by S. G. Night
Racath leaned forward, impatient. “And?” he prompted.
The older Majiski seemed to snap out of a trance. “Hmm? Ahh, yes, my apologies. So, in the sixth century, the people of Calisto grew tired of the Jederics. Rebellion started, and the Great Civil War of Calisto began. Io sent troops and resources to aid the rebels, and in Year 624, we overthrew the Jederic Church. Calisto adopted the Ioan constitution and opened up trade and diplomatic relations with us. And for the next two hundred years, the world was perfect.
Oron’s face darkened. “Then came High King Nivad I in Year 871. He ushered in a dynasty of corruption and weakness for Io. We became prideful, wicked, and frail. And we paid for it in blood, and the end of the Age when Nivad IV was King.”
“The invasion,” Racath assumed.
Oron nodded. “Correct. The Demons came in Year 958. They came out of the wasteland to the south. And now that you know where the Demons came from, that should mean a lot more to you, yes?”
Racath thought about it for a while. “So…at some point, the Demons sailed east from Oltamn with their Arkûl and Goblins, landed in the south, and prepared for an invasion?”
Another nod. “That is my theory, yes.”
“But…why?” Racath asked. “What did they want? What were they looking for?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Oron responded. “They were looking for revenge. Revenge for what had been done to them. It took them two mortal Ages, but somehow they had learned about Io — God’s chosen land. The perfect place to strike against those who wronged them.
Racath made a face. “That’s it? That’s all they wanted? Revenge?”
“Think about what they did to Io, Racath,” Oron said. “They conquered the cities. Burned the High Library and the Litoran University. Purged Jedan religion. Built the Grey Wall. Created magical storms to prevent ships from leaving the coast. Burned every book they could find. They wanted us to suffer, so they cut us off from the entire world, from God Himself. Cut off, just like they were. We were the world’s leader, and they tore us down and plunged us into an era of darkness, ignorance, and fear.
“But their revenge cut even deeper than that. Think back to what the Seraphim wanted to do with Golzar and the rebellious Arelim.”
Racath thought for a moment, remembering what Oron had read out of taj Libris Io. “The Human wanted to subjugate them,” he answered. “The Majiski wanted to destroy them. The Elf wanted them exiled.”
Oron looked at Racath expectantly. “Notice anything about that pattern?”
There was a moment of silence. Racath took a breath, about to ask Oron what he meant, but then realization struck him and his breath stuck in his chest. His eyes widened. “Oh God….”
“See it now?” Oron said. “They came to strike back at the Seraphim for what they sought to do to the Arelim. And they’re doing it by hurting the Seraphim’ posterity. They took our Human leadership and crushed it under their thumb. They cast out the Elves, never to be heard from again. They butchered our kind, driving us to the brink of destruction. Just like each Seraph wanted to do to them.
“So now the Majiski exist only in secret. The Elves live on the edge of myth. The Humans are subjects, slaves, or cronies of the Dominion. The Demons govern us from behind the walls of our old castles, rarely venturing out into our midst. The Arkûl enforce their reign. The Goblins terrorize villages in the name of the Dominion. And meanwhile, the world on the other side of the wall is in shock, wondering where the hell the Commonwealth of Io went.”
All the air went out of Racath. He drooped back into his chair. “God…” he said again. “Now it all makes sense.” A thought coming to him, and he frowned. “But…where does the Demons’ religion come into this? If the Demons know all about God and the Seraphim, where did Mnogo come from?”
Shutting the book, Oron chuckled smugly at Racath. “Damn, you’re sharp, boy. It took me years to ask that question. And we didn’t even know the answer until a few months ago. And it is, in fact, the answer to that question that prompted Mrak to send you here.”
Racath cocked his head quizzically. “Oh?”
“Recently,” Oron explained. “The Scorpions intercepted a letter. A letter that, as it turns out, was written by one of your targets. Unin Tangaree. From it, we were able to deduce the true nature of the Dominion’s internal structure. The nineteen Mnogo gods? They are not extra-planar deities. They are images of the nineteen Demons that form the head of Dominion, one of which is certainly the Imperator.”
“So that’s what you meant…” Racath said slowly. “When you said you were going to teach me how to kill gods.”
Oron inclined his head in affirmation. “Correct. We believe that if we can find one of the nineteen and strike against them, the others will be drawn out. If we find them, we find the Imperator. If we kill the Imperator, we destroy the Dominion. To this end, I have tasked the Scorpions with chasing down leads while I train you here. That’s why we need to accelerate your training — we need to act quickly, before the Demons learn anything more about the Genshwin than they already have.”
“I see…” Racath murmured. “And when did you say—?”
Before he could finish, Nelle bounded back into the room. She wore her black tunic, cloak, and shortswords once more. “I’m ready! You boys finished?”
“I believe that we’ve covered what we needed to, yes,” Oron said to her. He gestured for Racath to stand. “ Do you have any questions, or are you ready to continue?”
Shaking his head, Racath stood. “I think I’m ready.”
“Good!” Oron replied. “Then it’s time you showed us what you’re made of. Collect your Shadow and your gear and come outside. We’ll meet you in the pit.”
Nelle shot a grin and a wink at Racath, then exited the living room again, heading for the front door. Oron stood from his seat and started for the foyer.
“Wait,” Racath said, puzzled. “What pit?”
The sound of Nelle’s knowing laughter echoed from the foyer as the door shut behind her. Smirking, Oron followed her out. “Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
TWENTY
One Rule
The touch of sunlight was alien on Racath’s face. Strange. Foreign. Yet it tantalizingly familiar, like the caress of a forgotten lover. Don’t misunderstand me: it was not the artificiality of the light that made it seem strange. Rather, it was strange to him simply because he scarcely knew the sun at all.
In the time before the Demons, it would have been easy for you to take the daylight for granted — I know I did. But Racath had lived his entire life under Io’s shrouded skies, deprived of even summer’s sunshine. He did not know true sunlight, and so the domus’s sun was just as unfamiliar to him as the real, cloud-wrapped sun outside. He relished it.
He paused on the porch for a moment. Hesitated. And then brushed his hood back. For a moment, its absence left him feeling exposed — naked. But when the gentle breeze sifted through his hair, his lungs filled with soothing mountain wind. The air was pure here. No stenches of city filth, no odor of rain, no clamoring din of urban noise.
Exhaling that gasp of fresh air, Racath stepped off the porch. He walked around behind the cottage, passing by the garden and the chicken coup. Around back, he discovered something he had not noticed the day before: an expansive, circular pit about twenty feet in diameter. It dug more than ten feet down into the earth, inner walls lined with smooth, grey stone. A set of narrow stairs led from the plateau’s surface down to the pit’s floor. The floor itself was carpeted in a thick blanket of yellow sand.
Oron and Nelle stood side by side in center of the ring; Oron was holding a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle that stuck out at both ends. Both of them looked up as Racath approached.
“There he is!” Oron said cordially. “Come on down here, Racath.”
Unsure where this was heading, Racath looked back at the set of stairs leading down into the pit. Honestly, they could no
t have been more inconveniently placed — they were exactly opposite him across the pit, as far away as was possible.
Faul that. Racath stepped out over the edge and dropped to the sandy floor. Brushing himself off, he looked back at the two other Majiski.
They were watching him expectantly. The excitement and anticipation he had felt during Oron’s lecture quickly faded, and was replaced by a creeping unease deep in his gut. The way they were looking at him only served as a reminder of the impossible burden they were asking him to carry as the…Krilati. He kept his distance.
Oron chuckled at him. “Relax, Racath.”
“What?” Racath said defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“Your shoulders are tense, you keep clenching your fists, and your feet are planted like you’re about to run,” Oron told him, setting the bulky bundle down in the sand as he spoke. “You should work on hiding your discomfort. Try relaxing your arms, calves, and jaw. It’ll make your movements smoother. Talking helps, too. Takes away from the anxiety.”
Racath found himself fumbling. “I…it’s just — this is all strange to me.” It came out sounding like an excuse. “I’m not used to this. This environment.”
“Understandable,” Oron said. “You’re out of your element. You’re used to being in control when you’re among the Humans. And when you’re in Velik Tor, you’re used to being at ease with your peers.”
“Exactly,” Racath said. “I’ve always had the higher ground — or at least been on equal ground with the people around me. But here…to be honest, I’m not used to being at someone else’s mercy. Being at a disadvantage.”
“What about Demons?” Oron pointed out. “Are you not at their mercy? Do they not intimidate you at all?
Nelle snickered. “I would find that very hard to believe.”
Racath set his jaw. “That’s different,” he argued. “Demons can be fought.”
“And I cannot?” Oron pressed.
Racath couldn’t tell if the older Majiski was genuinely curious, or trying to prompt some profound answer out of him. “I wouldn’t want to fight you,” he answered carefully. “I see you as an ally and I respect you as such. But I don’t think I’m comfortable standing with my back to you, yet, if you know what I mean.”
“So I am something that you feel you might need to fight…that you couldn’t fight,” Oron surmised. “You feel vulnerable, and that bothers you.”
Was that a question or a statement? “I guess,” Racath shrugged.
“I value your honesty,” Oron said. “Don’t worry yourself too much. Trust will come with time. And gratefully, there’s a way to help that along.”
He tossed back the cloth wrapping on the bundle. An assortment of martial equipment was revealed within: swords, staves, quarter staffs, knives — all manner of weapons, both real and training-oriented, made of glimmering Ioan steel and dark, polished wood.
“I’ve always found that the best way to build trust with someone is to fight them,” Oron grinned. “Sparring allows you to delve deep into the other person’s psyche. It’s an intimacy. It teaches you their every nuance. Reveals their experience. It shows you how they want you to see them, and shows you how they view themselves.”
He sifted through the pile of weapons and extracted a pair wooden training staves. Each stick was about three feet in length with black leather wrapping the handle. The wood was round, richly colored. Glossy. Hard as stone.
“Catch.” Without warning, Oron tossed one of the staves at Racath.
Racath blinked and staggered back, barely managing to snatch the training weapon from the air. “Wait — what?”
He had just enough time to hear Nelle laugh before Oron lunged. The older Majiski crossed the space between them in a single leap, training sword in hand. The rod of polished wood blurred in a graceful arch toward Racath’s face.
Caught flatfooted, Racath’s reflexes faltered. He only narrowly managed to bring his own sword up and block the attack. The strike was like lightning, and the impact was the thunderclap. Racath’s arm reverberated down to his elbow, his weapon ringing like a bell.
Oron struck again with impossible speed and Racath struggled once more to defend himself. A storm of flurrying assaults ensued, driving Racath back step by step until his back hit the wall. Oron hooked his training sword behind Racath’s ankle and pulled. Racath’s foot went out from under him; he flipped head-over-heels into the sand.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Oron examined the tiny dents in his training sword where their weapons had collided. “How did I beat you?” he asked, as if he were teaching a child how to play xardez.
“I wasn’t ready!” Racath protested, dragging himself up onto his elbows with a wince. He spat sand, his face burning with embarrassment and anger. He noticed Nelle guffawing off on the sidelines.
Oron’s eyes jumped back onto Racath. “And do you think that the Demons will give you a fair start?” The rebuke was hard, harsh, but not angry. “Do you think they’ll wait for you to be ready?”
Racath didn’t answer. He just spat more sand off his tongue and glared back at Oron. His was blood pounding in his ears and his entire body tingled from the influx of etheria that boiled in his veins.
Oron looked him up and down, frowning. “You were never taught the sword,” he observed.
“No!” Racath snapped. “There wasn’t ever a need to. They’re conspicuous and hard to run with. Not something a Genshwin finds useful.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you,” Oron said. “But you are a special case, Racath. You, of all people, will need to know how to use a sword.”
“I of all people?” Racath growled. “And why is that? Will I be disqualified as savior of the world if I can’t?”
Oron’s eyes darkened at Racath’s sarcasm. “That isn’t important right now,” he responded in a flat, dangerous tone. “You’ll understand in time. But for now, you’ll learn the sword because I say it is necessary. Because you promised me that you would do as I instruct.”
That stung at Racath’s pride, the same way it did when Mrak would tell him what to do. He swore quite profanely to himself, already starting to regret that promise he’d made the night before. He finally grumbled, “Fine.”
“And you need to learn to be perpetually on your toes,” Oron continued, sounding like a teacher again. “It’s a habit you have to develop. And I’m going to beat that habit into you by doing this—” he gestured at the pit. “Attacking you when you least expect it, over and over, until you learn to see it coming every time. The Scorpions will do this to you, too. They’ve learned to understand people through fighting; you can bet your teeth that they’ll both rush you as soon as you’ve crossed fingers. They won’t be considerate about it. They won’t make concessions. And they won’t ask if you’re ready!”
With the last word, Oron struck suddenly downward with his training sword. This time, Racath had just enough foresight to roll over backwards, coming to his feet. But Oron followed through faster than Racath expected; the training sword struck him across the chest, back and hamstring before he could even bring his own weapon to bear, driving him to one knee with a furious grunt.
Spinning his training sword offhandedly, Oron began to circle Racath like a shark encompassing its prey. His slow, deliberate steps hemmed Racath in. Trapping him inside a predatory ring. Racath didn’t feel like a kestrel anymore. Now, he was just the mouse beneath the raptor. Helpless. Vulnerable. Weak.
“You’re footing is sloppy,” Oron remarked. “You need to be aware of where your feet are at all times.”
Racath’s breaths seethed as he expelled gasp after panting gasp through clenched teeth. How could Oron be beating him? Him?! The Genshwins’ finest, brought to his knees by this old man!
“You see, Racath,” Oron said conversationally, his training sword twirling ominously as he continued to circle Racath. “When I was training High Paladin, they would try to feed you this idea that war was governed by honor. It was all about h
onor to them. Honor was the reward for serving in combat, and honor favored the side with the best intentions. There were rules of engagement: things that you weren’t allowed to do in war. Rules that, if followed, led to honor — but if broken, brought dishonor. And death was always preferable to dishonor. They would grind these ideas into you, drowning you in the dogma until eventually you started to believe it.
“And to a limited extent, I believe they were right: I do believe that some good can come from bloodshed. There is valiance in a righteous cause. But honor…honor is not valiance — valiance is something else entirely. In the years since the invasion, I have learned the reality of honor. The Demons showed us that reality. So this is your next lesson.”
He looked down at Racath with eyes that were hard from a lifetime of cold, bitter truths. Racath glared back up at him. When Oron spoke again, his voice was firm, but not resentful or cynical.
“Honor is a lie,” he said as he circled. “There is no honor in war. War is not a respecter of persons. War is neither reasonable, nor balanced, nor fair. The victor isn’t the man who fights the fairest, the man who makes concessions, expecting that his enemy will offer the same in turn. The victor is not the man who confronts his enemy face-to-face on level ground. The victor is not the man who has the most honor in the end. The victor…is the man who’s still standing after the blood has dried.
“Their so-called rules of engagement were complaints written by defeated men to excuse their incompetence. They were written because, at some point, one warrior was clever enough to stab his enemy in the back, and his enemy shouted no fair.
“Was it fair?” he asked rhetorically. “No. But since when was fairness the purpose of war? Was that man a coward for exploiting his enemy’s weakness? No. He was smart. He may have had no honor, but at least he was alive. His enemy was not.”
Oron shook his head at Racath. The way the older Majiski spoke sounded like he was speaking from experience, like he’d made some grave mistake once and wanted desperately for Racath to avoid the same fate. There was sincerity in his meaning behind the darkness of his words, like he was striving passionately to impart his knowledge to Racath, that he might not be led astray.
