generous swig.

  The relief was almost immediate. Suddenly, he could see straight again and the pounding in his head dimmed to faint, pulsating throb. Huzzah.

  Shaking his head to dash away the residual fuzziness, Racath took another gulp. Only this time did he register that the unguent had an aftertaste like bile mixed with morning breath. Grimacing, he pocketed the vial. A dose every few hours for two days should keep the swelling in his brain down long enough for his body to repair the concussion. Hopefully.

  It was time for him to leave. Sokol observed him from her perch above the cloak rack as he collected his belongings and replaced them into various sheathes and belt pouches. The money he had accumulated from Jax’s payment and the Four-and-Twenty game wouldn’t all fit into a single purse, so he sorted them into several different pouches on his belt.

  If he took the rooftops to the edge of the city, he wouldn’t have to worry about concealing his weapons. A good thing too, since he would have to lug the bolter back to Oblakgrad. He’d had to keep the crossbow hidden in the Manji Tor during his stay here, and he knew Alexis would be far from happy that he hadn’t tried it out.

  Slinging the crossbow over his shoulder, Racath grabbed a loaf of stale bread and a bit of cheese. Sokol took her cue and flew over to his shoulder, and together they left the safe house. After reengaging the locks, Racath scaled the wall of the deserted alley, rising up into the open air.

  ——

  Racath had no desire to deal with the guards at the eastern city gate, so he eventually found himself in the Burrows again. The Dominion didn’t care about the Burrows, so the gate on this side of the river would probably have fewer Arkûl tending to it.

  Sokol flew lazy circles over Racath’s head as he moseyed across the rusty sea of crowded rooftops. He was in no particular hurry. Even through the pervasive stench of brown ri
sing up from the streets, the open sky soothed his lungs with its cool, gentle breath.

  As he walked along a rooftop that lined one of the few plazas, he felt his belt hitch as something tugged at it.

  Impulsively, Racath spun and grabbed, his hand finding purchase on the nape of a small Human boy. Gripping him like a naughty puppy, Racath lifted the child into the air so that they were eye-to-eye.

  The boy’s eyes bulged, terror nailing down his tongue. Racath noticed a small piece of bottle-glass in the boy’s hand. He rolled his eyes; the little faul had tried to cut his purse!

  But before the angry words in his throat could reach his lips, something made him hesitate. He looked the boy up and down. Maybe ten years old, the kid wore only dirt and burlap rags (mostly dirt). Bones stuck out all over his body, and his skin was grey and gaunt. His hair resembled a bird’s nest overturned on his head. He couldn’t have weighed much more than a bag of potatoes.

  Old memories snagged at Racath’s chest. Memories of a little Majiski child, not much younger than this boy, on the streets of Oblakgrad. Dirty. Wet. Cold. The feeling of starvation, like your skin is drawn to tight across your body, hollow on the inside. Hunger, so deep you could feel in your bones, your eyes, your teeth. Desperation, so potent it was like acid in your blood. Fear, ever present, like hoarfrost on your joints.

  Racath’s anger vanished like a torch smothered by water. Gently, he set the boy down on the rooftop. The urchin just stared at him in awestruck silence. He looked pitifully small, standing there gawking up at the Majiski.

  Blinking a tear away from his eye, Racath swallowed the rock in his throat and crouched down so they were at eye-level again.

  “Next time,” he said softly, pulling the half-cut purse from his belt and pressing it into the boy’s hand. “Just ask.”