Vol 8, Chapter 6

Day One.

Symptoms:

Hyperthermia. The skin of the infected dries out and cracks, forming multiple wounds. Blood emits a violet mist, with a presumed pathogen. (Further research required). Loss of strength due to Source depletion. Possible loss of Gift.

Presumably not fatal (crossed out). Fatal.

Nature of the disease — unknown. Magical?

Virulence — high (crossed out). Extremely high.

Mode of transmission — unknown.

Incubation period — unknown.
ADDITION: From two minutes to ten hours. Proportional to the strength of the host's Gift.

Number of infected — 8 (crossed out) 25 (crossed out) 416 people.

Quarantine measures implemented.\

Day Two.

The disease continues to spread despite quarantine.

Neither masks nor hermetically sealed protective suits help. The infection enters directly into the body, bypassing all barriers. Number of infected from 800 to 1000 people. (crossed out) 1321

Quarantine measures reinforced.

Observation of patients continues.

Symptoms worsening. Suspicion of internal organ failure.

At the Duke's demand, despite quarantine, a healer was summoned to the patient.

Attempts at healing by traditional methods — ineffective.

There is a possibility that healing energy is harmful; after the procedure the patient's condition sharply deteriorated.

The healer was transferred into quarantine. (crossed out) The healer is infected.

When offered experimental therapy, the Duke replied with a categorical refusal, I quote: "Better his vassal dies as a knight than becomes possessed." (Attempts to explain that it doesn't work that way — to no avail).

32 hours and 14 minutes from the presumed moment of infection. Patient Zero — deceased. Age — 36 years, Element — Metal, rank of strength Senior Adept.

Addition: A significant difference has been identified in the speed of disease progression between ordinary people and the Gifted…

I set aside the quill, which I barely held in my thick gloves.

I raise the glove closer to the lenses of the gas mask. A black, demonic claw had once again cut through the asbestos fabric. I sigh and scratch the horns pressed tightly under the hood. Doing anything in the modified flamethrower suit was hard, but I had to wear it constantly. Not because it hindered infection (unfortunately, the disease didn't care about barriers at all), but because it concealed my demonic form. Everyone's nerves were already at their limit, and a demon wandering among the sick would hardly have led to anything good. Rumors already weren't the best…

Alas, there was no other way. This form, for now, was the only discovered means to resist infection. The moment I relaxed and stopped drawing strength from the Abyss — any contact with the sick infected me as if I were an ordinary man.

The form was good in every way, except that thinking became difficult; I had to constantly write down my thoughts to avoid forgetting anything. Now, what was I saying?

Wiping the lenses, I once more bend over the field desk. The stool creaks plaintively under my weight. From beyond the tent wall comes a racking cough. Someone among my soldiers, since cough most often appeared in the ungifted…

Yes, exactly. Dependence on Gift strength… Whatever the nature of the disease, there was definitely something magical in it. Otherwise I could not explain why the infection affected ordinary people far less severely. If an infected knight could no longer stand on his feet after ten to twelve hours, infected soldiers, though sniffling, could still move even now.

I take the quill, dip it in the inkwell, and, consulting the report, write down the words.

Symptoms of infection in people without Gift:

Muscle weakness, cough, nausea, headache…

I dip the quill and freeze.

Although there were similar symptoms, some differed. Worst of all, it was impossible to say with certainty whether the disease was viral, bacterial, or simply some kind of curse. Incorrect treatment would only make the situation worse, and I did not want to experiment on my own people.

Did not want to, but will have to.

The attempt to experiment on infected knights failed — the Duke was stubborn as a bull.

Palliative therapy — a dead end. Attempt to identify the pathogen ended in failure. No surprise, since without proper equipment it was extremely difficult.

Falcon had already set out on the road for a microscope, and at the same time for a necromancer. Whatever the nature of this filth — a "portable disinfectant" would not hurt.

But until he returns, we will have to cope ourselves. Even if it will be risky.

"Adjutant!" I roared with all my might. The rubber mask hummed, muffling my voice, yet even so it carried for dozens of meters.

"Sir!" came the answering shout from outside.

Only like this, by shouting, could we communicate. To approach even within three meters of someone potentially sick was deadly. Five meters, no closer — those were the requirements for everyone.

"In which of the infirmaries are those who were infected yesterday afternoon?"

"First, fourth, and fifth, sir. Southeast, sir!"

"Good. Step back farther, I'm coming out…"

The camp, which once occupied only the far side of the hill, had now sprawled in clusters across the entire field. Most of the last twenty-four hours had been spent setting up quarantine zones.

I walked at the front, studying the uneven, hastily rearranged tents. Those lucky enough to avoid infection carried food, leaving it on the ground beside campfires. Hot meals and the fires were the only things keeping people warm in the middle of a cold autumn field.

The worst place to fall ill.

A knight's horse, clearly requisitioned from someone, pulled a cart with fuel for the fires. Its muzzle all but radiated disdain for its task, but Dorvan, sitting on the driver's bench, held the reins tight. On seeing me, he ducked his head and pulled the white bandage higher across his face. Needless worry. How exactly a knight's horse ended up in our army was the very last thing I cared about right now.

The wagon passed by, and I continued toward the tents standing apart from the rest. The first and largest was the regular field hospital. Heavy canvas, a metal frame, even a stove inside. This is where the first sick soldiers were sent…

On my head...

For here, too, were those who had been wounded in battle but had not yet been treated by a healer.

Inside, things were far less sophisticated than they looked from outside. The sick lay simply on heaps of spruce branches, sometimes with hides thrown over them. I nodded in greeting to the stoker-soldier. He was sick, but still on his feet. I noticed his hands were covered in bloody discharge, his skin cracked. A bad sign.

"Why didn't you report new symptoms?"

"Rounds haven't come yet, commander… I'm fine. They don't even hurt, the skin just feels numb."

"Return to your place."

"Yes, sir!"

I opened the stove's firebox and threw in the remaining logs. I carefully washed my gloves with alcohol, even though it was probably useless. I moved toward the sick. Pine branches crunched underfoot, the smell of resin masking the stench of illness. First I headed to the far pallet, which in the half-darkness seemed ablaze with red hair.

...truly unlucky that the sick were sent here...

I carefully examined her face and hands — it was usually there that the blood would show... but no, all clear. I touched her face with my hand, only then realizing I still wore the glove. I tore it off.

Hot, as always, but otherwise… For now, no severe symptoms, though if she were conscious I was sure they would have already shown. Magical exhaustion after battle had been a saving factor.

I turned away from Asha, forcing the glove back onto my hand with difficulty.

"I need a volunteer for experimental treatment. There's no guarantee it won't get worse."

"How could it get worse…" one of the soldiers laughed, then broke into coughing.

He was putting on a brave face, but alas. I had already seen firsthand what Patient Zero had become before death; here, at best, they were at only the middle stage.

"Raise your hands, whoever—" I didn't even finish before every man present raised his hand.

"Hm. Fine. Then I'll start with you."

I walked over to the stoker and extended my hand toward him.

"Astarot," I thought to myself, and he answered at once.

"There isn't even any magic in him…" the demon growled contemptuously.

"That's why we must try."

Power rushed into me, the sensation of vacuum in my hands. Before I could attune, I noticed the patient had gone completely pale and was clenching his teeth with all his strength. I broke the contact abruptly.

"How are you?"

"Shitty, commander. Forgive me."

I nodded, as if to say it's nothing, and spoke inwardly to Astarot.

"Something went wrong."

"He was weak already, and the impact too strong. A pity I didn't rip out his soul. At least I'd have had a bite — I'm tired of maintaining the channel."

"Can we do it weaker somehow, just draw magic little by little without draining life force?"

"Impossibile… But I know a few ways to achieve it. I'll tell you if you swear to serve me for a couple hundred years."

… I kept silent, but a wave of anger rose within me. The situation did not invite foolish jokes.

"Very well, mortalis…" after a pause he backtracked. "We need relics of the sanctimonious. They'll do, or else we can prepare…"

"A circle," I answered myself, and realized I'd spoken aloud.

I could try drawing a circle: for many rituals, isolation from external energies is characteristic. After that, all that's needed is to set a vector, and it will pull out from within everything it can. If the disease is purely magical in nature… it will destroy it. If it's something combined, then at least it will weaken it.

The only problem is that materials are needed. And they can be obtained either from the Duke, or from the Archmage of the Ashirans.

Finishing my thoughts, I glance at the soldier. He is still pale, his forehead covered in sweat mixed with blood from his pores. Damn, this is why I had postponed experiments on my own people until the very last.

"If it gets better, report it. Hold on." Patting him on the shoulder, I address the rest.

"I'll repeat once more: this is no joke and may be dangerous. Any volunteers?"

To my surprise, everyone raised their hands together, everyone except Asha, who remained unconscious. I raise a hand to my face. Suddenly, my eye itched… both of them.

"Kh-khm. Excellent. This time the experiment will be safer; at least it certainly won't make things worse. I think those who've been to healers with infections are already familiar with this thing…"

I take out a small satchel, full of tiny glass vials. Penicillin. Considering how little of it could be produced, the satchel was worth far more in gold than its weight.

Massive metal syringes were carefully boiled. It would be stupid to infect already sick people with something else.

I inject the solution into five men. In my opinion that amount was enough: not risking too many, but still collecting statistics. Speaking of statistics…

"Adjutant! Every hour, record the patients' reports of their condition and track the dynamics."

Instead of the usual, if weary, "Yes, sir," there was silence.

"Adjutant?" I repeat.

Hm. Leaving the used syringes to boil, I step outside. Beyond the tent, the cold can be felt even through the suit.

It's hard to search through the lenses, and I don't notice my adjutant right away. He is nearly a hundred meters away, arguing with some knight. What the hell is this armored bastard doing near our positions? First thing we did was separate properly from all the mages… and they were advised to do the same.

I approach them.

"Your lordship. A message from the Duke."

"Wait…" I wave the knight off, quickly explaining to the adjutant what exactly he needs to track. Only then do I turn to the knight.

He waits obediently, clad head to toe in armor. Even his helmet with the visor down. A bad premonition makes me tense my muscles.

"Take off the damned helmet, friend. It won't help you," I advise smoothly, but the cursed gas mask turns my voice into a mumble.

Nevertheless, the knight obeys and removes the heavy piece of metal from his head.

From brow to cheek ran a bloody crack. Blood streamed down his face. No longer the initial stage, he'd been sick at least five hours. And he struts around here as a messenger, as if nothing's wrong!

I barely restrain myself from tearing the insolent fool apart.

Wonderful. Because of idiots like this, quarantine becomes useless. Seems I can't count on people's reason; I'll have to assign some soldiers to guard duty and organize real cordons. Abyss, everyone is already collapsing from exhaustion, trying to feed, water, and warm the sick, who are now nearly half the camp…

"The Duke agreed to your proposal. You may test the drug. And also… you may examine Sir Lincoln."

"Good. And what happened that made him change his mind?"

*****************************************************

Patient Zero, also Sir Lincoln, had lost a lot of weight since my last visit…

Because he had literally been chopped to pieces. The pieces lay scattered across the tent, and blood had splattered everything around.

"An autopsy is not performed like this. How am I supposed to figure anything out from this mess?" I mutter through the mask, trying to piece together the puzzle of limbs.

"Be grateful I even let you look at this," the Duke replies. He looks exhausted, as though he hadn't slept not just for two days, but at least a week.

"Thank you, of course, but you could have left him whole?"

"I'm afraid not. You see, half an hour ago the late sir suddenly began, how shall I put it… showing signs of life."

I, who had been calmly working with the body, carefully laid the head back down.

"All right, go on."

"Incoherent growling, lunging at people, trying to bite them. If there's no necromancer in your camp, I don't know how to explain it."

"No, he hasn't arrived yet," I reply calmly. "But until he does, I need access to the sick."

"He will come. Do whatever you like, but stop this before my knights slaughter each other screaming about risen dead."

Zombies. The lich isn't even on the horizon yet, and the living dead are already here. Looks like armed patrols and cordons are definitely necessary.

"And also…"
The Duke sets a spherical flask on the table, inside of which a violet mist churns. Exactly the same as sometimes issued from the wounds of the infected.

"Where did you get this?"

"A trophy… We had an agreement, didn't we? Everything found at the altar belongs to the Second Duchy."

I could have protested, but right now it hardly mattered.

The flask is covered in runes, encircling the glass in long chains. And they are made for the purpose of…

"Teleportation," I decipher the purpose of the runes. "I saw similar ones on the Commonwealth's portal arch. I assume in this case they block teleportation. Well, that explains why the disease spreads so effectively. Interesting… very interesting."

"Can we protect ourselves from this?" the Duke asks wearily, almost indifferently.

"Possibly. It might make sense to try drawing a circle that repeats the rune chains. If it works, then the disease will cease to be so contagious within the circle. But I need materials."

"All of them are at Detlaf's disposal. I will instruct him to come here for a discussion. But tell me—this doesn't bring us any closer to curing this filth, does it?"

"Who knows… I need time."

I whistle for the adjutant to bring the satchel with penicillin, as well as ink and paper. Much data will need to be recorded.

"Time. We all need time," the Duke says thoughtfully.

"I'll do everything as quickly as I can. Let me remind you, most of the sick are among my soldiers."

He opens his mouth as if to object, then only shakes his head.

"So be it." The Duke takes his leave and steps outside.

I watch his figure go. All would be fine, except… he is noticeably unsteady.

At first I thought his sudden change of position was fear from the corpse's "resurrection." But now I see clearly—it wasn't that at all.

He is sick too.