The secret tunnel into the Keep was a well travelled path. San noted that there was little dust, debris, or the cobwebs he expected to see from watching too many movies. He even saw graffiti written on the walls that made Densa shake her head at. He would need to learn to read the Imperial script one of these days. It was probably something profane.

The tunnel was not a straight one, nor did it only have one path to take, there were side tunnels and it twisted and felt as if it turned in on itself several times. Within half an hour, San was utterly confused as to where they were going. He supposed that was the entire point.

They finally came to a iron framed door. Saggaris tapped a series of knocks upon the heavy wood and it swung open with barely a noise. A man with a sword and shield stood in the doorframe, he blinked at the lanterns and there was a murmur of voices behind him.

With his height, San could see into the room. The terrified eyes of men and women and children flickered in the lantern light. He could see the rich clothing on many, but also the red and white uniform of the Barony servants.

“How’s it up there?” Saggaris asked the man.

“Fucked up,” the man replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the scared faces and grimaced. “They’re killing anyone who raises an objection. Wholesale murder, even the rich komai and moneymen aren’t being spared.”

“When the other komai hear about this, it’s gonna be civil war,” Markona said.

“Aye, but will there be anything left when the night’s over?” Bostarion asked. “Those komai will be plagued with thirty thousand void horrors spreading out across the whole barony to worry about their dead relatives.”

That sobered up Markona and caused an increase in the looks of fear from the gathered refugees.

“What the hell do you think you’re gonna do?” the man asked Saggaris. She glanced back to the people behind her, catching San’s eye.

“Free Havatair, then kill those Hensa fucks,” she said.

The man didn’t say anything, but he allowed them to pass. There were at least three dozen people in the room, packed tightly and the whole place stank of fear and sweat. San wondered why they stayed in the room, there were tunnels beyond the door, but then realized there was only one lantern in the room. The tunnels were dark and convoluted, a poor place to rush into without light or knowledge of how to get out.

Saggaris allowed Histoa to take the lead. The Mage knew the Keep far better than anyone else, although it seemed he hadn’t known about the Baron’s secret entrance to his torture playground. The man stopped at the top of the stairs and held his hands up, a faint orange light illuminated the darkened corridor.

“Life Trace,” he said at Sans’ questioning look. Although had never tried to push San on where he had come from, Histoa knew San knew almost next to nothing about Power and Magic or Mana. He, at least, attempted to explain some of the things he was doing when he saw San’s confused expression.

Histoa pushed the door open on silent hinges. They were in another room, by the looks of it a store room or some forgotten part of the Keep. It was clean and there were well stacked wicker baskets holding tools, cloth, and various bits of equipment.

“I know where we are,” Histoa said. He closed his eyes, mumbling under his breath. “We’re on the southwestern edge of the Keep, there’s more store houses, some servant quarters, and staircases around this area. If we’re looking for the Baron’s secondary chambers, it’ll be close to here, down several corridors and fairly secluded.”

“Works for us,” Bostarion said. He loaded his crossbow and checked his weapons. The others did the same.

San glanced to Densa, who looked worried. She gave him a faint smile in return.

“I’ll lead,” Histoa said. “I’m not on the wanted lists, so maybe if they see me, I can buy us a few seconds.”

“Don’t try to kill anyone that’s Afflicted,” Densa said. “They can be cured.”

Markona snorted. “I’ll kill whoever tries to kill me, Lady Densa. The city is at stake and those things are becoming less than people every hour they’re out there.”

Densa didn’t respond, her expression showing what she felt by his words. Markona tried to stare her down, but her smoldering expression only caused him to turn away.

They exited the store room and moved as quickly and quietly as a dozen people in full armor could. The corridors were empty, devoid of life and noise that San had noted the first time he had arrived to the Keep all those days ago. There had been a lot of people rushing about, scores of servants, workers, and other people who all contributed to the logistics of running the Keep.

The only noise that could be heard were the occasional roars of rifle fire and the screeching noises of the Afflicted. It gave a haunting quality to the Keep, the muffled cries of people, the distant screeching and gunfire, and an occasional loud cry of terror that pierced the unnatural quiet.

Everyone was tensed, their heads on a swivel as they moved. A collective sigh of relief was had when they entered the secondary chambers of the Baron and finally closed the heavy wooden door behind them. The group nearly sagged against the walls and wiped sweat from their brows.

“The door’s over here,” one of the Guards gestured. The two Guards and Histoa moved to a bookcase. San nearly chuckled at the sight. Was there a more obvious place to put a secret door? He looked to the fireplace and wondered if one was hidden behind it too.

The bookcase creaked on rusty hinges as they pulled it from the wall. Another door sat behind it, flushed against the stone and painted the same color. There was no latch, but one of the Guards took a tool from a book and slipped it into a slot. There was an audible click and the door was pushed inward.

San could feel the cold air wafting out of the staircase, but also something else. A bitter smell of sweat, fear, and blood. He wasn’t the only one to notice it, Elgava visibly grimacing at the smell and Herokov’s face creasing so much San thought he would fold in on himself.

“Senta that’s rank,” Bostarion muttered.

No one responded to the comment. The lantern they carried was relit and some candles were pulled from the candelabras that were scattered about the richly decorated room. The sense of wrongness was a cloying presence as they headed down the tightly wound spiral staircase. It was as if decades of misery and pain were manifested into a miasma that lay thick in the air.

Another door blocked their way, but the Guards peered through a slot and gestured that it was clear beyond. The miasma of suffering was intense, nearly causing San to gag. He saw that everyone else shared his expression.

The dungeon wasn’t what San had seen in popular culture. There were no guttering torches, no rusty cages, and no maniacal torturer heating iron pokers in stoves. Instead the room was fairly wide and open, it was also clean, and if not for the smell, San would have thought it was a storage room.

There was a wide open central chamber and along the walls were a dozen stout doors with iron hinges. Oil lanterns lit up the room, their metal back reflectors providing more than enough light to see that the entire place was empty.

Except for one figure, chained and left hanging in the center of the room.

Havatair was a mess of bruises and shallow cuts along his torso. The big man had been stripped naked and castrated. Blood pooled beneath him and a fleshy mess lay discarded on the floor beside him.

“Sweet Senta,” Markona gasped. The acerbic man turned and loudly vomited upon the stone floor.

San felt the man’s queasiness as he and Densa rushed to his side. San undid the simple pin manacles around his hands and eased him to the floor. He was dead weight, barely making a whimper as they laid him down upon the filthy blood soaked stone floor.

“Senta, Mother of life,” Densa whispered as she wrapped her hands about Havatair’s own. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his bloody face, her words coming fast. “Give me power, give me the healing grace, let me save this man’s life and ease his pain.”

San could feel the mana in the air, he could feel as Densa condensed it with her touch, creating a small ball of light that flowed from her forehead and into the man. Havatair shuddered and his eyes snapped open.

“No,” he said. “I will not break.” He began coughing raggedly, blood flecking his lips.

San held him down as he began to struggle.

“No!” he screamed.

He had levels and San wasn’t strong enough to hold the man down. Havatair grabbed him by the neck and with a swing of his arm had San tossed across the room. San crashed against the stone walls in a clatter of armor and weapons. He groaned with pain.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Havatair rose to his feet, his eyes wide and insane.

“I’ll kill you all!” he screamed.

Elgava collided with him in a flying tackle. Although Havatair out leveled her, his madness and her weight threw him off balance. The big man fell heavily to the ground and San jumped to his feet. He joined Elgava and used his body weight to hold him down.

“Be Calmed,” Densa said, laying her hands on the sides of his head. Havatair struggled, his eyes still wide and filled with madness, but after a moment his struggling stilled.

San watched with fascination as his eyes began to focus and he came back to himself. He stared up at San and Elgava, his chest heaving.

“Senta,” he whispered. “You should have just let me die.”

“I’m sorry,” San said. “But we need you. We need your strength. The cultists…”

Havatair went limp; he stared at the darkened ceiling. “I have sworn my oath,” he said. “I have sworn to protect the Barony. I will not be broken.” His voice was raspy and each word seemed like a struggle to produce. “I will see them all destroyed.”

Elgava appeared at their side, she carried some robes and handed it to them. Havatair looked lost for a moment, staring down at his bloodied hands and finally seeing what had been done to him. He blinked and continued to stare.

“You’re alive, that’s all that matters,” Densa said softly. “We need you, Havatair. We need you to command the Guards and stop the Hesna cult from killing everyone.”

The words were a lifeline to the man. He grabbed onto them and his resolved firmed as he snatched the clothing out of Elgava’s hand. No one said anything, although San could see the horror etched in everyone of their faces. The two Guards looked completely shocked, but that soon turned into anger.

Being casterated and hung in the dungeon to die a sad and lonely death; San could not imagine what Havatair was going through. The man focused on putting on the robes, his flesh might have been healed, but there was no telling what this had done to his soul.

The bloody lump of flesh on the floor was avoided by all, it wasn’t looked at or commented on. Everyone pretended it wasn’t there. Havatair looked at what represented his manhood and his face hardened even further.

Havatair was a powerful man in this Barony and even in San’s world, powerful men did not lack bedfellows. How would the deed done to him effect the way others would see him. San had heard plenty of people mocking the Last Emperor’s Son for what he had done to himself in his fanatical zeal. The Hesna cultists were mocked for self castrating themselves.

“We find these cultists and we kill them,” Havatair said, his voice was deadly cold and San shivered. “No mercy, no hesitation. They all die.”

San could feel the emotion pouring off the man. It wasn’t for the city he now moved, it was personal. The big man pushed by San and lead them back up to the secondary chambers. San shared a look with Densa, the healer looked tired and concerned.

“He may be physically healed, but one cannot comprehend the emotional pain he is under,” she told him.

Havatair was their only chance at turning the tides against the Hesna cult. They needed the Guards on their side, they needed the Leveled soldiers to stand with Havatair and against the cultists.

San glanced toward the door as Havatair disappeared up it.

***

There was a pair of decorative short swords crossed upon a wall. Havatair walked up to them and pulled the blades down. They were decorative, but they were still weapons. He swung them a bit and nodded to himself, glancing at the others as they exited the secret doorway.

“Do we know where the fucking cultists are?” Havatair asked.

“We think they’ll be at the White Tower,” San replied. “It is an Old Kingdom obelisk, a structure of power. They need it.”

“Aye,” Havatair said, not surprised by the information. “We should have destroyed the damn thing long ago. Now it comes back to haunt us all.”

“Will you be alright?” Markona asked Havatair. The two big men glared at one another.

“I am healed,” Havatair said simply.

Markona nodded and headed for the door, leading the way. San could see the flash of anger and rage that stitched its way across Havatair’s face.

The double doors that led into the Baron’s secondary chambers were carelessly pulled opened by Markona. The man cast a look over his shoulder at the others, a smirk on his lips.

“Come, glory and murder await us. Let us show these Hensa fuck-“ his words were suddenly cut off by a scream.

In his moment of grandstanding he had not seen the Afflicted that had been outside the doors. The thin man with greasy hair and tattered red and white robes snapped his head up, a heavy cleaver in one hand and madness in his eyes. A brigandine is powerful armor, but it does not protect the entire body.

As Markona turned to look at the others, the cleaver wielding Afflicted swung his blade and with the power only those that used every fiber of their muscle and didn’t care for the injuries sustained slashed it across Markona’s exposed chest. San could hear the crunch and clatter of steel plates that were torn loose from the fabric they were riveted to. The heard Markona scream in pain and shock and then the splatter of blood on the stone.

The Afflicted barely had enough time to finish their swing before Havatair was there, his giant frame nearly filling the entire doorway. He lashed out at the attacker, the two swords flickering and the bisected man flopping to the ground, still screeching. His dying screams were drowned out by Markona’s own as he bled out on the floor.

Havatair grabbed Markona by the armor and pulled him into the room, sliding him across the floor that was already slicked with his blood. Densa and San rushed to him, pulling away the fabric and bits of steel plates. Saggaris frowned down at him, wincing at the wound.

“Sweet Senta, it hurts,” Markona hissed.

“You’ll be fine,” Densa said. “A flesh wound.”

“He damn near cleaved my chest open,” Markona said through gritted teeth.

“Ey, you’re pretty heartless though,” Saggaris said watching as Densa and San stemmed the flow of blood, clean the wound, and then the healer began pulling the wound together with her mana.

“Fuck,” Bostarion muttered. “They’re coming.”

San cocked his head and he could hear the screeching and thundering of feet as more Afflicted were beckoned by their dying brethren’s call. The two Guards and Bostarion rushed to slam the doors shut. They barred it with a heavy wooden plank and stared at one another as the first of the Afflicted appeared down the corridor.

“They’ve seen us,” Bostarion hissed.

“He’ll live,” Densa announced looking down at Markona. The big man hissed and rubbed his chest.

“Not fully healed,” he said.

“It’s a lot of damage. A small bit of healing can save a man’s life, but too much healing will only drain me,” Densa remarked.

“Didn’t stop you from healing up Havatair.” Markona groaned and looked down at the bloody mess down his armor. “Hetvana’s cunt, this was just fixed a few days ago.”

“Better broken armor than broken body,” Elgava snapped. “You’re alive, now shut up.”

“Girl,” Markona began.

“Shut up, Marko,” Saggaris snapped. “The most of these Afflicted we’ve seen haven’t been carrying weapons. It looks like they’re a bit damned more dangerous if they’re armed. It takes a lot of effort to tear through armor.”

San glanced down at his own rusted steel cuirass. It was battered, dinged, dented, and rusted in spots, with no maintenance done upon it since before its former owner had died in it. The same went for the rest of his armor. The Afflicted were strong, but if they could punch through steel plates, then they were far more dangerous than before.

“Didn’t see any weapons on these ones,” Bostarion remarked. He paused as a crack resounded. Everyone looked to the door, to see the heavy beam beginning to crack under the strain, along with the rest of the double doors. “They’re gonna break through.”

“Let them come,” Havatair said, his voice was low and he rolled his shoulders, the twin short swords in his hands.

“They’re people,” Densa pleaded. “They can be healed.”

“Night is falling,” Havatair said. “If the boy is sacrificed and the breach is open, we’re all dead.” There was a terrifying calmness to his voice. “We cannot save them all, Lady Densa. We cannot let the cultists to go through with their plans. This city, this barony, will be saved.”

Densa looked to San, as if asking for him to back her up. San pressed his lips into a firm line. “He’s right,” San said. “They’re people, but they’re not people right now. We have to stop the cultists. At all costs.”

San pulled his sword from its sheath, the first time he had done so since he arrived in the keep. The enchanted blade didn’t look any different than any sword, there was no gleam to it, no sign that there was mana keeping it sharp, maintained, and durable.

“Senta forgive us,” Elgava whispered. “Senta forgive us all.”

“We doing this?” Bostarion roared. He and the others were being pushed back from the door. Markona groaned, trying to get to his feet, but failing. The healing might have saved his life, but he was weak.

“Open it!” Havatair roared.

Markona cursed as Saggaris and Elgava pulled him to his feet. He nearly fell back down again, but leaned against a desk, shakily holding a weapon shoved into his hands.

The three men threw themselves away from the door. It exploded open, clipping a Guard’s boot and causing him to crash to the ground. The door slammed against the wall, bounced back and hit the first Afflicted to rush into the room. There was a crack of bone and a spray of blood, the Afflicted collapsed to the ground, hampering its fellows.

Bostarion and Saggaris grabbed the fallen Guard and pulled him to safety. San and Havatair rushed to the opened door. The small entryway was the bottleneck they needed. If they could hold them here, they would… what? Kill them all, San finished. They would kill them all as they were stuck in that bottleneck.

San yelled as he rushed to the door, his sword raised. He kept yelling as the blade slashed down as the first figure to push their way into the room. The enchanted weapon bisected the woman, the diagonal slash across her torso beginning from the left side of her neck and ending a her right armpit.

There was barely any resistance, like using a sharp pair of scissors to cut a sheet of paper. The blade practically moved on its own, parting meat, bone, and sending a cascade of hot blood against San’s armor.

The hot copper smell hit him and the woman let out a strangled gargle. Her black void eyes stared at him as she fell, her head and arm falling to the right and the rest of her body staggered forward with its previous momentum.

San barely had time to register what he had done, before there was another screaming, snarling face trying to push its way through the door. The twisted face was barely human anymore, the skin had been pulled taunt across their skull, their teeth were broken and bleeding, and strange protrusions began bulging from beneath their skin, producing a foul smelling black fluid.

They were still people though. They were people who were caught up in the power grabs and insanity caused by fanatics and madmen. They were the victims here and San felt his heart break as he brought the sword down upon the figure. They didn’t deserve this, but it was either them or the entire city. They had to stop the cultist. They had to prevent a breach from occurring. They had to-

San wiped the blood from his gauntlets and stared into the bloody chunks that were left of the Afflicted. Living, breathing men and women, who had families, people who loved them and people that they loved, reduced to piles of stinking flesh. San staggered out of the door and vomited against a wall.

No one said anything as they tentatively exited the room, the eyes of the men and women didn’t meet San’s or Havatair’s, instead they looked ahead, down the corridor, and out toward the White Tower that was bathed in the setting sunlight.

“Come on,” San said, pushing himself off the wall and into the empty corridor. His boots echoed down the silent hall, it took a few moments before they were joined by the others as they left the room.