Brewer King 48 (Patreon)

“The city crawls with their ilk,” Havatair said as a soldier sent out to scout returned. “They’re looking for me and my men now, it seems our disloyalty is known.” The big man seemed more worried about his betrayal of the new baron.

“I need to get back to Densa, with her help, we might be able to turn the Afflicted back to normal. Then we can deal with teh fire and the baron,” San said.

“I shall deal with the cult,” Havatair stated. “The other cults will not stand by. They must be doing something. I shall see to them, if they fail to move against the Hesna cult, all is doomed.”

“We’ll go too,” Bostarion, Pavano, and Azios all stated. Herokov only scowled and stared into the hearth.

“No,” San said. “We need to make more Purification. I’ll need all of you to begin processing the imbar and making the imbar wash. We need to distill as much as we can before nightfall.”

“You don’t even have much mana left,” Pavano said.

San looked to Havatair. “I saw potions when we were working on the Baron,” he said. “Do you have mana potions?”

Havatair furrowed his brow, trying to remember. “Yes, there are some mana potions among what we have. But they are under lock and key, although Donsval has access to them.”

“Who will he side with?” San asked.

“Donsval is a coward and cultivates coins. He does not fight, but he must know what will happen if the Hesna cult takes over. We will be at war and the Hesna cult is not known for thier kindness toward gluttons.”

“If you can gain access to the potions, please do so. If you see Histoa, see if he’ll help us. He said he was able to transfer mana into Leveled people to boost their powers.”

“Aye, the Mages will be tricky. I don’t think anyone likes the Hesna cult, but that does not mean they will stand against them. Some say that Mages aren’t blessed by the gods, as they’re born with Power and are not awarded it. They do not have Levels and Levels are gifts from the gods.”

San looked at the gathered people within the warehouse. He wondered if this is how rebellions began? He doubted it, he was a foreigner and everyone else wasn’t anywhere near being political, besides Havatair. Yet, origin, beliefs, or position didn’t matter when there was something truly evil that needed to be stopped.

“We help Densa,” San said. “We get the mana potion or enlist Histoa’s help, then we make more Purification. We need to get this all done before nightfall. If the priestess is right, then those poor people will become some kind of monster.”

Havatair and the soldiers looked on with grim determination. They would have the hardest job, they would have to enter the Keep and take the mana potion. San didn’t know how they would succeed, but if there was anyone who could do it, it was Havatair.

“Arm yourselves,” Havatair said. “There will be those that are not creatures of the Hesna cult and will obey whatever the Baron says. If the cultists can find those that threaten them, then they will know that this place is their biggest threat. Arm yourselves and pray to whatever god you follow that we can save as many people before nightfall.”

“We never put out the flame yesterday,” Azios said. “The Cleansing Flame that we used to make the first batch of Purification.”

San hadn’t notice, but there was a second fire burning in another hearth. He had glimpsed it, but figured it was just another fire burning to keep the large warehouse warm. San walked to it, immediately he began to feel its warmth, not from heat, but an internal warmth that soothed his ragged nerves.

“Soul fire,” Vicca breathed. “How?”

“No time to explain,” San said. “Build it up and begin preparing the imbar wash.”

Azios nodded. He had been with San all the times he had brewed and if there was someone who knew what to do, it was the young man. San turned to Herokov, Bostarion, and Pavano. “I require your help,” he said. “Help Azios, help make the imbar wash, and help save this city.”

The three men glanced at one another and then each nodded in turn. “Aye,” Pavano said. “I’ll go to the Coppersmith and see about those stills, see if he’s done with them. It’ll make the job of distilling a lot easier.”

San nodded, forgetting about the work he had commissioned. The use of pots and cold water baths wasn’t time efficient and they would need to make as much as they could this day.

“We shall all work,” Endaha said. She had the woman who had been Afflicted at her side. The new woman was red eyed and pale, sickly looking with scrapes, bruises, and cuts along her exposed flesh. How long had they been out in the cold without decent protection? They might be controlled by the Hesna cult or some void being, but their bodies were still human and frail.

“There are many dozens in the temple,” San said as he handed Havatair the clay bottle of Purification. San carried the old whiskey bottle and his stainless steel water bottle. If it required at least two ounces of Purification to remove the affliction, he couldn’t do all that much for those in the temple.

There would have to be some decisions made, to ensure the necessary people would be saved and then try to save the rest at a later time. Havatair took the clay bottle, handing it off to another soldier.

“I hope it works,” Havatair said. “I hope that the Heir is really under some magical influence, otherwise…”

***

The streets were eerily silent in the early morning. San had gotten used to the hum of city life within White Tower. There were usually dogs barking, woollys crying, people talking, and the smell of woodsmoke and cooking in the air. The mornings were busy, as all were going to and from work, or off doing errands.

That morning, the air was heavy and not even a single dog barked in the distance. It put San and the soldiers on edge as they made their way back to the sewer entryway.

More bodies littered the streets, some were the ripped apart victims of the Hesna cult, but more than a few were the Afflicted. They bore wounds and had limbs that were injured, but as they had no care about the damage sustained to their bodies, it eventually failed and they succumbed to their wounds.

The sight filled San with outrage. The thought of something, some being, or even magic, controlling him, controlling his body. It made him nauseous and scared. Did the Afflicted know what they were doing? Were they conscious of what was being done to their bodies? San couldn’t imagine the horror of being piloted around and not having the ability to control oneself.

“We’re here,” Havatair whispered. San and the others crouched in the alleyway where he had been captured earlier. Fresh snow had fallen and their tracks hours before had been mostly covered and it appeared no one else had come that way.

“The Hesna cult is already killing the healers they find,” Havatair said. “Get Densa and the others out of there before they all are killed.”

San nodded and Havatair clapped him roughly on the shoulder. The soldiers stood watch as San opened the door and disappeared into the dark stinking maw of the sewer.

He didn’t carry a lamp this time, instead he had his headlamp on. It was brighter than the lamp, but its focused beam of light contrasted everything into darks and light.

The trek through the tunnel was quick, he knew the approximate location of the ladder into the Temple. The door was firmly shut and it took a moment to open it. San eased himself in the temple and listened for anything awry.

He heard a low moaning of what sounded like pain, along with a thumping, closer and louder. San pulled out his dagger and set his hand upon the latch. He could hear sobbing and a cry of distress from someone. There weren’t many that were still awake and moving within the Senta Temple, Zomia, the acolytes and the old guard were all that San had seen.

San opened the door, stepping quickly into the outer room, blade raised. The shocked eyes of one of the acolytes stared at him. The man’s eyes were streaked with tears and on the floor before him lay the body of the other acolyte. The two men were a bloody mess, their once yellow robes now stained with blood and torn in various places. The dead man seemed to have been savaged by some kind of animal, his throat torn out and his chest and limbs cut and gouged by claws.

“What happened?” San asked. He moved quickly to the dead man and saw there was nothing that could be done for him. The other man was in a state of shock, there were cuts and what looked like human bite marks on his skin, but otherwise he was okay. There was no life ending wounds upon him.

“The monsters…” he said, “they came over the walls. Three dozen of them. They… they attacked everyone and everything.”

“The monsters?”

“They look like people, but they’re monsters. They rend and bite and tear at everyone.”

The Afflicted. San grimaced; the door to the room thudded and San could hear a low moan coming from beyond it. From the sounds of it, there was only one of the creatures beyond the door.

San paused. No, they weren’t creatures. They were people. They were afflicted by the black flame, with something piloting their bodies, while they still existed within their bodies. They were not monsters, they were people.

They were rending and killing, that could only mean the people who were sickened by the flame and not changed by it. All the men, women, and children that were in the great central chamber. Elgava and Densa.

San sheathed his dagger and marched to the door. The acolyte on the ground barely raised his head before San pulled the door open. A figure in tattered robes stood at the doorway. He and San stared at one another for a moment before the figure threw their body against the wooden door and tumbed into the room. San staggered back, but he managed to slam the door shut, latch it, and then turned to face the man. The Afflicted hopped to their feet, their moments far faster than San thought possible.

The Afflicted was a middle aged man. His hair was cropped short and grayed at the temples. He looked to be a tradesman, his robes were of decent quality and had a brilliant sash of turquoise wrapped round his gut. The cloth was soaked with sweat and other bodily fluids, along with splatters of blood.

San leaped across the space between the two. There was no grace or plan to his action, San just body checked the man and shoved him roughly away from him and the acolyte. The man slammed against the wall and bounced off, his head emitting a loud crack as it collided with the wood paneling. The Afflicted gave a surprised gasp and then collapsed to the floor. His head lolled back and forth and he appeared to be stunned.

San turned to the acolyte. He pulled the satchel off his shoulder and jammed into into the man’s arms. The acolyte startled and looked down at the leather bag.

“I need your help,” San said.

“I ca-“

“I’m not asking for your help,” San snapped. “You say the Afflicted are in the Great Chamber, that means they’re attacking those that are sick, the defenseless.”

The man nodded slowly.

“These bottles, they are potions,” he lied, “they can help those that are sick.” San pulled out the glass whiskey bottle and stomped over to the Afflicted that was trying to get up. San could see a splatter of blood on the wall and even thought the creature had void black eyes, it still appeared to seem unfocused in its attempts to coordinate itself.

San uncorked the bottle and tipped some of the contents into the man’s mouth. The creature sputtered, but San clamped his hands across his mouth. It didn’t take long before the man automatically swallowed the drink.

He immediately began convulsing and shuddering. A moment later his void black eyes began to clear and the black man shaped smoke began rising off the man.

The Acolyte gasped in horror as an ebony figure coalesced before them. San couldn’t see a human face in the smoke, but he could feel the rage and anger radiating off of it. It opened what could be called a mouth and screamed silently at them, before vanishing.

The afflicted man groaned and rolled to the floor, passing out. San noted his hands were bloodied and the skin rubbed away from it. Whatever the man had done before, his body ws damaged by it.

“This,” San said holding up the bottle. “This is a cure. I need you to get it to Densa, she’s one of the sick. I need you to pour it into their mouths, about two ounces. As many people as you can.”

“But-“

“I know the Afflicted are in the Great Hall. I’ll get them to leave.”

San returned to the man and pulled him to his feet. He was light a rag doll, practically skeletal under the heavy robes. The Acolyte’s hands shook as San shoved the bottle back into the satchel.

“Don’t drop the bottles, don’t waste it. It’s all we have for now.”

The Acolyte nodded.

San pulled the door open again and exited the room. The thumping he had heard when he had awaken hours ago had stopped. Was it because the Afflicted had been released into the Temple?

He cursed the hours he had wasted, being Havatair’s captive and their discussions about the events going on. If he had just grabbed the Purification and returned, it would have been less than an hour and all of this mess could have been resolved faster.

The large central chamber that served as the main triage area came into view. San skidded to a horrified stop at the sight that greeted him. He stared as crazed men, women, and children tore at the unresponsive bodies in the chamber.

They were animalistic in their attacks, rending flesh with bare hands and teeth, their clothing matted with blood. They snarled like beasts and did every sort of violence imaginable upon the prone people.

“STOP!” San snarled. His hand automatically went for his sword and in the thunderous silence that followed his outburst, the rasping of metal filled the air.

All heads snapped in his direction. Bloodied mouths, black void eyes, and the wheezing breath of the Afflicted filled his sight. It was a scene out of a horror movie, some kind of ultra realistic zombie flick. The patter of blood upon stone, the smell of iron and blood and the foul stench of offal and rendered guts. It was all too real and San wanted to retch, to run, to awaken from this nightmare world he had wandered into.

He steadied his hand and stared at the people turned monsters.

“There is still humanity within you,” San shouted. “Resist. Fight back. Reclaim what is being ripped from you.”

The Afflicted twitched and as if they shared a common mind, they surged toward him. San counted at least two dozen. The room was too big and he was too exposed. He needed to use their numbers against them and the chamber wasn’t the place to do that.

San ran. He boots pounded upon the stone floors as the Afflicted charged after him. Many were already injured, their bodies pushed too hard and suffering too much damage, but that same lack of restraint made them far faster and deadlier than a person in the a right state of mind.

What limits the body had, these creatures that piloted the Afflicted had done away with them. They burst after San with the speed of Olympic sprinters and their strength was that of body builders. It was purely due to San’s own Levels that he managed to outpace them.

What would happen if a Leveled was taken over? The thought chilled him as he barreled down a wide corridor.

He hoped that the Acolyte wasn’t a coward. That he would do what he had been told to do. If Densa and the others weren’t awakened, then they would not be able to deal with what was happening to the city. She was the greatest healer in this area and her talents were needed.

A broken spear lay on the ground and San grabbed it. It had more reach than his sword and wasn’t as deadly. An Afflicted burst from an alcove, snarling. San cracked him across the chest with the wooden length of the spear haft. The Afflicted spun and flopped to the ground. He would have gotten back up, but the others chasing after San soon trampled him. Half of them falling and tumbling, bringing down more of their number, but a fair amount managed to stay upright and continued their chase.

San found a stone staircase that led upward, without a second thought he pounded up the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing, he realized he didn’t know which direction to go. He had never been in the Temple besides the first night after getting drunk with Elgava and the others. That had been a brief moment and then he had been whisked away to meet with Havatair and Donsval.

San took a right corridor and raced down it. He needed to slow the horde behind him down, trap them without hurting them too much. They were still people behind that crazed magic controlling them. If he could disable them, secure them, then he could get some Purification into them to heal them.

Killing them wasn’t an option. The fight the night previous, where Havatair and the troops had pummeled the Afflicted with the priestess still tugged at him. The woman who had been healed, she was covered in bruises and injuries from her time being controlled. San didn’t want to do that to these people.

He lashed out with the spear length, catching a man in the leg and causing him to crash into a small table. The man’s flailing legs caught more of his companions and more crashed to the ground, but only momentarily. San scanned the corridor he was in, trying to find a place to make a stand, to limit the amount of Afflicted that would come at him.

San nearly tripped over a body lying the middle of the hall. It was the old guard he had seen earlier. The old man lay dead, with his armor having been yanked and ripped off of him and his exposed flesh covered in rends and bites. His death had not been quick and painless, but he had taken three of the Afflicted with him. Their bodies lay beside his and there was a trail of blood that led away from him, showing that more had been injured.

A shield caught San’s eye. It was a simple wooden shield, similar to the ones he had seen the Levy soldiers carry. San snatched it up and ahead of him he saw a narrow door.

He reached the door and saw that it lead to another set of stairs that led to another floor of the Temple. San scanned it, seeing nothing that was dangerous and turned to face the coming Afflicted. They were staggered out, only three in the forefront with the others scattered behind them. Although fast, strong, and seemingly immune to pain, they weren’t very coordinated.

The first Afflicted slammed into the shield and San grunted. The thick stone frame of the door wouldn’t be shattered by the people; stone was far stronger than bone and flesh. They would just break all their bones before the stone would give.

It took a moment for San to realize the only option he had was to disable the people. He was in a narrow passage and the Afflicted couldn’t flank him. San lashed down, raising the shield high and striking at exposed knees, feet, and legs. The cracking sound of bone filled the small room and San flinched at each sound.

He had to back up as the weight on the shield increased. There was the threat that they would grab hold of it and tear away his only defense. San stepped back, using his foot to find the first step up the stairs. The injured impeded the flow of the Afflicted into the room, they stumbled, snarled, and fell upon one another.

The legs were their weakest point. They might be strong and powerful, but without their legs they wouldn’t be able to move. They might not feel pain and were able to go beyond what the human body was capable of, but all the strength and power in the world wouldn’t make broken bones function normally.

The stairs proved an issue as he stood above them while they slashed and tried to grab at his legs. San used the shield to push the foremost ones back, causing them to tumble down the narrow staircase and pull down more of their companions. In the reprieve San back up another step and lashed out with the wooden spear haft.

As he reached the third level of the Temple, San realized his mistake. The noise of the fighting within the staircase had drawn more of the Afflicted that were in other parts of the Temple. He cursed as he saw half a dozen rushing toward him from the third floor staircase doorway.

He barely had time to strike the first Afflicted before the second one was on him. It was a heavyset man, blood soaked his robes, and he stank of rank meat. The massive man slammed into him like a football player, a thundering charge that didn’t hold anything back.

The spear haft snapped and he was thrown against the stone wall. The stone dug into his back and his breath exploded out. There was a moment where he couldn’t breath, he couldn’t pull anything in, and a dull roar only filled his head.

A fist to his face snapped him out of it. San felt hands on him, he felt his robes being tugged at, and the fetid stink of bloody hands, mouths, and screeching filled his ears. Pain blossomed across his arms and legs, hand began to dig at his flesh, parting the cloth of his robes as if they were paper.

One of the Afflicted grabbed the dagger at his waist, pulling it free and staring at it for a moment before lunching forward to stab at him. San stopped blocking his face and grabbed the woman’s arm. She was thing and small, almost childlike in her appearance, but she was strong. The decorated weapon plunged into his stomach and San cried out.

“Shit!”

Another punch sent his head reeling and he could feel the hot gushing of blood from his wound. More blood flowed as he staggered back, no longer defending himself. Nails and teeth snapped at him, he could feel the weight of the big man dragging at him.

San tripped on the hem of his ragged robe and fell. He hit the stone floor hard; he saw was the snarling faces of the Afflicted descending upon him.

“SLUMBER!” a voice roared.

One moment San was awake and the next there was darkness.