Brewer King 52 (Patreon)

The death rattle of the Barony’s keep was one of distant howls, screeching, and the occasional echoing of sobbing and running feet. San had led the way out of the Baron’s secondary chambers, but it was Havatair that knew the way toward the White Tower.

The man, who was the bastard son a Baron, knew his way around the Keep. Both the official passageways and the lesser known passageways frequented by servants and others who wanted to keep a low profile.

The twelve filed after him, no words were spoken and the weight of what they had just done to the Afflicted was still weighting on their souls. San tried to push away the thoughts, but the stink of blood was still on his armor, it was splashed liberally on his own tattered robes and he could feel the tackiness of it dripping between the plates of his gauntlets.

He was stained by the blood and he reeked of it. A thought bubbled up in his mind, the image of a woman scrubbing her hand and never being able to remove the spot of blood upon it. She had killed only one man, but he had killed so many. His hands were drenched in blood.

But what should he have done? What choice did they have? It was either kill them, be killed by them, let them go and have the entire city killed. San pushed down the emotion that threatened to claw its way up form the depths of his soul. The math was pure shit, but a few dozen lives versus thousands. He had done that arithmetic before and it had destroyed him.

“Are you okay?” Densa whispered to him. San nearly jerked in surprise, not noticing she had come up beside him.

“I’m fine,” he said too quickly.

Densa didn’t say anything, instead she set a hand on his arm. San looked down the hand, seeing that it was stained by the blood from the people he had killed.

They moved up a flight of stairs, narrow and twisting, which led to another landing. Beyond the doorway were more corridors and rooms; the need to stop the cultists and the impatience that created had turned the Keep into a sprawling complex of stairs and strange corridors.

“Hall’s clear,” a Guard stated.

The door was opened and they began to head down a corridor. The eeriness of the abandoned Keep caused the hairs on San’s neck to rise. He wasn’t the only one, as he noted Elgava and Bostarion both looking about nervously.

“Halt, in the name of the King,” a voice boomed.

The group skidded to a halt as a figure stepped out of a darkened room. San blinked, he hadn’t even noticed there was a door there. San blinked again as two dozen soldiers appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Hevanar,” Havatair said in greeting.

“Illusion Mage,” Histoa said beside San. The young Mage frowned and looked discomforted. “He was the one who allowed us to escape in the first place. Was it a trick? Have I just led us into a trap?”

“The scum and filth will be wiped from this world,” Hevanar stated, his voice loud and booming. “You, Havatair, bastard son, are such scum and filth. You have chosen to stand against the coming of the goddess Hesna and her chosen ruler, King Esomir.”

“He’s not even Baron yet,” Havatair spat. “Can’t be claiming himself king when he’s not even taken control of the city yet.”

“The goddess Hesna will see to that. Now lay down your arms and bring forth the one named Sanjay.”

“You’ve beaten me, tortured me, and are killing this city, this barony,” Havatair said, “and you expect me to just do as you say?”

“You lack a choice here, traitor. Give up the one named Sanjay and you shall all live to see the coming of Hesna and the glory she brings.”

“You are no follower of Hesna!” Histoa shouted. The Mage glared at the man. “How often have you told of the blindness those that follow the cults indulge in? How often have you warned me against the fanaticism of the cults? What has taken hold of you?”

“I have seen the void and I have seen the glory that awaits all who submit to Hesna,” the man said. His stared at them, a sheen of madness in his eyes. “I have seen what is to come. The crucible that will test mankind and show we are worthy of the love of the gods.”

The words tickled San’s mind. It had been what Hetvana’s hero had said too. That the time would come where mankind would have to prove they were worthy of the god’s attentions.

“I am Sanjay,” San announced. He felt Densa grab at his arm, but he ignored it.

“You.” Hevanar said, his face was expressionless, but his eyes burned bright. “You will come with us.”

“Why?” San demanded.

“Foreign Blood,” Hevanar said, “Blood not of this land, not of this world, blood from beyond the Void.” The man grinned, his smile too wide and blood flecking his teeth.

San felt a chill run through him. Did this man know he was not from this world? If so, how? The name of Foreigner had always been attributed to him, but this was the first time anyone appeared to have seen beyond his non-Imperial nature.

“I have come to stop the cultists,” San replied. “I will not come with you and all who would stand against me, will die. The city outside tears itself apart, the cultists seek to turn its citizens into monsters, now they intend to open a breach into the void to bring forth more of these horrors.”

“All the will of Hesna,” the Mage said.

“Fool,” Havatair spat. “Our people are dying out there. They’re being murdered, they’re being turned into monsters.” Havatair glared at the soldiers behind the Mage. “Every-fucking-one of you vowed to protect the barony and its people. What are you doing now? You stand by madmen, power hungry fools, and the very people who are killing your loved ones. Your mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, lovers, and children. Out there.” Havatair stabbed his finger toward the city. “They are dying and being subjected to the flame that snuffs out their souls. While you stand there, pissing yourselves and allowing your families to die.”

“Blessed are those that walk in Senta’s light,” Havatair continued. “When Kazo judges your souls, will he see that you stood against murder and madness or that you cowered as your kin were slaughter like animals and cursed forever to house void horrors?”

“Silence, traitor,” Hevanar snapped.

“Fuck this,” a soldier snapped. “I have family here.”

“My sister and her children live here!” another cried.

Hevanar glared at the soldiers behind him as their resolve began to shatter. “You choose to betray your Baron, your King?” He roared.

“Hevanar!” Histoa shouted. The young Mage pushed himself forward, his face contorted into anger and an emotion that San didn’t recognize. Shame, guilt, sorrow? “I have been your pupil for many years. You were the one to find me and raise me up.” Tears seemed to gleam in the man’s eyes. “But what you speak now is false. The cultists seek to destroy our land and subject the living to a hell they will not escape from. Stand with us, old friend, or stand aside.”

“Young Histoa, there will be only Hesna’s grace that comes for us all. To stand against her is to jeopardize your soul.”

“For the respect I hold for you, Hevanar. Step aside.” Histoa swallowed. “I will not ask again.”

“In the ways of the ancient Mages,” Hevanar began, “the student must always best their master to be considered worthy.”

Histoa straightened his back and scowled at the older man. “You do not wish to do this, old friend.”

“The path is clear, young Histoa. You have chosen to stand against our goddess and the actions of her divine chosen. Therefore you are my enemy.”

One moment the older man stood with the soldiers and the next, he and the soldiers disappeared and in their place were scores of screaming Afflicted.

Markona cursed, Havatair readied himself, and Bostarion fired his crossbow. The bolt flashed into the mob, but it touched none of the creatures. Instead the bolt vanished through the first Afflicted and then proceeded to clatter down the corridor.

“Illusion,” Histoa shouted. “He’s an Illusion Mage.”

The roar of gunpowder weapons filled the air. San felt something slam into his chest and throw him back. He staggered into a man behind him and the two clattered to the ground. San gasped for breath, feeling pain radiate across his ribs and a hot burning sensation in his side.

The screaming Afflicted’s screams were replaced by the screams of injuries and the clash of steel.

“San!” Densa skidded to his side, slapping a hand on his shoulder.

He felt warmth ebb through him and a wrenching pain in his side. He looked down to see a fist sized dent in his armor and a hole punched through the center of it, from it flowed blood. He had been shot.

Densa worked her magic and San felt the burning pain dissipate. He watched as she held out a hand and a warped ball of lead eased its way out of his dented armor. San stared at it, transfixed by the lead shot that would have killed him in any other circumstances. He looked to Densa and she gave him a grim smile. San pulled himself to his feet; the sounds of fighting rousing him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Densa said, she had already left San’s side and was bent over another man. One of Saddan’s fighters. The man had been shot in the chest too, but he hadn’t had San’s armor to protect him.  The ugly wound was pumping out blood and pooling around his body. San saw he wouldn’t make it, there was too much blood being lost. Perhaps if Densa had…

“Focus!” Bostarion’s voice snapped in San’s ear. San jerked and saw an Afflicted charging at him. He brought up his weapon and moved to attack it, but the blade slid through nothing. A second later a heavy strike clanged off his pauldrons.

San staggered and cursed. He used his speed and strength to swing out with the flat of his blade and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. There was not figure before him, but his blade screeched against metal and he could feel someone stagger as they were struck. San didn’t relent or give them time to recover. Although he could not see the soldier, he rushed forward and tackled and invisible man. He could feel their steel armor clanging and then they both toppled over.

A boom roared and San flinched, jerking to see where the shot had come from. That was his mistake as an invisible fist smashed into the side of his head. The metal clad knuckles struck his sallet helmet but the force still rung San’s bell. He could feel the person under him struggling to get free so San returned the favor and started throwing punches down into the invisible soldier.

Blood covered his already stained gauntlets, the figure beneath him struggle and cursed, but San was far stronger. Within moments they had stopped struggling and San relented, feeling his heart thundering in his chest and the blood of another person drenching his gauntlets.

Another boom filled the corridor and San turned to see Histoa flying through the air, his robes tattered and flaming. He crumpled to the stone floor and then hopped back to his feet as if he hadn’t just been flung around.

The Mage clutched a catalyst rock in his hand and charged it with his mana. The chaotic battle against invisible foes didn’t seem to matter to the Mage, his eyes were closed and he held the rock loosely.

With a fast flick of his arm, the rock flashed out and detonated against a wall. There was a cursed grunt and the older Mage staggered, his illusions dropping.

San looked down at the bloodied face of a young man. He was a Guard and his sightless eyes seared his soul.

Hevanar was chuckling as he clutched his sides. His robes were burned and tattered, blood flowed between his fingers, and the man laughed.

“I’ve taught you well, Histoa,” he said.

“Stop this, surrender,” Histoa replied.

“I have been chosen,” the old mage replied. “I shall not die this day. Guards, kill them all.”

The battle had stopped once Hevanar’s illusions had dropped. The Guards were now visible and they were outnumbered, many were already on the ground bleeding and being seen to by Densa. The rest stood clustered together with their weapons raised. Havatair stood in their midst, his two swords unbloodied, but from the looks of it more than a few Guards moaned with broken limbs.

“No,” one of the Guards said. “We surrender.”

“Fools.”

“By the ancient traditions,” Histoa said. He clapped his hands together and there was a boom. San winced as the sound and then the pressure wave hit him. He staggered back into the wall and watched as Hevanar was thrown violently down the corridor. The sickening sound of bones breaking and flesh striking stone filled the sudden silence. Histoa stepped forward, while Hevanar groaned and tried to rise.

A catalyst rock flashed through the space between them and Hevanar only stared at his once pupil before it struck him.

“Help me with him,” Densa said, her voice cutting through the shocked silence.

San moved quickly and helped as the healer set a man’s broken leg. The bone was jutting through and blood was pouring out. San, following Densa’s instructions, reset the leg and she poured her mana into it. He watched as the flesh mended and the groaning pain of the man stopped.

They had been outnumbered two to one and they had been tricked by illusions, but it seemed they had won the fight. San glanced around to see Havatair standing amidst the Guards. He hadn’t seen much of the fighting, having been shot and wrestling with his own invisible foe, but everyone bore the scars of the fight. Elgava had a bruise forming on her face and had a reddening rad tied to her left arm. Bostarion muttered as he picked at a long slash across his brigandine, but seemed unharmed.

Saggaris tended to Markona’s wound, a long gash along his left arm and another shallow cut to his chest. He winced as she wrapped it up and cast a glance to Densa who was helping another Guard with his companion who was bleeding from a gut wound.

“The best the Barony has to offer,” Markona remarked.

“Shut up, Marko,” Saggaris said. “They weren’t trying all that hard to kill us.”

The statement caused San to look at the young man he had pummeled. He was barely out of his teens, his high cheekbones were shattered, his eyes were widened in fear, and blood slowly congealed around his shattered face. Havatair was their leader, he was the man they were all devoted to, of course they were going to take it easy on them. Havatair had done the same, killing none of the soldiers, instead wounding them.

“You did what you had to do, lad,” Herokov said, folding his arms and standing beside San. The warehouse owner didn’t seemed injured, but his face was pulled tight in distaste. “Sometimes you have to kill those that don’t need killing. No sense in it, just needs doing.”

San didn’t fully agree, but nodded at the words. He didn’t know the young Guard and he hadn’t thought too hard on his actions before retaliating. He had been shot and would have probably died. There had been no holding back on the Guard’s part.

“Yeah,” San replied.

There was a clatter of armor and San watched as the remaining living Guards all dropped to their knees before Havatair.

“We have sworn to protect the Barony,” one of the Guards stated. He had his eyes cast down and his sword was out, the bladed tip in the stone floor. “We have failed that duty. We have gone against our vows and followed mad rulers. We await your judgement.”

Havatair took a moment, seemingly pondering the justice that he would mete out. “We must protect the barony and its people. Rise up, soldiers. You are needed and your sins will be absolved when we defeat the cultists and save our city. Rise.”

The Guards got back to their feet, many weren’t excited by the prospect of fighting against the cultists. San could understand, the Afflicted weren’t normal human beings anymore. They had power and speed that was on par with the Leveled men and women.

“What are the casualties?” Havatair asked Densa.

The healer looked tired and worn, the depletion of her mana was evident. “Two from our side are dead, five from theirs. You managed to put down half a dozen more, broken limbs and concussions. They’re not going to be able to fight today or tomorrow, but they will mend.”

The big soldier nodded. “So be it.”

Densa healed Markona and Elgava and then said she had to rest. San walked to her, helping her sit down upon a stone bench.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Just drained.”

Histoa walked up to them. The young mage’s face was expressionless.

“How are you?” San asked him.

“Fine,” he responded curtly. “I forgot to give you this.” From a pouch at his belt, Histoa produced a bluish vial. A mana potion. “Havatair had given it to me to give to you, but I seemed to have forgotten in the rush of things.”

“Take it, Densa,” San said.

“No. I don’t need it. You’ll need it.”

“I can’t heal people,” San said.

“But you can cure this affliction,” she said. “Your Power can brew the cure. I can’t do it. You’ve already used up most of your mana once more, you’ll need it for later.”

“We need a healer,” Havatair said. “Drink it, healer.”

“No,” she responded. “I will not.”

“We could die in this fight,” the man said. “We must stop this evil before it spreads.”

“Yes we do,” Densa retorted. “We have to cure the afflicted and San’s the only one who can do that. I can’t and you can’t either. San’s mana has been drained and he’s already used one potion. That’s stunted his mana regeneration, it’ll be days before he’s fully restored. But if he uses this, then he’ll be able to brew more Purification and help those afflicted.”

The soldier’s face grimaced and then he nodded. “So be it,” he said.

“Densa…”

“Silence, San,” she replied. “You need this more than me. This isn’t the first time I’ve been on a battlefield. I’ve survived many and all of them have drained me of mana. I’ll manage.”

San looked down at the vial and nodded in response. He extended a hand and pulled the healer to her feet.

“I’ll help as many as I can,” he said.

She smiled briefly at him. “I know you will.”

“Let’s get moving,” Havatair announced. “We know where they are and nightfall is fast approaching.”