Chapter Seventy-Two
The Stages of Infection
In the countryside of southern Ariaton there lay a small house. From its chimney billowed a thin plume of black smoke, and surrounding the farm-shack lay a vast lake of golden wheat, swaying gently in the autumn wind.
Mister Lackton, a portly man wearing an unbuttoned shirt with cuffed sleeves and a pair of shorts that were far too short, sat on his porch drinking something he’d brewed in the cellar beneath his house. His hair was thinned on top and in his left hand was the rustiest crossbow for fifty leagues in any direction, resting on the arm of his rocking chair.
He sat thinking grumbling thoughts about how he wished the Imperial Highway was further away, while simultaneously irritated by how long it took him get into town.
As the farmer became stuck in his grumbling loop, a gust of wind whipped in from the south and knocked his bottle out of his hand, smashing it on the porch deck. Red-faced and confused, Mister Lackton squinted in the direction of the sudden and intense gale-force.
As he scoured the field, he found nothing to indicate where the sudden wind might’ve come from, but did find a group of young people suddenly tangled up in a big thicket of his harvest.
The man stood in a fury, muttering, “Little bastards,” as he loaded a dirty bolt to his crossbow and stormed into the fields.
Had the man better eyesight, he’d likely have chosen a kinder course of action, simply due to the number of swords, scythes, bows and knives he couldn’t see. But, then again, had he better eyesight, he would’ve realised the “liquor” he brewed beneath his house sometimes distilled green. The first of these realisations came when he burst into the circle of flattened wheat and barked, “You ‘ave ten seconds to get walking or else Stella is goin’ to start singing!” He hefted his crossbow.
The man’s sunburnt face was menacing until Magnus turned around, and his crimson eyes glittered. Mister Lackton’s grip on the crossbow slackened somewhat.
Thankfully, the demonic eyes distracted him while Raeken slinked into the tall wheat and Michael quickly got the worst of the blood off of his face.
Magnus smiled ear to ear and leant on his scythe as Aroha, still slightly wonky-eyed from the magical-relocation, ran out in front of the Paladin, yelling, “Sorry! Sorry, Mister Lackton!”
The balding man blinked and yelled the way southerners with no neighbours do, “Miss Oswald? What in Enthall are y’all doin’ destroyin’ my bloody crops!”
Aroha turned awkwardly to the ten-square feet of flattened wheat and looked desperately to the others, all still sitting on the ground.
She turned back around, still fumbling for a reason, when the farmer saw Oliver, gritting his teeth in pain as his worn shirt bloomed with blood. “Is that fella alright?”
Sarah and Nichole shuffled over to Oliver and he smiled weakly. “I’m fine.” He glanced up to the portly man and carefully said, “Highwaymen. We were attacked and decided to hide in your field until we were sure they were gone. Sorry, sir.”
“Bloody bandits. They’re a plague on this God-damned road!” The portly farmer then looked to Oliver and grumbled quietly, mumbling something about there being no need to call him “sir” and glanced to the reddened horizon. “It’s about to be real dark.”
Aroha waited for him to speak further but knew he wasn’t about to offer then nine of them a room. “Would you mind if we stayed here a minute, Mister Lackton? We’ll be gone soon.”
The man scratched his belly and looked about the scene, mumbling in his country drawl, “Seein’ as you’ve already crushed these beautiful crops, you might as well.”
The Legacies, save for Magnus, all said their thanks and the man said finally, “Well, if you need anything...” and turned back toward his house.
“A shirt.”
Everyone glanced at Magnus, still stood before him, leaning idly on his scythe as the farmer turned back around.
He glanced at Magnus’ razor-sharp weapon and tightened his grip on his rusty crossbow. “Pardon, boy?”
Magnus took a solid step toward the man, his eyes bright as rubies, and whispered, “Our swordsman’s shirt is ruined. He’ll need a new one.” Magnus glanced down at the man’s unbuttoned linen and lightly touched the corner of the farmer’s loose collar. “This is about his size.”
As Mister Lackton felt a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, Michael stood slowly, mumbling, “Magnus, cut it out.”
The red-eyed Paladin turned softly and muttered, “Jacobs needs a surgeon. A city-surgeon. You think he’ll even be allowed to approach a guarded gate looking the way he is?”
Despite their collective and deep distaste of the boy, the crowd of Legacies realised he was dead on the money.
As Farmer Lackton realised this, he smiled for the first time since arriving, though riddled with nerves as it was, and pulled off his shirt. “Can hardly leave the boy bare-chested, now can I?”
Magnus smiled even wider and said, “Mighty decent of you,” as the man all but power-walked back into the thicket of wheat, and the group of Legacies all groaned with relief.
Oliver caught the shirt as Magnus threw it and muttered, “There were other ways to do that, Andevār.”
Magnus shrugged and casually sheared off the tops of some wheat with his dirtied scythe. “I’ve had a long day.”
Oliver bit back, “We’ve all had a long day,” wincing at an ill-turn of his shoulder.
Nichole stepped in beside him and inspected the wound close. It was two long tears from the top of his left shoulder to the centre of his shoulder-blade. Blood wept down the tense muscles of his back and Nichole grimaced at the sight of it.
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Oliver caught the look and smiled, looking paler by the minute. “No big deal then?”
Nichole pursed her lips and pulled off her shirt, revealing only her gauze chest-binding to help her fit into armour, or so she said. Her stomach was dotted with the old scars, some pale, some dark. She ripped the fabric of her shirt with her teeth and turned to the anxious group of Legacies, watching silently. She glanced at Michael and Sarah and saw the looks of restrained, helpless worry upon their faces. Carter and James hovered awkwardly behind them, glancing from the injured swordsman to Michael. Rose stood timidly by Aroha as they both watched the multiple tensions build.
Nichole turned to Oliver and quickly stopped him slipping on his new shirt. “Don’t, you’ll just stain it. Here, put this between your teeth. Helps with the pain to bite down on something.”
Oliver glanced at the wad of folded fabric she offered him and he smiled tiredly, shaking his head. “It’s okay, go ahead. I’m used to it.”
Nichole chose not to ask anything further and applied pressure to the wound.
Oliver merely closed his eyes to the pain. The bandage was quickly redder than autumn leaves so Nichole took another strip of her torn shirt and haphazardly tied it high to his shoulder. “We’ll still need to clean it as soon as possible. Come on, everyone up. We need to close the gap between... where are we, Ari?”
“The southern fields of Ariaton,” Aroha said. “I panicked a little, but we’re probably a long day’s march from Istol city. We can get Oli patched up and it’ll be about two days’ march from the city back to Fort Guardian.”
Nichole and Sarah helped Oliver to his feet and slowly the herd of tired warriors made their way to the nearest strip of the Imperial Highway.
Little more than a well-worn paving of gravel, the Imperial Highway system was a network of direct roads established by Ardic the First to efficiently move troops across the land. The grey road moved endlessly between cities and trade routes, and while it was effective at helping armoured horses and paid soldiers move quickly, for anybody else, it was an excellent way to get robbed. Unless you were a robber, in which case it was a revolutionary business platform.
Darkness thickened in the countryside and soon Oliver assured Nichole she could walk with her girlfriend. She saw a tired and soft look on his face and left him be.
When Oliver attempted something similar with Sarah, she gently told him to shut up, and he did so happily. She walked on his good side so she could bump his shoulder whenever he grew too quiet
Michael walked on his own until Rose ambled up beside him.
“How you doin’, Paladin?” she asked delicately, looking at the smooth stones beneath their feet.
Michael thought of how to answer. He looked out over the dark road and up into the night sky. And then Michael looked to Rose to find her looking over at him. Michael took her arm and said, “You know. I’m…I’m tired. But I’m okay, I think.”
Michael went to ask her the same question when a strange twitching came from his pant’s pocket. He remembered his Kosadi suddenly and dug it out to see a fresh message from Jack.
It read, If you’re not back on the sixteenth, at the latest, Hillborn’s planning on pinning to the sabotage on you all. Don’t be late, I’m losing support to his paranoid claims every day.
“Better than Jack, it seems.”
Rose hummed in agreement. She drummed her fingers on the hand of Michael's lightly holding her arm.
Michael thought about the message and the monsters and found himself thinking that the earlier events of that day were small and quiet. Michael glanced at her bright, concerned eyes and gave an amused sigh. “You don’t have to listen to me moan, you know?”
Rose raised her brow. “I think you’ll find I asked because I care. Unless this is your polite way of not wanting to tell me?”
Michael listened to the rocks crunching beneath his feet and he sighed. “It’s not. I just, I feel bad and don’t want to-”
He stopped again and Rose said firmly, “Michael, if you can find something to say that actually shocks me, I’ll give you every coin to my name. Come on.”
Michael squeezed her arm and sighed. “I feel like they’re getting further away from me. They’re my brothers, Rose... and I feel more and more like I don’t know them.”
Rose nodded and looked to him in his state of uncertainty, when suddenly she muttered, “Michael, I am guessing here, but its possible, in your limited tenure, you may have spent more time with Sarah than Carter has in all his cycles at the fort.”
Michael frowned. “Wait, you think so?”
Rose shrugged. “I found out they were related today too. I've known of Carter. And all I've known of him is that he has James. That's it. Which doesn’t undo the secret… but Michael, you know they were doing what they did out of love... which doesn’t mean they were right to do it, but it does mean they did it because they cared more about you than a life of living out adventures with you.” Rose traced a finger along the back of Michael’s hand and it made him feel warm. She did it rhythmically, in time with her steps. “And you might think you know what you would have done, if the role was reversed… but it wasn’t.”
Michael felt the weight of his bow on his shoulder and realised how long it had been since he’d slept properly. He looked at Rose and gently squeezed her hand down by her side before stopping in place, letting her go on, and allowing James and Carter to catch up, much to their surprise.
Rose smiled fondly and listened as she ambled along the road. Ahead of her were Nichole and Aroha, strolling arm in arm, quietly speaking and laughing sweetly. Ahead of them were Sarah and Oliver, still leaning on one another. She looked closely to realise that Oliver was actually completely smooth in his steps, and although he was perhaps drowsy and in pain from his injury, he didn’t seem to need anyone helping him along. Nevertheless, Rose heard him and Sarah singing lightly in the dark, setting a gentle pace between the two of them. Oliver fumbled a line and chuckled, only for Aroha to quietly jump in, picking up the lyric as Nichole buried her face in her neck in laughter while the lot of them sang. She even saw Magnus on the edge of the road with his hood pulled up, swaying to their words for a moment. His eyes were the colour of wine, glinting in one’s favourite glass.
At the back of the company, James, Michael, and Carter walked together in silence.
Michael took a deep breath and asked, “So, what relation?”
Carter looked guiltily to his trimmed nails and said, “Half-sister. Nala’s her mum too. Her dad is Otylian.”
Michael nodded, thinking about Sarah’s last name. It was familiar but he couldn’t place it in the moment, and it wasn’t the part he cared about.
They walked on quietly for some time as the dark hills began to rise and fall lightly out in front of them.
Carter looked lightly to his friend in the dark and said, “I am sorry, Michael.”
Michael looked at him and nodded lightly. “I know. I’m sorry you guys had to keep that from me.” Michael looked at James too. “I can’t imagine how hard it was. And I’m sorry for saying what I said.”
James sighed quietly. “We did lie. And you were alone. When you should’ve been with us. Safe. You were right.”
Michael shook his head, bitter with the recollection of his rage. “No. Fuck that,” he said softly. “I don’t want you guys to have that memory of me. You weren’t wrong to do what you did.”
James huffed with loving disbelief. “And you weren’t wrong to hate us for it.”
Michael’s eyes grew hot as he thought on it for a moment longer and finally said, “Yes I was. Please- please just forget I said that-”
Carter took one of his arms and stopped the three of them in their tracks. With utter severity, Carter looked Michael in the eyes and said, “There is not a memory of you that I would trade for anything. You hear me?”
Michael cried softly as he nodded and Carter pulled him tight into his chest. Michael gestured James in as well as the three young boys stood for a heart aching moment.
Michael sniffled and muttered, “I love you both.”
“I love you,” they both echoed.
The three boys didn’t say much of anything else for a time. They spent a great deal of their march thinking about what had been done and what hadn’t. Sometimes there were things that needed to be shouted from rooftops, and sometimes someone needed to be at the end of it. But sometimes not. And thinking on it forever rarely ever helped anyone figure out which needed which. More often than not, people realise what not to say by saying it. It is the cruellest way to learn, and perhaps the only honest way to do so, for those too young to believe anyone but themselves.