by S. G. Night
“What about the guards below?” Rachel interjected weakly as she collected her weapon. “The two by the front door?”
Racath reached over, pulled Rachel’s long knife off her shoulder-sheath and handed it to Nelle. “Two Arkûl shouldn’t be a match for you girls,” he said. “I expect they’ve left their posts to come up racing up here. But if they’re still there, just kill them and get moving.”
“And how are you planning to get to the ground?” Nelle demanded.
Racath turned his clever grin on her and winked. “Loudly.”
The sound of Arkûl footfalls were getting louder. Racath pushed the two she-Majiski toward the broken remains of the glass doors. “Go,” he urged. “Meet the others at the pier. I’ll be right behind you.”
Nelle looked hesitated again, and she looked as though she was about to say something. There wasn’t time.
“Go!” Racath repeated.
“Come on,” Rachel prodded her. “Give me a hand. I can’t quite walk straight.”
Reluctantly, Nelle peeled her worried eyes off Racath and helped Rachel hobble out onto the balcony. Rachel stepped up onto the railing.
“Get on my back,” she instructed.
Nelle obeyed. Rachel jumped. The two of them vanished from sight.
Alright, Racath thought. Time to play.
A plan formed quickly in his mind. He stepped over Tayran’s body as he went to the liquor cabinet; he didn’t give the false god’s corpse a glance of consideration. There was brandy on the bar already, the brandy Tayran and Nelle had been drinking. But that wouldn’t do — Racath needed something purer.
Opening the cabinet, he began sifting through the assortment of bottles full of diversely colored alcohols. After a moment of searching, he pulled out a bottle of amber rum. Its label read: distilled from authentic Dírorthan Sugarcane, 150 proof.
Good enough. Racath set the rum aside pulled the rest of the bottles out of the cabinet. As luck would have it, he also found a vat of lamp oil nearby.
Racath ripped the sheets off the bed and piled the lamp oil and liquor bottles onto them. When everything was ready, he wrapped it up into a loose bundle and set it by the door.
He could hear the voices of the Arkûl now, yammering to each other as they reached the fifth floor landing. Racath readied himself: he grabbed the bottle of rum, popped the cork and took a long swig. Sloshing it around in his mouth, he put his back against the wall beside the broken door frame. There he waited.
“In ‘ere!” one Arkûl grunted from the hallway. “Milord? Milord are ya all right?! Boys, c’mon! I think he’s—”
The first Arkûl rushed through the door, a sword in hand. Racath sprayed the mouthful of rum out through his teeth, creating a cloud of mist at head-level. The Arkûl walked right into it.
The guard screamed and dropped his weapon, clawing at his eyes as he fell on knees. The second Arkûl came running in after his comrade, looking around the room in the panic. Racath smashed the bottle into his face, and it shattered into thousand broken shards of glass.
The impact took the Arkûl off his feet. His body flipped wildly in the air, screaming as he landed in a tangle on top of Tayran’s corpse. Racath stepped out in front of the door, and saw the crowd of a dozen guards stuffed into the hallway for the first time — and, for the first time, they saw him.
He almost laughed at the looks of terror on their faces.
The narrow doorway created the perfect chokepoint. Racath easily lodged the broken neck of the rum bottle into the exposed throat of the third guard before he could get his long spear into position. The Arkûl’s eyes went wide and his mouth released a gargle as his hands flew to his neck. Quicksilver-smooth, Racath decapitated him with Daragoian.
He kicked the headless Arkûl in the chest, sending the body backward into the feet of his comrades. The hallway became a forest of tangled limbs and shouts of surprise as the surviving guards tripped over one another. Racath stooped down, lifted the bulky sack of liquor and lamp oil, and lobbed it into the hallway. There was a sound a shattering glass as it landed; wet, dark blotches formed like bruises on the satin cloth.
Racath rounded on the first Arkûl, the one who was still rubbing rum out of his eyes. The Pyre growled, and Racath shot a small burst of fire into the Arkûl’s face. The rum on the guard’s skin caught fire and he screamed like an impaled pig. Racath seized him by the neck and threw him out the door into the hallway. The guard’s burning face landed squarely on the bundle of accelerant — the sack exploded. The hallway filled with flame and the guards startle shouts turned to screams of fear.
A job well done. Racath turned and ran for the balcony, sheathing Daragoian. How far was it to the ground? Fifty Feet? Sixty? A Majiski might survive a fall like that, but not without a few broken bones — which Racath couldn’t afford. But he couldn’t afford to hesitate either. He forced himself to keep running straight for the edge. Before he could stop to think about it, he stepped up onto the railing and leapt out into the night.
In the brief second before he began to fall, Racath thought back to the lessons he had had with Oron. Specifically, he remembered the lecture on “maximum galdurol output” — the maximum amount of grains of energy a Majiski could project per second. They had calculated Racath’s maximum for practice: a little more than eleven-hundred grains per second. He didn’t have time to run the numbers — he could only hope that it’d be enough.
Gravity caught him. He called, and the Pyre answered. With his palms pointed straight downward, he sprayed a plume of fire from each hand, as much flame as he could muster at once. The fire roared and bloomed in the air beneath him, lighting the night with red. But he was still falling. Racath gritted his teeth and pushed harder, ejecting even more fire from his hands. The thermal expansion worked against his fall, slowing him, scorching the grass as he neared the lawn.
And then he landed. The thrust from the blasts of fire had slowed him enough to save his already-wounded legs, but he still twisted his ankle before he rolled to a stop.
The front doors behind him were flung wide open, and screaming guests were pouring out onto the lawn, fleeing from the growing fire inside the house. Arkûl guards were among them, looking around madly. One of them spotted Racath and pointed.
“There! Get ‘im!”
Racath turned and ran northward. The wounds in his calves burned like the venom of a hundred snakes had been injected into his veins, but he kept running, ignoring the pain as he sprinted for the pier. He could hear the Arkûl thundering after him, but he did not stop to fight. All he could do was run.
His wounds slowed him. The Arkûl in the lead was gaining ground. He stumbled down the sloped lawn. The pier was just a hundred feet away now. From here, he could see Toren with his claymore alongside Notak and Rachel finishing off the last of the guards at the checkpoint. Nelle was there too, her red dress ripped up the sides to allow movement, Rachel’s knife bloodied in her hand.
Racath ran to them. The faster Arkûl guard, panting like a dog, sprinted to tackle him — but a blur of steel shot through the night and caught the Arkûl in the neck: Alexis, firing her bolter from the deck of the ship.
“We saw the signal!” Toren called to Racath as he staggered over to meet them. “What went wrong?”
“Brahn went wrong,” Rachel answered bitterly. “Little bastard sold us out.”
“No time to explain,” Racath panted. “More of them are right behind me. Is the ship ready?”
Notak nodded. “The sails are up. The anchor is raised. All that is needed is to cut the line.”
The echoing sound of clanking armor and shouting Arkûl reached the pier. “Let’s go, then!” Racath said. “Everyone, to the boat!”
The five of them turned and sprinted for the boat. Alexis met them at the top of the gangplank, ushering them onto the ship. Racath’s legs gave out halfway up the gangplank but Nelle caught him and dragged him onto the deck.
Notak avoided the ramp entirely — instead, he
jumped from the dock, flipped, and swung his lanac axe by the chain. The axe blade severed the line that tied the ship to the dock.
“We are free,” he stated calmly as he landed on the deck. “Alexis, take us out.”
“You got it!” Alexis said, taking hold of the helm.
Slowly, the ship pulled out of the dock and began to sail out into the Bay. Arkûl with crossbows ran out onto the wooden platforms, barking orders to their compatriots. A half dozen bolts thumped into the hull, but did no serious damage. Some of the Arkûl ran for the Navy ships to prepare them for pursuit, only to find them completely in operable.
Before too long, the ship was out of range of the crossbows. Without a means of pursuing the Scorpions, the guards could only watch as the ship disappeared into the darkness of the Bay.
Racath released a pent-up breath of relief and slumped against the wall of the cabin. Rachel found a corner and curled up into a ball, massaging her temples; Notak went to tend to her. Nelle sat beside Racath and started pulling at the cuff of his pants.
“Let me see your legs,” she commanded, peeling the blood-soaked fabric back from Racath’s skin.
Racath winced but did not resist her. “Gently, please.”
“God…” she breathed, putting a hand to her mouth. “What the hell happened?”
“Hikshaa,” Racath muttered. “He pinned me down and got me with his legs…feet…claw…whatever. How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Nelle grimaced. “But not that bad. No permanent damage from what I can see. You’ll live, and your legs should recover, but it’s gonna hurt like hell for a few weeks.”
Toren was standing at the railing, his arms crossed as he looked back out toward Territh Umbra. The mansion was completely ablaze now — from this distance, it looked like the beacon of a lighthouse on the shore.
“Well…” he sighed resignedly. “That was a mess.”
“To put it mildly,” Alexis agreed from the helm. “Mrak’s gonna hit the roof when he finds out about this.”
“Not to mention Brahn,” Rachel grumbled. “He’s a fauling loose end now.”
“Assuming he survived the fire,” Notak pointed out.
Rachel scowled. “Yeah….I hope to god that little pisser burned to death in there. But if he didn’t, he could be a massive complication for—” She suddenly quieted and made a face of pain, clutching at her head.
“Relax,” Notak told her. “Try not to strain yourself.”
Racath agreed with their complaints. The plan hadn’t gone nearly as well as they had hoped. But, in the end, what did it matter?
“We did what we came to do,” Racath thought out loud. “Tayran is dead. We made the false gods bleed. We showed the Dominion that their pet nobles, their wealth, and their secrets can’t protect them anymore. The Nineteen will be in chaos — and that’s exactly what we wanted. That’s what matters. Hopefully, God willing, the rest will work itself out.”
“So…” Nelle said slowly. “What happens now?” She smiled her typical smile at him. “Godkiller.”
Racath couldn’t help but grin crookedly in return. “Now, we go back to the domus. Back to Oron. From there…we’ll just have to wait and see.”
***
FIFTY-ONE
Attrition
I was there in the aftermath.
News of the catastrophe at Territh Umbra spread across the city of Dor’mon (and beyond) in a matter of hours, but it wasn’t until Rodgers made his bumbling way to Litoras a week later that the Nineteen realized it had been Tayran’s toy estate that had been burned to the ground. And it took a few days more for the body of the Nineteen to convene in the lair beneath the Basilica of the Gods.
It was a place we called the Den of Deities: a dark, circular chamber of ancient stone. It had no door, and the wall was without windows. Very little of the light from the wall-mounted torches could permeate the thick shadows of the Den, leaving the atmosphere heavy with tangible gloom. The space in the middle remained mostly vacant, save for a broad, rectangular alter in the very center. A ring of nineteen thrones ringed the center of the room. Each was shaped and ornamented according to the god who owned it.
One of the thrones — this one high-backed and morbidly elegant, wrought of bones and black obsidian — stood slightly above the others. It was the Imperator’s dais. Tonight, it was noticeably empty.
It was a place that only we of the Nineteen could access. A place only we knew of. A place where we would gather to discuss the interests of the Dominion. And it was in that place that we assembled in response to Tayran’s death.
I sat in silence on my throne of shadows, waiting for the council to begin. Around me, many of the other gods were whispering to each other in hushed tones, Their eyes moved dubiously between the Imperator’s empty throne, and the chair directly to my left — Tayran’s seat, also vacant.
I did not join in their conversations. My mind was elsewhere.
On my right, a Demoness in a long, crimson dress stood up from her throne. Her grace was inexplicable, like she had spent centuries choreographing every subtle turn of her head, every flutter of her silken, chocolate hair.
“We are gathered,” the Succubus stated in her enchantingly musical voice. She turned to me. “Saccarri, dear, would you begin for me?”
I breathed a long breath and nodded. Standing, I announced myself half-heartedly to the others of the Nineteen. “Saccarri, Lord and God of Darkness and the Night, Hand of the Imperator. Present.”
I sat back down.
There was a brief silence as everyone stared to the empty throne on my left. I don’t know what they were waiting for — Tayran was dead, we all knew it. That’s why we’d all come here today, wasn’t it? What were they expecting, that he’d materialize and announce himself for the roll, and then spontaneously die again?
After the token moment of quiet, the Demon on the other side of Tayran’s unfilled chair — an old, withered looking man with a grey beard — stood.
“Nois, Lord and God of Time and the Unending Sun, Duke of Saa’hea, Lord Timekeeper. Present.” He sat again.
“Garish,” growled the dragon-like Demon on the other side of the Nois. “Lord and God of Wisdom and Wealth, Duke of Milonok. Present.”
We went around the circle, each of gods presenting themselves in turn. It was a mind-numbing, redundant, obscenely self-indulgent process that I soon lost interest in. My mind resumed its wanderings.
“…and I, the Lady Kynn,” the Succubus on my right said eventually. “Mistress and Goddess of Love and Life, Lady Consort to the Imperator. Present. As you all have noticed, the Imperator is absent this evening. His Omnipotence has asked me to preside over this assembly, and also to extend his regrets that he could not be here in person.”
There was a murmur amidst the gods. I knew what they were all thinking, even if I didn’t care — one of our own is dead and the Imperator couldn’t even be bothered to show his face? How impertinent! Tawdry, I know. Unfortunately, superficial indignation was an occupational hazard of living among the Nineteen.
The Lady Kynn inclined her head for a brief moment, and then clasped her hands together.
“Very well, let us begin. You have all been summoned here tonight to attend to a crisis that has been brewing among our ranks.” Kynn’s poison-green eyes swept over the circle of gods, her graceful brows lowering ominously. “I am sure you have all heard the rumors, rumors of a calamity befalling one of our own. Tonight, it is my solemn obligation to confirm that these rumors are indeed the truth. Tayran, Lord and God of War, Lord Commander of the forces of the Demonic Dominion, is dead.”
Whispers turned to gasps of shock, bewildered shouts, and overlapping voices as arguments broke out among the gods. I remained silent.
The Lady Kynn slammed her hand down on the arm of her throne with all the force of a gavel. “Please, friends! Order! Control yourselves!”
The uproar subsided gradually, and one of the gods rose from his throne: a massive, red-shelled Demon
of the Behemoth archetype, his yellow eyes narrow with rage. “Your Highness?”
Kynn gestured magnanimously to the Behemoth. “We recognize Amaranth, Lord and God of Duty and Honor, Hand of the Duchess of Oblakgrad. Speak, Amaranth.”
“How was such a thing allowed to happen?” Amaranth demanded. “How did Tayran fall?”
Kynn drew a breath and shook her head sadly. “As of yet, we have no definitive answer to that question. But…we have reason to believe that Tayran was murdered. Assassinated, in his own home, by Majiski. Most likely members of the clandestine organization that came to our attention this past—”
“Serves him right,” hissed a spider-like goddess who sat across the room from me. “Maybe if he had been fulfilling his role as the Duke of Dor’mon instead of prancing about with the lesser nobles under a false title, he’d still be alive.”
Kynn spoke softly, but her eyes were like the sharp, broken glass as she glared at the other Demoness. “Thyatera…” Kynn addressed her. “It is polite to wait for your betters to finish speaking before unhooking your tongue. Do I make myself clear?”
Thyatera crossed her arms and looked away. Not surprising — Kynn had a death-stare that felt like a poison crossbow bolt hitting you in the chest. I’d been the victim of it once before myself, and I’d done my best to stay clear of her line-of-fire ever since.
“As I was saying,” Kynn continued. “He hosted a banquet ten days ago under his alias, Baron Monger of Dor’mon, lord of Territh Umbra. The witnesses we detained claim that he retired to his room near the end of the evening, and before long an alarm was sounded. A survivor among his guard claim that they entered his chamber to find Tayran dead on the floor. The guards were attacked by a Majiski in black, who proceeded to set the mansion aflame, and escape.”
The time-god Nois raised a finger in comment. “We must reassess the significance of this Majiski enclave.”
