by S. G. Night
Rachel’s voice chimed in. Why? she asked. What’s going on?
Trouble, came the chilling reply. Hikshaa.
Nelle almost swore aloud. She had to adjust her tactics — she had to keep Monger entertained. Her mind raced. An idea struck her and she latched onto it. Composing herself, she held up her hand just before the Baron could take her by the chin.
“Now, now, My Lord,” she said imperiously. “There’s no need to stop there, is there? We have so much more to drink to.” She lifted her glass again, a wry smile across her lips. “My turn?”
Monger hesitated, looking as though he might protest. But then he chuckled to himself as he brushed his mane of blood-red hair over his shoulder. “Well, I suppose there’s still plenty of brandy to go around.” He refilled his glass, nodding his consent. “Your turn.”
“To you, My Lord,” Nelle answered with a shallow curtsy. “To your home and your gracious hospitality.”
She could have sworn she that she saw Monger literally inflate.
“Cheers to that!” the Demon agreed, draining his entire glass again.
Nelle took another tiny sip.
——
“Nothing to say, quicken?” Hikshaa sneered. “No final defiance before I kill you?”
Racath glared back at the Demon. He halted the fear in his veins before it could freeze him. He killed it, squashed it, burned it away until there was nothing left but hate.
Smooth as candle fire, he stepped into Kestrel stance and opened both Stingers. Their edges gleamed in the night. “Last words are for the dead and dying, Demon,” he growled. “I am neither.”
Hikshaa laughed at him when he heard Racath’s voice. “Ha! You’re just a pup! Gods’ blood, your kind never learn!”
“We’re stubborn that way.”
“So bold,” Hikshaa cackled. “No fear at all. Amazing.”
“I’ve never really seen the point of being afraid,” Racath replied acidly, holding his muscles tense.
“You should learn the value of fear, boy,” Hikshaa taunted. “I should frighten you. You should be terrified. I am older than sand, and stone, and Time Himself. I have seen mountains crumble, oceans parch and dry, and the passage of millennia across the Ages. I know you for what you are, Majiski. I have killed scores of your kin, all of them stronger and older than you. You really ought to be terrif—”
“I know you for what you are, Hikshaa,” Racath interrupted. “You’re an Imp. A Lesser Demon. Weak, meritless, and — unlike the rest of your kind — utterly devoid of magic. Sterile. Barren. Inferior. You’re barely worth the skin that clothes you.”
Hikshaa froze where he stood, his scarlet eyes growing wide.
“But I,” he proclaimed. “Am Racath Thanjel, son of Seth, and Sarah. A son of Father Gospodar, and of Mother Talk’ra — the true gods. The blood of Cyrus and Tarek and all Majiski runs in my veins. I slew Vrag the Red in the town of Vale. I killed the Demon Jared who was once my kin. And I destroyed the Archfiend Briz’nar on the Milonok Bridge.” He stood tall, powerful, his own eyes burned with furious fire. “I am Racath Thanjel. And you are in my way.”
Hikshaa leered again. “You did all those things? How kind of you to tell me — now I will truly be praised when I bring back your lifeless corpse! The honor that I shall be given for slaying the Dragon of Milonok….” His forked tongue flicked musingly. “Unimaginable.”
“Oh,” Racath said darkly. “I don’t intend to let you tell anyone.”
Hikshaa’s back arched like a cat with its hackles up. He held his splayed hands out, ready to claw Racath to pieces. “Then come. Let us decide this. One against one. A contest of honor between you and me.”
Hikshaa’s words summoned a memory. Words that Oron had said several months before on Racath’s first day in the pit. The victor isn’t the man who confronts his enemy face-to-face on level ground. The victor isn’t the man who has the most honor in the end. The victor is the man who’s still standing once the blood has dried.
“Keep your honor—”
He sprang, Stinger flashing toward Hikshaa’s heart. Caught by surprise, Hikshaa threw himself backward in a desperate attempt to avoid Racath’s blade. The Stinger’s tip grazed the Demon’s bare chest, drawing a thin red line across the skin.
Relentless, Racath swung a heavy strike downward with both Stingers. Hikshaa growled and brought his claws up in time to block the blow. The iron-like claws and Ioan steel Stingers locked together. Racath’s smile was mocking as he pushed against the Demon.
“ — I just want your blood.”
Hikshaa’s snarl was like an unearthly predator, pouring out over his mouthful of terrible fangs. His shoulders flexed and he shoved Racath away, his claws breaking free of the blade-lock.
Rather than hold his ground and risk being knocked off his feet, Racath stepped backward to mitigate the force of Hikshaa’s push. The Demon snarled again and swiped his open hands at Racath’s face thrice in quick succession. Racath dodged the first attack, deflected the second with his right Stinger, and caught the last with a hard block on his left blade.
The force of the impact jarred him to the elbow, but he ignored it and planted a kick on the flat of Hikshaa’s chest, sending him staggering back. His Stinger dove for the Demon’s exposed neck.
But the Demon was faster. Hikshaa slashed upward with his other hand, and the claws caught the Stinger mid-flight. The blade shattered. Reflexively, Racath ducked his head to shield his eyes from the shower of fine metal shrapnel.
The Demon took his chance and struck. Racath hurled his torso backward, back-flipping away from Hikshaa. The wicked claws caught only air. The distance bought Racath enough time to glance down at his gauntlet and assess the damage.
The blade, formerly more than a foot of sharp Ioan steel, had been reduced to a jagged stump, too short to be used as a shiv. He cursed hastily and shut the weapon. He drew his long knife to replace it and rushed Hikshaa again.
Hikshaa roared a challenge. Racath tackled him around the middle, driving them both down onto the copper roof. Straddling the Demon, Racath lifted his knife overhead to stab his enemy in the chest.
But Hikshaa was too large for Racath to pin down. The Demon brought its foot around and smashed it onto Racath’s chest. The foot seemed to warp, to bend, like it was molding itself around Racath’s ribs, stopping him cold. Hikshaa shoved.
The short claws of Hikshaa’s toes scratched Racath through his Shadow, and he was tossed away like a bundle of straw. He flew several yards up into the air and landed in a heap a dozen feet away. His head cracked against the roof. His vision spun and blurred, smearing red and black. He was distantly aware of the clanging sound his knife made as it skittered across the copper roof, off the edge, and into the night.
He dragged himself to his feet, off balance. Hikshaa pulled himself upright as well, his jaws and ghastly hands open wide, and began to stomp toward Racath.
Great, Racath thought. No knife, no right-hand Stinger. Now what? His throwing knives were of no use at such close quarters. Magic would be no good to him either — if he started shooting off bolts of fire, the guards on the grounds would notice for sure.
Then he remembered. Daragoian. Of course. He still hadn’t grown quite accustomed to carrying a sword that he’d almost forgotten it completely. As this thought struck him, he suddenly felt the katana emanating warmth across his back, and the Pyre stirred inside his mind. They — both the sword and the Pyre — were begging to be unleashed.
He drew Daragoian in a silver flare of adamantine. The blade almost to shimmer with eagerness: it was ready to fight. Hikshaa lunged. Katana raised, Racath charged to meet his foe.
——
“My turn, again!” Monger crowed, refilling his glass for a sixth time. “Hmm...” he stroked his beard musingly. “What to drink to this time…”
Nelle was almost panting with relief. Monger seemed to have taken to the drinking game with remarkable enthusiasm. Maybe, just maybe, she could get him d
runk enough to allow Racath the time he needed.
“Ahh!” the Baron exclaimed. “I’ve got it!” He raised his glass to hers eagerly. “To Brahn Martell, for bringing a prize such as this.”
His choice of words struck her deeply. Bringing, he had said, like she was a newly bought horse fetched from the livery. Prize, like she was some glimmering ornament that he’d hang on his wall and brag to his friends about, or stare at once in a while. This, he had called her, not you.
She pleased him, intoxicated him, that much was certain. But she wasn’t a person to him. She was a product. It brought an involuntary frown to her lips, but Monger didn’t notice. She drank another sip, the last of the foul brandy disappearing from her glass. It was only her second drink, but compounded with the wine, even that was too much.
“Your turn,” Monger laughed haplessly, sloshing more liquor into his glass.
Nelle resurrected her outward smile and refilled her drink as well. “To us,” she toasted him. “To a night well spent.”
A mischievous glint flashed across Monger’s liquor-glazed eyes. He took a step closer. “Here, here,” he whispered, giving her a significant (if inebriated) look.
Whoops. Nelle had meant for that last toast to further flatter his ego, to make him feel like he’d been a gracious host — not to seduce him! She drank hastily, hoping to divert him. “Uh…Your turn again, My Lord?”
The Demon pursed his lips. His eyes flickered to the bed. “To satin sheets,” he finally said. “And to large beds and sleepless nights.” He set down his glass. “I think I’ve had enough to drink for now.”
He slinked his arm around her waist and pulled him close to him. His touch was not gentle, and his hand was not afraid to wander.
A trickle of cold sweat ran down Nelle’s back. Racath, where are you? she said in her head. I’m running out of ideas.
I’m trying! Racath shouted back. Do whatever you have to! I’ll be there as soon as Hikshaa’s —
He cut off again.
Racath?!
No answer, but she could still feel his presence in the distance. He was still alive, at least. The fight with Hikshaa must have been demanding all of his concentration. Nelle tried to think, but her head was foggy from the brandy. She had to do something…but she was running out of options.
Nelle lifted her eyes to Monger’s, looking deep into those red, selfish holes. The bastard was too drunk to notice her Majiski pupils. Do whatever you have to, Racath had told her. Well, there wasn’t much of a choice now. So she reached up and undid the pin that held her hair in place. Wobbling her shoulders, she shook it out in a cascade of tangled gold.
“I should say so, My Lord,” she croqueted. “Why don’t you show me those satin sheets of yours?”
Monger bent and pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss was not loving or affectionate. Just ravenous and hungry. The Demon’s hands moved up and down her back, gripping her fiercely. She hadn’t felt so violated in a hundred years. But she reciprocated, pressing herself against his gargantuan chest and planting unfeeling kisses on his neck.
Monger threw off his coat and shirt, revealing the rock-like muscles of his torso. “Lie down on your back,” he commanded, walking her toward the bed as he went after her lips again.
She remembered what Brahn had said about how Monger occasionally enjoyed a woman who took charge. She needed to take back control.
“I don’t think so, My Lord,” she shook her head. In my experience, I’ve found the view from on top to be much more to my liking.”
Monger’s laughed a lustful laugh. He started to kiss her neck in turn, tugging at the shoulders of her dress. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so cold. As they came closer and closer to the oversized bed, Nelle could only bring one thought into her mind: where are you, Racath?
——
Racath, where are you? I’m running out of ideas.
Nelle’s voice broke through to his mind as he dueled with the Demon on the roof. He focused, trying to muster enough concentration to communicate with her while keep up his whirlwind of sword- and Stinger-strikes.
I’m trying! he managed between parries of Hikshaa’s claws. He struck back, attacking with Daragoian and his Stinger in turn, driving the Demon away. Do whatever you have to do! I’ll be there as soon as Hikshaa’s — !
Mid-thought, he tripped as Hikshaa dodged his follow-up assault. Hikshaa swatted him across the face with the back of his hand. Racath’s concentration shattered, the blunt side of the Demon’s claws grinding across his skin. Dazed, he stumbled, and Hikshaa threw his shoulder into him. Racath was knocked over backwards again, Daragoian flying out of his hand. The sword landed with a clatter on the other end of the roof.
Hikshaa stooped down and hoisted Racath into the air by his neck. Racath gasped and choked as the Demon’s powerful fingers squeezed his windpipe. Growling, the Demon dragged Racath by the throat to the edge of the roof and held him out over the edge.
“A good fight, Majiski,” Hikshaa rasped between breaths. “There is spirit in you. But now it’s time for you to leave.”
Racath’s mind raced. Both his hands were free, but it was taking all his strength to hold his body up by Hikshaa’s wrist. If he were to let go and try to strike at Hikshaa with his Stinger, he’d start to choke and suffocate. He flailed, trying to kick at the Demon with his feet. But Hikshaa’s overlong arms stretched too far out from his body for Racath to reach him.
Directly below Racath’s feet was the sloped side of the roof. If Hikshaa dropped him, he’d bounce off the edge and fall five stories to the ground. He might be able to grab onto the roof and pull himself back up, but the Demon could very easily reach down and push him off the sloped surface. Or Hikshaa could just toss Racath out over the edge and save himself the trouble.
The Demon laughed at him. “I’d forgotten just how fun it is to kill your kind, quicken.” He began to tighten his grip.
Racath tried to suck in a breath, but it stuck in his windpipe as Hikshaa cut off his airways. He choked, gagged. He tried to breathe again, but his lungs were pumping in futility. The back of his neck stung where the Demon’s claws bit into his skin.
“This is my favorite part,” Hikshaa told him cruelly. “Others of my kin like to hear your screams, but myself…I prefer to watch you try to scream, and be unable.”
Racath was cold. The world was turning black around the edges. He was dying. He tried to call the Pyre, but he could no longer feel it. He couldn’t focus long enough to summon it. It was as if by choking off his breath, Hikshaa had choked off his ability to contact the fire in his mind.
He didn’t realize this at the time, but Racath has told me since that this was the first time that he felt like he was truly on death’s doorstep. He had been in peril before, but his skills and abilities had always reassured him of success. But now it all meant nothing. He was going to die. Die, and leave all of this unfinished work behind.
He thought of Nelle and Rachel inside the house. They would wait for him, wait for him to come and finish the job. And he wouldn’t come. And they would be discovered, captured and executed. His friends would die. He would fail.
It was then that he crossed a threshold.
You see, there is a line that all beings cross before they can be forced to their deaths. Once they cross that line, everything inside their mind vanishes and is replaced by a single, overpowering urge: the desperate, animal drive to live.
When Racath crossed this line, he became that animal. He became the wounded wolf, the cornered hart. And the will to live, the need to survive, consumed him.
Desperation ripping at him, Racath’s hand pulled the vindur’scain from his belt. He flicked it open, the weapon unfolding into a four-petal blossom of Ioan steel blades. He swung it at Hikshaa’s arm. But the Demon seized him by the wrist, stopping the weapon cold.
“You have nerve, quicken,” Hikshaa hissed. “But your fight is over now. Die. Die and—”
Racath flicked his wrist
. The vindur’scain flew out of his hand and past Hikshaa, arcing out into the night.
“Now, now, none of that,” Hikshaa growled, squeezing tighter. “You are far beyond help now, Majiski…”
Hikshaa continued speaking, but Racath wasn’t listening. The sounds of the world had faded into a dull, blurry hum in head skull, and the last of the light was dwindling from his vision. But with the last flickers of his eyesight, he watched the silver gleam of the vindur’scain. He watched it as it flew out over the roof, spinning like a pinwheel. He watched it catch the wind, bank, and turn. He watched it circle back, its blades whirring like the wings of an angry wasp, arcing towards its point of origin.
And he watched it imbed itself in the Imp’s shoulder with a fleshy thuck!
Hikshaa wailed in pain and reeled backward, clawing at the weapon in his shoulder. He dropped Racath, and Racath sucked in an explosive gasp as he fell.
Air flooded Racath’s lungs, and oxygen filled his bloodstream. The world snapped back into sharp focus as he slammed into the sloped edge of the roof. Wheezing, he dug his fingers in, forcing his body to stop before it could slide down off the ledge. Before Hikshaa could stop him, Racath dragged himself back onto the roof before Hikshaa could stop him.
Daragoian. He needed his sword.
He saw it, lying lonely on the other side of the roof. On his hands and knees, he scrambled toward the katana. Hikshaa, still shrieking, yanked the vindur’scain free of his body and threw the bloodied weapon away.
Racath reached for the sword. Grabbed it. Turned.
The Demon pounced.
——
“Take off your gloves,” Monger breathed through his veracious kisses. “Touch me.”
At the edge of the bed, Nelle’s heart froze solid. Her perfect seduction faltered and she could only stammer in response.
“Err…um…n-no, My Lord, I…uhh…I’d prefer to keep them on, if it’s all the same to you.”
Monger paused and pulled back to look at her callously. “It’s not all the same to me,” he said, a hint of anger rumbling beneath his voice, like distant thunder. “I insist.”
