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

by S. G. Night

  Everything was unraveling. Her seduction, her demeanor, the act, the plan…everything was coming undone. All because of her. “N-no, My Lord…” she croaked, looking away from his eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Take them off.” The thunder was growing now, threatening a storm.

  Nelle shook her head sharply. “No. My Lord, I—”

  “How dare you defy me!?” Monger suddenly exploded, drunken indignation etched into his face. “Who the faul do you think you are, wench? You can play mistress all you wish, but you would do well remember your place! You are a slave. You are mine, bought and paid for. And you shall obey me!” Monger grabbed at her hands, pulling at her gloves, yanking them off her.

  “No!”

  Nelle tried to resist, but Monger tore the satin gloves like rice paper from her arms. And he saw her scars. The twisting, angry-red scars that covered her from palm to elbow. Scars that told of something that had been removed. Scars that looked like the remains of a Majiski’s markara.

  “Impossible…” Monger murmured, seizing her by the wrists. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “You cannot be….” The false Baron looked into her eyes, squinting. He saw the shape of them. And Nelle watched the realization dawning in his face. “…Quicken.”

  The slur was like a burning arrow in her chest. All of her fear turned quickly to anger, spite, and hatred. A sudden boldness blossomed in her breast, and she stood straight and tall, staring unashamedly back at the Demon. There was no turning back now.

  “Yeah,” she growled. “I am.”

  “You are one of the assassins!” Monger accused.

  “Figure that out all by yourself, did you?”

  Monger shook his head in disbelief. And then he began to laugh. It was a dark, insidious laugh that racked Nelle to her bones. “Oh, dear, dear Majiski…” he said. “How woefully ignorant you are. Come to kill the Baron Monger tonight? Come to put a hole in the lesser Demonic gentry? My dear girl, you are so ignorant. You have no idea who I am.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” Nelle said. “Tayran.”

  The Demon paused, his air of superiority faltering. “Well now…” he murmured. “Aren’t you just the well-informed little harlot?” Tayran laughed again, this time at himself. “It’s almost funny. I was warned about who I take to bed just a few weeks ago. My colleague believed said I should be careful not to accidentally bed one of you assassins and get myself knifed. I thought him a fool at the time. But perhaps I should have listened.”

  “Perhaps you should have,” Nelle spat. “I’ll bet that friend of yours will have a good laugh when he finds out what happened to you. What will your precious Nineteen do when they find out the god of war is dead?”

  “You do know far too much,” Tayran muttered. “No matter. That secret will die with you.”

  He shoved her down onto the bed. Nelle cried out and tried to jump back onto her feet, but Tayran grabbed her and pushed her back down, ripping her dress as he did. Before she could try to run again, Tayran waved his hands — invisible, magical tethers latched onto Nelle by her wrists and ankles, holding her in place. She yelled again, struggling against her bonds. But she could not break free. She was powerless.

  “It has been far too long,” Tayran said. “Since I have enjoyed the company of a quicken wench. Your kind, at least, are a challenge to hold down.”

  He advanced on her, climbing onto the bed. Nelle shouted Racath’s name.

  ——

  The gangly Demon landed on top of Racath before he could bring Daragoian to bear. His bulk crushed Racath, flat on his back, onto the roof.

  He tried to swing Daragoian at the Demon’s head, but Hikshaa grabbed his wrist and smashed his hand onto the copper. Racath’s fingers slipped and dropped Daragoian. The sword came to rest just a few scant inches away from Racath’s fingertips. He tried to reach for it, but Hikshaa still had his hand pinned — along with the rest of his body.

  Racath tried to buck his knees in an attempt to force Hikshaa off him. Fruitless. The Demon was impossibly heavy.

  The Hikshaa’s bizarre feet swiveled around at the joint, latched onto Racath’s calves, and bit down with their claws.

  Racath screamed. Dark blotches of sticky warmth blossomed on his pant legs where the claws pierced his skin.

  “You Majiski…” Hikshaa wheezed as he plucked Daragoian from the roof with his free hand. “Your kind…you never learn…you never learned to know when you’re beaten.” He raised the katana above his head, the tip pointed down at Racath’s chest. “You never learned…to just give up and die.”

  Hikshaa stabbed the sword downward.

  Or, he tried to. But Daragoian would not budge. It was like something was holding it in place above Racath’s chest. Perplexed, Hikshaa tried again. Again, nothing.

  A low ringing sound began to build. A thrumming. A deep, ethereal murmur that emanated from Daragoian itself. It rose like an incoming tidal wave, like a hurricane drawing near.

  Then the sword began to glow.

  First, it emitted a dull red, heat kindling in the metal from tip to pommel. It brightened to orange. Then bright yellow. Then purest white. The radiant adamantine blade steamed in the humid night, like the sun itself was burning in Hikshaa’s hand. The light became blinding, bright as a star.

  The skin where Hikshaa held the handle boiled, blistered, and charred. The Demon began to wail, pain and terror evident across his malformed face. In desperation, he hoisted the sword high overhead, ready to drive it into Racath’s body with both hands. The ringing reached a deafening, screaming crescendo. Once more, Hikshaa stabbed downward.

  For an instant, the ringing ceased. Everything seemed to freeze in place. There was stark, sudden silence.

  And, as Hikshaa tried in vain to bring the blade down, there came another sound. This one was not like the ringing. This one was short, profound, and aimed unquestionably at the Demon.

  It was deep, resonating finality that shattered all doubt. It was pure, simple rejection that cleaved the night in twain. It was clear, definitive defiance that challenged the very essence of the Hikshaa’s being. And above all, it was unmistakably a word. A word spoken, a word that shook the very fibers of the world:

  No.

  There was light. There was sudden fire. There was an explosion that rocked Racath to his bones.

  His ears rang. When he opened his eyes, Daragoian was on the roof again, the glow and heat gone from its blade.

  Hikshaa was shrieking. Where Hikshaa’s arms had been a moment ago, there were only a pair of charred, blackened stumps. The edges of the explosion had seared the skin of the face and torso. He wailed and writhed on top of Racath like a wounded beast, his soot-blackened chest swelling with air.

  Racath realized that, while his legs were still trapped under Hikshaa’s weight, his arms were free. The Pyre resurfaced inside him, lunging to his markara. Racath lifted his hand and made Red Lance.

  The bolt of crimson mage-fire blasted from his palm and took Hikshaa in the face. The Demon’s head vanished in a spray of ash, and his cries were cut short. Lifeless, Hikshaa’s body wobbled, and then collapsed on top of Racath.

  Racath lay gasping beneath the Demon’s crushing weight for a moment, his head spinning from the madness of the last few moments.

  Racath? Racath! It was Rachel’s voice in his mind this time.

  I’m here, Racath answered listlessly.

  Racath, Nelle’s in trouble, Rachel told him. We’re blown.

  Racath grunted and pushed the Demon’s corpse off him. He got to his hands and knees and retrieved Daragoian. When he brought himself to one foot, his calves burned with the dozen shallow incisions Hikshaa’s claws at had made. I’m on my way, he winced. Just give me a second.

  There was a brief, terrifying pause.

  Rachel?

  The response came, and it chilled the blood in his veins: No time.

  ——

  In the hallway outside Monger’s chamber, Rachel waited appre
hensively. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, spinning her stilettos between her fingers. What was she supposed to do? Did she need to get onto the roof and help Racath? Should she take her chance and dispatch the Baron while Nelle had him occupied?

  She swore to herself as she paced the length of the hallway. The anxiety was killing her, and she had nothing to do but wait. Wait, wait, wait….

  There was a sudden scream, muffled shouting on the opposite side of the door. Rachel tensed, her weapons held ready. Stretching her hearing, she listened closer. There it was again, a shout, a scream. Was that Nelle? What was going on in there?

  Nelle? she called through her thoughts. Nelle, what’s going on?

  No response. But on the other side of the door, she heard Nelle’s stifled voice scream again. This time Rachel could make out a word: “Racath!”

  “Dammit,” she muttered aloud. Racath, Nelle’s in trouble, she said to her friend on the roof. We’re blown.

  There was a pause, and then Racath answered groggily: I’m on my way. Just give me a second.

  Rachel hesitated, looking between the window, and the large door at the end of the hall. She heard another scream. Rachel did not care for Nelle. Not in the slightest. But she didn’t wish death on her, either. Or whatever Tayran was about to do to her.

  She knew that opening that door would trigger the alarm. It would bring hell down on all of them and shatter the plan completely. It might get someone killed. But she had to do something. Or else she was just as spineless as the nobles downstairs...and she couldn’t have that.

  Rachel set her jaw. The decision was made. No time.

  She ran, sprinting down the hallway, her boots thumping hard on the carpeted floor. She rocketed at the door, wrapping her feet in force-magic and launching her heel into the wooden barrier.

  The door caved inward — the crash could have woken a graveyard. It splintered and flew to pieces like balsa wood before a battering ram. It barely slowed Rachel down.

  Without breaking stride, she rushed into the room, lunging at the shirtless Demon about to crawl on top of Nelle. Rachel drove one stiletto into Tayran’s lower back, and buried the other under his collarbone.

  The god of war arched and wailed, clawing at the weapons embedded in his body. But before Rachel could attack again, Tayran spun and battered Rachel in the face with the back of his hand. The blow knocked Rachel over backward; she landed in a heap on the floor, her head spinning uncontrollably, her vision blurred and her ears ringing.

  You might be asking yourself why Rachel didn’t just get back up and assault Tayran again. After all, she and the others had withstood blows to the head dozens of times before. Why would now be any different?

  Let me be very clear: Tayran’s strength was unmatched by any being I have ever known. He could have crushed Hikshaa in his hand like a paper puppet. The backhanded slap he’d just laid upon Rachel had been a glancing thing, almost half-hearted and sloppy — but it had the force of a boulder behind it. If Rachel had been a Human, the blow would have decapitated her at the shoulders. She was lucky to be breathing, let alone conscious. The thought of getting back up didn’t even enter into her mind.

  As soon as the door had broken in, a claxon had begun to scream somewhere in the else in the house — the alarm. Tumult and ruckus could be heard building on the floors below.

  Tayran ripped the stiletto out of his collar, gasping in pain. “Well, now…” he coughed, looking between Rachel stupefied on the floor, and Nelle immobilized on the bed. “What luck have I! Two quicken whores.”

  Nelle spat at him.

  Tayran glowered at her derisively. “Manners, dear. I hope you’ll forgive me, but it seems I’ve been wounded. I don’t doubt I’ll make a full recovery in time, but I don’t think I’ll be able to satisfy you tonight. I promise you, though, I’ll see to it that you’re kept alive in my basement long enough to get a taste of me once I’m healed. Both of you.” He kicked Rachel in the ribs and she whimpered on the floor.

  “But, in the meantime…” he looked meaningfully at the bloodied stiletto in his hand. “I’d say one perforation deserves another.” He raised the weapon high, ready to stab Nelle in the gut with it. “I’d say that’s only fair.”

  A prayer on her lips, Nelle squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the pain to come.

  ——

  Racath heard Tayran’s door break down all the way up on the roof. The squealing of the alarm echoed throughout the house and across the grounds.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no, no!”

  His legs burning, he staggered over to the edge of the roof. Raising a hand into the air, he fired off four flares of mage-fire in quick succession. The flares arced into the sky, high enough to be seen from the docks — it was the panic signal, the order for Notak, Toren, and Alexis to obliterate the checkpoint at the pier and prep the ship for immediate departure.

  He jumped from the roof, falling ten feet to the broad surface of the stone balcony below. His knees buckled, and a shout burst from his lips as blinding pain shot up his legs. Eyes watering, Daragoian in hand, he dragged himself around to face the glass doors that led into Tayran’s bedchamber.

  Through the glass panes he could see the entire scene: Nelle trapped on the bed, Rachel crumpled on the floor, Tayran standing like an enormous golem over the augur, one of Rachel’s stilettos in his hand. He was going to stab her.

  Panic swept him up. He had to save her! But he couldn’t, he couldn’t possibly make it that far. There was no way Racath could open the doors, rush to the bed, and stop Tayran before the weapon pierced Nelle’s flesh. Even if his legs didn’t have a dozen holes in them, he wouldn’t have a chance —

  His train of thought was stopped as a voice entered his mind. It was not like the telepathic communications he had been sharing with Rachel and Nelle. This came from outside his head, but it wasn’t a sound; while his mind could hear it, his ears did not. It was vivid, unimagined, and — unmistakably — male.

 

  Racath froze, perplexed. What? Who —

 

  Racath moved. Without thinking, he took a step forward, toward the glass doors and the Demon on the other side.

  The world caught fire.

  ——

  I have heard two different accounts of the event that followed after: one from Racath, and one from Nelle.

  According to Racath, a swath of flame appeared around him. He was carried forward at incredible speed, like he’d been shot out of a ballista. His feet did not touch the floor. The glass doors shattered as he passed through them, the air whipping at his face as he blurred forward.

  He remembers flying past Tayran, and having the presence of mind to swing Daragoian. The blade cutting cleanly through the flesh of the false god. And he remembers coming to a jarring, momentumless stop on the Demon’s opposite side.

  What Nelle saw was different. According to her, just before Racath moved, she caught a glimpse of him standing outside the glass doors, Daragoian in his hand. She saw a blinding flash of red fire. Racath vanished in a streak of light that left a long line across her vision. He reappeared instantaneously, standing on the other end of the room, Daragoian held out behind him as though in the follow-through of a swing. She told me that Tayran’s eyes went wide, his voice gargled, and a sizzling gash blossomed across his chest, blood spurting out of it.

  To this day, she swears that Tayran was dead before the thousand pieces of shattered glass could hit the floor.

  Racath spun around in time to see the god of war, his eyes vacant, foaming red froth from his mouth, topple backward. He landed on the soft carpet. Beneath him, a sanguine stain began to spread.

  Nelle was struggling to get up, the magical bonds that held her having vanished with their caster’s death. Racath didn’t pause to revel in the phenomenon of his attack. He ran to Nelle, helping her off the bed. The girl with golden hair latched onto his chest in a suffocating hug, her breath coming
in short, strangled gasps.

  “I didn’t think you were coming…” she whispered. “I thought you’d left me…”

  He noticed there were no tears in Nelle’s eyes. She was shaken, certainly — traumatized and panicked. But she did not cry. God’s augur was made of stronger iron than he’d ever realized before. He held her close, stroking her hair and moving the ripped shoulder of her dress to cover her up again.

  “Never.” he told her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I promise.”

  There was a retching sound. Racath looked down to find that Rachel had dragged herself onto her knees and vomited all over the bed.

  “You alright?” he asked, reaching out a hand to place on her shoulder, steadying her.

  Pallid and shaking, Rachel wiped her mouth and nodded. “Yeah…” she rasped. “I’ll live.”

  It was only then that Racath remembered the resonating toll of the alarm bell ringing throughout the mansion. The sound of armored boots thundering up the stairs reached Racath’s ears.

  “We have to get out of here,” Nelle said, peaking around Racath’s shoulder towards the hallway.

  Racath helped Rachel to her feet. “Well, the window isn’t an option. The hallway is gonna be a hornets’ nest in about twenty seconds here. We’ll have to use the balcony.”

  “There’s not enough time for me to lower both of you down,” Rachel panted, shaking her head.

  Racath frowned. “If you take Nelle and jump for it, can you get the both of you to the ground safely?”

  “Not quietly,” Rachel said.

  “That’s fine,” Racath answered. “I think a loud exit is a foregone conclusion at this point. The two of you go. I’ll buy us some time.”

  Nelle’s eyes went wide. “You’re staying behind?”

  Racath nodded. “Just for a minute, and then I’ll follow.”

  “No,” Nelle said adamantly. “No, no, no. We go together, Racath. I’m not gonna let you—”

  “I’m just going to keep the main body of the Arkûl busy long enough for you two to reach the pier.” Racath reassured her. He held the side of her neck gently, his eyes serious. “I’ll be right behind you, Nelle. I promise. I haven’t come this far to die tonight.”