The sweat beaded on Torres's brow, a cold counterpoint to the tepid mezcal clinging to the rim of the glass. It was the sort of drink that wouldn't win any awards, but free booze had its own charm, especially when free booze was the only company you had. Three days. Three dust-caked suns had bled across the sky since the Sombra warehouse ran crimson, and Torres had nothing to show for it.
The patio, with its view of the sluggish river and the sprawl of Wolfram South, might have been picturesque under different circumstances. Instead, she took another swig and scowled at the maps sprawled before her. The city maps were detailed enough, but the trails snaking west and south were cobwebbed things, offering more mystery than direction.
Hil, in Their merciless sun form, remained partially hidden as the clouds rolled across the sky, painting the land in a gray hue. Squinting through the awning's slats, Torres watched its weak fingers struggle to pierce the grimy canvas of the sky. In a low murmur, barely a whisper, she addressed the god, "Forgive me, Hil. I chase shadows in your name, shadows that dance just out of reach. Maybe... a little break for your humble servant? I know my offerings ain't much, but this ain't getting any easier. A nudge, a whisper in the right direction, anything would be a blessing."
It wasn't that she wasn't devout, not exactly. A Manos's work was a hungry beast, always demanding, and stolen moments of prayer were all she could manage. Did others of her order find pockets of time for piety, or were they all fire and brimstone all the time?
A wave of lassitude washed over her as she lifted the glass. Maybe it was the mezcal, maybe it was the trail running colder than a gravedigger's breath, but a dull ache settled in her chest. Then, a flicker of frustration. Rosa Delgado. The drunken, insubordinate Alguacila with a nose for trouble and a talent for wasting it all on cheap liquor. A month ago, the thought of pulling rank and throwing Delgado in jail had been tempting. However, the woman's hunting instinct was remarkable. Yet time was a luxury they couldn't afford. By the time the hungover Alguacila stumbled into Wolfram, the moon would be a black eye in the sky, and Tenebroso would have painted the town red again.
With a sigh that ruffled the dust at her feet, Torres upended the glass, the remaining mezcal soaking into the parched earth. "Not you," she muttered, a vow more than a curse.
"Inquisitor!" Brother Martinez burst through the swinging doors, sweat slicking his face red. "She was here!"
"Who?" Torres snapped, the lethargy momentarily forgotten.
Martinez wheezed, gasping for breath. "Delgado. A fisherman saw a woman matching her description climb out of one of the wash vents near the Sombra place."
He fumbled with a waterskin, gulping down the life-giving liquid. "Three days ago. Said she looked like she was ready to brawl with a demon or two. Fit Delgado's description down to the chipped tooth, apparently."
"Anything else?" Torres pressed.
"Nope. Just that she climbed out, headed for the streets, and vanished. Should I inform the Alguacila or her superiors?"
The temptation to stick Delgado in a jail cell, a punishment for defying both her and the Alguacila hierarchy, flickered once again in Torres's mind. And then, as if on cue, a ray of sunlight, a rogue warrior in a war of clouds, speared through a tear in the awning, landing squarely on the map sprawled before her. It illuminated a curious landmark, a twist in the path she hadn't noticed before.
Had Hil finally acknowledged her plea? A flicker of hope, a silent thank you. Rising to her feet, she addressed Martinez, her voice firm. "Saddle the horses. We're taking a trip to see a Silba of Lune."
image [https://img.wattpad.com/4cb2be823b8a09ddba9a276859c3ea1ad6cb811f/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f52427342524754745275696a37773d3d2d313430393536383734302e313761353637393930613634326162353338303239343634383734352e706e67?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]
The air hung heavy with disapproval as Torres urged her horse onward. She'd known the moment she breathed "Silba" that Martinez's piety would take umbrage. What she hadn't anticipated was the man's droning sermon that stretched back to Wolfram. The westering sun had already begun to hemorrhage the sky, painting the clouds in shades of bruised orange and regret. The Shrine of Lune, nestled like a forgotten tooth in the distant hills, demanded a swift arrival before twilight devoured the world.
Horseback travel, meant to be a time of quiet contemplation, was instead filled with Martinez's monotonous diatribe. Not that Torres doubted her own devotion. Being a Hunter meant navigating the shadows, sometimes skirting the edges of orthodoxy. Such pragmatism, it seemed, grated on the acolyte's sensibilities. Were all Corps like this, she wondered, or merely Martinez?
El Cuerpo de Acolitos, known as The Corps, the churning engine that produced acolytes for the Inquisition, was a three-headed beast. The first, the most numerous, were the lay folks, those swept away by a fervent, often misguided, sense of service to Hil. These poor souls, with little to no training, were the first to crumble or perish when confronted with the job's grim reality. The second tier comprised those who failed the grueling Manos initiation. Many Inquisitors, like herself, were orphans raised within Shrines. Those deemed worthy underwent a brutal forging of body, mind, and spirit. Survivors entered the brotherhood, the failures, provided they remained un-vaporized, found themselves in the Corps. The final, least savory contingent were ex-cons. Those staring down the hangman's noose were offered a choice – serve the Emperor's meat grinder on the Eastern Line, embrace Hil's dubious grace in the Corps, or provide entertainment for the executioner. Service or the death.
She cast a sidelong glance at Martinez, silently pondering his origins. His incessant bleating faded into background noise. Finally, when his lips finished flapping for the tenth time, she cut in, "Done pontificating, acolyte?"
Martinez bristled but remained silent.
"Good," she said. "Remind me, who is Lune to Hil?"
A mumbled response.
"Louder, acolyte. The wind carries whispers poorly."
"Lune, the Second Daughter of Hil," Martinez muttered sullenly.
"And why, pray tell, is seeking a Silba's aid, on behalf of Hil's champions, considered heresy?"
"Their faith lies elsewhere, Inquisitor. Their gifts may not be divine. No better than bruja hedge witches and their infernal arts," he spat.
Torres sighed, a weary sound. "Martinez, your symphony of disapproval has been playing on repeat for an hour. Curious you haven't inquired about the most crucial detail."
He looked at her, searching for the unspoken question. "What is it, Inquisitor?"
"Why visit the Silba in the first place?" she said, not waiting for a response. "Because I prayed, acolyte. Prayed to Hil for guidance on a sunless day. And what did Hil do? Hil tore a hole in the clouds and bathed a single point on my map in sunlight. Hil offered direction, just as They offer us purpose." She reached back, the movement swift and practiced, revealing the holstered pistol at her hip. "So, if I hear one more whisper of heresy, or any further doubt cast upon my methods, your service ends here."
Martinez's eyes widened before hardening into flint. He looked away, jaw clenched, his response a flat, "Understood, Inquisitor."
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
image [https://img.wattpad.com/4cb2be823b8a09ddba9a276859c3ea1ad6cb811f/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f52427342524754745275696a37773d3d2d313430393536383734302e313761353637393930613634326162353338303239343634383734352e706e67?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]
The last vestiges of the day's cloak of cloud shuffled off, leaving only Lune's watchful eye in the velvet sky. Its cool light made the final climb to the plateau easier. Reaching the summit, Torres found it flattened like a weathered palm, the earth inlaid with smooth stones. Despite its stark simplicity, this was the Shrine of Lune.
Torres glanced skyward for a moment, gazing at the silvery presence in the heavens. Once upon a time, there had been two moons in the firmament. But now, only Lune’s presence remained.
This man-made plateau held only two things of note. The first was a squat, stone building that could barely house a soul or two. Outside, a fire crackled merrily in a pit, a cauldron hanging from a chain and sending up the savory scent of something cooking. A sign all was well, and perhaps the Silba still resided here.
The second point of interest was a large, stone bowl in the center of the plateau. Its surface was etched with intricate carvings, barely visible in the dim light. This was the Silba's tool, and judging by the reflective water at its bottom, already filled.
"Best get some food first," rasped a voice like dry leaves.
Torres tore her gaze from the bowl to find an old man hunched over the pot. He wore threadbare robes, held together with a thin cord, and his long, braided hair, a mix of silver and gray, shone red-gold in the firelight. His weathered face creased into a smile as he spoke. Had he been there all along, or had he materialized from the hovel? A glance at Martinez, hand hovering near his pistol but thankfully not on it, confirmed she wasn't the only one surprised. Without a word, she dismounted and approached the old man.
"Inquisitor Torres," she said, her voice firm. "I seek the Daughter's guidance."
The old man nodded, then gestured to two rickety chairs leaning against the back of the small building. He busied himself stirring the pot, ladling its contents into plain wooden bowls. As instructed, she pulled out the chairs and set them by the fire. The old man produced a steaming tortilla from a clay pot near the flames, wrapping it around the stew before placing it in her bowl with a smile.
"Eat," he commanded.
The stew was a dark, savory concoction, the meat and vegetables a familiar but unidentifiable mix. It left a curious warmth on her tongue. They ate in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Glancing at Martinez, she saw him dismount and lead the horses to a nearby bush for grazing. He himself had pulled out an apple, his chomping the only sound breaking the crackling fire.
Turning back to the old man, Torres saw him rising. As she watched, the old man disposed of the used bowl into a small bucket by the front door. He gestured for her to follow. Despite his age, he moved with the silent grace of a panther, heading barefoot towards the central bowl. Torres placed her now empty bowl into the bucket and joined the Silba at the scrying stone.
"Once I begin," he said, his voice barely a murmur, "all you need to do is speak the name of the one you seek." He reached into his robe and produced a single, dried leaf, gently placing it on the water's surface. Lune's silvery reflection shimmered faintly. "When we find them, the leaf will tell you where to go. The Daughter's power will flow through me until the water stills."
Martinez had joined her now, his face a mask of disapproval but his voice thankfully silent.
Torres simply nodded. "When you are ready," she said.
The old man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. As he began his murmured chant, a language older than time itself, Torres realized she couldn't understand any of what he spoke. But then, a single word rang clear in her mind: sight.
He dipped his hands into the water, his voice growing louder, the archaic tongue seemed to ring true all around them. Suddenly, he raised his hands, splashing water on his face. His eyes snapped open, glowing with an eerie silver light. "Ask," he rasped, his voice raw.
"Rosa Delgado," Torres said, her voice steady.
The old man, the Seer, the Silba, his face etched with the map of a hard life, reached out a gnarled hand and snagged at the air, twisting it like a baker kneading dough. The water in the chipped bowl before them mirrored the disturbance, its surface churning into a hungry vortex. The moon, Lune, a pale coin in the inky sky, seemed to focus its light solely on the churning water.
Yolanda Torres, Inquisitor of the Order of Hil, had seen her share of miracles, felt the brush of the divine, but this – this gave her pause. Gooseflesh prickled her skin as the swirling water solidified, morphing from frothy chaos to… something else.
The image that bloomed in the bowl was no mere reflection. It was a world, a landscape of tall grass swaying in an unseen wind, a campfire casting flickering shadows. A figure sat by the fire, a long gun cradled in their lap. Rosa. The rogue Algucila appeared to be cleaning her weapons in the firelight. Rosa looked ragged, her featured etched with exhaustion, the clothes the same ones Yolanda had last seen her in last. The toll of this chase was visible on the woman.
The image began to fade, a dried leaf swirling on the water's edge before settling, pointing stubbornly southwest. Yolanda snatched her map, a flicker of hope extinguished by the harsh rasp of Martinez beside her.
"This is wrong, Inquisitor," he muttered, his voice laced with a tremor Yolanda hadn't heard before. "Wrong and unnatural. Why waste time with this woman? He holds the key, doesn't he? Tell me, old man, where is Tenebroso?"
The Silba, though seemingly in a trance, reacted to the name with a jolt. Fear flickered in his ancient eyes, momentarily banishing the milky cataract glaze. His hands, gnarled like tree roots, resumed their twisting, the water in the bowl churning with a renewed, unnerving violence.
The first vision had been bathed in Lune's gentle light. This time, there was only darkness. The sky, moments ago clear, was now choked with an unnatural roiling mass of clouds, obscuring the moon. Darkness swallowed the world, save for the eerie glow emanating from the bowl.
The light pulsed, a sickly red, and within its depths, an image coalesced. It wasn't a face, not quite. A skull, a grinning skull with twin embers burning in its empty sockets. It stared back at them. Silent. Accusing. Yolanda tore her gaze away, forcing herself to look at the Silba. His face was a mask of terror, his hands working a silent, desperate plea.
A sound, a laugh, broke the oppressive silence. It was a sound both deep and hollow, a chuckle from the abyss. Yolanda whipped her head towards Martinez, his mouth agape, but before he could speak, a skeletal hand, impossibly large, erupted from the water, wrapping its bony fingers around his throat.
Fear, cold and primal, flooded Yolanda. She scrambled back, her pistol slipping free of its holster. Another hand clawed its way from the water, dragging into existence a towering, skeletal figure. Water clung to its form, mimicking the vague outline of a vaquero, a dark rider from nightmare. A wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over its empty sockets, where the twin embers burned with an infernal intensity.
There was no tongue in that skull, no flesh on those bones, yet Yolanda heard the voice resonate in her head, a chilling rasp. The red eyes focused on her.
"Cheating, Inquisitor? Does your precious and hate-filled Hil not frown upon such parlor tricks?"
The entity shifted its gaze to the struggling Martinez. "Ah, you… ripe one. I can smell it on you, gordo, a smorgasbord of sin. I yearn to see that face, to savor your essence." With contemptuous ease, Tenebroso flung Martinez aside, the large man slamming into the nearby building with a sickening thud.
Yolanda, her heart a frantic drum solo in her chest, raised her pistol. Tenebroso ignored her, its gaze locked on her eyes. A tense silence stretched, punctuated only by the ragged gasps of Martinez.
"Potential," Tenebroso rasped finally. "But unrefined. Do not court me, Inquisitor. You will find only oblivion. Leave me to my task…my duty… my justice. But feel free to send the plump one in your place. He will be … delicious."
Tenebroso's laughter, a skeletal cackle that echoed through the canyons of her soul, died in its throat as abruptly as it began. The figure in the bowl shimmered, its form dissolving like smoke in a high wind. The water itself convulsed, then erupted outwards in a geyser of defiance, soaking Yolanda to the bone.
She lay there, shivering, for a moment too long, before hauling herself towards the Silba. The old man remained blissfully unaware, slumped unconscious on the damp earth. Martinez stirred with a groan, a hand reaching up to cradle his head that was rapidly blossoming with a purple bruise. He was lucky, she thought with a sliver of grim satisfaction.
There would be time for recriminations later. For now, a question gnawed at her. Tenebroso, the devourer of sins, had deemed Martinez ripe for the picking. The implications were as clear as a desert sunset. The hulking Acolyte, for all his faithful bluster, served to save his own skin.
He would bear watching.
A cool breeze swept across the plateau, carrying with it the returning light of Lune, the pale moon finally breaking free from its shroud of clouds. Yolanda unfolded her map, the paper crackling in the dry air. She took a deep breath, the taste of damp earth thick on her tongue, and examined the roads and towns in the direction they had been directed.
Canales.