Chapter Eleven
“Let me look at it,” said Abraham after he’d made it outside of New Carrington with Murien. They were both beaten, wounded, and weary, along with a hundred other refugees on the outskirts of town. Whatever chaos had been unleashed was confined within the walls, leaving merchants along the river and at the gates curious and fearful of what was happening.
No one knew how to make sense of it. Many of the townsfolk were screaming and crying, explaining that there were zombies in the city as the people from the camps listened in terror. The merchants were wise enough to flee to their wagons and start preparing to leave, and the escaped townsfolk were left begging for transportation. Everyone agreed it would be best to head south, to avoid any entanglements with bandits in the Robber’s Spine without Swords guarding them. Only a few merchants were willing to take strangers along, and they quickly started asking to see who was and wasn’t bitten.
“He’s got a bite,” said one of the merchants up the hill from where Abraham and Murien were sitting. Another responded, “Kill him.”
The man protested, and his wife came to his defense, screaming at the others to leave him alone.
“He’s going to turn. You’re better off killing him now.”
“You leave him alone,” said the woman, screeching and waving her arms at the others around her. “Get away from us.”
Her husband was gasping for breath, already affected by the disease that would eventually claim his life. He’d been severely wounded, with gashes up and down his right arm. There was a strip of skin missing, revealing the muscle beneath, and the grass under him was turning dark from the blood that leaked its way down the hill and into the tributary. His breathing had already become a wet gurgle, and he was grasping up in the air, his fingers curling as if he were pulling at an invisible sheet.
“Move out of the way,” said one of the townsfolk, a sword in hand.
The woman fought him, but she didn’t see another man come from behind with a machete. The second man chopped down at the infected stranger, cutting deep into the man’s throat.
“No!” The woman turned and ran to protect her husband, but it was too late. The blade had cut halfway through his neck, causing the man’s head to hang off to the side and his arms to drop. His rattling breaths ceased, replaced by screams of sorrow from his wife.
Next the men turned their attention to Murien and Abraham. “Is she bit?” asked one of them.
The other pointed and said, “Yeah, she is. Look on her neck.” The two men came at them. Abraham took Murien’s sword and stood fast. He nearly lost his footing on the slippery shore, but he steadied himself with the sword held before him. “Stay away! I’m a Second-Sword of New Carrington and I command you to back away.”
“You’re not in New Carrington, and that’s a zombie you’re trying to save, kid,” said one of the merchants. “You’re best off letting us cut her to pieces before she turns and infects someone else.”
“Get away from us,” said Abraham.
“Don’t be stupid,” said the older, fatter merchant. His bottom lip was thick and purple, and affected his speech. He had wild, grey and black hair that matched his short beard, and there were rings in his eyebrows and nose. This was the man with the machete, still wet with the blood of his last victim, and he was ready to kill again. “Let us finish her.”
“No, you’ll have to kill me too, and you’re not going to be able to do that. Feel like giving it a try?”
The man regarded Abraham with anger and apprehension. He shrugged and said, “You’ll live to regret this. We’ve got to pack our wagons over there,” he used his machete to point at the cluster of merchant wagons near where the tributary met back up with the Tennerblane river. “If you come near us, I’ll murder you and your zombie bitch. Understood?”
Abraham didn’t reply, and the merchant muttered something before heading off.
“Can you stand?” asked Abraham.
“Yes,” said Murien. She was still in her armor, unlike Abraham, and he had to help her to her feet. Water and blood leaked out from beneath her breastplate as she grimaced and groaned from the pain. “We should go back. Help… Help them in there.” She pointed back at New Carrington.
“You’ll get cut down by our own Swords before you do anyone else any good. Come on, we need to find a way out of here.”
She shook her head. “No, Abraham. You can’t.” She was struggling to speak as the infection spread. Her wound was serious, and her life was fading fast. “You can’t stay with me.”
“Yes I can, and I will.” He led her away from the tributary, towards the greater Tennerblane across the short expanse of grassland. They were both struggling to stay standing. Abraham’s muscles were beyond weary now, and each step threatened to cause his legs to buckle and send him rolling down the short hill. As they went, the sound of death and war flooded the land. The residents of New Carrington were being slaughtered.
“Keep moving,” said Abraham after he looked at Murien and saw her grief. It wasn’t her wounds that vexed her, but the knowledge that innocent lives were being extinguished; lives they’d been tasked with protecting.
Abraham thought about how everyone he loved and cared for was back in that town, facing a zombie horde. He thought of Saffi, and of Descarth, and the many other friends he’d had growing up in that town. They were all fighting their own battles now, and he knew there was nothing he could do to help them. For now, all he could do was try and save the one who mattered most. He held onto Murien, giving her much needed support.
“Stay strong, Murien. We can do this. We can make it.”
“Make it where?” she asked.
He didn’t know, and searched for an answer. “There.” He pointed over the crest of the hill at the Tennerblane. That was where the greater river carved its path, and behind them was the city and the curved tributary. Merchant ships floated along the Tennerblane, headed south. “We can get on one of the ships.”
“They’ll never let me on,” said Murien. “And they’re all headed south. We can’t go that way. I can’t risk being near anyone else.” She forced Abraham to stop as she stood her ground. Then, without warning, she dropped to her knees. Her armor rattled as her head bobbed, and Abraham caught her before she fell to the ground.
“Murien!” He held her and she stared up at him, but her eyes couldn’t focus. She was dying. “No, no, no,” he said as he cradled her. “Stay with me. Don’t you die. You’re not dying on me.”
She coughed, and then smiled at him. Her lips had lost their color, and her already pale cheeks had turned white. Her hand reached up and touched his face, the chainmail cold to the touch as she traced her thumb across his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized was falling.
“Stay with me,” he said desperately. “I need you.”
The screams of dying townsfolk served as the distant chorus of his despair.
“No you don’t,” said Murien. “You’re strong. Stronger than me.”
“No one’s stronger than you,” said Abraham, and they shared a smile before her eyes fluttered and closed. “Murien, Murien!” He shook her, and tried to force her eye open, but she was gone now. Another victim of The Scholar.