Music is Forever and Never by Peter Gundry. Play it!

Media is a sketch of Gilbert! Oddly enough, I like his portrait better than Constantine's in the previous chapter.

******

The settlement turns out to be a village, too small to be named. There are roughly ten families here. All tough, hardworking people; reliant on each other to keep their part in the ecosystem going. Even the women. I was surprised to see that when our party had stumbled into the village, all the wives had come out to help us.

No inns here, but the villagers are friendly and trusting enough that they'd immediately welcomed us into their homes. Sir Kendrick had fished an elaborate cloak out of one of the saddlebags while we'd been standing face-to-face with the village head. I'd frowned at him, wondering why he'd wanted to satisfy his vanity at the time. That is, until I'd seen the flash of his insignia. The villagers had fallen onto their knees then, whispering in reverence, excitement rolling off them in waves.

The only stable in here is shoddy, decrepit. Barely fit for our steeds. It'd have to do though. At least the villagers had no animals—apparently there used to be, until it had been deemed that they were too expensive to keep.

I work monotonously, limbs moving by themselves, removing the saddlebags and arranging them in a corner. A few others work with me, either handling the baggage or the saddles or brushing down the animals' coats. I'd love to collapse onto a bed and allow sleep to claim me, but there's work to be done. Sir Kendrick had also ordered us to rest on the next day. We would only resume our journey on the day after tomorrow.

We perform our tasks in silence. At any other moment, I might have appreciated it. But after what had happened back there in the forest, after the necromantic chill that kept clinging onto my skin—even now, it hasn't faded entirely. I need something to distract me. Work is not doing it.

So I attempt to start a conversation: "Well, can we all agree to never do something like that again?"

Everyone's eyes settle on me. No one speaks. Pst. Nelatius. If only I had a sliver of Gilbert's ease with strangers.

"Agreed. All in favour, say 'aye'," grunts one soldier after a while. I almost want to laugh and hug him to death. Almost.

Echoes of 'aye' slowly fill the air.

"Can't be any worse than the ghosts, right?" one voice pipes up.

Now it's his turn to be scrutinised. The soldier is young, probably twenty years of age, only one year older than I am. He raises his hands in confusion. "Don't blame me! I'd been posted in Samareal at the time!"

"So you don't know what it's like," says the first soldier. His tone is light, treading on the edge of dangerous.

The younger soldier flushes deeply. "Not really..." he mumbles.

"So don't make a comparison to something you don't know anything about, Sterrick," snarls the shorter, stockier man. His height may not be the most impressive, but one can tell from a glance that he's the leader between the two soldiers. Moonlight washes over the scars streaking all over his face, making them glow silver. I'd barely noticed them before, while we'd been travelling together-scars are a normalcy amidst our ranks. They're marks of pride, even. A sign when someone ceases to be a boy and grows into a true man—a true soldier.

Sterrick bows his head in defeat. "I was only trying to—"

"Well don't, because you'll never know what it was like to be in the Hallowed Battle."

So these he's a survivor of the battle that had taken place in the clusters, when Hayrin had been sent in Diomedes' place to lead the ghost army. He'd witnessed the massacre there—the bodies of their comrades falling all around him; the fallen men's souls arising, only to turn against us; the blood that slicked the floor like rain.

We'd never been able to scrub the tiles clean. Hardly anyone dares to enter the clusters now.

"Easy, Beorn. We won't be able to get any work done if we start an argument," chimes in the last man in the stables. One of the two surviving Guards. I recognise him as the one who had been on duty outside Captain Eldric's office the day the war council was held. I'd flung my tabard at him, I remember. Everett, I believe, is his name.

Beorn sucks in a deep breath. His fingers clench into fists by his sides; I fear that he may start a brawl. Yet I can't say I blame him—there's tension in all of us. In fact, I find that some small, unbidden part of me is actually welcoming the prospect of a bloody fight.

Anyhow, nothing can compare to what I had done to those poor, innocent souls back in the forest.

In the end, Beorn relaxes his muscles. "You're right, Everest."

You really have to work on remembering names, Abner yawns lazily.

Shut up.

I'm just offering advice as an advisor.

Still, shut up.

"Of course I'm right," says Everet—Everest. Pietists, I can sift through and memorise tons and tons of ancient text, yet I can't remember a name? Perhaps I should take Abner's advice after all.

You always should.

I try not to seethe. He sounds too smug for my taste. Shut up.

I'm merely offering more advice.

Shut up.

Since you say so...

I sense him retreating into the back of my mind, probably going to wade through some of my deepest, darkest thoughts. Typical.

I suddenly think of the fight again. I can't remember anything in detail—not even the way I'd held my scimitar, the way I'd unleashed death, the way the bodies had fallen one by one. It frightens me—no, terrifies me. I should remember something. I still remember how I'd fairly danced through the ghosts two years ago, how I'd poured my light and teared Diomedes' body apart in the scrinaius. I should remember at least one detail of the fight.

But I remember none.

"Rutherland, are you all right?" Everest's voice pulls me back to reality.

I shake my head and blink, focusing my mind. "Yes, yes. Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be?" Just as the words leave my mouth, I'm aware that they sound too cheery—too forced.

"You look like death itself."

That word again. It lurks everywhere, taking root within the earth, stifling the air with its hold, ringing in my mind like a curse—death death death. It hounds at me, continues to send chills down my spine, even if I'm far, far away from corpses. Anywhere I go, it follows. And it will never stop. I am destruction, I am chaos—I am death. And I have taken the lives of innocents.

I feel myself falling apart. The events of tonight had snapped an invisible tether in me, letting me fall away from whatever peace I had. I'm plummeting, down down down, and I don't even know if there's a bottom—

No. Not here. You are a Champion. You will control yourself.

So I gather whatever wits I have left and shrug my shoulders. Too stiff. I shrug again. Better. "I've been through worse," I manage.

No one replies. Shadows jump at me from all corners. I do my best to not bolt out of the stables. Pst. Bronicus, I'm a born soldier. Why am I reacting this way?

"I'm glad I wasn't the one who had to do the job," Beorn says quietly—so quietly that the words almost seem to be a part of the night.

I stiffen.

Throughout this whole conversation, Everest has never stopped brushing one of the horses' coats. Until now. I feel the silence deepening.

"My first kill was a merchant," says the Guard.

My eyes snap towards him with interest. His expression is calm, collected, like how a true Guard under Captain Eldric should always look like. But I see the turmoil in his eyes. I see the guilt and regret, and I know that I'm reflected in them.

"I'd been a burglar once. No particular reason to it. Just out of boredom, out of the want for more coin. I never killed. Maimed, injured, yes. But nothing fatal." Everest resumes brushing the mare's coat, as though it can reduce the severity of the topic. "Then one day, I got caught trying to break in a wealthy merchant's house. I was brought before its master like a snivelling idiot."

The brushing quickens, filling the atmosphere with a sense of occupancy. "But I never went on a hunt unarmed, and I had plenty of brawling instincts from the streets," he continues. "So once I was sufficiently sure that the merchant had his guard down, I broke free of the chains he had out me in—I was a master lock picker see?—unsheathed the dagger hidden in my boot and stabbed the man in the throat. I watched his life drain away while the guards reassembled themselves and put shackles on me again."

I stare at him, stunned, unable to say anything that would express my disgust and relief and empathy at the same time. Sterrick looks at his senior as if he were a Ravürkian barbarian. Beorn, on the other hand, looks unsurprised. Perhaps there are many more men like Everest within the ranks.

"It was awful."

The three words hang thick in between us, the truth laid out so simply. It is awful, having being responsible for innocent lives. What if I had held back during the fight? What if we'd been able to find a cure for the men? What if—

"What happened next?" asks Sterrick. He may or may not be reviled by Everest's past, but he's most certainly fascinated by it.

Everest gives him a faint smile. "That," he says, "is a tale for another time."

I open my mouth, wanting to protest that I hadn't been seeking comfort. However, we both know that's a lie. So, instead, I say, "Thank you."

He bobs his head at me. "Don't mention it." Then in a more serious tone: "You may be a Champion, Rutherland. But do not think that you alone suffers. There are many of us under your command, and most of us have been through hardships, one way or the other. This may be the first time you had to kill those creatures, knowing that they had been men once. Unfortunately, it most certainly won't be the last."

The truth bears down on me, an avalanche of snow crashing over my head. No, it won't be the last time. I must get over my fear. I can't falter. Not now, not ever.

"How do you know?" All of us look at Sterrick. He shrinks slightly under the attention. "I mean, how do you know that the creatures will come back?"

Everest stops brushing. "Because this has already happened twice. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a firm believer of coincidences."

Beorn's head dips low, a silent agreement. They both know—they'd both fought in the clusters and survived. They know that this...sickness is no coincidence. Call it sheer superstition, or pure gut feeling, but they know.

They know.

Sterrick's brows scrunch together in confusion. "But there's no solid proof of anything yet. For all we know, this could be a plague—"

"Shut your trap, boy," snarls Beorn, his patience worn thin.

"Sterrick," says Everest, gently.

"Ah, we have a debate and I wasn't invited to the party, it seems," a weary, amused voice rings from outside.

We simultaneously turn our heads. It's Thorel, left arm in a sling, looking gaunt and bleak under the moonlight, but well-awake. "Come on. Sir Kendrick and the village head have called for an emergency meeting," he says.

I look uncertainly at our saddlebags. "We still haven't finished our work here," I say.

"Doesn't matter. No one would dare to steal from us. Not when there are so few people here." He waves his good arm and beckons us over. "Come along. Everyone's waiting."

The four of us look at each other, then back at Thorel. Beorn leads the way, with Everest and Sterrick following behind. I trail after them, trying to sort out the information in my mind. Surely Sir Kendrick would want me to give a proper recount of the incident that had taken place. Surely he'd want all the information I can give him about the creatures.

Only, I have none.

Panic rises in me. No. No, no, no. I can't afford to let my control slip in front of so many people. And yet with each step I take towards wherever Thorel is leading us, a new surge of fear spikes throughout my limbs. Think of Everest. Think of what he'd done. Just think, I scream at myself internally, refusing to cave in to the panic.

Constantine.

A wave of calm washes over me, but it's not of my own accord. Somehow, that's worse than panic. I try to fight against it.

Constantine.

Again, that wave washes over me, harsher this time, as if it wanted me to yield to it. Abner. Abner is here. Everything will be all right. And yet—

Constantine!

A powerful wave of calmness just slams into me. I don't even have a moment to think when my panic is snuffed out completely, like a candle put out by fingers. I breathe in deeply, regaining control over myself, trying to make sense of where we are now. It seems that we're walking through the main street of the village, which to be fair, is the only proper street around here. The rest are no more than paths marked by trodden grass and the odd markings.

I take in another breath. Yes, I'm myself again.

Better? Abner asks.

Much. Though I still hate it when you do that.

Emergency situations only, no? This considered as one.

I rub my fingers on my right temple, easing the headache building up there. Still, I hate it.

Abner merely laughs. Really, is a 'thank you' that hard for you to manage?

Thank you, I say grudgingly.

You're welcome. Now attend that meeting like a Champion of Pst. Bronicus.

I feel him retreating. Wait! I shout. He stops, edging closer to me. Back there, I can't—I can't remember anything of the fight. Why?

A short pause. I'll tell you later, he replies.

Then what can I tell the rest?

The truth. Just...keep to the minimum details.

But of course.

Then he retreats before I can catch him again.

"Excellent, you're all here," Sir Kendrick's voice draws my attention.

I blink, taking in my surroundings. We're in a meeting hall of some sort, the area built in an oval shape. Two fireplaces are roaring away, banishing the cold. Everyone in the village, it seems, are huddled here, whether young or old, male or female, healthy or sick. It gives the space a very cosy atmosphere, if slightly teetering to the side of cramped.

Meanwhile, there's a large, round table in the middle of the room, completely made of stone. It doesn't quite fit in with the wooden walls and thatched roofs. Rather, it seems to belong in a castle. Several people are gathered around it, including Sir Kendrick and Gilbert.

Thorel guides us towards that table. We take up positions, standing in silence. Standing, because there are no seats provided.

"Tonight, on behalf of all my men, I would like to thank you all for your hospitality," begins Sir Kendrick, eyes sweeping across the area. "Without your help, I doubt that we would be able to carry on with our journey."

Actually, we could still move on. Just barely—we're a little low on supplies, since Vanryse had decided to thrash nearly all the grain over during his rampage. But Sir Kendrick is just trying to win the sympathy of the listeners, if it hasn't been won already.

"However, I've called for this meeting, not only to thank you all, but because of an extremely grave matter at hand." He pauses for dramatic effect, making the crowd stir. "Earlier this night, one of our comrades had gone berserk, consumed by some kind of disease. When the rest of us were alerted, he ran off into the woods. Minutes later, he returned, along with quite a few people who were infected in the same way he was. Those people must have come from somewhere."

A small gasp escapes me. My companions' expressions go rigid.

"And roughly when did this incident occur, Your Honour?" asks a tall, straight-backed man, wrinkles set deep into his face. The Head of the village, I presume.

Sir Kendrick suddenly turns towards me. "Squire Rutherland, you had been on watch," he says. "You were the one who slew those creatures. Roughly when did this happen?"

I draw in a deep breath. Now attend that meeting like a Champion of Pst. Bronicus, Abner's words echo in my mind. "I put it at three bells ago, sir."

"How many of these...creatures you saw? Excluding that fallen knight," asks the Head.

A frown creases my forehead. Everybody turns expectant eyes onto me; an invisible weight presses down on my body. "Eight? Seven? It was all a blur. I can't quite remember."

"I want a specific number," he insists.

"With all due respect, I can't—"

"You are the Champion of Pst. Bronicus!" he roars. "Give us a specific number."

The silence rattles my bones. I grit my teeth, trying not to allow my pride to get the better of me. But Sir Kendrick knows I'm a Champion—knows that I saved all their miserable lives from Diomedes. How dare he speaks to me that way—

I bite my tongue and clench my fists. No, I am better than that. I will not give in to my rage.

So I school my face into neutrality, and think for a moment. In my mind, I am sprinting through brambles and branches and roots, racing to meet the creatures. There are a multitude of them, but not so many that I can't take them down. Their figures vary, some distinctly masculine, some with feminine curves. There are even some who look like...children? No, that can't be.

But I count six figures in all. Not including Vanryse.

"I saw six of them," I finally reply, staring straight into the Head's dark grey eyes.

He inclines his head towards me. "Thank you, Champion," he says, tone genuinely grateful. I incline my head back. He turns towards Sir Kendrick, who is looking attentively at him by his side. "I believe that our suspicions are confirmed."

"Indeed," says Sir Kendrick.

We all wait for the suspicions to be elaborated. Sir Kendrick and the Head seem unperturbed, calmly biding by their time, almost as though they want us to feel unbearably curious.

When the Head speaks, I give an involuntary jolt:

"The Champion has spoken. It cannot be a coincidence. The six he saw are the six missing from our numbers."

******

A/N: First off, apologies for the late update! I had to work over the weekend, and honestly, Wattpad wasn't on my priority list. On top of that, Chrome isn't working on my laptop T.T Hope you Champions forgive me...Pretty please? I'll give out free cookies!

Anyway, so it seems like the men working under Captain Eldric aren't all that noble. There are definitely reasons for that though. Meanwhile, six infected, six missing villagers. Coincidence? I think not. Question is, why now? Hmm...

You guys know the drill: Vote, comment, share and recommend!