“Wow,” exclaimed Dekyi as she, Mac, Upasama, and Boss, all fully armed and armored, escorted Angar out of the spaceport and into the city of Erim. “This place looks like a ghost town.”
Angar wore new clothes and remarkably comfortable boots, the items thrust into his room by Mac alongside a rough sack, into which he’d been gruffly instructed to stuff his armor, maul, and personal items.
The city sprawled beneath a sky choked with some sort of murkiness, its towering spires piercing the haze like the teeth of some ancient and slumbering beast.
It was the early morning, and a dim, reddish light filtered through strange and gloomy clouds that weren’t all that different than those of Vefol, but seemed to blot out only sky of the city itself, trapped there somehow, unmoving.
The reddish light cast long and skeletal shadows across the cracked streets. The air hung heavy with an acrid tang strange to Angar’s nose. The distant rumble of machines and engines was like a ceaseless hymn.
There weren’t a lot of people nearby, but many could be glimpsed coming and going, and the city seeming briming with life, making Dekyi’s comment strange to him.
Nearby, a lone figure, clad in a tattered cloak, shuffled past a rusted shrine to the Holy Trinity off in a recess, muttering prayers.
A handful of meters further down the shadowed street, a man in strange clothing with a heavy limp swept debris, oblivious to all around him.
Above, big spires loomed, what Angar knew were buildings, adorned with creatures and horoes made of stone, staring down upon the bustle.
A faint wind blew through the narrow alleys, carrying with it the distant clang of bells. In their deep shadows, he heard more signs of life such as a cough, a curse, the clatter of something dropped.
Like on the ship, the air was fresh, and breathing seemed too easy. His movements, if anything, seemed even more effortless.
His body was fully healed and felt great too. He held his head high as he walked, hoping the low ceiling of his room hadn’t affected his new, corrected posture.
Then he saw them heading to the spaceport.
A group of what had to be aliens. Grays, he suspected, if skin color had anything to do with the name.
They stood shorter than average terrans, their lean frames wrapped in smooth and gray skin that shone faintly under the lights and shadows as they walked.
Their bodies bore a wiry strength, their muscles taut beneath the surface. Over their torsos, they wore sleek, dark, and metallic segmented armor etched with angular patterns that pulsed with a slight strange green glow. The plates clung tightly to their forms, accentuating their elongated limbs and leaving their clawed hands free to grip their weapons.
Their disproportionately large heads sat atop narrow necks, crowned with massive and glistening black eyes. Those unblinking and cold eyes seemed filled with an alien and predatory cunning, making the faint slits of nostrils and a lipless mouth beneath seem even more haunting.
Strapped across their chests, they carried compact, alien, and angular firearms, the barrels humming with contained energy.
Some bore additional gear such as thin, crystalline devices affixed to their forearms, glowing with an eerie light.
He knew what those were. Spirit had told him. Psy Crystals, marking some of their numbers as Psychics, able to utilize a mind force outside of Theosis’ empowerment.
Some fortunate individuals across various species could access this psychic ability, but none matched the proficiency or prevalence of the Grays.
The Terran chapter of Psychic Crusaders, known as the Pilgrims of Shaloth'Eshk, was named after an ancient Gray god from a religion abandoned eight millennia before they joined the Holy Empire, though once revered as the source of all psychic power.
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These aliens moved with purpose, their steps deliberate and creepily silent despite the weight of their gear.
The air around them thrummed with an unnatural tension only Angar seemed to feel. No one else stared at this mad sight. The man sweeping the street glanced at the group of aliens and looked away, as if such sights were mundane.
“There was a major activation,” said Mac, lugging the bag containing Angar’s armor and weapon. “Only the broke-dicks, shammers, joke militias, and others with child or work exemptions are left.”
“I know,” Dekyi replied. “It’s just weird. A city like this, so empty. Where’re we delivering the murdering scumbag again? The Eyes of Providence, right? You informed them, right?”
“Yeah. Should be…,” Boss started, but a hulking machine roared into view, like an extremely tiny spaceship on wheels. Sharp and blinding lights flashed across its surface as it streaked down the street.
It veered sharply, its wheels screeching against the cracked pavement, and skidded to a halt right in front of the group. Dust swirled in its wake.
“…right here,” finished Boss.
Armored men poured out of the tiny vessel, weapons trained on Angar, shouting, “On your knees!”
Angar, confused, sank to the ground, his knees pressing hard into the cracked street.
Then a figure emerged from the craft, a little taller than Angar. A voluminous blue cloak draped over this man’s shoulders, rippling in the light wind, nearly swallowing the armor beneath.
It was Crusader Armor, unmistakable in its unique design, but distinct from Dragon Company’s own.
Where Dragon Company had the Trey emblazoned across the chest, there was a trio of golden eyes in purple triangles instead, the three Treys arranged in an upward-pointing triangle themselves.
The upper right chest, marked with a proud sigil of the Knightly Chapter, or was for Dragon Company, bore no emblem at all. Etched into all other visible parts of the plating were faintly glowing intricate runes.
On his head, instead of a helmet, was a strange and angular piece of cloth headgear. Beneath it, his face was clean-shaven, with sharp cheekbones and a hard jawline.
His eyes were a piercing gray gleaming with undisguised contempt, raking over the scene like a d’klar sizing up unworthy prey.
Every line of his expression, from the curled lips to the furrowed brow, radiated disgust, as if everything offended him. He stood rigid, his cloak rippling slightly, the weight of his presence demanding attention.
His cold and piercing gaze settled on Angar. “This is the Heretic?” he asked sharply, each syllable of the question filled with scorn.
Boss shifted in his large and bulky armor, the hydraulics hissing as he straightened. “His hands show Hellsign, clear as I’ve ever seen it, Sir Inquisitor.”
The man’s head snapped toward Boss, his disgust sharpening into something venomous as a snarl curled his lips. “It’s Sir Knight,” he corrected in a biting tone. “The title given to all Crusaders, not Inquisitor. The Eyes of Providence is a Knightly Chapter, the same as the others.”
“As you say, Sir Knight,” Boss replied, his mechanical voice humble. He adjusted his stance, and said, “We’re under task to deliver him to Saint Krakus Cloisteranage. But if you take him, I’ll have no choice but to comply.”
The Knight’s eyes flicked from Angar back to Boss, narrowing as if appraising something distasteful. “Your compliance, or lack of it, means nothing to me, Layman.” The last word, ‘Layman,’ dripped with disdain.
He turned his head slightly and addressed the soldiers who had spilled from the vessel. These soldiers were not Crusaders. They were wearing dark, utilitarian armor marked with the triad of Treys, confirming Angar’s growing suspicion that the Eyes of Providence were not like other Knightly Orders, or at least not the Grim Martyrs.
“Take the Heretic,” the Knight commanded with a flat voice, but carrying the weight of absolute authority.
The soldiers moved forward, their weapons still trained on Angar. He remained kneeling, wondering if he should fight. He wished Spirit were there, and as he had that thought, she appeared with a distressed expression. “Just go along. I’m working on freeing you.”
Angar’s wrists and ankles were bound tight with shackles, the chains offering no give. Mac tossed his sack of gear to a soldier, the bag thudding against the man’s chest, while others grunted under Angar’s weight, hauling him toward the vessel’s open back.
The Knight watched with an expression filled with contempt, as if the act of apprehending Angar was beneath him.
Deposited inside, he hit the floor belly-first, sprawled on the metal grate as the soldiers swarmed around him, their rifles still trained on his skull.
The vessel lurched into motion, jolting Angar against the floor with every turn.
They rode in silence save for the hum of engines and the clatter of gear, and the journey stretched on for about an hour until they screeched to a halt.
Rough hands seized him again, dragging him out and into the shadow of a towering and tapered building of black stone veined with glowing crimson runes going high enough up, the gloomy sky hid some of it.
High up the building, three large, unblinking, and merciless Treys in the shape of a triangle glared down, judging all.
Spirit appeared in front of Angar as the soldiers hauled him past. “I’m working on freeing you,” she said in a tone indicating that she was worried.
The Knight, a man Angar refused to name Crusader, ordered the soldiers, “Bring him to my workspace,” with a cold voice laced with menace, his gray eyes filled with anticipation. “I’ll have the truth from this Heretic, or I’ll enjoy the breaking of him into a corpse, piece by bloody piece.”
