Vol 8, Chapter 7

Day Three.

The use of antibiotics significantly improved the condition of ordinary people, but only slowed the progress of the disease in mages. Increasing the dosage did not lead to any substantial… (unreadable)

By the third day, structured notes had disappeared; there was simply no time to keep them. Hastily scribbled lines densely covered the papers. Ink that hadn't dried smeared, making the records nearly illegible. Streams of blood ran across the table from a freshly excised kidney, ruining more of the documents. The organ lay right on the sheet, its header reading:

Experiment No. 13
Protocol for testing the ability of infected organs to transmit infecti…

The last words were hidden by the fluid seeping from the organ.

The jumpsuit was becoming baggy, sagging over the new frame. The hood was no longer stretched by horns. The thoroughly stretched mask hung loose, practically falling from my face. I breathed in the "fresh" air of the field hospital, smelling of warm entrails.

I would say I did it with relief, but then the exhaustion of the past days descended on me. How long had I gone without sleep? In that form it seemed that sleep was unnecessary.

I struggle to gather my thoughts, to remember what I was doing and why. My eyes fall on the excised kidney. Ah yes, I was going to check whether I would be infected, something I definitely could not do in demon form. I'd have to endure the fatigue…

By now I knew that drained blood lost its properties after two turns of the hourglass. To confirm the theory, I will wait the same amount.

With a human hand, I turned the hourglass over. The grains began to pour inexorably downward. All that remained was to wait.

I leaned back in the chair, placed the gas mask on my lap. I couldn't close my eyes; I would surely fall asleep. I picked up a random sheet from the table and winced: my own negligence had destroyed most of the records. Never before had I handled papers with such disregard. I brushed off the blood and tried to read what was still legible.

…stages. The terminal one is marked by the following tokens: the patient ceases to exhale purple miasmata from open wounds and fissures. The ague wanes to naught, yielding to derangement of mind, general dropsy, and numbness. Bereft of magical aliment, the morbid agent sets upon the viscera, leaving thereon its characteristic black ulcers. Given time duly granted, these come to command the body like a marionette and restore the pest's virulence to its former measure…

"Hm. Strange. I wrote "ague," though the term is "fever." Did I even write this?" I chuckle, setting the sheet aside.

All right, time to check the organ. Though, what is there to check? Even without a scalpel, black spots were already visible, slowly appearing on the renal artery. Still, it was worth cutting…

I pick up the scalpel from the table and hesitate. Just a few minutes ago, I would have done this right on the documents, caring nothing for their preservation. Now it seemed unreasonable. I should move to the operating table, but there still lay the living patient from whom I had excised this organ.

I look at him in confusion, the incision still unstitched.

"You should have cut out the heart, like you wanted at first," growled a voice in my head.

"The kidneys are paired; we could have compared their ability to preserve the pathogen," I reply automatically, before realizing what I just said.

All trace of enthusiasm was gone.

It seems I overestimated my ability to stay sane. Trying to pull my thoughts together, I approach the patient, wash my hands in alcohol, and stitch the incision. My fingers move clumsily, lacking their former dexterity. Hmph, cutting had been far more enjoyable… it's not often an aristocrat ends up on my table.

"Baron Triton agrees to provide you with an uninfected vassal for experiment, but asks you to hurry. He is already in the third stage…" someone shouted from outside the tent.

Oh sure, just the perfect thing to shout for everyone to hear. Well, emergency situations… emergency measures.

"Not yet. I need… time to think," I reply, wiping the blood from my hands.

I hear only footsteps retreating from the tent.

Heh, the Baron really decided to sacrifice his vassal for a chance at salvation. What a bastard… though what does that make me, if I asked him for it?

"I think we got a little carried away. Confess: what did you do?" I ask into the silence.

"We? You needed knowledge and skills, I provided them in the most effective way: through memories. Should I have warned you that every memory is personal and carries the imprint of the one who lived it?"

"Yes, damn it."

"Pff. That's obvious!"

The flash of anger quickly clears my head, shaking off the remnants of drowsiness. Never before had I used the form for so long… and I had been right not to. From such long and unbroken use of Randall's old skills – my sanity has started to leak.

"Infectus. You are infected."

I glance at the kidney. There was still no violet mist seeping from it, which meant it had happened while I was stitching the wound.

I carefully wash the scalpel and cut my wrist. A faint violet haze rises from the blood. Looks like, given how wretched I already felt, I didn't even notice the initial symptoms.

There's no helping it: I cannot allow myself to spread the infection.

The body swells in width, a sweep of the scalpel, and the sharp steel dulls against scales. Damn! I jam it into my arm with force, bending the blade.

Black blood drips slowly onto the ground. No haze.

Despite the temptation to remain in that form, I return to normal and once again stab the battered arm with the bent scalpel.

Blood like blood. Red drops mix with black on the ground.

But I would not try to use demonic blood as medicine… it is doubtful anyone would survive it.

One last test.

I set the kidney on the ground and pour blood over it, then step back. For several minutes nothing happens, but when I am just about to approach it… a violet haze rises from it.

So that's it. Harsh, irrational methods that make me shake, but the picture is now perfectly clear.

Once even slightly infused with magic, blood touches an organ — it becomes infectious again. By its mode of action the disease is more parasitic in nature. The filth enters the blood, siphons magic from the host, and multiplies aggressively, readily leaping at any carrier it can teleport to. If magic runs low… well, to the misfortune of mages, it isn't just their blood that is magical. Organs, bones — all are saturated with mana. The only small mercy is that digesting tissue proves much harder for the parasites than simply drawing power through the blood.

If there is no magic, the disease weakens, but does not die. Everything becomes relatively fair: the body either copes, or it doesn't. But ordinary people are in a much stronger position. As long as magic is present, the Gifted enjoy great advantages: longevity, strength, resistance to diseases common to mortals. But once the magic vanishes, a mage becomes gravely weakened… their body simply cannot function without it.

The conclusion is simple: we must work on magical circles. If we cut off the connection to the diffused magical background, most likely commoners will manage the disease on their own. But with mages… it is much more complicated. For now, all we can do is keep them afloat with antibiotics. Speaking of which…

I take out the nearly emptied casket. Almost half the vials were already gone. I inject another dose into the operated patient and write the time and date with ink directly on his arm.

The problem of mages keeps circling in my mind. This is why I couldn't destroy the disease with Abyssal power during the second, third, and fourth experiments. Weakening the disease… meant weakening the mage. This is why the healer's aid only finished off Patient Zero. By pouring energy into the mage, he strengthened the disease as well. Anxiety gnaws at me. No idea comes to mind for how to deprive the parasites of magical power while maintaining it for the mage. It feels simply impossible, and the only way would be to pump them full of horse doses of antibiotics, lethal for ordinary humans — hoping the disease dies before the mage…

Except it hasn't worked even once.

Still, problems must be solved as they come. First, cure those we can. That means we need reagents to draw the BIG circle.

The reeking gas mask takes its customary place.

Outside is impenetrable darkness, broken only by campfires. Soot drifts into the sky, while the smell of burnt hair and scorched bones weighs down the air.

A sentry snores, his soot-stained mask pushed onto his cheek, exposing chapped lips. Were this another disease, I could scold him, but from this plague the mask couldn't protect him anyway.

And in truth, that wasn't its purpose. Its function was different: to give people something to hold on to. To give them a sense of control over the situation, a way to believe they could influence it somehow.

If I don't provide that myself, they'll start making charms against the sickness… and that would be the best-case scenario. Better they believe they have some kind of protection, even if it's just a few clumsily stitched rags.

I snap a claw near his ear. He jerks and hastily pulls the mask back into place, hoping I hadn't noticed.

Truth be told, sleeping was a far greater offense, but even there I was inclined to leniency. After all, only the infected worked here. Though their symptoms weren't yet severe, they were far from healthy men.

"Sir, another body? Should I call the lads?"

"No, this one is still alive. Tell me, where have the surviving Ashirans settled?"

***

The airy pavilion of crimson silk did not seem warm. Especially in conditions where snowflakes kept drifting through the air. Yet inside reigned stifling heat: in the hearth at the center of the tent lay not coals, but a dull-red slurry of molten stones. Streams of heat rose upward, stretching the silk like a hot-air balloon.

Hearing my demand, Detlaf nodded.

"I am ready to provide any materials, but on one condition."

"What condition?" I drawled, expecting anything from a demand for gold… to a demand for even more gold. Damn, my head wasn't working at all.

Perhaps that's why I didn't even understand what he said… nonsense.

"What? Say that again."

"You will allow me to visit your hospital," repeated the head of the Ashirans.

"Out of the question," I cut him off instantly. "You'll get infected."

"I will take the risk."

"It's not a risk, it's stupidity. The disease is transmitted with one hundred percent certainty; its contagion is unbelievably high. There is no chance you will not be infected."

He bites his lip.

"Then let our countrywoman be transferred to our camp. Those are my terms."

"No."

"I insist."

"Out of the question. Do you want to infect everyone around here?"

"We will set up a separate tent and care for her. I will borrow a few doomed vassals from my friend for this purpose."

"No," I snap. "With me she is receiving the best care possible."

"Among common soldiery?" he snorts. "I dread to imagine what they might do to her while she is helpless."

I clench my fist until it cracks. And I had thought the matter was already settled.

"I advise you to watch your tongue. I trust these people completely."

"In turn, I advise you not to stand between two Ashirans," Detlaf lowers his tone.

Members of his circle rise from their seats, and the firepit in the center of the pavilion begins to bubble, spilling lava.

"When she wakes, she will have the right to take her place among us. Her power has grown… unlike her stature." The last words he says with a proud smile.

"However, while we waited for the churchmen, she never once came to you. Seems she doesn't want it all that much."

"It is not for you to decide for her." The Ashiran reddens, his face matching his beard.

"True. And not for you either. When she wakes, she will decide for herself."

The flames went out. All his fire seemed doused with icy water.

"Take what you need and get out, Count."

***

Day Six.

Significant improvement in the condition of the non-Gifted involved in the circle experiment…

Number of dead Gifted — 46.
Number of dead non-Gifted — 10.

***

Day Seven.

…a necromancer, a microscope, and three hundred forty doses of antibiotics arrived…

***

"Blood transfusion. That is the only thing we can offer you, Duke."

"This is utterly unnatural."

"You can very naturally die instead, as an alternative," I retort, looming over the emaciated Thorn.

"And whose blood do you intend to transfuse into me?"

"In your case it doesn't matter; with a fourth blood group any will do, but… preferably it should be from another metal mage."

"I agree," the Duchess muttered. "But if something goes wrong — I will kill you all."

"Well, look, we already have a donor!" I said cheerfully.

"Admit it, you just want to practice before trying it on your friend?" Thorn wheezed.

I spread my hands. What could I say — he was entirely right. Except that I hadn't yet found someone willing to share their blood. Still, there were about five surviving Ashirans; someone would surely agree to help. And if not… I would make them.

"In that case, let's begin."

If the disease hides in the blood, releasing it, purifying it, or replacing it is the only idea I had.

And we would find out how best to do it right in the process. Fortunately, we had enough blood.

Hollow tubes pierce the veins… the operation begins.

***

A few hours later, having finished tormenting the Duke and making sure he wouldn't die anytime soon, I headed to the hospital. To Asha.

Carefully nicking the girl's finger, I touched it to a reddish quartz. After a couple of minutes the stone took on a greenish hue.

"First group. Not good."

"The stone shows A-type," Nor clarified.

"I know. That's the same thing."

"Then why call it…"

"Quiet, let me think."

The first group was fairly common, but hardly the most convenient, since transfusion required an exact match. The Duke had been much luckier. But what was the point of guessing? We would simply go to the Ashirians' tent and test them all. If no one matched, then we'd think further.

However, I did not have to search. At the suggestion to give a liter or so of blood, Detlaf readily nodded.

"All right, let's go."

"Not so fast." I raised the quartz. "We need to check your blood first, to make sure it fits."

But the head of the Ashirians just waved it off.

"As a chimerologist, shouldn't you know that if the child is A-type, then the parent must be too?"

I slowly raised a brow.

***

"So you're her father?" I asked as I prepared for the operation. The instruments were generously washed in alcohol, as was everything around, and the core of the ritual circle had been replaced with a fresh one.

In response there was only silence.

"She never spoke of her family. I never asked either, but…"

"Seems she, like me, believes it's none of an outsider's business," Detlaf finally replied.

"All right. I can always ask her, but there's something I'd rather ask you. How did it happen that your daughter wandered the forests with bandits, working as a hired killer for the Second Duke?"

…

"Why are you silent? Don't tell me you had a hand in it?"

"End the interrogation and get to work. I'm here to save my daughter, not to chatter."

"We are both here for that. By the way, did you know that when we first met, I nearly killed her? Somehow her life didn't concern you then. Was it because she was just a junior mage?"

"I don't owe you an explanation, Count."

"True. I just hope you'll give one to her when she wakes." I snorted, unable to contain my distaste. "Let's begin."

With a few swift motions I cut the arteries, linking them with tubes into a single system. Blood left the Ashirian girl's body and began its long journey of purification, while new blood flowed in to replace it.

"Control your power, don't kill the blood cells," I ordered the necromancer.

Nor nodded, though he already knew exactly what to do.

Why had I even said it? I didn't know — probably nerves. With the Duke I hadn't worried, since we could pour as much blood into him as we needed… but now our resources were limited.

The chain of rune circles the blood passed through drained its power, weakening the infection and preventing the pathogens from teleporting. Later, Nor finished them off manually with death magic, trying not to ruin the blood… as he did now. The crimson liquid darkened from the excess of death energy.

Unusable. We discarded it.

A short lever movement, and the spoiled milliliters left the circle, draining into a large flask.

"Be more careful, for Abyss' sake," the Archmage complained.

"If we could filter the blood without losses, we wouldn't need a donor. Continue," I replied outwardly calm, though I fully agreed with him.

The blood, cleansed of infection, went to the Archmage to be re-saturated with power. This was the most dangerous moment: if even a significant trace of the infection slipped through, it would all collapse. Instead of healing, we would doom them both.

Of course, Detlaf had been stuffed with antibiotics beforehand, which might save him if only a negligible number of pathogens entered, but the risk was high.

Hour after hour, liter after liter. With each cycle, the Archmage grew weaker and paler, until he lost consciousness. Checking his pulse, we continued. There was no choice.

The procedure lasted more than four hours before we stopped finding traces of the pathogen in the blood.

Another four days were needed before the patients awoke. And a week before the last cases of the disease were defeated.

***

Day Fourteen
Final report:
Total infected — 1,836.
Dead — 238.
Overall mortality — 12.96%.
Mortality among mages — 98%.