45

San opened his eyes. Ash filtered down from the red hued clouds billowing across the sky. He could hear the crackle of flames and the distant screams of people. He sat up, slowly and carefully, looking down to see that he wore a steel cuirass and plate armor. His hands were covered by gauntlets and pauldrons covered his arms.

He got to his feet, seeing the enchanted sword lying on the ground before him and an unlit pistol. He picked up the sword as hot wind blew across his face, bringing the sounds of distant screaming once more.

It was a dream, he told himself. He looked around, the burning and shattered buildings around him are barely recognizable, but he saw that it was the Market Square he had been in moments before.

The image of the black flame flickered through his memory, dredging up grief and misery. The emotion was like a physical shock, he felt light headed by it.

Through the flame and smoke, a figure approached him. San raised his sword and then tilted his head, taking in the figure.

They were tall and San saw with disgust that they wore a suit made of human skin. The patches of hair and faces covering the figure caused his gorge to rise. The different patches of skin were stitched together roughly, with seams that were about to burst every time the figure took a step, yet still holding together. Male genital swung between their legs and a row of female breasts covered their torso, while in one hand it carried a hook sword and in the other a long ebony dagger.

Beneath a helmet made of bone, a skull, and more human leather, was a scarred face of a man. The skin was puckered and raised, as if it had been burned or had been cut so many times and healed.

“Sanjay,” the voice of the man boomed through the world in flames.

Fear spiked through San, but he stood his ground. The figure was nearly eight feet tall from what he could tell, a massive person that stretched the skin suit he wore. He was dead if he tried to fight the being, but San also realized this was just a dream like the others he had.

“You must be the Ghost of Christmas Future,” San said, his voice holding more bravado than he felt.

“I understand the reference,” the booming voice said, chuckling with mirth. The laugher and easy nature of the being was at odds with the horrific figure it presented. San could see tuffs of scalps at the man’s waist, and ears looped around his neck like trophies.

“I’m not giving up the ebony gem,” San said. “I will not trade for it.”

“Come now, Sanjay. I am Giamoor Delsanva, Hetvana’s Chosen. My Mistress offers you power and blood, you can change the world to what you wish, you can topple the rich fucks that use and destroy everything. You can be the change this world needs, where humanity will rise up to their full potential.”

“I somehow doubt that is what your Mistress wishes,” San said.

The massive man only grinned at him. San saw blood dripping from his teeth. “A change in the world will cause much suffering,” the man stated. “My Mistress is one of blood, pain, and suffering. Any change of the status quo will do her well.”

“So you just want war?” San said.

“War? What foolishness. We want suffering. We want pain. We want a child screaming with terror as soldiers kill their father and rape their mother. We want villages burning. Women killing their babies to keep them out of the hands of the enemy. That is what we want.”

“Fuck off,” San said. He clenched his hand, an intense rage building within him. “Fuck. Off.”

Giamoor spread his hands. “This is the future, Sanjay. Look around you. Take in the sights and breath in the smoke. Death is coming for all and we shall bath in the blood of the cruel and righteous for in the end, it does not matter.”

“Why do you want this fucking gem?” San demanded. “To bring someone back? To summon some kind of monster into the world?”

“There are plenty of monsters in the world,” the man retorted. “Every grasp for power is paid for in blood and suffering. We seek the gem to prevent the others from summoning their own Heroes.”

“That petty of a reason?” San asked.

“Hetvana is death and vengeance, she is suffering and pain, do you think she would want to save the world?” the man laughed.

“What is going on?” San demanded. “I have been summoned to these strange places three times now. Four times the gem has been asked for and an attempt at trade made. What is going to happen?”

The man sobered. He stared down at San, taking a massive step forward, the skin suit creaking around his limbs, and a foul stench of death wafting toward him. San gagged.

The hook sword was at San’s neck, the pitted and rusty blade a bare inch away from his skin. San had to raise his head, he had to look at the man in the eyes.

“An eternity of blood and suffering,” the man stated. “A world turned barren and devoid of life. A chance to see if mankind is truly worth the notice of the gods. How strong are you, little man? All say your soul is like a roaring fire, but fire needs fuel to burn. When the world is dying and all that graces its surface wails in misery, how strong will your soul be then?“

“Probably not all that strong,” San said.

The man boomed a laugh, his sword moving and digging into the ground beside them. “You are right. You shall die with all the others. Another scream in the chorus that will sing my Mistress to sleep.”

The man turned and began walking away, the flames of the burning buildings began to rise and engulfed the man. Within moments he was gone.

“The gem gives form,” the man said.

***

The smell of incense and a distant thumping greeted San as he awoke. He lay upon a lumpy straw bed and winced at the headache that throbbed at his temples. He let out a low groan and tried to sit up, but every muscle in his body protested and he lay there exhausted from the effort.

“You’ll be fine,” a voice said.

San looked up to see Zomia, the first healer he had met at the Exonaris komai. She looked tired and her face was pale with dark circles around her eyes.

“Where am I?” San asked.

“You’re at the Temple of Senta.”

Above the distant thumping, San could hear wailing and sobbing, as if a funeral was going on. He looked to Zomia, but her face was turned toward the heavy wooden door in the room. Oil lanterns and the simpler burning length of wick illuminated the room. It was well furnished, with a desk, wardrobe, and washing basin in one corner and a couch, coffee table, and an actual glass window in the other. No sunlight poured through the glass, so it still appeared to be night.

“What’s going on?” San asked.

“The Hesna cult has overstepped,” she said, her voice was weary.

“What did they do?”

“The Poisoned Soul,” Zomia said. “That fire that burned in the Market Square. It has poisoned the souls of all those that have looked upon it.”

San pushed himself up in the bed, wincing as he muscles disliked the action. He sat up, breathing heavily. “Densa, Elgava. Where are they?” he demanded, a fear blooming in his chest. They had stared at the flame, they had been exposed to whatever a poisoned flame was.

He could still feel the flame, the memory of it was etched into his mind. It was similar to the flames he imbued Power into. It appeared that the flames he could create weren’t just beneficial, but also harmful.

“They are fine,” Zomia said. “All who looked upon the flame are in agony now. We fear it shall only deepen and soon death will follow.”

San pushed himself out of the bed, shedding the woolen blanket and standing their naked before Zomia.

“Where are my clothes? And why am I in this bed?”

Zomia moved stiffly and carefully, picking up a pile of clean dark robes off of the couch. San saw his sword, dagger, knife, revolver, and other items all neatly stacked beside it, including the plastic bag of gems.

“You were the only one in the Market Square that seemed not to be effected by the flame,” Zomia stated. “How?”

“I put out the fire,” San said, tugging on his clothes. He had gotten used to the Imperial robes and all the small ties and cloth belts. He strapped on his riggers belt with the sword and other weapons looped through it. “I had made a jug of Purification. I threw it into the flame and then changed it into the Cleansing Flame.”

Zomia looked at him in confusion. “The fire still burns,’ she said.

San stopped as he was pulling his satchel over his shoulder. “What?”

“The black flame still burns in the Market Square. Many gather toward it, seeking its deadening warmth, to be drained of at the woes and grief that afflicts them.”

“But you said it was a poisoned flame? That it poisoned your soul?”

“It does.”

“Then why are they allowing people to go to it?”

“The Baron is dead and the new Baron has taken hold of White Tower. He has decreed that the Hesna cult is to be given free reign. That the Baron supports the cult and the Empire.”

This was a world with magic, surely the Mages or other cultists understood what was happening before San did. They all must have known what the Hesna cult was doing with that fire. San looked to Zomia and she looked at him with sad and dull eyes. She appeared ready to collapse onto the floor with the slightest of pushes.

“Why would the new Baron support them?” San asked. “He doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who would willing castrate himself to be apart of their cult.”

Zomia looked down at her hands. San noted they were marred with a dark red, although an attempt had been made to clean them. Blood.

“Fear,” Zomia said softly. “The Hesna cultists have gained such power in the last few years. They enact rituals that have been buried for centuries in their grasp for power.”

San thought on the flame once more, how it had seemed to intensify his own emotions of grief and misery; how it seemed to sap the life out of everyone who had been looking at it. Whatever it was, it had to be put out again. The thumping in the distant continued, a rhythmic sound that vibrated through the stone of the building.

“Fear,” San repeated. “The flame is allowed to burn and it is hurting people. If the Baron has sided with them, then we are all in danger. Who knows what the cultist want to do here.”

Was it a simple power grab or was Esomir actually a believer in the Hesna Cult? San had understood that the Baronies, although they warred with one another, were neutral in the civil war within the Empire. The simple fact was that all the Baronies armies combined would not be able to defeat any of the Last Emperor’s Son or the Governors’ armies. But if the Baronies went to war on one side or the other, they could tip the balance that was dragging out the civil war.

The Sol Suvanis Barony was one of the more powerful baronies, with the Suvanna being defeated in battle and their mercenary army pushed back, their power had grown politically since then. If they openly backed the Empire, it could mean the other baronies would either come out to support Sol Savanis or they would gather up and attack the barony together.

The real issue was the Hesna cult. They were doing something terrible with that strange fire. The memories of his talk with Hetvana’s Hero came back to him. The world that had been burning and the death and suffering that was to come. Giamoor stated that the time was approaching where the gods would see if mankind was worth their attention.

“We must put out that fire,” San said.

Zomia didn’t move or say anything. She wearily sighed.

“I am needed here,” she said. “I am the only healer left.”

“Aren’t the Senta Cultist supposed to be the first to raise the sword when evil encroaches?” San asked.

The healer chuckled. “Do I look like a warrior?”

“I suppose not.” San paused as Zomia’s words were understood. “Why are you the only healer left? I thought there were more of you?”

Zomia looked down at her hands, the rust stained flecks of blood still dyed them. “They were killed,” she said.

“Who killed them?”

“Your actions have riled up the Hesna cult,” Zomia said. “They have been hunting the other healers across the city. Many who were outside of the temple were killed.”

“Shit,” San muttered. “Why kill the healers?”

“Densa would be able to dispel whatever is afflicting them,” Zomia said. “She is powerful, far more than I am. She has many levels and is blessed by Senta herself.” The healer sighed, wringing her blood stained hands. “They cannot enter the Temple, the cultists. So they have the Baron’s guards attacking our gates.”

The thumping noise continued and San listened to it. It did sound like a battering ram thumping against a wall. Did he cause this? He wondered. He had acted to put out the fire, if he hadn’t done so, would the Hesna Cult have left him alone? No.

Whatever the Hesna Cult was up to, they were looking to cause mayhem or injure people. Something more was up. If the Hesna Cult were killing Senta healers, then that was cause for open war between the two faiths. From what San understood the polytheistic beliefs of the Empire and Baronies didn’t sway toward extremism. If one believed in Senta, they still believed in the other gods, but devoted themselves to mainly one god.

Therefore the Hesna Cult was doing something that would cause lasting damage. Something they were willing to suffer the consequences for. That could only mean they were enacting some kind of endgame, something that would see that they dominated everything afterward. Senta and all the other cults would be meaningless if they were successful.

San winced as he began walking to the door.

“What are you doing?” Zomia asked.

“I have to get back to the warehouse,” San replied. “I still have some of the Purification left. I will bring it back, help Densa and Elgava, and anyone else who is afflicted. I think it might help. Then I’m going to snuff out that fire.”

“You are a fool,” Zomia stated, but didn’t move to stop him. She only watched as he left the room and staggered down the hall.

There was an old man in a rusted brigandine, holding a spear as if he hadn’t touched it in years, standing by the main hall of the temple. He looked at San, gulping slightly as his size and determined stride.

San pushed open the door and gritted back the emotion that struck him as he entered the massive room. The Temple of Senta was a place of worship and a place of healing. It was a massive structure that could act as a hospital, hostel, and hold hundreds for celebrations and rituals. The great hall of the temple was packed with men, women, and children. They lay upon bedding or hard stone, writhing in agony and moaning with pain.

San saw no injuries on their bodies, instead they were pale and their skin taunt across their body. Sweat soaked their tunics and a bitter acrid scent filled the air.

He saw Elgava immediately. She, Densa, and several other people were separated from everyone else. They lay on padded beds and were being looked after by a pair of young acolytes, their yellow garb declaring them so. San walked up to his friends and the acolytes scurried off, without saying a word.

Elgava was pale and her eyes were opened. Sweat slicked her skin and soaked her tunic, her skin was sallow and waxy, as if she were already dead. But her lips moved and her eyes blinked, even though she looked at nothing.

San crouched by her and set a hand on her arm. She shuddered and whimpered, but otherwise didn’t react. Her eyes didn’t move and she said nothing, her moving lips were chapped and bleeding, but no words escaped her mouth.

“I’ll come back,” San said. There was a bond between them; she had saved his life and he had saved hers. He would help her and he would make sure she recovered.

Densa was in a similar state as Elgava. Pale, waxy, with eyes staring at nothing. Her chest rose and fell and her hands twitched, but she didn’t respond to his touch or words.

San stood, seeing the two acolytes had summoned enough courage to return to their jobs.

“Are the Hesna cultists at the main gates?” he asked.

One of the boys nodded.

“Is there an alternate way out of this place?”

The other boy nodded.

“Show me.”

The two boys looked at one another. “We have our duties,” he said.

“Show me.”

One of the boys nodded, looking frightened. He beckoned for San to follow him. They took a corridor deeper into the temple, descending stairs and reaching a thick wooden door within a small storage room. The boy pulled the door open and there was a ladder that lead into a hole in the floor.

The wafting smell coming out of the hole declared it some kind of sewer or drainage.

“Where does this lead?” San asked.

“To the Red, but there are some exits out of it along the way,” the boy replied.

“Can I return through here?” San asked.

The boy nodded.

San looked down into the dark hole and grabbed the lantern the boy carried. With a deep breath, he lowered himself into the sewer.