To live or die at loreli.., p.15
To Live Or Die At Lorelight Academy, page 15
Sweat forms at my temples and behind my ears.
What would that mean for the people I…
I almost don’t want to ask.
I don’t want to know the answer.
Farah’s smart.
Clearly and significantly smart.
As little knowledge we have about this situation, her guess might be a good one. I could ask.
But can you handle her telling you the answer?
“Do you think this is reversible?”
Farah blinks and looks down.
I look for the now familiar signs of thought wheels turning—the clenched jaw, the firmed lips. The rapid eye motion. She glances at the spell scrolls, now safely resting beside the table.
“No,” she says eventually.
I feel relief flood through me.
Any last inhibitions I had about killing the Infected fall away. For now, at least.
“So then is all this worth revenge?” I ask. “Besides, what chance do we have against an Archscholar? Let’s say we get there—to Albright Tower—and we find him. Then what? He kicks our asses and turns us into walking geodes?”
I shake my head and lean back on the couch.
“Doesn’t seem worth it if we can’t reverse this.”
Farah pauses.
Then, another wave of thinking spreads across her face. There’s a shadow to the expression, though. Something obfuscated. Something happening layers behind what I can see.
“It’s hopeless if we don’t try. The Infection might move in stages. If that’s true…”
Farah glances significantly at me, and looks at my arm.
“What?” I say, even as I bring my sleeve up to examine.
The skin is crusted and healing already from when I was clawed last night. It was a shallow cut—the kind that only stung when I noticed it, and stopped hurting soon after.
“You don’t think…”
“I don’t know,” Farah says.
Shit.
Am I…Infected?
I try to read Farah’s expression, but she just maintains eye contact with me, revealing nothing. I don’t…feel infected. Am I?
I tell her as much, and she shrugs.
“Albright,” she says. “Answers.”
“Revenge,” I press. “Stupid.”
“Answers,” she reiterates. “A chance to save people. Maybe.”
I suck in a harsh breath and stand, placing my hands on my head and beginning to pace restlessly.
“So…so should we try to avoid hurting them? The Infected? If there’s a chance they can be saved?”
Farah is already shaking her head.
“You can’t hold back, I don’t think. I’m telling myself the same thing. If this is reversible, I think the ones we’re seeing are already too far gone.”
So that’s that, then.
“Oh. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s a third reason to head to Albright.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll need to head to one of the high towers anyway if we want to escape.”
I think back to the jets of light flooding from one of the towers in the distance and closing the gates.
“That’s where they control the gates, I assume?”
“You assume correctly.”
Damn.
It’s going to be difficult. But I think of what my grandfather and Burta would say about this—situations like this do not resolve themselves the easy way. I should have expected something difficult.
“Okay,” I say. “Albright Tower. But if we can open the gates to go get help, it’s more important than killing Sampson.”
Farah nods, and I give her a stern look.
“Revenge, reversing, and escape.” I count on my fingers. “I shouldn’t need to tell you that revenge is the least of our goals here.”
“Of course.”
Something is still wrong.
There’s still that shadow over Farah’s pale complexion.
Subterfuge of some kind, without a doubt. That’s the easy part. The details, however, elude me.
I don’t feel Infected.
I’ll keep an eye on the cut, but I don’t feel Infected.
I want to get help.
I think the only logical thing is to get help from some traveling Archscholar who wasn’t on campus when all of this happened.
But we can’t get help if we’re Infected.
We can’t get help if we can’t leave.
So for now, Farah and I agree.
We’ll go to Albright Tower.
But to get there, we’ll need to take a few steps along the way.
That first step is to reach, secure, and scavenge the structures across the way, starting with the one most likely to have what we’ll need: The Eustace Grievance Madrigal Building for Introductory Magical Theory and Controlled Practicals.
Known to most by its informal name:
Yoostie.
We can’t move all the food and water at once. We fill up the canvas packs slotted into the cabinets on the lounge wall. I’ve got my own bag, plus Inkidunn’s drawn over my other shoulder.
Farah’s carrying her bag and Dumaul’s.
Richardson’s and Russ’s bags will have to stay here until we can make it back for the rest of the supplies.
As we load the packs, I decide to take inventory. Writing things down helps me sometimes, and so as Farah sorts objects onto the ground I scrawl it on a loose sheet of parchment with some scratchy ink. I first create a series of headings:
Survival & Basic Supplies
Weapons & Combat
Other Tools
Crystal Concentrate
“Add scrolls, please,” Farah says, peering over my shoulder. “And—honestly, just make a heading for that kind of stuff.”
It’s a good thought and, if I’m being completely honest, a bit of an exciting one. It gets added to the list.
Scrolls & Magical Supplies
Twenty minutes later, I’ve created the list of everything we’re bringing to Yoostie, as well as a secondary list with everything we’re leaving here.
On Hand:
Survival & Basic Supplies
Food Rations, 3 Days
Water Rations, 3 Days
Welcome Committee Jacket x4
Books, Potential Fuel (Sorry, Farah)
Large Candles x4
Weapons & Combat
Philip, Hand-Crossbow, Double-Loader
Mitchell, Hand-Crossbow, Double-Loader
Crossbow Bolts x14
Chef’s Knife x2
Fireplace Poker x1
Other Tools
Rope, Hempen (50 feet)
Flint & Steel
Charcoal
Parchment Scrolls & Sheets
Small Utility Knife
Crystal Concentrate
2 Rods (Small)
3 Shards (Medium)
2 Spikes (Large)
Scrolls & Magical Supplies
Scroll of Fire Breathing x1, 1 Use Remaining
Scroll of Gust x1, 3 Uses Remaining
Everything Else
Landmarks and Landscapes: The True Features Behind the World’s Most Mysterious University, by Molliaeydra Atun-Lottus
At Base:
Survival & Basic Supplies
Food Rations, 4+ Months
Water Rations, 1+ Month
Candles
Weapons & Combat
Large Chef’s Knives
Other Tools
Utility Knives, Utensils, & Other Kitchen Supplies
Rope, Hempen (25 feet)
Crystal Concentrate
None
Scrolls & Magical Supplies
None
Everything Else
Lots of Books
Lounge Accouterment and Furniture
Clock, Brass
“What do you think?” I ask as Farah compares my list with the objects she’s just finished loading.
She gives a curt nod.
“Looks good to me. How about you?”
“I don’t like seeing the food and water rations spelled out like that,” I admit. “Seeing that we’re voluntarily giving up four months of food and one month of water for three days of both raises a flag in my brain. But we have reasons.”
Farah just nods. The sentence doesn’t need a response. We both understand that as tempting as staying still and hunkering down might be, our little lightless lounge shall not to victory lead.
I sling on my designated packs, and Farah slings on hers.
They’re heavier than is ideal, but it’s a short distance to Yoostie.
You know, all this would be pretty easy if it weren’t for those blood-hungry monsters.
“Go!” Farah whispers harshly.
Her throat is hoarse and dry from anxiety.
She slides the heavy steel bolt back, unlocking the door. One heaving motion later and it swings open.
My turn.
I charge out into the sunlight. The fire poker is in my right hand, and the biggest chef’s knife I could find is in my other hand. One of the medium-sized shards of Concentrate is shoved into my closed jacket, nestled like a bundled scarf or an infant in the warm folds and pressing against the buttons above my sternum, ready to magnetize, gather, or redirect any crystals in the way.
It’s bright.
Brighter than I’ve been used to for the last twelve hours.
Hopes of a quiet passage are dashed as an Infected crashes into me the instant I charge from the door. Braced and ready, committing fearlessly to my own momentum, I plunge the trident-shaped fire poker into the Infected’s chest and keep running, lifting it off the ground and sending it rolling into the grass.
I vault over the screeching creature, the bags on my shoulders swinging wildly and slamming into my hips, threatening to send me off-balance.
Behind me, Farah ducks a clawed swipe, making herself small and low as she breaks free of the Infected by the door and vaults over the same Infected I just knocked over with the fire poker.
I’m almost looking forward again when I see the prone Infected swipe wildly, catching Farah on the legs mid-jump and sending her tripping to the ground.
I stop and pivot to turn.
“Keep going!” she shouts, rolling atop the Infected student and driving her knife into its heart three times as it screams.
She’s already rising to her feet to follow me again as I turn to press on.
The scream from the dying Infected sets off a chain of sound from around the campus.
Screech begets screech, and any Infected within the area who hears it repeats it and joins the charging horde.
A slash comes at my head from another rushing Infected as more close in.
I parry with the fire poker and slash my own knife wildly at it, aiming vaguely for the neck. The creature leans back at the last moment, and the knife catches only the thinnest bit of resistance.
I don’t stop to finish the job.
The creature hisses at me as I pass through, my sights set on the stone-brick fortified base in the distance that is Yoostie.
It’s perhaps sixty or seventy meters away. It stands bravely on the green grass, strong and firm. It’s larger than I imagined it being. Larger than the map table made it seem. The map table also didn’t show the hands. The massive ivory hands are the size of buildings in their own right. The musculature is realistic and precise, even from this distance. They’re placed on the sphere as if pulling the orb from the foundation itself—pulling the arcane from the mundane.
It’s an impressive sight.
Eye-catching and unusual.
I can’t imagine myself ever reaching it.
There are simply too many Infected standing in between us.
So many.
I can’t count them all. Two dozen? Then a bunch more? Twice that?
I have no idea.
There are too many to fight, that’s for sure.
They’re rambling and unorganized. They’re driven by instinct and feral, crazed bloodthirstiness. I think the deep animal instincts within all of us can recognize when something is rabid. That unsettling feeling. That wariness.
The horde may be unorganized between each other.
But the blood scent comes from the same place.
So when they descend upon us, they descend together regardless.
I glance behind me, where Farah is close on my heels.
“Go!” I shout, and strafe to my left.
“Hey! Hey!” I shout again, waving my fire poker and knife in the air, trying to get the attention of the horde between us and Yoostie.
There are a dozen more since I turned around! How are there a dozen more?!
I stagger left, burning away the last of my speed as I accelerate into a dead sprint.
Almost all turn to follow me, falling into the path of my arc without consideration of where that arc might lead.
My breathing is rushed and heavy.
The bags are so heavy.
Farah wanted to bring two days of food. I insisted on three! Why did I insist on three? Why did I need both crossbows? Why not just bring one?
Pushing through exertion, I sprint footstep after footstep into the morning summer grass as the arcane dead follow.
From over the heads of the now four dozen Infected charging me, I see Farah leap and lunge up the smooth stone steps leading up to the building, taking the steps three or four at a time, past the bronze lions that guard the steps, and approaching a pair of doors of aged forest-green bronze.
Even as she bounds up the steps, she’s drawing the shard of Concentrate from where it’s nestled in her jacket, the same way the other shard is nestled in mine.
The horde is bounding after me, with the slowest lagging behind and the closest near enough that my ears twitch every time its feet strike the ground.
I’ve never been the strongest person.
A couple years ago, Burta tried getting me to drink a gallon of milk every single day while I chopped wood nonstop to put on some muscle.
It just wouldn’t take.
I’m not strong.
But I am fast.
In a group of ten other boys my age, am I the fastest? I’d say so—I’m not sure. Am I the fastest in twenty? Maybe. In thirty?
Fast as I am, the numbers here are stacking up against me.
Still, I’m keeping my edge.
I risk a brief glance behind me.
The closest Infected are seven or eight feet away, staring at me with those reflective yellow eyes. Something is wrong with their crystals, though. They’re turning matte grey, at the base. Weakening.
It’s the shard.
The medium-sized crystal Concentrate hugged by my chest is pulling at the crystals in the Infected, even though they’re still alive. It’s weakening them, somehow. It’s keeping me faster.
The thought is a good one, and I nearly die distracted by it—a fresh Infected charges through the ones at the front, and I need to push and force myself to sprint lest this new one overtake me.
I can’t keep this up.
Farah Fox Kitt needs to get the door open before we both die out here.
Crystal crusts the height of the bronze doors like frozen rain hanging from the leaves of treetops. Farah stands on her tiptoes, waving the shard of Concentrate in a wide arc to free the crystal from the door.
I have just enough time to see Farah spin around in alarm.
She raises her knife and catches one leaping Infected in the ribs as it jumps on her. She nearly goes down with it but staves it off—just as another smashes into her ankle.
Crack.
Farah screams, and the last I see of Farah is her drawing the knife out from the dead Infected’s ribs just as she’s dogpiled by another half dozen.
Time to go help.
I swing my arc back around toward Yoostie, bringing the horde with me.
I’ve got to get to Farah.
Unless I turn back…if it’s over for her regardless.
The thought is brutal and pragmatic.
I’ve been cultivating such thoughts. I guess I can’t be surprised when they bloom.
Thankfully, Burta, my grandfather, and even my parents in the brief time I knew them raised me better than that.
My grip tightens on the fire poker as I pick my entry point up the steps and pick where I’m going to charge into the pack atop Farah.
I think I’ll just barrel straight through from the side, and whatever happens happens.
My legs are burning.
My shoulders are burning.
But, like Farah, I leap the gorgeous marble steps to Yoostie three at a time.
The crystals on the entryway are almost all faded, turned matte grey, and fallen from their crust keeping us from opening the door.
I’ve almost reached her when an invisible eruption of force drives the dogpile exploding into the air.
The Infected atop her are blown into every direction, flailing their arms and screaming wildly.
Beneath them is a scratched and bloodied Farah, clutching a spent scroll in her hands.
“Go!”
She tosses me the half-used shard as I pass her. I catch it midair and raise it high as I can, as close to the last crystals enshrouding the heavy bronze door.
Behind me, the horde closes in.
Farah rises to her feet, squirming out of the heavy supply bags on her shoulders. The air in a small circle around her feet swirls in a disk, and she shouts the strange words from the scroll.
Another gust of air erupts from the center of the stretched parchment, knocking the closing horde into the surrounding statues and down the steps up to Yoostie.
