Built in the days of Mazog, Fort Erikson was built to withstand just about anything; only after a millennia of standing beneath the hot desert sun was it starting to show its age. Its walls were still heavily fortified.
The fort sat atop a tall hill which overlooked the ghost city below, a city whose name had long since been forgotten. Its walls were heavily fortified. In order to get in one had to go through the metal gates; in order to be approved the person had to either have the tattoo of The Scarlet Church or the tattoo of the Red Wraiths. Anything else was an immediate cause to be shot on sight. Guards stood atop of Fort Erikson's walls armed with assault rifles and dressed in Kevlar armor. Fort Erikson, a base for the Red Wraiths, was well protected. But that didn't mean it was impossible to get in.
Sara Ferine sat at the counter of Fort Erikson's only bar, The Red Wraiths Tavern. When she'd first come into the tavern, she'd told herself she was only going to have a drink, just something to help calm down her nerves. But somehow she'd ended up having two or three, and was now drunk. She couldn't understand how this had happened: She'd never been a drinker, never really liked the taste of spirits. And, she thought, looking down at the last finger of whiskey at the bottom of her glass, this stuff is cheap. It tastes like acid. I'll be surprised if there's anything left of my insides.
She knew she was drunk. Considering where she was at and why she was here, that wasn't a good thing. And yet she couldn't quite bring herself to care.
She wore the customary red jacket that would mark her as a Red Wraith, her long blonde hair bound back. There were several other patrons in the inn, seeking refuge from the constant heat of the desert. Except for the quiet murmur of voices lowered in private conversation or the shuffling of cards the inn was mostly quiet. Not for the first time since entering the tavern, Sara thought she felt someone's gaze touch on her back. Appearing as if she had not noticed at all, she listened for the sound of a chair being pushed back or a boot scuffling against the dusty wooden floor. When it didn't happen she allowed herself to relax internally.
I've had way too much to drink. It's making me paranoid. What was I thinking?
The air inside the tavern was stifling, thick with the smells of fermenting whiskey, grease, and the spicy meatiness of multiple unwashed bodies enclosed in a single space. Sara barely noticed it anymore. She tipped the glass back and swallowed the last mouthful of whiskey. No more for me.
Bracing herself against the table, Sara rose carefully to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed and sticky with her own sweat. From his vantage behind the counter, the bartender watched her, arms crossed against the expanse of his massive gut. His tiny, beady eyes, and pock-marked state of his apron made her think of a pig. She nodded her thanks at him, then shouldered the wooden door open and stepped out into the heat.
The heat out in the open, while less stuffy, was no less intense. Golden spokes of sunlight beat down relentlessly on the fort without a cloud in the sky to provide relief. A gust of wind caressed against Sara's reddened cheeks, strong enough to throw the door to the inn open. Drifts of smoke and sand were scattered across the square. An object rolled through the sand like a tumbleweed. From where she stood, Sara couldn't quite make out what it was. It must have been important because a man was chasing after it, cursing loudly.
"Close the fuck'n' door!" someone shouted behind her. Without bothering to even turn her head, Sara kicked backwards with her boot. The door slammed shut, hinges creaking.
The mingled aromas of roasting meat and animal shit permeated the dry desert air. Red Wraiths marched through the courtyard in both directions. One stopped at a booth; no doubt their attention had been snagged by a silver-tongued merchant. More Red Wraiths walked along the battlements of the fort, their forms throwing shadows against the yellow sand. They were all armed with rifles.
No one paid attention to the raised platform at the front of the fort where three bodies dangled, held in place by nooses around their necks. Two men and a woman. Sarah barely had to look to spot the tattoos of a torch on their body: proof of their affiliation with the Eurchurch. The tattoos had marked them for death. Worse, thought, was the state of their bodies. They were grotesquely bloated. Vultures had pecked out their eyes and torn away strips of their flesh. Before being hung all three of the condemned had been beaten and flogged severely. The woman had been raped several times. On more than one occasion, Sara had heard several recountings of the assault from the Wraiths. They'd laughed as if it was the retelling of a joke or some amusing story. It had taken all of Sara's willpower to keep from screaming, kept in check that the same thing could happen to her were she caught.
No, Sara thought, fear, despair, and anger warring inside her gut. I would kill myself long before I ever let a man touch me.
Who knew how long they would be up there to further decompose beneath the sweltering heat of the sun. They would never get the proper burial they deserved.
They deserve better. May Mercius shine the Light of his Rays on them in love and mercy.
She barely glanced at the merchants when they approached her, already spouting their sale pitches. She made sure to walk steadily, shoulders relaxed, head held high and slightly back as if she was proud of what she did. Night time was hours away. Might as well be days away, she thought bitterly. The whiskey had helped relieve some of the strain that had been building up for the past two days but she could feel it constantly hanging around her shoulders like a cape.
Sara spotted a bucket sitting on a rickety wooden table. Her throat was scratchy with thirst. While the water was too warm to drink from sitting out in the heat, she could at least try to wash some of the sweat that dripped from her forehead onto the collar of her filthy white top. Her nostrils flared from the sour smell of horse shit piled on top of a nearby wagon. She wrung out the dripping rag and wiped at her forehead. Water dripped down soaking the front of her shirt. She sighed contentedly. A woman has to stay cool out here.
Her skin gleamed with pearly drops of water. She caught the leering gaze of a mercenary. His lips, stained with tobacco, peeled back from rotting teeth. You're barking up the wrong tree, Sara thought, scowling at him. And even if I were the right kind of tree, thank Mercius I'm not, you still couldn't pay me enough to bother.
Sara reminded herself these were some of the most dangerous men in all the hellscape - and while she looked like them she was not like them. While she was more than capable of defending herself it would not best to vex this man should he decide to cause trouble.
She made her way towards the northwest door, eager to get away from his line of sight.
She kept her hand on the blade of her knife just to make herself feel better. She ran the pad of her thumb over the familiar notches and grooves worn into the wooden handle. If she did get caught she would try to take out one or two of the mercenaries with her.
She climbed up the plank-wood staircase to the second floor, passing from the stifling, drowsy air into the shaded protection of the hallway. Her quarters were near the end of the hallway. She looked forward to a couple hours shut eye before it was time to begin tonight's shift of guard duty. Her room was small, just big enough to hold a small feather bed and a wardrobe which held her other uniform. A separate door catty corner from the bed led into a tiny bathroom. Mime only used it when she could no longer stand the smell of her own stink.
She poured the filthy water she kept in a pail into the tub. She filled the pail with fresh hot water, breathing in the nose-hair curling smell of sulfur. Back in the bedroom she grabbed a bar of lye and honey soap. She made sure the window, which overlooked the courtyard, was closed. Now she had privacy. For the next few hours she could let her guard down. She peeled off her sweaty clothes until she stood bare breasted.
The room should have belonged to a woman named Meme, a woman who had devoted herself to the Red Wraiths, and in doing so the cause of the Scarlet Church. Sara had killed her, stealing her clothes and the papers stating she was a Red Wraith. Everyone in the fort assumed Sara was Meme. Sara could still see the women's naked, lifeless body now buried out somewhere in the desert, beneath the sand. With a shudder, Sara pushed away the thought. She told herself she shouldn't feel bad for the woman - she was the enemy after all - but Sara could not quite shake the sense of guilt away.
She was exhausted from the deception, exhausted from being someone she wasn't. She yearned to crawl in bed and sleep, to take a small break from her cruel duality.
…
Commander Viktor Sanae was the man in charge of the Red Wraiths stationed at Fort Erikson. In contact with the High Priest of the Red Church, it was his job to oversee shipments, pass along important information, and act as the head of the Church's local militia. Within Fort Erikson he was treated as a high ranking noble-born, which meant he had everything brought to him on request: His meals and drink, whatever he so desired. Sara volunteered to bring him his meal every night before going to guard duty. Her initial motive was to curry favor with the commander; the ultimate goal was to memorize a map of the hellscape spread across the wall behind his desk, marked with different colored pegs. She had no idea what the pegs meant but she was determined to memorize the map in hopes of finding out. Who knew, the information might be crucial to the Inquisition's goals. A girl can dream can't she? Sara thought.
She pushed a small trolley with two platters on top. Her eyes were focused on the door at the end of the fort's corridor which was guarded by two armored Red Wraiths armed with rifles. She nodded at them in greeting but said nothing. The guard on the right opened the door for her. "Go on in," he said curtly. "Make it quick."
Sara nodded again to show she understood and stepped into Sanae's office. The man in charge of the Red Wraiths sat at a large wooden desk, scribbling something down on a sheet of paper. He was middle-aged with thinning red-blonde hair and a round face. In Sara's mind he looked like the kind of man who would laugh and piss on a vagrant before he moved on about his business.
Commander Sanae looked up having caught a whiff of the food. "About time," he said, barely glancing at her as he came around the desk to retrieve his tray. "What took you so long?"
Grinning apologetically, Sarah internally visualized pulling a dagger and slitting the man's throat. She wondered if she could do it without alerting the guards. But what good would killing Sanae do for the Inquisition? The Scarlet Church would just put another in his place and continue with their plans of terrorizing the hellscape.
"The cook was running a little behind, sir." She cast a cautious glance at the map hanging behind his desk. "I came up here to bring your supper as quickly as I could. It's still hot."
Sanae grunted as if unconvinced and sat back down at his table. He removed the top of the platter and set it aside. Hmmm," he said, tucking a silk kerchief into the collar of his uniform. "Chicken - my favorite." He waved a hand dismissively at her. "You can go now."
With a close-lipped smile that hid her bared teeth, Sara saluted Sanoe and left his office.
If only I could get my hands around what little neck he has, she thought. Three years ago, when she'd first signed with the Inquisition she would have balked at the thought of doing such a thing. After all when she had taken her oath as healer and servant to Mercius, she had vowed to never do harm to another human being: I vow never to harm another living creature who bleeds the same color of blood I do, but to be a force of benevolence…
But in the two years she'd served as healer on the frontlines as well as spying she could further away from the woman she used to be. She could only hope Mercius was as merciful as the Eurchurch had led everyone to believe.
She resumed pushing the trolley towards the cellblock. Seeing the remaining platter on the tray, the guards on duty let her in without a word. She entered the gloomy room and mentally prepared herself.
Galliart Fulko, a loyal agent of the Inquisition, had been assigned to spy on The Red Wraiths to see if he could find what the Scarlet Church's next move was. When the Eurchurch had not heard anything from his team the Pope became worried. The worry was confirmed when a letter was intercepted, written and signed by Viktor Sanae, stating that Galliart and his three team members had been found, captured, and were being interrogated. The extent of what had been done to the unfortunate souls was of course understated and much more brutal.
Fulko had been beaten repeatedly: there were bruises and cuts all over his neck, chest, arms, and thighs. Both eyes were swollen shut. The index and middle fingers of his right hand were completely gone, the stumps crusted over with scabs. His arms and legs were all knobs, the flesh so pale and thin it barely seemed to cover the bone. They were feeding him but it was only enough to keep him alive - if that.
Someone had brought another platter sometime ago: the top of the platter had been removed to show some kind of soup. A mixture of flies and writhing maggots had congregated within the bowl. Fulko's face was drawn in a perpetual mask of agony. His swollen lips hung open, showing several missing teeth. The only sign of life he gave was the phlegmy rattle of his breath and the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest. His cell reeked with the sharp tang of urine and filth.
She wished she could say something to reassure him, to tell him help was on the way. Two years ago if she had been standing here instead of today she would have been convinced of this: evil would not prevail. But the war between the Inquisition and the Scarlet Church had flipped everything on its head. The Scarlet Church had risen from the dust like a ghost in the night. The hellscape hadn't even had time to heal from the last conflict.
The night air, which had cooled dramatically with the rising of the wind, felt good against her skin. Still, she wanted a bath - a real bath in a real tub. She walked along the battlements of the fort, nodding at the sentries on duty, making sure to keep her face expressionless. She was thankful to be out of the oppressive confines of the cellblock.
In front of her, three miles away, was one of the dead cities. The buildings - those that still stood - were dark monoliths against an even blacker sky. There were empty cities like this all over the hellscape, remnants of a world and society long since lost, swept away by Mazog's wrath. Tales told by historians said the cities had once been massive and opulent, with thriving societies...but now they were empty. The only thing that traveled between their sand-covered streets were coyotes and scavengers looking for relics they might sell for money. Most people avoided them with the dread of superstition, afraid they would be attacked by spirits and demons.
At her back were the canyons, craggy mountains that were probably even older than the massive tomb of the dead city, leading into the Bowl where the tribes of the Okanavi lived. Fewer souls traveled into the Bowl "where the savages dwelled" as it was often said. Rumor told stories that the Okanavi were mindless deviants who preyed upon the tribe members who were weak, raping and eating the flesh of their own.
Out of the corner of her eye Sara glanced at the sentry standing next to her. He wore a scarf around his forehead. Other than the sharp angle of cheekbone and the bristles on his chin the rest of his features were imperceptible. It wasn't as if women didn't join the Red Wraiths - they usually worked in the background, as spies. Rarely were they put on sentry duty. But times were tense lately. The conflict between the Inquisition and the Scarlet Church had reached its peak. Even now Sara could sense it in the air: a growing tension that seemed to engulf the entire hellscape. Something big was getting ready to happen.
For a moment, sudden and fraught with impossibility, Sara considered turning the rifle on the sentry standing just a few feet away and pulling the trigger. She could see the white-hot flush of the muzzle blinding against the inky blackness, see the bloom of red spreading from his chest like the spreading petals of a rose before his body plummeted over the parapet. For the Inquisition! she could hear herself shouting as she squeezed off more shots. How many shots, Sara wondered, could she get off before her own body fell over the wall?