NOVEL NEXT B2 Chapter 24
"What am I searching for?" Angar asked Hidetada as he left the service and headed into the town.
"You tell me," Hidetada replied.
"The widow's home."
"How?" the Saint asked.
Angar thought it through. She was the widow of a man respected by the townsfolk, even though he, and therefore she, wasn't a cultist, as he would've expected his wife to convert to his faith.
In every cultist town they'd visited, the mine's foreman acted as the de facto town leader, standing with the church clergy on the makeshift sanctuary during the worship service.
No Layman had stood with the clergy this time.
Since the foreman was always appointed by an imperial official, no foreman on Ierne, at least so far, had been a cultist, and he doubted this town was an exception.
She was likely the foreman's widow.
Most homes in town were somewhere between huts and shacks, built on small blocks for easy relocation when the dome's edge drew too near.
"I'm looking for the only proper house in town," Angar replied. "She's the foreman's widow."
Hidetada didn't respond. Angar prowled the dusty lanes, his armored steps crunching soil and gravel, until the town's sole decent residence appeared, a sturdy outlier amid the shacks.
"Should I check it out?" he asked. No response came. He approached the house, walking around it, looking for anything suspicious, peering in the windows.
Inside was kept immaculately clean. The bathing room and two rooms he assumed were bedrooms had shades drawn, but he could see a main room, a kitchen, and into the bathing room.
Everything seemed normal, other than this was the only residence on a full foundation of blocks instead of being propped up on a handful, but it was the only real house too.
He checked the front door, and it was unlocked. He'd go in and check out the rooms he hadn't spied into from the outside, search for a hidden trapdoor or concealed compartment.
As he twisted the handle, Hidetada said, "I wouldn't do that. I'd quickly patrol the rest of town, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious, then return to the service and continuing scanning the crowd."
Angar's brow creased. "What'd we find? What was this about?"
"Not a thing," stated the Saint. "False alarm."
Angar complied, finding nothing as he walked through the rest of the town, forgoing the outlying farms.
As he neared the sermon, Rusak's voice boomed, recounting the Rebukement of the Glorious Faithful in 2491 during the Fourth Galactic War. The Holy Empire had stood on the brink of destruction, its defeat inevitable.
Every able-bodied man and woman had been activated, fighting out in the front lines, being slaughtered.
Imperial cities were filled only with cripples and those with work, child, or other exemptions, alongside elites, the wealthy, and other cowardly shirkers.
While imperial forces waged a desperate, losing battle, many imperial worlds fell under the control of Heretical factions like the Old Guard, United Front, and Libertas.
Astonishingly, those who always weaseled their way out of warring, rose up, and warred, enduring devastating losses as they cleansed imperial worlds of Heresy and faction control, drenching the galaxy in unholy blood.
This turned the war's tide, enabling imperial forces to regroup, refocus, and secure eventual victory.
A parallel uprising occurred in the next galactic war, where Horridus the Mortifer ascended from Layman to glorious Crusader, a beloved and revered hero until his fall to darkness.
Angar walked back to the makeshift sanctuary, just a marked-off area before the temple, scanning the crowd as Rusak continued. He guessed he was wrong. His gut no longer told him something rotten festered here.
Minutes later, the crowd erupted in a frenzied cacophony. Their zeal blazed like a raging inferno, stoked by Rusak's relentless sermon.
The orange-robed Layfolk crowded forward, their disciplined formation dissolving into a tide of fanatic hunger.
The Hierarch stood tall on the pulpit in his black exosuit, the voice-amplifier like a weapon poised to strike. He had them exactly where he wanted, teetering on the edge of righteous madness.
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Angar shifted, still scanning the throng. The crowd's fervor was a powder keg, and Rusak had lit the fuse.
He thought ending the worship service now would be wiser, letting the Layfolk's rage carry them to denounce Heresy.
But since Rusak had begun with the Litany of the Layman, and every sermon in the Holy Empire had to include the Hymn of Holy Vengeance, it had to close the service.
Rusak raised his gauntleted hands, silencing the crowd's roar.
His piercing eyes swept the sea of faces. "Sing, faithful!" The Hymn of Holy Vengeance!" he bellowed.
"O Lord of Wrath, our battle cry," Rusak intoned. The crowd answered in unison, with voices both fevered and fervent, continuing the hymn.
"Let fire fall from Holy sky.
"Through blessed Mi, our weapons blaze,
"With martyr's flame to light our ways.
"By Theosis, with hand made pure,
"We strike the foe and make secure.
"Their screams shall rise, a deathless song,
"The Heretic shall bleed and fall.
"No mercy granted, none shall stand,
"No respite found in cursed land.
"We are the wrath, both just and strong,
"And in our purge, we cleanse it all.
"O God Most High, in Thee we trust,
"To turn the faithless into dust.
"Thou art the flame, the sword, the hate,
"That seals apostates to their fate.
"Grant us disdain, pure, ever-burning,
"And joy in vile flesh's undoing.
"Let hatred bloom, Divine and true,
"Intolerance our sacred vow.
"No peace for those who mock Thy name,
"Their bones shall break, their world aflame.
"In Holy rage, Thy will we do,
"So lead us forth in judgment now."
They sang the final stanza with voices cracked with passion, defying the pacifist cult's dogma.
As the hymn's echoes faded, the congregation dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.
In solemn unison, their voices rose together for the hymn's ending vow.
"So swear we, before God, this truth unending:
"To grant no mercy, to show no fear,
"To hate the unholy, with hearts unbending,
"To cleanse with fire, to purge, to sear,
"Lest our immortal souls fall to the abyss,
"Damned by our silence, lost to bliss. Amen."
The congregation fell silent, but the air was crackling with the promise of blood yet to be spilled, surprising Angar, as he thought Rusak would lose the crowd's fervor. These cultists weren't fans of the hymn. Usually.
He hated this. How everything boiled down to manipulating the masses like they were an unreasoning blob whose only purpose was to be shaped and given purpose by a puppeteer's hands, not autonomous individuals with their own minds, as he wanted to see all people.
And he hated that these services kept forcing him to see them that way.
"Go, Children, condemn the Heretic!" shouted the Hierarch. "Root out the unholy! Report all blasphemy to me, these sisters, your clergy, or this Holy Knight!"
The townsfolk surged forward with orange robes a blur as they lined up to hurl accusations of Heresy at one another.
Rusak stood like a dark monolith in his black exosuit off to the side of the marked-off sanctuary, the Sanguineous Sisters and the temple clergy flanking him.
Angar walked over to join them as lines swelled with fervent Layfolk eager to condemn. He went to take his helm off, but Hidetada, through the comms, said, "Keep your helm on."
Angar complied, expecting some people to approach. Not a single person did. Most stood in Rusak's line, the rest in the lines for the two Exactors and other clergy.
His eyes swept the chaotic throng for anything amiss, glad no one was in his line.
Then, across the sea of bald heads and clacking prayer beads, his eyes locked with hers.
With the black veil fluttering lightly with every step, the widow parted through the crowd, and easily so, as everyone naturally moved out her way and gave her space, as if touching her was a sin.
Her piercing green eyes looked directly at Angar. His breath caught, and excitement filled his chest. Her full, flushed lips curved into a faint smile, and it stirred something in him, something sharp and powerful, something that tugged at the edge of his control.
The world seemed to slow as the crowd's clamor faded to a dull roar as her gaze kept him pinned and held him fast. It was like Angar's mind was no longer his own.
Then a vision crashed over him, overwhelming him, like something hijacking his thoughts.
He saw her, the widow, stepping closer, her small hat, veil, and pins falling away as she shook her head, sending a cascade of jet-black hair tumbling down over her shoulders, shining like polished obsidian.
She slowly sauntered over to him, and each step, each movement, sent his heart thumping. Her dress clung to her curves, the fabric shifting to something thinner, almost translucent, as she moved with a grace that was both chaste and impossibly provocative.
Her eyes burned into his, promising something even Voluvicas Credits couldn't buy. She reached out, her slender fingers brushing his armored chest, the touch searing through the thick plate as if it were paper.
His heart thundered as her lips parted, whispering his name in a voice that was honey and fire, pulling him toward a forbidden abyss he'd do anything, absolutely anything at all, to explore.
His surroundings dissolved. They were alone in a bedroom, its soft walls and the air thrumming with a heat that matched his racing heart.
She pressed closer. He felt her sweet breath warm against his neck as her hands slid up his arms, unbuckling his armor with impossible ease.
Each piece fell away, clanging to the floor, leaving him exposed, on fire, alive in a way he'd never known.
She smiled, staring in his eyes, and her teasing laughter was a hymn igniting his Holy fervor. She leaned in, her lips hovering a breath from his. Her scent flooded his senses, overwhelming. It was something wild, exotic, like distilled desire.
He needed her. He'd do anything. He'd sell his soul.
His hands moved of their own accord, reaching for her, desperate to pull her closer, to drown in her warmth, the curve of her waist, the…
Angar's breath caught, his body tensing as he snapped back to reality.
How'd he feel her breath on his neck through his armor? And his armor didn't work like that, with pieces that could be unbuckled and just fall away. It was all wrong.
The widow hadn't moved. She still stood at the crowd's edge, her eyes locked on his, that small smile curling her lips.
What the Hell is happening?