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Chapter 42: Accidents

“What happens when a demonic beast bites a human?”

Iron Axe looked at Roland with the expression of a man who had been asked whether fire was hot. “They die, Your Highness.”

“They don’t—” Roland searched for a way to phrase it that didn’t require explaining the concept of a zombie apocalypse. “They don’t change?”

“They die.”

“And the meat? Can it be eaten?”

Carter made a sound suggesting he had not expected this question today. Iron Axe, without inflection: “I tried it once. Fed the scraps to my dogs. Dead by morning.”

Roland exhaled. An entire forest’s worth of infected animals converging on the walls every winter, and not one of them was harvestable — some fundamental design flaw in this world’s architecture that was going to irritate him for some time. He filed a note to find other solutions to the food problem, and went to check on the hospital.


The field hospital occupied a recently vacated noble’s residence near the southern wall — commandeered politely, which was to say Roland had asked once and not asked again when the answer was slow. The previous owner had taken everything worth taking back to Longsong. What remained was a large, bare, well-built building that suited Roland’s purposes considerably better than it would have suited anyone who wanted a home.

The entire ground floor was now a single ward: ten beds, clean mattresses, hearths at each end. No physicians. Just Nana, who was twelve years old and could close a muscle tear faster than any needle. Sir Pine and Brian managed the ground floor; two guards at the door.

The first patient was not a soldier.


Nils could hear his own breathing — too fast, too high — and the crunch of his boots on the frozen path, and Titus’ weight shifting wrong in his arms, and nothing else.

Move. Move. Move.

He’d been operating the steam engine for a week without incident, long enough to feel comfortable. Long enough to stop being careful.

The machine had arrived in pieces a fortnight ago — strange castings hauled up the slope by the knights and assembled over several days into something with a boiler, a firebox, and a rope-and-winch that could pull a full ore basket up from depth faster than six men combined. His Royal Highness’ invention, the senior knight had called it. The steam engine.

Nils had learned two rules: green lever first to start, red first to stop. When venting steam, call a warning and keep men clear.

He’d called no warning because he’d looked up and seen no one.

He hadn’t seen Titus. The machine was large and loud, and it hid things.

The steam caught Titus full in the face — a flat, scalding rush of white — and Nils had stood there for one terrible moment watching him fall and roll and make sounds that no person should make. By the time the other miners forced Titus’ hands away from his face, the skin beneath had gone the color and texture of something left too long near a flame. Deep red turning white at the center. The eyes had clouded over, the pupils gone pale as old wax.

Everyone agreed it was unsurvivable.

Three years Titus had looked after him — since Nils was too small for the heavy work and could have been cut loose without a thought. Instead, Titus had arranged lighter assignments and made sure Nils was paid the same as the others and never once mentioned it.

The senior knight had said: if anyone is injured, bring them to the medical center near the walls.

Nils knew it wouldn’t matter. A burn this wide, this deep — the fever would take Titus by nightfall and the coma soon after. Nothing here could stop that.

He ran anyway.

The frost had made the slope treacherous and he nearly went down twice, Titus’ weight unbalancing him, Titus who had gone quiet now where before he had screamed, and quiet was worse. Behind him, boots on frozen ground — some of the others following.

He ran because stopping meant accepting it, and he was not ready to accept it.

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