XX: Live With Plague

"When I say go, you kick one of those trees. Got it?" Sorina asks. 

"No." 

"Great! Go." 

I groan and hop off a meandering Umbrahorn, clicking the harness to undo it. Umbrahorn's been slow-moving due to his recovery, so Sorina and I have only made it halfway through the Red Forest by the afternoon. She travels on her Golden-Mist cloud spirit—a fact that the damned shark constantly whines about. 

I go to the thinnest oak near me and pump my foot up, slicing it down across the tree's length. Pain. It travels up my shin like scurrying ants. I wince and hop on one foot while Umbrahorn hoots. 

"Turn your kick over more!" Sorina yells. "And step out! Don't snap your kick: it's an axe swinging down. It's not meant for speed, but for power. And keep your chin down! And—" 

I tune her out. I can only take in so much information at once. Turn my kick over more? I'll do that much at least. 

I hop back to my mount, only for Sorina to mercilessly say, "go" once more. She only deigned to espouse the order when I got nice and comfortable too. 

Whereas Eternal Spring is an art focused 90% on technique and 10% on conditioning, speed, and other factors, Iron Winter is more 30% technique, 70% everything else. That means constant pain, irrevocable soreness, and of course, unending teasing from my teacher. 

After about my hundredth kick, we spot something on the road: a thin, gangly man limping his way down the path, dragging some sack behind him. 

"I'll take a look," I tell Sorina. 

"Careful," she says, tugging my sleeve. "It could be a plague-bearer." 

"Then I just can't let him touch me, right?" 

"Right. Just… Remember, Lucian said some of them undergo 'transformations'." 

"I'll be careful. Trust me," I say. With that, I head up the road while Sorina and Umbrahorn hang back. As I near the man, I see that he's not infected thankfully—at least not from his looks. No sores. No rot. 

He is quite injured though. And lost. His eyes are downcast and darkened by something deeper. 

"Hello friend," I say waving to him. "Are you alright?" He looks up at me slowly. Blinks a few times, taking me in. 

Then, he hisses: "What more do ya want from me? Leave me be. You've taken everything already you bastard." 

I'm already awkward enough at conversation as it is. So, having someone levy insane accusations at me is… hard to react to. 

"Uh, are you sure you're not mistaking me for someone else —" 

"Not you, ya fool! The spirits! The Celestials! They take and take and take and they keep on taking until I don' got nothing left except me pride. And that they'll take too." 

He's mad. The sack gives off an awful stench. 

"Do you… need any help or—" 

"Don't touch me!" he yells, staggering back. He stumbles over himself, crosses his feet up, trips. Let's go of the sack. From its contents spills out some chunks of flesh. Rotting meat. Flies buzz around the spoiled redness. My eyes widen. 

I see small fingers wrapped around a larger hand. 

"Ah, now look at what you've done you rat bastard!" The man yells, standing up now. He spits. I deftly dodge the spittle, now unsure as to whether the man is infected or not. I get my answer when he starts collecting the body parts by bare hand. I back away. "Oh my poor babies, rest now, papa's got ye, papa's got ye." 

Despite his crazed nature, I can't help but feel sorry for the man. For, who in this entire universe deserves this fate? 

The Elders of course. 

The man snaps his gaze back to me and, for a moment, his eyes dilate. His breathing slows. 

"They cut my babies up…told me to burn the bodies." 

"I understand," I say, covering my nose. 

"No ye don't," he sneers. "No one would ever understand. I will bury them now, where they deserve to be buried. Keep away if you know what's good for ya." 

I nod and step back. Then, I motion for Umbrahorn and Sorina to clear the road. 

The man limps off with his sack, rambling madly to himself. 

"Do you want me to kill him?" Umbrahorn asks, dead serious. 

I glare at the shark. He doesn't flinch. 

"Why would I want that?" I growl. 

"He's carrying the disease, is he not? Shouldn't I eat him? Stifle the plague's movement?" 

I pause, look back and forth between the crazed man and the hammerhead. My gaze finally settles on Sorina. 

"What do you think?" I ask her. 

She's also staring at the man as he stumbles along the road. "I think he'll die before he reaches Takemeadow." 

I don't know if she's sure. And I don't want to know—in fact, I should be thanking her if she's lying to me. Saves me from making a stupid decision. 

We watch on for a little longer as the mad man's rants echo distantly. 

I suppose he is the epitome of how the plague travels. 

Marching endlessly. 

Dragging with it a bag of bodies and madness. 

…

"How do you even fight a plague?" I ask no one in particular. The canopy of the red forest falls away, leaving the upward rocky trek to Clan Adachi towards the North, a bending road following a creek to the East, and a darker wooden path Westward. 

"You don't. You contain it and wait it out in most cases," Sorina says. "At least, that's what my father taught me back in Catolica. And he was a General, so I'm sure he's dealt with similar issues." 

"That doesn't apply here," Umbrahorn mutters, a serious edge to his tone for once. "This is a witch's doing," he spits. 

"You dislike witches then?" I ask. 

"Witches, warlocks, and most users of arts outside of normal magicks, yes. Hold for a second," Umbrahorn orders, sniffing the air, digging his nose in the dirt, and then, giving us a wide grin. "She's closer. East." 

So we follow the creek, which ripples through a wooded brush and sparkles as the sun goes down. 

"What are 'normal' magicks?" I ask. Sorina pauses a step and gives me a frustrated look. "What? Is it bad to ask that?" 

"No, not that," she mutters. "I'm just… so appalled that your clan deprived you of such simple knowledge." 

"Oh," I mutter. "Sorry?" 

"Don't apologize. That's their fault. Everything about you is their fault." 

"Everything, huh?" 

"That's not what I—" she sighs. "You know what I meant. It's not right. It's not… humane, what they put you through." 

"I'm well aware of that, but thank you for the reminder." I don't want to talk about this right now—not when it took me so much painstaking effort to make the right decision. To stay. This does nothing but stir my anger. 

"Sorry. Look," she points arbitrarily into the sky. At first, I think she's directing my gaze to the setting sun: an orange semi-circle dipping below the thin-bladed horizon. Then, she starts drawing a circle in the air with her finger. "Imagine this is the first circle of magicks. Within it, the basic elements are formed. Understood?" 

"So… fire, wood, water, metal, and earth?" 

"No, that's an old misconception. There are far more than the original five that lay in that first circle. For example: aether, dark, and light." 

Right. Maybe Hui's dragons would be a better representation of all the elements within that first circle. Nine dragons. Does that mean nine core elements? 

When I ask Sorina this, she shakes her head. 

"From what scholars have said, there are probably more than nine." 

"But how would they know?" 

She's about to answer, but pauses. "I… am not too sure actually." 

"What do you mean? Wait, as a matter of fact, how does anybody even know about… all of this?" I ask, referring to the circle she continues to draw absentmindedly with her finger. "I mean, is this not just theory? A method of envisioning magicks? It's not like this 'first circle' actually—" 

"Exists?" she finishes for me in a way that indicates that I'm thoroughly mistaken. 

"It does?" 

"Think about it like this. The first circle contains core elements. The second contains derived elements. The third and fourth contain spiritual and eldritch magicks. Beyond that, lies the weird magicks. Witch and warlock magicks, black magicks, all the unexplainable or unexplored parts of our world. Now, all of this forms a series of concentric circles. Can you guess what the model is called?" 

She still hasn't answered my previous question, but I play along: "The Idiotic, Convoluted Model of Magicks?" 

A slight smile tugs at Sorina's face before she shakes her head. "No. This is The Fundamental Theory of Magicks. And, it was discovered by runic mages. Those whom I'm referring to as 'scholars.'" 

The Fundamental Theory of Magicks. I'm surprised that I've never heard the Adachi clan refer to it as that. They've always dubbed magicks as… Well, magicks. No depth to their analysis behind them. At least, never in front of me. 

"And how exactly did these runic mages discover the circles?" 

Sorina frowns. "That much is higher level theory. And… I'm not well versed in those matters. My father once told me, however, that runic mages are to magicks as merchants are to business. Merchants know the language of business and thus are able to interpret all of its intricacies. Runic mages are the same, to a lesser degree of understanding albeit." 

"Doesn't that make runic mages extremely valuable?" 

"Of course. Unfortunately, there are also very few of them. I've only ever met one in my life—a visiting mage who came to Sorayvlad a long time ago. He's the one that gifted us those lamps you were so curious about in my basement." 

"I see." 

"Well, I don't," Umbrahorn scoffs. He's slowed down to our pace and he bristles now. "This theory model is bullshit." 

"Of course you'd say that," Sorina mutters.

"Because I'm right. What does any of this matter? Magicks are magicks. Spirits are spirits. Why put them into arbitrary categorizations? You should just rank them." 

I chuckle. "Rank them? What, like top ten magicks and spirits?" 

"Of course." 

"And let me guess, you'd put yourself at number one?" 

"Does it need to be said?" 

"You're impossible." I shake my head. "There's no nuance to such a system." 

"'Nuance.' Such a human word. You all have a tendency of overcomplicating things. The only thing that matters about any particular magicks is its user and how powerful that user is." 

"If that's the case, then why do you hate witches and warlocks?" Sorina asks. 

I expect this to trip the shark up, but he just laughs. "That's because I'm a bigoted racist, you idiot." 

What? "What does race have to do with any of this?" I ask. 

"Sorry, allow me to clarify: anyone who uses those arts outside of normal magicks are truly inferior beings." 

"Does that not… contradict everything you just said about categorizing magicks? I mean, according to you, all that matters is the power of the user?" 

The shark glares at me. "Stop applying your human logic to me. My ideas are beyond you." 

"Qualifying his logic as 'human' doesn't make it any less true," Sorina points out. 

Umbrahorn growls. "Shut up! We are hunting a witch. Let's get back to doing that, shall we? Rather than wasting my precious, Great Spirit time talking about some stupid human magicks theories." 

And what makes your time any different from ours? Before I can ask that, the shark dives underground and races on ahead. Unfortunately, he doesn't make it very far before the cord connecting us goes taut and he is yanked back, cursing something foul. 

Sorina gives me a shrug and climbs back on Golden-Mist to catch up to Umbrahorn. I watch her back and wonder, not for the first time, what I'd do without her. 

…

Umbrahorn moves somewhat faster now, allowing us to cut the distance easily. I hang on my cord while Sorina follows from behind us, flying slightly above ground-level to avoid the dirt and earth Umbrahorn kicks up. 

"By the way, how did you leave the village so easily? You're mayor aren't you? Is it not your responsibility to watch over the people through this crisis?" I ask. The plague-bearing man has spooked me. I now regret allowing Sorina to come along, so I've been pestering her with insinuating questions. 

She doesn't seem to mind them, unfortunately: "I'm not in good-standing with the villagers right now, mostly because of last night's meeting. I left Lucian and the militia leader in charge during my absence. I wanted to go off and find the witch as well—I only found you by happenstance. Plus, Umbrahorn's trail is easy to spot." 

"Right," I mutter. My legs nearly slip and my feet grip the chinks of Umbrahorn's wood tighter; the shins are soring from the tree-kicking. But, thanks to my regenerating body, the pain lessens gradually and I can feel a significant difference—the muscles come back stronger, more durable. 

While we bend around the Adachi ranges, I can't help but wonder how the Thunder Tower is doing. Is it decaying in my absence? Or does it stand tall and sentinel over the lands I've abandoned? 'I hold the binding to this land,' Hikaru had said in relation to my curse. 'Daichi holds one half of the Immortality, Renji the other half, Kai and Masaru hold the other parts related to the spirit of the Tower itself' So… what happens when I kill Kai and Masaru? 

What is the spirit of the Tower? 

When we clear the ranges and the creek ends, the road diverges and slopes up into hillier country; greener pastures and hotter days. Night begins to beckon so Sorina and I make camp on one of those hills. 

"We have been heading towards Havenmarch for a while now," Sorina mutters. "I suppose that is where the Witch is near." 

I shrug as I throw more leaves to feed the campfire. "Makes sense, right? I mean, that's the first village that got the plague." 

"And failed to contain it," Sorina replies. She hands me some dried meat and I chew on it gratefully. It's not one of Alya's feasts, but I used to survive on much less than this. Still, once you get used to something good, it's hard to do without it. 

Umbrahorn is already fast asleep underground. Apparently, even spirits like him need some rest, albeit much less than humans: something along the lines of four hours for him. 

The fire crackles between Sorina and me. The night brings a nice chill. Stars gape out the folds of grey clouds. The moon is hidden somewhere in the gloom. 

"I'm still mad at you, by the way," Sorina says, though she doesn't sound so mad. She sounds quiet and timid, like a little girl. 

"Sorry," is all I can manage to say. 

"I mean, how could you abandon me like that? Not a word or anything." 

"Sorry." 

She looks up at me. "You're the only friend I've had in a long time." 

"I figured." 

"And—wait, what do you mean 'I figured?'" 

"Who would want to be friends with such a messy person?" I say with a smile. 

She throws a stick at me. It bounces off my shoulder. 

"You ass," she says with a smile of her own. 

We both have a light chuckle at that. 

After a while without either of us sleeping, I ask, "Any luck finding your wind spirits? Their names are… Greta and, uh—"

"Berteca." 

"Right. Sorry."

"It's fine, it's been a while since I've mentioned them. And no, I haven't had any luck—despite my best efforts," she sighs, poking at the fire with another stick. Some of the flaming sticks shift and send up fiery embers flying towards the night-sky. "To be honest, that's also another reason I ventured out: I wanted to see if I could sense them on the road." 

"Let's find you a new lute while we hunt the witch. That might bring them back," I offer. 

She shrugs. "Maybe." Though earlier, she had pointedly told me that it probably wouldn't. 

"We'll find them. Don't worry," I say, though I know that's a lie. I'm a pessimist through and through. I fear the spirits have been gone for a while now. But I inject enough optimism in my voice to belay Sorina's fears. 

"You're right. I'll get them back. Eventually." 

I pat her shoulder across the fire. "Get some rest. I'll take first watch."

She looks as though she might argue, but then she thinks better of it and curls into her blanket. I watch her slumbering form for a while before standing and stretching. Damn it, me and my chivalry. I haven't had a full night's rest in a while. But I owe her this much. For deciding to come with me. Maybe, when she wakes up for her watch, I can ask her to hum a lullaby—

Don't be an idiot. You aren't a child. So what if you get the nightmares? Deal with them, as you always have. 

Imagine what that little boy at the tower would think of you now? He, so consumed with vengeance that he'd curse the Elders every waking moment of the day. 

He'd think that you're weak. 

A grown man-child, crying in the arms of another. Asking them for help. 

Idiot. 

I try to distract myself—focus on other concerns. That feeling of queasy nerves haunts me. It occurred at the farm. As I left Takemeadow. What even was that? The feeling of being watched? 

No. It felt different. 

Darker. 

I feel it now, ever so slightly. Again I search the treeline for a while. 

Some time passes. My eyes are drooping. I take some water from my leather skin and drip it over my face. The coolness wakes me up nice and quick. 

Once I wipe my face with my shirt, I notice torchlights peering out the distant treeline. Squinting, I see a band of men with swords and daggers, crossbows and spears. 

And they are heading directly for us.