A sudden crash from above startled Kat, made her head jerk up abruptly. There was a tension in the air, an energy against her skin that made her hairs stand on end. It was familiar, this sensation—magic. Her eyes immediately flickered upwards, towards where she had heard the noise from, and it confirmed her thoughts. “The waygate.” she breathed, turning to face Norus. “Come on!” she urged, holding her torch aloft as she made her way towards a ladder.

They had been looking for more of their companions, although all they had managed to find were piles of unidentified remains at most. Together, they had ended up going even further down the Gates, below the living quarters towards the boilers. Coal would be used to heat water into steam, which would run in pipes between the floors and help prevent ice from forming on the walkways at this altitude. Unfortunately, without any people to work the boilers, they had long since fallen into disuse and disrepair. They network of pipes and cobwebs had let even farther down than they had expected, and they had still found nothing other than a few scattered bones.

She hurried towards the ladder that they had used to descend, climbing as fast as she could with one arm still holding the torch. Their lives depended on that fire—without it, the cloud of shadows would emerge from the walls in an instant. She had seen them on occasion, small black specks that twitched in the corners of her eyes, only to vanish when she turned her head. She knew that they were watching, that they were waiting. Kat looked down at Norus for a moment, seeing him close behind her, and she let out a breath of relief. At least she was fortunate to still have company; she could not imagine facing these creatures alone.

Above her, she heard scuffling and scraping on the stones. Hurriedly she hauled herself up the aged rungs, awkwardly locking her feet around the ladder as she opened the latch on the cover. Beating it loose with a fist, she wound up punching the wooden door open, it flying open to crack on the stones. She managed to climb out of the passageway to see a person leaning against the wall.

He was covered in blood, his skin torn in enough places that he seemed to have been half devoured by beasts. His clothing was ragged and torn, more rags and string than any cloth. Steam billowed gently off of him, blurring the air around him, making him seem almost illusory at first glance. It was not until she focused that she could make out more details.

He seemed young, too short and thin to have been older than ten-and-two. His right leg was missing, a shattered wooden peg in its place, apparently now broken. His eyes glittered with intelligence and perseverance, even though his body bore the abuse of a harsh life. But most striking were the black markings on his face, nearly lost amidst the blood and muck. They were the Maes, and she knew him to be a channeler then.

Kat’s gaze swiftly turned to the waygate, seeing the stones still billowing steam from the heat of their use. The air still crackled with lingering magic, and she knew him to have used the waygate. Norus clambered out after her, his form suddenly freezing in shock as he stared at the boy.

“Who…” the boy muttered, gasping hard. He seemed to be eyeing the walls and the fall below, and Kat was struck by a sudden urgency.

“Wait!” she cried out, trying to dissuade him of any foolish notions. “We don’t mean you any harm!” Hurriedly, she unfastened the strap on her helmet and took it off, tossing it gently onto the stones with a clang. The boy merely stared at her for a moment, his gaze glossing over.

“Oh, good.” he muttered softly before collapsing, striking the stones loudly as his body went limp.

“Norus!” Kat cried out, running over to the boy’s side. Clearly his wounds had taken their toll on him, and his magic as well. For such a young child to use a waygate would clearly have been a deadly drain—even after using four slaves, the one in Florell’s army had still been breathing hard. Yet this child had done it as well, and seemingly on his own.

A quiet hope welled up inside her, unbidden but unrestrained. Could he use the waygate once more? Could he send us back? The notion of return and safety was a much-needed comfort on this damnable wall. Perched here on the precipice of the world, with death lurking behind a snuffed flame, she could only dream of returning to Lord Florell’s camp. And now that opportunity presented itself before her; her heart would not stop racing.

“We need to stop his bleeding.” she urged, kneeling beside the boy. She struggled to lay him down comfortably, straightening his limbs and placing him on his back. Yet as the cold wind on the wall blew against her skin, she nearly slapped herself for her stupidity. “We can’t treat him up here.” she spoke to Norus. “Help me carry him to the living quarters. We can do more there.”

She lifted him by the shoulders, Norus by the waist, and slowly the stumbled down the stairs to the lower levels. They had lit the candles before with their torches, although the things were prone to going out from the wind, and the quarters were still relatively clean. Making their way in, they laid the boy down on a small cot before sitting down with a huff.

Kat wiped her forehead, panting hard. How could such a small boy possibly weigh so much while asleep? With a grunt, she began to take off her armor—it would take a while to clean the boy, and it made no sense to keep the metal on. “Can you fetch some water from the boilers?” she asked Norus, who paused for a moment before giving a terse nod.

“Will find.” he grunted out, his voice strained. They would need cloth as well, to bind the wounds after. There would likely be some bandages and wrappings in the living quarters; the former occupants had been soldiers, after all. She searched the room, uncovering some in a worn chest not yet claimed by mold. They were covered in dust, but they would serve. While she waited for Norus to return with water, Kat took off her gloves and began to peel back the layers of cloth that were stuck to the boy’s skin.

The blood had began to dry and crust, causing the fabric to stick to his skin. As she tugged it apart, scabs came wth them and made the wounds bleed once more. The boy twitched and groaned in pain as she worked, but she slowly exposed the ruined skin hidden underneath. When she had managed to remove the tattered remains of his shirt, she finally stepped back and let out a wince.

The flesh was covered in bites, bits and pieces missing as if they had been cut away. Yet there were no visible bite marks; rather, it seemed as if it had been taken apart with pinpricks. There were needle-sized holes covering him, and masses of them clumped together had managed to take out chunks of skin and muscle. Instantly, her thoughts turned to the black cloud that she had seen. They certainly were capable of something like this—were capable of wounds this small and numerous. Did this boy run from them?

If he had, then that gave her hope. She had only ever seen men die, seen them scream and spasm and be turned to gnawed bone. That the boy lived meant that there was a chance, if not of victory, then of survival. In her current situation, survival was a welcome compromise.

She heard Norus lumbering back with water, and she rushed over to help. He held two buckets full of water from the boilers—they would have to suffice. Setting them down next to the boy, she took out a rag scavenged from the quarters and began to work. Soaking the rag, she meticulously began to clean the wounds. The skin was red and sensitive where it was there at all, bleeding the moment that she touched it. Gently, she worked to clean the dirt and grime from the exposed skin.

Milky white fluid wept from the tissue, yellow on occasion and other times clear. She knew not what it meant, knew not if she was doing something wrong. She could only hope to clean him as best she could before binding him. Norus watched her as she worked, before suddenly leaving down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” she called out, but there was no reply. “Five and three curses.” she swore, gritting her teeth as she continued to wash the boy’s arm. As she turned to his hands, her eyebrows went up in shock—he was missing a finger on either hand. There was only a small stump on his fifth finger, and his fourth finger was abnormally short as well. Truly a cripple, she could not help thinking, and she wondered where this boy had come from.

Once she had finished cleaning the boy’s upper body, she turned to the wrappings. Would there be enough? She could not help but wonder. She knew to bind the wounds, but his entire bond was a massive wound—ought she simply cover him with bindings? Letting out a sigh, she decided to at least try. Slowly and carefully she worked, the boy beginning to toss and shake where she touched him. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” she murmured to his sleeping form, trying to calm him—or perhaps trying to calm herself.

Once he was sufficiently mummified like those Abaratt priests, she turned to his lower body. His one leg was utterly ruined, the flesh torn and ripped until she could almost see the white of the bone. His toes were stripped, his nails cracked and weeping pus. Black blood oozed out of the numerous wounds, and she knew there was no way she could clean this like she had with the upper body. She swallowed hard, resolving to ask Norus for advice when he returned. Thinking of the man made a wave of irritance run through her. Was he truly such an idiot to venture off on his own, without even telling me why?

Instead, she turned to his false leg. The wood was splintered and broken into shards, and she slowly unfastened it from the cup. Gently, she tried to work the cup off from the stump of his leg. It seemed stuck, almost refusing to come off, and she had to brace herself as she tugged until it finally came off with a nauseating squelch. That was not a healthy sound, she reflected as she set the wooden cup down.

There were bits of cloth that wrapped around the stump, offering some form of padding against abrasion. Yet they were utterly soaked through with blood, to the point where they were rife with the stench of rot. Does this fool know that he ought to change his wrappings? Her eyes watered as she slowly began to peel back the cloths, each layer proving more disgusting than the last. As she neared the stump, the color changed from scarlet to deep yellow, and she began to worry. When she finally exposed the flesh underneath, she almost regretted it.

The tissue was black, weeping pus freely from numerous cracked wounds. The entire festering thing smelled of rot, and her her vision teared as a reflexive response. Carefully, she prodded gently with a finger, and yellow pus immediately oozed out of the necrotic flesh. She blanched pushing harder, and a clear white fluid squirted out against her skin.

Stepping back, she fought to control her stomach and gather her thoughts. I’m no doctor, she thought, reeling, but now I know why they’re all skinny bastards. What little rations she had in her stomach churned and threatened to come to the surface.

A clattering noise from nearby proved to be a welcome disturbance, and she gladly turned away from the boy’s wounds. Norus had returned, from the bowels of the Gates, and his hands bore wood. Firewood, she realized, and a bitter shiver along her arms made her realize just how dearly she missed heat. Hurriedly, she clambered over, helping him to set the mess on the floor. Norus took out some flint, starting to strike up a spark. “Where did you get the wood?” she asked out of curiousity, and Norus looked up at her with a short pause.

“Boiler.” he grunted out, his head twitching towards where he had fetched the water, and it made sense that they would need the wood there. Slowly he fed the flame until it began to crackle. Close enough to the stairs as they were, the smoke billowed up towards the walkway and outside. Kat stuck her hands out, feeling the blissful heat against her skin. She trembled in reflex, breathing out slowly as sat beside the fire. Yet a groaning noise from the cot demanded her attention, and she motioned for Norus to come look.

“What should we do?” she asked nervously, gesturing at the boy’s legs. One was half eaten, stripped nearly to the bone. The other was a stump already, festering with rot. They did not have the tools to treat him—no alcohol, no leeches, no herbs. Yet left as it was, fever would soon take him.

Norus was silent for a while, his jaw clenched as he examined the wounds. Finally he turned away, meeting her gaze with eyes hard as rock.

“Cut it off.” he grunted hoarsely.