Chapter 100: Fragments of the Caravan
The morning after the slaughter on the Golden Plains began for Master Mortis with the work he hated most.
As the sun slowly crept over the horizon, Mortis dropped to his knees by a spread tarpaulin. Ruth and Klop lay before him.
"Master," Galt softly called out, the oldest of the remaining men. His hands trembled as he handed Mortis a small pouch of embalming salt. "Are we... are we really going to drag them with us? In this heat, in two days they'll... turn to poison."
Without raising his head, Mortis rubbed the gray powder into Klop's skin.
"We won't leave them for the vultures to tear apart, Galt. We are alchemists, not butchers."
"But Ruth was our shield," Galt whispered, looking out over the empty plain. "And that one..." He pointed toward the last wagon where Iron lay. "If we're attacked again, we'll just be slaughtered. We won't even have time to shatter our flasks."
Mortis finally straightened up. His mask was off, exposing a gaunt, deeply lined face.
"You think Iron is our problem? No. Iron is our only insurance. Even unconscious, he's worth more than a dozen of you. Load the bodies. We move out in ten minutes."
Mortis climbed into the wagon with Iron. He lay on bales of hay. The metal vibrated almost imperceptibly, emitting a low hum.
Mortis pressed his palm against Iron's forehead and instantly yanked his hand back. The skin was ice-cold. But a second later, when the alchemist touched him again, Iron flushed with such a sudden wave of heat that steam rose from him.
Beneath Iron's skin, around his temples and neck, strange gray threads pulsed. They appeared and vanished to a jagged, broken rhythm.
Mortis opened a small vial of restorative tincture—the most expensive item in his supplies. He tried to pour the liquid into Iron's mouth, but his teeth were clamped so tightly they couldn't be pried open.
"You're killing yourself, kid," the alchemist said quietly.
By noon, the caravan stumbled upon a group of nomads.
These weren't "vultures," just ordinary steppe drifters—five men on short-legged horses, armed with shortbows.
The nomads blocked the path. Their leader, a bearded man with a pockmarked face, lazily toyed with a whip.
"Alchemists," he spat near the oxen's hooves. "Where are you headed? Maybe you need an escort? For a couple of crates of your 'green oil,' we'll see you all the way to the forest."
Galt and the other apprentices shrank back, their hands instinctively darting toward their reagent bags.
Mortis stepped forward slowly. He had put his mask back on.
"An escort?" Mortis let out a brief chuckle. "Look at my wagons, nomad. See the blood on the sides? We just made it out of the Dead Forests. But we survived. Do you know why?"
He pointed to the last wagon, where the contours of a prone body could be discerned beneath the canvas.
"There lies our 'cargo.' Black Pox, engineered in the laboratories of the Grand Magister. We are transporting it for... experimentation. My assistant," he gestured to the wagon carrying Klop's body, "died this morning. Want to step closer and check how fast your fingernails turn black after you take your first breath near him?"
"Is it really... that virus?" one of the nomads said in terror.
"Precisely," Mortis said quietly. "If you don't want to be the first infected, now would be an excellent time to leave."
The nomads instantly backed their horses up several paces.
"Pass through," the leader grumbled, covering his nose with a rag.
Once the nomads vanished from sight, Galt collapsed onto the driver's seat in sheer exhaustion.
"Master... were you bluffing?"
"Half of alchemy is a bluff," Mortis snapped, though his own back was drenched in sweat. "But the other half is a willingness to die alongside your enemy. Keep moving. We're losing time."
In the evening, when the caravan stopped for a brief rest, the silence became oppressive.
Normally at this hour, Klop would be bustling around the campfire, trying to whip up something edible from hardtack and dried meat.
"Why did he do it?" asked Wayne, the youngest of the apprentices, staring toward the wagon containing the bodies. "Klop was always a coward. He hid in crates when regular dogs barked at us. Why did he throw himself under a sword for... for him?"
Mortis sat by the fire, stirring some mixture in a crucible.
"Cowardice is an instinct, Wayne. But what Klop did—that was a choice. Klop saw something in Iron that we don't. He who has always been weak is instinctively drawn to the one who is strong."
"It's stupid," Galt muttered. "Now Klop is dead, and he's lying in a coma, probably never to wake up."
"Stupidity and faith often look identical," Mortis replied. "But look at yourselves. You are alive only because he did the heavy lifting yesterday."
By the end of the following day, the landscape began to change.
The Golden Plains gave way to rolling hills; the soil grew rocky and damp. Ahead, a dark black line rose—foothills blanketed by a dense forest.
Mortis halted the caravan at the very edge of the woods. The air here was different—it smelled of pine needles, damp earth, and something metallic.
Mortis stepped into Iron's wagon.
He wasn't moving, but the hum from his prosthetic had grown louder.
Iron was beginning to rave. His lips moved, sputtering incoherent words:
"...vector... mass... doesn't balance... overload..."
"Easy, kid," Mortis said, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. "We're almost there. If you're going to die, at least wait until we get you into a proper bed."
Mortis looked up at the dark canopy of trees, which had begun to swallow the final remnants of sunlight.
"A village without walls is the most dangerous place for cargo like this," he muttered. "Ah, the hell with it."
"Move out," Mortis commanded. "Into the forest."