Brewer King 46 (Patreon)

San didn’t know much about urban infrastructure, but as he walked down the tunnel, he suspected the White Tower engineers didn’t know much about it as well. Although, judging from the different stonework and signs of rebuilding in some areas, the entire tunnel seemed to have undergone some repairs or expansion.

When he had met the Stoneman in the past, the site of White Tower had been a expansive forest with the obelisks being the only signs that people lived there. He had heard snatches of the history of White Tower through the weeks he had been in this world.

The Woodland Tribes had taken over from the Old Kingdom, settling for hundreds of years before the Empire returned and pushed them back out. They were the ones who had built White Tower and Blackened Bridge, although both had been expanded upon greatly once the Empire arrived.

Perhaps the tunnel had been some kind of temple complex the Tribals had built before the Empire arrived. He paused to peer at some carvings into the stone, they were of creatures, stylized and barely recognizable from age and wear.

San shook his head, shaking off the distractions. He had to return to the warehouse as fast as he could and retrieve the Purification he had left over. The archeology of White Tower was something better thought of when all was well again.

There was a set of stone staircases that went at a right angle of the tunnel. San stopped and tried to think of how far he had traveled. The Temples weren’t all that far from the Market Square and the Keep’s gates, being in a prime spot to hold worshippers and travellers. According to his compass, he had been traveling slightly southward, toward the Red River, and for the last fifteen minutes. He felt he should be at least a mile from the Temple.

San approached the stairs, making sure to keep out of the muck and grime that coated everything. A trickling stream of waste and water flowed down the center of the tunnel, gravity pulling it along. San had seen some some drainage pipes that he assumed lead to the streets above, but when he stopped to listen, he could hear nothing.

A half rotten door hung on leather hinges at the top of the staircase. San put out the light of the lantern and peered through the cracked wood. He could see some freshly fallen snow and the light from the moon reflected off of that, providing some light to see by. He didn’t see anything moving nor did he hear anything. No people chattering, no dogs barking, no crazed Hesna cultists on the rampage.

The door creaked open when he pushed on it. It wasn’t secured or guarded. San stepped out into a back alley behind a large apartement building. The stench of the sewer was washed away with the smell of woodsmoke. A cold breeze blew down the tunnel, causing San to shiver as his robes weren’t meant to be worn out in the middle of the night.

He left the doorway, making a note to remember its location for he would have to return via it. The snow crunched underfoot as he made it to the main street. He stopped as he spotted a body lying in the center of the street.

The figure had been cut down as they were fleeing. San could see the ground churned up around them, the frozen blood pooled around the form, glinting in the moonlight. San wondered if it was one of the Senta healers. He wanted to approach the body, to check on it, but the idea was quickly abandoned.

The snow crunched behind San. He whipped around, his hand on his sword hilt. He barely saw the figure beforea hood was thrown over his head by another figure. A fist slammed into his stomach, powerful enough to cause him to double over. Within in seconds he was on his knees, his hands behind his back and the hood tight over his head and a gag wrapped around his mouth. His attackers moved quickly and quietly, not saying a word or making any extraneous noises as they tussled him up and then carried him off.

He didn’t know who they were, but there were more than two. He could hear the clink and clatter of boots and gear as they moved quickly.

***

The hood was ripped off and San stared up at Havatair. The massive man was illuminated by a pair of small oil lamps, etching his craggy face with harsh shadows and lines. He seemed to have aged a decade since San had last seen him.

“How do, Adventurer,” the big man said. He sat down on a rough wooden stool, grunting softly. He was dressed for war, the steel plate armor gleamed dully in the oil lamp light.

“I suppose you’re not going to kill me,” San said. He rubbed his wrists. He had figured if they wanted him dead, they would have done so when he had been captured. San had enough time to realize that he was woefully inadequate to fight against his captors, they outskilled and probably out leveled him.

“No,” Havatair replied. The boisterous nature of the man was subdued to the point that the words he spoke seemed to be forced out. As if every word was a struggle.

“What can I do for you?” San asked. Although he he been disarmed, his weapons were all placed on a small table beside him. San moved over and began re-arming himself.

Havatair watched him, seemingly unconcerned as he slid his enchanted sword back into the scabbard and tucked the revolver into his robes.

“My loyalty is to the Barony,” Havatair said slowly. “I pledged my life to it on the day the Baron gave me my first level.”

Silence filled the room as San found another stool and sat down. Havatair breathed heavily, organizing his thoughts.

There seemed to be a lot of history between Havatair and the dead Baron. In light of what San had learned about the Baron, he didn’t know how to view Havatair. The old Baron had supposedly loved to torture people, enough so that it was common knowledge and not frowned upon. Was Havatair also a sadist like his master?  San doubted it. Although he hadn’t much interaction with the man, Havatair seemed a solid person. San hadn’t seen any psychopathic traits displayed, beyond the glee he had shown when fighting the battos.

“So what’s the barony to you?” San asked. “Is it the man in charge or is it the people?”

Havatair looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. “What?” he said.

“Where I come from, some say that a place, a town, city, or country, is not about the person who’s in charge. Its the people that make up that place,” San said. “Leaders are just custodians who make sure everything runs smoothly. They do not make the country.”

“Arisono,” Havatair said. “That was his name, the Baron. Arisono Sol Savanis. Second son of Giddon Sol Savanis. Who was the son of General Aigario Sava who defeated the last of the Tribal warlords and took White Tower. The Emperor awarded him the city and lands to oversee, to protect the borders against the Tribals.” Havatair seemed lost in his own thoughts. “I am the bastard son of Giddon Sol Savanis. Arisono was my younger brother,”

San was silent as the man spoke. He hadn’t figured Havatair to be related to the Baron but it did make a sort of sense. Havatair was a commoner, not Landed or komai, but he still had a very high position in the city. History was filled with blood relatives taking on key positions since power rested in the bloodline that controlled a country or region. Havatair had gained power and wealth for being related to the Baron and being related also meant he was willing to stand by the baron when others would have bailed.

“I have trained Esomir since he was a boy,” Havatair continued. “I always figured he’d be a good Baron when his father’s time came to return to Senta. I always thought he had a good head on his shoulders, that even if he was a little eager to fight and craved more power, that time and experience would shape him.” Havatair sighed heavily. “I was wrong. He has given himself to the Hesna cult in return for power. He has allied himself with the Last Emperor’s Son for gold, enchanted weapons, and the right to name himself King when the war is won.”

The Baronies were each a barony in name only. Historically a barony was a small fiefdom, with the barons only having a limited amount of power. The city of White Tower held nearly thirty thousand people and the Barony of Sol Savanis was nearly two hundred thousand or more. It was not a small place, with scores of villages and with the ability to raise thousands of troops if needed.

Yet they still retained the title of Baron, each baron not attempting to rise above it for if they did so, there other barons would turn upon them. There were strong baronies and lesser baronies, but they were all equal to one another. They bowed to no king or emperor and they ruled their own lands as tiny kingdoms or city states.

For Esomir to proclaim himself king, that would destabilize the entire region. All the barons, regardless of their ties or alliances, would turn against the Sol Savanis Barony and destroy it.

That the Last Emperor’s Son would actively support Sol Savanis was a declaration of war against the Baronies. For all their internal strife and enmity, the barons still would ally against a foreign threat.

The question was why? Why would the Last Emperor’s Son support Sol Savani? Why was the Hesna cult ready to cause a religious war among the cults? Why was the Empire willing to open another front in the war that had gone on far too long already?

What was the prize that awaited such an action? What was worth causing such a huge rift and years more of bloodshed? San didn’t know, but it was something massive.

“What does the Empire get?” San asked.

Havatair looked at him, his craggy face more lined and aged than before. “I don’t know. That is what I fear the most,” he said. “I have fought to keep this land safe. I have fought monsters, I have fought other Baronies, I have killed men and women in this barony who were a threat. I have done all of it to keep the barony safe. Now the Hesna cult is killing people in the streets, people they proclaim are sinful and corrupt. Now the Heir, the Baron… Esomir, my nephew, seeks to plunge the Baronies into war.”

San fidgeted, wondering if the cultist had gotten to the warehouse? He had left Pavano behind, but the old man had already been well into his cups of moonshine. Azios was no warrior and neither was Endaha.

“You are the protector of Sol Savanis,” San said. “What do you think is the right course of action? There are few men in this world who I have seen do the right things, the necessary things, not out of selfishness or to gain an advantage, but to ensure that safety and protection is maintained. You’re one of those men, Havatair. I believe you’ll make the right decision and choose wisely.”

“I was told to find and kill you,” Havatair said. “Ordered by the New Baron. My Guards, my soldiers, were told to support the Hesna priests, to round up those who would go against their teachings and who are threats. They are to be made an example of.” Havatair clenched and unclenched his hands. “I do not know where you came from, Foreigner. I do not know what the gods have in store for you or why they have brought you here, but I too know a good man when I see one. To kill you would be a mistake.”

San was silent. He could see the struggle on Havatair’s face. The need to follow orders, to support his new Baron, but also the struggle against what his conscience was telling him to do.

“Can you heal him?” Havatair asked.

“What?”

“Esomir. He was a good lad. Can he be healed from what infects him? This sudden greed, these destructive desires.”

“Is it a sickness?” San asked. “Is it a spell done by the cultists? Or is it just his own wants?”

Havatair sighed. “I do not know. Power does strange things to men. It corrupts their souls.”

“I do not know if I can do anything for the Baron,” San said. “But I know I can do something for the rest of the people who have been afflicted with the Poisoned Soul.”

Havatair’s head snapped up at the mention of the words. “Poisoned Soul?” he asked.

“Zomia, the healer, told me that the Hesna cult’s fire was a spell or something called the Poisoned Soul. I looked into that fire and all I felt was grief and misery. The sorrows of my past were made fresh and new in my mind.” San stopped and took a breath. “Earlier in the day, I made a drink called Purification. It was supposed to be used to cleanse the Baron’s wounds, but I think it had a different effect. It prevented me from being afflicted by the flame.”

“My soldiers have talked about the flame,” Havatair said. “I have seen the sick and dying across the city. I had no idea it wa the fire that was doing it. The cultists have been setting up more bonfires around the city to spread it.”

“Then more and more people will become afflicted by it. They will succumb to the misery they feel and eventually die,” San replied.

“This drink of yours will cure them?”

“I think so,” San said. “If it does work then I can get Lady Densa to recover from her own affliction, then get her to start healing the others. I was told she could dispel this affliction.”

“She is another that I was told to kill,” Havatair said. “She is a good woman and many people owe their lives to her.”

“What the cultists are doing will destroy this city and the entire Barony,” San said. “This kind of magic they are using is wrong, it is terrible, and I fear that it may lead to something even more destructive.”

“I agree,’ Havatair said after a long bit of silence. He sat there for another long moment, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I will help you, Foreiger. To save this barony and to stop those fucking void worshippers.”

Havatair stood up, his armor creaking. He looked determined now, with a new goal and focus. “Tell me what you require.”

“I need to get to the warehouse I am renting. I have some of the Purification left over. I need to get it back into the Senta Temple and give it to Densa and the others.”

“There are few who know of the sewer tunnels,” Havatair said. “Most barony cities do not have them.” The big man approached the small door that led out of the room. He threw it open. “The Foreigner will lead us to where he has some magic drink. If it is truly magical, then it will help those who are Afflicted. If not, then we’ll take him to the Baron.”

There was a clatter of armor and men that answered back. Havatair looked pleased.

***

They moved down the street, eight soldiers, Havatair, and San. The moonlight was still bright and the streets were empty. They came across several scenes of murder, people having been dragged out of their homes and slain in the middle of the street.

Again San was confused by the actions. Why would they need to kill anyone? If it was a political move, they would have no reason to kill anyone that night. The new baron’s position would have had to have time to be acknowledged and then political enemies would be dealt with. Yet from what San saw, the dead seemed to be normal men and women and even children. They were from all spectrums, rich, poor, or even middle class craftsmen.

A scream broke the night and it was followed by cursing and snarling. The troops stopped and all cocked their ears following the sound. Havatair gestured with his head and the soldiers turned and began moving in the direction of the sound, even as it led away from the warehouse.

A figure was running down the empty street, banging on doors and trying latches to escape into the side buildings. All were either locked, barred, or barricaded, with flickers of candle light behind them, showing people were awake and alert, but unhelpful.

Behind the figure trotted scores of people, they loped along with an unnatural stride, with a Hesna priestess in the lead. The figure was a woman, slight in frame, and not dressed for a midnight excursion.

Havatair stepped into the street and the woman skidded to a stop, horror plastering her face. In the moonlight San recognized her. She was the bookseller, Vicca Desaros. She lacked the spectacles she had been wearing the day they met, but San knew her instantly. San had purchased a primer on learning to read the Imperial script. He had yet to fully immerse himself into the books.

“No, please!” she cried.

“What is happening here!” Havatair demanded.

The Priestess and the people slowed to a stop. San also recognized the woman. She was one of the assistants that he had kicked earlier that night.

“You!” the Priestess screeched, a long finger pointing at San. “Kill him! Hesna demands it!”

San had barely time to register her cry before the people around her surged forward, rushing Havatair and the rest of the troops. There was a wrongness to the people’s movements, as if they were puppets and being tugged along. They didn’t say anything, not screaming, yelling, or hollering to hype themselves up for a fight. Instead they ran silently, eyes black pits, and mouths agape.

The first figure was struck down by Havatair, with a loud smack the figure was thrown to the ground. They emitted no sound and got back to their feet, blood flowing from their mouth where Havatair had punched them. The figure threw themselves at Havatair again and was once again knocked aside by the Leveled soldier.

“Cease. I am Havatair, commander of the White Tower forces. You are assaulting a Guard of the Barony!”

More figures rushed Havatair, they grabbed at his armor, yanking, pulling, and throwing wild punches against his armored body, seemingly unaffected by the pain and cracking of bone that resulted in punching metal.

The soldiers moved into action as the mass of people began to pull down the massive man. They did not pierce his armor, but the sheer mass toppled him over.

Within moments the soldiers were punching, dragging, and kicking the people off of Havatair. But more people began rushing past the Priestess and joined the fight. All of them silent, with only the sound of their pounding feet and the explosion of breath as they were knocked aside filling the night.

San waded into the fight, being as gentle as he could, he tossed aside men and women and even a few children. They were all unarmed, but he noted that they were covered in blood that was not their own. Their hands were drenched in it, their tunics and cloaks splattered in blood. They had had a busy night it seemed.

The bookseller was not ignored as the fighting continued. A man grabbed her and threw her against the stone wall of a building. He threw a wild haymaker at her, which she ducked at the last moment. The sickening crunch of his fist striking the stonewall filled the air, but the man didn’t screeching or cry out in pain. Instead he pulled the same shattered hand back and swung at the bookseller once more.

San grabbed the pulled back arm and punched the man in the chest. He staggered back and turned to attack San. A kick sent him slamming into the wall beside the bookseller and his head cracked against it. Without a sound, he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“You okay?” San asked the bookseller.

She peered up at him, her eyes squinting. “Yes…” she said.

“Stay out of sight. There’s something wrong with these people,” San said just as a figure slammed into him. San grabbed the attacking woman and heaved her aside. She flew half way across the street, hit the cobblestones and then bounced the rest of the way. She staggered back to her feet and rushed back into the fray, only to be sent tumbling away by a punch from a soldier.

Havatair was back on his feet. He roared and began chucking people away from himself, they flew through the air and bounced off street, wall, or the occasional cart in the street. With ten Leveled men and women, the nearly fifty unarmed people were no match for them.

The Priestess realized this and then turned and ran.

“Get her!” Havatair snapped. Two soldiers bounded off as San helped subjugate the rest of the unarmed fighters. They were not acting in their right minds, somehow they were being controlled by the cultists. San looked to see the strange wild eyes that were utterly black. It was the fire, he suddenly knew. This is what the fire was doing, turning the men and women who had seen it into a mindless horde.

“Can we take one of these people?” San asked. Havatair looked at him. “I want to see if the Purification will help them. They seem to be under some kind of spell.”

Havatair looked at one of the unconscious men and winced. “Fuck. I didn’t realize,” he said. “Sweet Senta, we might have broken few of their bones and done some real damage. If they’re under a spell, this is not their fault.”

Two soldiers tied up a woman who didn’t seem as damaged as the others and tossed her over the shoulder of a third. A few minutes passed and the two soldiers that had left returned with the priestess, tied, bundled, and gagged. She struggled against them, but like San had experienced, there was no escaping their capture.

“Can I come with you?” the bookseller asked. She was in a light sleeping gown and now that the adrenaline and terror was over, she was shivering violently.

“Lead the way, Foreigner,” Havatair said. “The baron now knows that I stand against him and it will not be long before the rest of the cultists arrive to take care of us.”

San nodded and they headed back to the warehouse.