Decades of pent-up resentment in Zellheim's Lower District were finally ignited by a spark called "the truth."
It had begun as nothing more than a gathering to demand answers.
The people did not even have proper weapons, only rusty shovels, work hammers, and even a turnip someone had stepped on.
"Come out! Explain yourselves!"
"We won't drink worm water!"
"Hand over the medicine that kills the worms!"
They gathered around the Third Parish's central church. Its black iron gates were tightly shut, and a dozen armed Church men huddled behind the railings, their halberds trembling slightly. The blades pointed at the lambs they ordinarily claimed to "shepherd," their faces full of fear beneath a show of bravado.
The crowd below the steps was a dark, dense mass, like stagnant water gathering before a storm. Their first shouts were not particularly loud. They even carried the timidity and hesitation of people long accustomed to obedience-like dogs beaten by their masters, asking only for one last bone. In those countless clouded eyes, a hint of madness flickered, ready to blaze out of control.
Behind the crowd, at the unnoticed end of the street, a black convoy approached silently through the morning mist, its wheels crushing the mud and garbage on the ground.
The distant clamor irritated Andre, the friar driving the wagon.
He tugged hard on the reins. His hangover headache felt like a dull saw dragging back and forth across his temples.
Damn it, I shouldn't have had those last few cups of "Divine Grace Brew" at the Viscount's estate outside the city last night. They had planned to enter the city under cover of darkness, but he and several companions had drunk themselves unconscious in the wine cellar and slept straight through until morning.
If they failed to deliver this