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

by S. G. Night

  Racath nodded. “I remember.”

  “Now, according to what is written here,” Oron tapped the ancient parchment. “The Demons retained their power over the barbaric peoples of the Goblins and the Arkûl. I assume that it is from Oltamn that the Demons we know today sailed from — across the Olhar ocean, to land in the southern wastes of Devilend, where they prepared their invasion against Io. But while still in Oltamn, they labored with dark Magicks, seeking to free the outcast Arel spirits from the other plane.”

  “Were they successful?”

  “Partially,” Oron answered. “We don’t know exactly to what extent they were successful — we lost that part of the record. But we can say with some certainty that they did succeed in getting at least some of the spirits free from the other plane.”

  Racath thought for a moment, remembering what Oron had read him out of taj Libris Io. “What about Golzar?” Racath asked. “The Arel Seraph who started all this. Was he freed, too?”

  Oron held up his hands. “We don’t know.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “To say the least,” Oron agreed. “But, back to point. This act of freeing their exiled brethren created an important distinction amongst the Demons. The freed Arel spirits were incorporeal, and so the Demons sought out ways to provide them with physical bodies. The results were abominable but functional, and thus a wave of newly-made Demons joined the originals. Before, there had already been several archetypes among the Demons, but the new additions — in their botched, artificial bodies — were different, and so a handful of new archetypes were added to the list.”

  “Are the newer Demons especially different from the older ones?” Racath asked.

  Oron nodded curtly. “That’s the distinction. The Demons divided into two classifications. Greater Demons — those who had been mortal at the time of the Perdition, and also some of the Arel spirits who had already lived, died, and acquired a new body. And Lesser Demons, including those spirits who had yet to be born, whose bodies were crafted for them by their brothers. Together, the Greater and Lesser Demons make up the nineteen Demonic archetypes.”

  Oron waved his hand at the empty space beside him. His markara shifted and the air wavered, and an illusion began to form. “I will now show you these archetypes as I have come to know them, but through this record, and through my own experience.”

  “Hence why we needed to step outside,” Racath assumed.

  “Precisely. I want you to learn them, their strengths, their weaknesses, their origins. Everything. Evil has many faces, and you must learn to recognize all of them, or it will deceive you.”

  “Alright then,” Racath said. “Show me.”

  The illusion shifted, and then resolved into two separate shapes. One was a woman, tall, slender, and elegant. Her eyes were unearthly, glimmering with an otherworldly spark so imperious that Racath felt a chill creep down his spine.

  The second was male, monstrously large and budging with muscle, a furious scowl imprinted on his frozen face. Both of Demons could have passed for Human, if it weren’t for the female’s eyes and the male’s enormous size.

  The shades weren’t animated, but Racath could still remember the aura of fear that surrounded the Demons he had encountered before.

  “We’ll begin with the Greater Demons,” Oron said, gesturing at the shades. “Starting with these two — the Incubus, a purely masculine archetype of great strength and aggression, created from Arelim who possessed great strength in mortality. And his female counterpart, the Succubus, lustful and enchanting, born from a she-Arel of great beauty. Both are extremely gifted with mind-Magicks and glamoury, and both are particularly carnal in nature. These twin archetypes were probably the least physically-affected by the Perdition, but their aggression and sensuality, respectively, were greatly amplified.”

  “And how do I kill them?” Racath asked flatly.

  Oron smirked. “Succubi will try to entrance you, both with glamoury and their natural charms. They’re very difficult for men to resist, even Majiski. They have a little less power over women, but the affect is still there. You know how to resist glamoury, but I promise you, my hexes are nothing compared to what one of these can throw at you. Your best bet is not to look at them at all, to block out the sound of their voice. Don’t underestimate them, either — there’s a lot of power underneath the smooth exterior. If you can resist them, it will throw them off. They aren’t used to being denied.”

  Racath bit his lip. “And the other?”

  “Incubi are masters of intimidation,” Oron said. “They will inspire fear and obedience in those around them. They tend towards War-Magicks, and they’re one of the more physically adroit archetypes. But they have a weakness for women of the mortal races, which can easily be used to your advantage if you’re trying to create a diversion.”

  ——

  Oron continued on from there. He went through each archetype of the Greater Demons, and then the Lesser types.

  First, he would describe them, presenting Racath with an illusionary shade that depicted a general description of their appearance, and then discuss their origins in the lore of the Demons’ history.

  Elementals and their bodies of fire and lightning, derived from an Arel who once had powerful a corobna dosdom. The towering, chitin-clad Behemoths, which Racath recognized as the archetype belonging to the Demon he’d killed in Vale, Vrag the Red. Golems and Flesh Golems, whose bodies had been wrought for them from stone or wood or the flesh of the dead. Each shade was more terrifying and disturbing than the last. Some of them made him feel mildly sick.

  Oron would then elaborate as to each archetype’s strengths and weaknesses. Their habits and desires. Imps, for example — Lesser Demons with overlong, gangly bodies assembled from raw matter by dark Magicks — were fast, and had retractable claws made of true metal, and peculiar feet that could swivel and reshape themselves to latch onto walls (or people), but were devoid of magic. Bael Demons were masters of darkness, chaotic energies, and sorcerous powers, but were terrified of bright light, were easily distracted, and possessed only a semi-corporeal form, and therefore lacked any kind of physical strength.

  Oron revealed them all to Racath. Racath listened closely, learning every word his master said. This lesson, above all others, was probably the most likely to save his life one day.

  ——

  “The Fallen,” Oron said, introducing the eighteenth face of evil. This time, several shades appeared to represent the single archetype. At first glance, the images appeared relatively benign, humanoid. Any of them could have passed for a Human, Elf, or Majiski. But as Racath looked closer, he noticed that they all bore some distinguishing characteristic, something that made them definitively not-mortal.

  One, a man with a hard face and burning eyes, had skin the color of blood from head to toe. Beside him, a female shade, was a variant of the same: this one’s entire body — hair, eyes, and skin — was pure, pitch black, like she’d been doused in tar. A third seemed to have scales coating his flesh. His eyes were narrow, angled, and vaguely reptilian.

  “This is what comes of a non-Arel mortal who succumbs to Perdition,” Oron explains. “They inherit the Demons’ curses of immortality and sterility. While they do retain their natural bodies of flesh and blood, and while they suffer a lesser deformity than the Arelim did, some part of them changes in an aberrant manner — skin, eyes, etcetera. Beyond that, though, they remain much the same physically as their former self.

  “Their powers amplify, but the inherent traits of their original race are still evident — a Fallen Majiski will still be strong of body and project war-Magicks through his markara, a Fallen Elf will still project arcane power through his skin, and a Human will still remain barren of magic.”

  As he examined the shades, a memory came rushing back to Racath’s mind. The image of a once-familiar face, now twisted and repulsive. Waxy, hairless skin, beveled by bulging blue veins. Nose sunken and corpselike. Eyes — that had once
been the color of rich coffee — changed to snakelike slits of scarlet. A wicked, bloody smile across wicked, pointed teeth.

  “Wait,” Racath gasped.

  Oron frowned, confused. “Yes?”

  “You said…this can happen to a Majiski, too?”

  “Any mortal race, yes.”

  “And a Majiski who falls,” Racath continued. “They would appear changed? Like these shades? Could they look…deformed? Snakelike? Like they had mutated?”

  “That falls within the spectrum of the Fallen’s physical manifestations,” Oron affirmed. “It is not usually that extreme, but it happens. What are you asking, Racath?”

  “The leak in the Genshwins’ security,” Racath explained. “The mole I was sent to eliminate. It was one of us: Jared, a Talon who went missing a few months back.” The memory surfaced again and Racath suppressed a shudder. “When I fought him…after I got his hood off, I saw that his face had been…changed. He looked…serpentine, almost. His eyes were red and his hair was gone. His skin was all slick, and…he didn’t look mortal anymore. Is that what you’re talking about? Could that be what happened to him?”

  Oron’s frown deepened. “Yes. It sounds like it.”

  “But how?” Racath asked. “How is it done? How could he have—”

  “I suspect that Jared has his own story,” Oron said. “And a troubling one, by the sound of it. It is impossible to know for sure — while the Demons are familiar with the ritual of perdition, we still know almost nothing about it. Jared may have been taken in by a Demonic agent, or meddled with dark forces beyond his control. He may even have found a way to do it to himself, if he wanted to.”

  “God…”Racath breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “It all makes sense now. That’s why he wanted to defect to the Dominion. He’d become one of them!”

  “Indeed,” Oron said. “Disturbing, to say the least. But it is of little consequence now. Shall we continue?”

  Racath took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “Now, finally, the rarest and most powerful, Oron announced. “The Necromantic.”

  The Fallen shades faded, and a new illusion resolved. Well, sort of. It resembled a hazy, vaguely man-shaped blur.

  “Uh…” Racath said skeptically. “Is that actually what it looks like.”

  “Not really, no.” Oron admitted. “This is just a placeholder. I’ve never truly seen a Necromantic. No one has, and there’s no illustration from the Demons’ book. But they are described as terrible, malevolent beings of unmatched power — they are those Arelim who had already lived before the Perdition, died, were exiled with Golzar, and upon returning from banishment, reentered the remains of their deceased bodies.”

  “Pleasant,” Racath said dryly. “And what am I supposed to do when I run into one?”

  Oron shrugged. “Nothing, really. Run like hell, I guess. I’d postulate that there’s a reason no one’s ever seen one.”

  “Uh huh…” Racath murmured under his breath. “Got it.”

  “I’m serious, Racath. You don’t understand. These are the greatest of the Greater Demons. Those who lived, died, and lived again inside the body that God had given them before the fall. Such a being is not to be trifled with.”

  “No, trust me, I see the problem,” Racath amended. “How the hell would you kill something that’s already died and come back?”

  “Indeed,” Oron sighed. “And that’s the scariest part — I have absolutely no idea if you even could kill something like that.”

  ***

  THIRTY

  As Far as She Could Throw Him

  A knock thudded on the armory door. Alexis pulled her head back from the swelter of the forge fire, frowning at the interruption.

  “Faul.” She yanked the bar of iron she’d been heating out of the forge and threw it unceremoniously into a nearby barrel full of quenching water. The barrel spat steam as the half-heated metal hit the surface. “Always when I’m in the middle of something….”

  The interloper knocked again, harder this time. “Alexis?” The voice was too muffled for her to recognize.

  “Yeah, yeah, hang on!” Slouching her way through the maze of material chests, work benches, and junk that cluttered the armory, Alexis went to the door. As she went, she untied her hair from the tail she’d been keeping it in.

  When she pulled on the handle, the door remained stubbornly shut. Alexis scowled; damn thing was stuck again. She yanked harder, and the door grudgingly popped open.

  She was greeted by Toren, wearing a blithe smile, standing straight and tall — much taller than she was. His light brown hair neat as ever.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  Toren raised his eyebrow at her. “Oh, it’s me?”

  “What? Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Alexis actually felt herself blushing. Hopefully, it would just blend in with the flush of having her head in the forge all day. “I just thought you were out on a job.”

  “I was,” Toren responded. “I just got back this morning.”

  “Oh.” Alexis waited, but Toren didn’t just say anything else. He just stood there smiling politely. “So, uh…what’s up? Just stopping by to say hi, or…?”

  “Equipment problem, actually.”

  That dampened Alexis’s spirits slightly. “Ah. And to think I thought you just enjoyed the pleasure of my company.”

  She pushed the door open a little wider, then headed back into the armory. “Come on in then, let’s have a look.” she sighed, waving Toren in after her. Sitting down at a workbench covered in a layer of tools and scattered materials, she tucked her raven hair behind her ear and waited as he shut the door and followed her. “What did you break this time?”

  Toren held up his right arm, showing her Stinger gauntlet he wore. The leather was scratched and torn in places, and the metal beneath it appeared warped out of place. “Stinger trouble,” he said unashamedly. “It won’t seem to open.”

  Alexis gave him a dubious look. “Uh huh. Lemme see.”

  Toren slipped the gauntlet off and handed it to her.

  “Bloody piss!” she gasped woundedly as she saw the full extent of the damage. “What the hell did you do to it?”

  “Uh…nothing?” Toren fumbled, confused. “It just…stopped working.”

  Alexis brandished the broken Stinger at him, showing him the massive slash mark in the leather, revealing the steely metal underneath “This isn’t nothing, Valgance! I have no idea what it is, but it’s definitely not nothing.”

  “Well…uh…” Toren mumbled, his eyes darting around as though looking for an escape. “Uh…an Arkûl came at me with an axe two days ago…and I used my arm to block it.” The large Majiski looked profoundly guilty. “Do you think that that could have done it?”

  Alexis gave him a blank look. “Oh yeah. That definitely could have done it.”

  “I thought that the metal sheath thing inside could take the hit…” Toren said sheepishly.

  “Metal sheath thing?” Alexis repeated, offended. “It’s called a housing, dip-piss. And that’s exactly what it’s built to do — house things. Not deflect axes. Ioan steel is great stuff, but I didn’t design this thing to be a shield.”

  “Oh…” Toren said meekly. “Sorry…can you…fix it?”

  Alexis leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course I can fix it.” She let the implication hang in the air for a while she glared at him.

  Toren looked bewildered as Alexis just sat there motionless, fixing him with her startling green eyes. “Err…will you fix it?”

  Alexis kept silent, her expression expectant, like she was waiting for something in particular.

  “What?!” Toren demanded defensively.

  “I’m a lady, Toren,” Alexis told him dryly. “You don’t just demand things of me. Magic words, please?”

  Sudden understanding blossomed on Toren’s face. “Ohhh…I get it. Can I try again.”

  Alexi
s nodded magnanimously, a smug grin forming on her lips.

  Toren cleared his throat and started over, his voice formal and dramatic. “Most High Mechanist Alexis?”

  Alexis giggled once, all too pleased with herself. “Yes, Toren?”

  “Will you please fix my Stinger for me?”

  Alexis favored him with an appreciative nod. “That’s much better. Yes, I will. If—” she held up a warning finger. “ — If you promise not to break any more of my babies.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good.” Alexis leaned forward again, selected a handful of tools from the workbench, and started disassembling the gauntlet. Drawing back the leather exterior, she examined the inner machinery. “So,” she said conversationally as she began to unscrew the housing. “What exactly happened, anyway?”

  “I just told you,” Toren said, perplexed. “Arkûl with an axe? My last job? Ring any bells?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got that, but what exactly was your last job?” She looked up at him meaningfully. “Or are you not allowed to talk about it?”

  “No, I am,” Toren said, taking a seat across the workbench from her. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. No Demons, or anything. Just some minor nobleman here in Oblakgrad. He apparently was spreading some conspiracy theories around town about a fortress full of Majiski under the city.”

  Alexis frowned at him while she worked. “And Mrak sent you to take care of it?”

  Toren appeared stung. “Why not me? I’m a Talon, aren’t I?”

  “Exactly,” Alexis said. “That sounds like something that would fall into the category of loose ends. Doesn’t that make it Liquidator jurisdiction?”

  “Usually, yeah,” Toren conceded. His grin returned, self-important and proud. “But apparently Mrak wanted it done right. So he sent me.”