Brewer King 53 (Patreon)

Havatair took the lead, relegating the non-professionals to the rear. San shuffled along, his thoughts straying and varied. The bottle of mana weighed heavily in his robes; the responsibility of being the one to try and stop the spread of the Affliction was a heavy one.

There would be more fighting and more killing, every Afflicted was some poor person who had been turned into a monster. They were still within the shell of their bodies, but whatever Void Horror was piloting the body didn’t care.

The blood he was spilling was those of the innocent. It was different than the fight against Poxie and his goons. Panchavi’s extortionists had been bad people, they reaped what they had sowed. But these people, these men and women who were Afflicted, who were being led astray by their leaders, they were innocent in all of this. But as Herokov said. There was no sense to it, even the innocent were caught up in these things.

“Silence,” Havatair whispered. The clattering group of armed men and women stopped and crouched low. A Guard in light armor moved up the stairs before them and disappeared around a bend.

“Clear,” the voice came back. Havatair nodded and they all moved up.

They emerged onto the small mesa that the White Tower was situated. It was a solid outcropping of rock that rose nearly a hundred feet, overlooking the Red River and the city itself. Long ago the walls of White Tower had enclosed the lone mesa and had incorporated it into the city itself.

The Keep was built into the mesa; stairs, rooms, and tunnels snaking through the solid rock and leading to various parts of the walls and Keep.

San peered up at the towering obelisk. It reminded him of images of the Washington Memorial, four sides and soaring several hundred feet above them. He could see that the obelisk was clad in what looked like stucco, with no signs of the weird Mage writing he had seen when he spoke with the Stoneman all those days ago.

The base of the obelisk was cleared of any buildings or structures, instead it looked to San like some kind of park area. He could imagine that in the summer, the whole area would have been green with freshly shorn grass and filled with people taking in the sun, relaxing under full bloomed trees, and lounging on the stone benches that dotted the area. There were even stone pathways that marked paths for people to walk upon. It looked to be a quaint park for all the rich and powerful of the Barony to enjoy.

The White Tower Park’s beauty was despoiled by a bonfire that burned in the middle of a cleared area. Around it were gathered scores of the Afflicted, soldiers, and cultists. The smell that filled the air was of burned hair and cooked flesh; San didn’t have to divine out what the smell was coming from as human remains peeked out from the crackling flames.

An army of the Afflicted were gathered, along with many men and women and children. These weren’t the usual malnourished common folk, instead the gathered people were well dressed and thick jowled. Their normal haughtiness was replaced by the same fear and terror that everyone else in the city faced. Tears streaked their faces and blood spotted their rich robes.

“That’s the High Borns,” Havatair whispered.

“I’m guessing they’re not the Baron’s supporters,” San said as he watched one of the Hesna priests grab a thick man and brandish a black obsidian blade at him. San felt his stomach churn at the sight of that blade. It was the one that was offered to him from the Stoneman, a blade designed to kill anything.

“No,” the big soldier answered. “Most of them are of the opposition party. They have long tried to reign back the power of the Baron and give the Landed a better say in governing.”

It wasn’t difficult to see where the New Baron stood in regards to the opposition. The young man who San had only met twice was stone faced as he watched the priests drag the man toward the flames. The new Baron had been a fairly handsome and had the hard body of a soldier, but in the days that San had last seen him, he had aged a decade and lost a least twenty pounds. His high cheeks were so sharp they seem ready to draw blood and his skin was an unhealthy pale and gleamed with sweat even as cold air blasted through the open air park.

“What’s the plan?” San asked.

“We can’t let them kill Heritage, he owns much of the ironworks and makes our cannons,” Havatair said. “We rush in, we kill as many as we can, we gut the priests, and see if Esomir can be saved.”

San had his doubts of the latter, but Havatair was right. They couldn’t stand around while a living person was sacrificed to the flames. That thought caused San to pause, an image of a different flame came to mind. One surrounded by white creatures with blood stained floors, bodies stacked like cordwood and something hideous being brought forth into the world.

The cultists were attempting to bring forth their goddess. Did the white creatures attempt to do the same? The hideous monstrosity that had wrecked the minds of those who looked upon it, was that their god? San shuddered. If that was happening here, then they would all be doomed.

“Move,” Havatair hissed.

As far as opening battles went, there was no dramatic speech, there was no deafening roar of the soldiers, and there was no thumping beat of honor or pride. It was just nearly two dozen armed men and women rushing forward, fear tightening their grips on their weapons and the ache of climbing up stairs and stress running through their bodies.

San scanned the park and saw that there were more Levy soldiers and other Guards standing around the Baron. There were also what looked like supporters, men and women in fancy armor and fine robes. They were stone faced and thin lipped as they watched the proceedings. The Afflicted bobbed and swayed as the priest dragged the struggling man toward the fire. Their attention was affixed on the upcoming sacrifice, like dogs waiting for dinner to be served.

Their charge was not silent, the pounding of feet, clanking of metal, and huffing of breath was heard by all. Eyes flickered toward them and then widened as they saw Havatair in the lead. Soldiers went for their weapons and the Afflicted turned as if one.

“The Barony shall not fall to darkness!” Havatair screamed. His twin short swords glittered in the firelight, bringing all the gathered men and women to a standstill. Silence descended upon the park. “The Baron has sold his people to the Hesna cultists! If you love this land and have vowed to protect its people, stand with me!”

There was a murmur as the soldiers glanced at one another. A few looked sick at the proceedings, while others looked on with unabashed glee.

“Kill them,” the Baron stated with a flat emotionless voice. His eyes locked with Havatair. “Would you all follow a dickless bastard? Kill him and all who follow him. There will be no opposition within my kingdom.”

“He allows these fuckers to kill your families!” Havatair snapped. “He seeks to build this kingdom upon the Power of void horrors and human sacrifices. This is no man to follow. This is evil.”

“KILL HIM!”

The Afflicted moved, then the soldiers. San braced himself, but paused as he saw some of the soldiers throw themselves at the Afflicted, slashing, stabbing, and chopping with their weapons. The soldiers also turned their weapons on each other.

“Havatair!” someone cried out, the call was picked up by more voices. It came from the Guards, the Levy soldiers, and the gathered nobles. Those that were tied up and slated for sacrifice struggled against their bonds or were freed by their captors.

“The King!” voices shouted and two groups began to separate, one for the Baron and one against.

The Afflicted didn’t care about either, they continued their attacks.

San slashed with his sword and beheaded a screaming figure. Beside him the others surged forward, unlike the gathered troops, they were a singular force, a wall of blades and pistols. The Afflicted slammed into them and died under their weapons.

Chaos reigned behind the Afflicted as the others began infighting. They stabbed, slashed, and used fists and feet to attack. The Baron was surrounded by a wall of swords and pistols, the Priest had cast aside the bound man and was defending himself from two Levy soldiers.

Havatair was a blur of swinging swords and gouts of blood.

“We must stop the priest,” Densa cried, pulling San’s attention back to the healer. San glanced to the priest and saw that he had dispatched the two Levy soldiers; the ebony blade gleamed in the firelight. The priest moved toward the cowering High Born once more.

“Go,” Havatair hissed.

San didn’t hesitate; he shoved his bulk through the soldiers and Guards, pushing his way toward the priest. Densa followed in his wake, a long narrow dagger held in one hand and using skilled strikes to deflect attacks by the Afflicted. Due to his size, San was their main target, but as they edged toward the battling mob; the Afflicted focused upon the fighting soldiers.

“You alright?” San asked Densa, the woman was out of breath, her robes bloodied, and the dagger she obtained from somewhere was equally bloody.

“Fine,” she replied.

San nodded and they rushed toward the priest.

The High Born, Heritage, was sobbing and struggling as the priest tried to maneuver him toward the flame. San could see the rich robes beginning to smoke and the High Born’s struggling intensified.

The roar of a fired pistol filled San’s senses, it was followed by an intense pain in his side as his cuirass crumpled under the impact of a shot. San staggered, his breath exploding outward and pain reddening his vision. His senses were screaming that he was shot and shouldn’t move, but San threw himself forward, landing awkwardly and with a clatter of damaged armor as a second shot was fired, ripping through the spot he had been in moments before.

Even as pain threatened to cloud his vision, San pulled himself to his feet to meet two Guards who were rushing him. The two Guards tossed aside short rifles, that looked more like shotguns, and replaced them with arming swords. They moved fast and efficiently, Leveled and skilled.

San deflected the first incoming blade, the clanging of steel drowned out by all the other fighting going on. The second blade slammed into his right shoulder, skidding off the pauldrons protecting it. Steel plates clinked as they broke loose and fell to the ground.

The second Guard’s sword descended and San barely managed to raise his own to block it. Pain then exploded in his lower back as the first Guard stabbed his sword into his cuirass, trying to open him up like a tin can. His legs gave out and San collapsed to his knees, wrenching the sword from the first Guard’s hand.

The realization that he was going to die slammed into San. How many times in this new world had he been on the verge of death? He didn’t know, but as blood welled from his injuries and the skill and power of his two opponents made itself very clear; San knew he was going to die.

It was a relief, he thought. He hadn’t given up fighting, he hadn’t let depression or sorrow drag him down. He had gone out fighting, literally. He could accept his death.

The second Guard gurgled and blood fountained from his throat as a dagger poked its point out from the man’s neck. As the Guard staggered, San saw a horrified looking Densa standing there. Her eyes were wide, not with terror or the horror of what she had done, but from the first Guard turning his attention upon her and unsheathing his blade from within San. She saw her own death in that moment.

San surged forward and tackled the man. The Guard’s legs buckled with the extra weight and San was on top of him, his sword forgotten and instead his fists began raining down. The steel sallet helmet could take a blow, but under San’s fist the steel crumpled and finally began to leak flesh and blood as the Guard was pummeled to death.

A tightness began around his chest, causing San to stop. He cried out as the steel of his cuirass began to twist and bend around his chest. His breath was labored and San struggled at the metal armor.

There was an explosion and San was tossed backward. He flopped onto his back, trying to breath.

“Fucking hell,” Elgava’s voice roared as she looked down at him. She pulled out a dagger and sliced away at the straps and buckles holding the cuirass in place,. San sucked in a deep breath as the battered steel armor was ripped off of him. “Mage give me a hand!”

Histoa appeared above San and with Elgava’s help, they pulled him to his feet. San wobbled as pain throbbed across his body, it was soon followed by the leaking of blood. San adjusted his rigger’s belt, allowing the rest of the battered armor to fall away and tightened it once more. He grunted as pain blossomed along his side and back. The weight of his dagger and pouches hung heavily upon him.

“Fucking metal mage,” Elgava answered as she pulled off his destroyed pauldrons. “Histoa got him, but he fucked up a lot of people.”

It took San a moment to realize what she was saying. He shook his head and above the pounding of his own heart and the throbbing of pain; he could hear the cries of agony and pain. A lot had happened in the few moments that Densa and he had left the main group.

Scores of bodies lay bleeding or dead on the ground, the King had pulled back toward the fire, surrounded by loyal soldiers and high borns. Havatair’s group had grown bigger as more soldiers and highborns joined him, but they looked unsteady and scared. There was a crowd of women and children stuck against a wall, trying to keep out of sight and out of reach of the monsters.

The fire still burned bright, but the highborn captive had managed to escape. The Hesna priest stood by the raging fire, occasionally being obscured by smoke, but not moving. The ebony blade still gleamed in his hand.

San looked to the horizon and saw the sun beginning to set. They had to move.

“A new age begins!” Esomir screamed, his face was spotted with blood and the sword he held aloft was bright with crimson. “Hesna shall enter the world and we shall be the first of her followers.”

“Fuck off!” Elgava shouted back.

“All that stand against us shall die!” Esomir screamed.

There was a distant rumble and it wasn’t long before the Afflicted began appearing; crawling, climbing, and skittering from every opening. There were hundreds of them.

“Fuck,” San muttered, casting around for his sword.

“Your death is now, bastard,” Esomir cried out to Havatair.

The big man looked at the men and women at his side and the snarling Afflicted surrounding them.

“This is a worthy death; one that Senta and the gods will respect. We stand here in the heart of evil and our will shall not falter!”

As the two spoke; five soldiers stepped toward the fire, they moved with mechanical stiffness. San watched them as they all knelt down before the Hesna priest. It seemed the unwilling sacrificing part of the ceremony was over.

Although the world was drowned in the snarling of Afflicted and the war cries of the gathered men and women, San could clearly hear what the priest was saying as he raised his blade.

“With your blood Hesna shall be brought forth. With this blade, on this night, and in her name.” The first throat was cut and San felt it like a physical blow. He could feel the life of the man being sucked away, the mana of his soul being pulled into the fire. San gasped with pain; he wasn’t the only one, as Densa grabbed him. Her eyes were wild and terrified.

San snatched up his sword, barreling past Elgava and then body checking an Afflicted that tried to get in his way. The creature cracked as it was tossed aside. His sword moved before he could think and cut down another Afflicted, the path between him and the priest now opened.

A nearly physical blow struck him as the second soldier was sacrificed. The blade gleamed like it was on fire and the third man bared his neck to its descending edge. San was too far to stop him, so he pulled back his arm and threw the sword. The basket hilted broadsword wasn’t a throwing weapon, but with enough force it manage to cross the distance.

The hilt of the sword slammed into the back of the priest, causing him to arch and miss the strike coming down upon the sacrifice. San could hear shouted and the roaring of gunfire and clashing of steel once more. He ignored it and dug into his robe to pull out the pistol he had carried from the first moment he arrived into this world.

The priest was fast, faster than San thought possible.  The three additional sacrifices were also on their feet, drawing weapons and charging San. San shifted his aim from the priest to the oncoming soldier. The sword was raised high and it was a clear shot to the chest of the man. He crumpled as the pistol barked.

Elgava was at his side, her own weapon blocking the second soldier, while Histao’s explosive magic rocked the third off his feet. San kept rushing forward, reaching down and scooping up a fallen sword.

The distance between him and priest was narrowing. The Hensa priest let out a roar and lifted the blade high. An Afflicted crashed into San, knocking aside the pistol. He felt teeth clamp into the braces, ivory shattering against steel. He stabbed the creature with his sword and cut it away, but it was too late.

The obsidian blade opened up the priest’s neck. Dark blood erupted from the wound and with a look of glee and madness, the priest fell into the flames.

The world changed in an instant.

The screaming and fighting died down, the air turned even colder, and San was frozen in place as the bonfire bloomed and grew higher. He could see a figure taking shape within the flame and a vast dread descended upon him.