Aether. Not this crap again.

  Cillian eyed the vehicles arrayed before them with trepidation.

  Does the academy not have any normal passenger haulers?

  He’d never encountered this particular model before and wasn’t looking forward to appreciating its interior now.

  The front part appeared pretty standard – Cillian privately referred to it as a tomb on a wheelchair with a pair of goggles. Or half a tomb, at least. Privately, because when he’d shared his observation with father the other day, a rare sight of Brendan Shea spluttering and getting defensive about something greeted him in response. The man was sure proud of the design.

  The driver’s cabin followed behind the “tomb”, but Cillian honestly hesitated to even call it a cabin. It was completely bare – there were no doors, no windshield, and only the presence of a short lip overhead and a curving metal plate in between the bonnet and the steering wheel hinted at the outline of an enclosed space. Cillian could understand such yawning design on civilian models, but this one was supposed to be used for traversing no-man’s-land.

  And as for the rest of the vehicle… Someone had seemingly plucked a wagon straight from a freight train, shrunk it a wee, and parked it behind the driver. Then the same someone had a think, “Wait, how are the prisone– that is, the passengers going to breathe?”, and proceeded to add a line of thin hopper windows hugging the roof. So Cillian and the rest would have to sit on a hard bench in a metal casket in near complete darkness, enjoying their arses being slapped by the bumpy terrain.

  Here’s to hope it won’t be a long trip, he silently implored.

  One mildly interesting detail was that two of the assembled transports sported an upper floor of sorts – just a solid waist-high fence encircling the roof of the wagon.

  Put together, Cillian thought the company had made the model tough in all the wrong places. Aye, it was entirely metal, drab khaki-colored, and the wheels weren’t actually wheelchair-thin, but no barrier shielded the cabin from the elements and monsters, and the driver represented the most vital part! The vehicles also came across as entirely too massive; the widely accepted wisdom was that in most cases it was better to keep moving instead of stopping to fight because any heavy aether burning would likely attract more and more beasts. These things didn’t look like they could outrun anything.

  Thankfully, several armed outriders would accompany the trucks on the journey.

  “Do you need a special invitation?” headmaster Gorman barked. “Twelve per car! Go!”

  They still hadn’t been told where they were going; no one was answering questions.

  The apprehensive young men and women clambered in, and the convoy took off without delay. And aye, the sitting arrangement was exactly as comfortable as Cillian had feared.

  On the way, conversations were mostly limited to swearing and complaining. And, after a while, even the lone skywalker’s light left them to their torment. Only one person still tried to stir up some chitchat.

  “Where do you think we’re going?” Eamon shouted into Cillian’s ear.

  “Blindin’ storm, man! You don’t have to yell quite that loudly; I’m right here!”

  “Sorry! I can barely hear meself! So what do ye think?”

  “I’ve no idea! There doesn’t seem to be anything on the map in any direction! Not within 50 kloms at least. Only an abandoned farm, but why would they want to take us there on day 2?”

  “Maybe Donnacha decided we were unworthy and now wants to get rid of us, drown our bodies in a lake!”

  “There’s no lake either!”

  “Ow!” a girl across from Cillian cried out as she bounced up and down.

  “Tighten your straps, eejit!”

  Subjectively, the trip took a couple of eons, but, objectively, it was probably closer to forty minutes.

  Thank aether no one’s gotten sick.

  They slowed to a crawl and soon stopped completely. His comrades in misery breathed sighs of relief, and one cailin even patted herself down as if to verify that she was still in one piece. Cillian expected the doors to be flung open immediately, but nothing happened. Judging by the lack of slamming from upfront, even their minders still remained seated.

  He climbed onto the bench to take a peek outside – not all vehicles stood still; their armed escorts kept going and were now splitting in different directions. He couldn’t see much else from his position, but there was something inherently wrong with the picture.

  It took him a moment to comprehend what.

  Too bright. It’s way too bright in here.

  Cillian looked up at the sky – there weren’t any characteristic spotlights piercing the air and stabbing the ground from above; not that he expected there to be. The settlement’s skywalker’s illumination had abated yonks earlier.

  “There’s nothing around,” Eamon commented after joining him atop the bench.

  “We are probably facing the wrong way, but there’s something here. You see how bright it is?”

  Eamon furrowed his eyebrows. “Huh. It is bright.” He then repeated Cillian’s action of looking up and about.

  They both almost fell when the motorwagen jolted again. It appeared they hadn’t arrived yet.

  When the vehicle halted for the second time just a minute later, the disgruntled students were finally let out. And Cillian and everyone else’s eyes gravitated toward the source of the unnatural light straight away.

  His first thought was pretty moronic – that they were looking at a tiny volcano. He shook his head. Don’t be a tool. The structure looming fifty paces ahead was plainly artificial, taking the form of a domed cylinder, three stories tall and about half that in diameter. The entire yoke appeared to be a single massive piece of concrete – there were no windows, no doors, nor any other features. The surface was smooth and homogeneous. Or, at least, it had been at some point. Now the construct was covered in dirt, blood, and aether knows what else. Chunks were missing here and there, like a giant the size of the Lua’s Wall had tried to chew on the thing but found it too unyielding for his tastes.

  The mini volcano impression was due to the fact that the light was coming from the air all around the structure. Aether embers, Cillian realized. Still glowing but gradually getting dimmer. The majority of them were floating above the dome, promoting the feeling that it had ceased erupting only scant minutes prior.

  “While we wait, I’ll tell you about the construct.” Headmaster Gorman began walking to the center of the radiance and beckoned them all to follow. “It’s called a lighthouse. The ancient name that used to mean something else, back in the happier times.” His eyes shone with admiration as he gazed at the thing.

  “What are we waiting for?” someone asked, but the man ignored the question and turned to face them again.

  “It has two main purposes. The first is a diversion system. Oftentimes our advanced scouts spot hordes of beasts heading toward the settlement. They retreat behind the defenses and on their way ignite the lighthouse.” He gestured at the embers cascading away from the roof like greatly arrested welding sparks. “You see, the beasts are mostly mindless, but they are many. We need time to go on the high alert, and the lighthouses – they attract the beasts from their surrounding areas. More often than not, as long as one is roughly in the way of a horde, the monsters would be drawn to it.”

  He took a deep breath as if wishing to savor the embers. “We used to set up traps around each to lessen the beasts’ numbers. Not so much these days, other than signal flares. The monsters waste their time here, clawing at the building with no one inside, but it never lasts. They always return to their course, and that’s how we want it! You let a beast go and it would come back more vicious and with many of its brethren on its tail!”

  Cillian surreptitiously rolled his eyes and tightened his burgundy scarf when a cold blast of wind threatened to invade underneath his many layers of clothing. Eamon’s hat flew off his head, but it proved unable to escape – the stampede cord wrapped around the crown and attached to the left lapel of the boy’s jacket saw to it. The hat jounced back and forth until Eamon finally managed to snatch it.

  “Another purpose is periodical thinning of the beasts in the region,” headmaster Gorman carried on. “We are the Chevalier Academy! We need beasts to teach you. Enough that you sense the danger and can gain experience, but not so innumerable as to swarm you every time you step foot outside and burn some aether. So we entice them here and unleash our fires.”

  The man eyed the gathered crowd of cadets, appeared satisfied that he’d made an impression, and went silent. Cillian noted that the guard transports had maneuvered to enclose them in a loose circle, their operators all facing away. The instructors, too, were carefully scanning the background rather than savoring the light show ahead.

  Well? Cillian regarded the faces of his counterparts. No one’s going to ask the obvious question?

  A minute passed. The students began conversing with one another.

  When it became clear that a deeper explanation wouldn’t be forthcoming without prompting, Cillian finally asked, “How does it work?” He nodded at the reason they’d come here. “The lighthouse? How does it attract beasts?”

  Mairead Gehler was the one who answered, “It burns aether, naturally.” She gestured around. “Putting an aether extraction facility here wouldn’t be feasible, for obvious reasons, so instead we bring already processed aether ourselves. It’s one of the regular assignments; you’d become quite familiar with the process. The beasts nearby sense the burning reaction and come.”

  She traced a circle with her finger. “If you walk around, you’ll notice that there aren’t any openings. There’s a tunnel that originates some ways off here and terminates below the structure. It’s the only point of entry. And up top,” the woman pointed at the dome, “is the vent. Or the crater, as per headmaster Gorman’s preferences.” She winked at them. ”It’s protected by a steel grate and a hatch that slides closed when not in use, so that nothing can sneak in while the lighthouse is ‘cold’.”

  Are they burning aether here without actually doing anything with the generated energy? Just let it dissipate? That sounded quare to Cillian. He opened his mouth to ask clarifying questions, but instructor Gehler had already rejoined the others in tensely scrutinizing the bracken fields and the tree lines. Right. The headmaster had said they were waiting for something.

  Three guesses as to what, and the first two don’t count.

  Aether embers still glowing and drifting close meant the lighthouse had been active recently; someone had likely come to warm it up just before their arrival. And he reckoned it hadn’t been burning for long – to avoid the risk of them all getting swarmed. Although, who knew how long one had to wait for beasts to show up when there wasn’t a horde passing by.

  Cillian shifted his shoulders uneasily and began eyeing the surroundings as well. More and more students felt the change in the mood and proceeded to enlist in the watchful band of sentinels. The muted discussions petered out entirely. They stood and peered around, narrowing their eyes to focus on the distant silhouettes.

  Is it a bush undulating in the wind or something more sinister?

  It turned out that he needn’t have bothered to strain his eyes since the first thing to reach them was a howl. It wasn’t deafening, but in the hush that had fallen among the throng it reverberated loud and distinct. And very unpleasant. Cillian winced. The creature was incensed.

  The sentries let it get close, doubtlessly to better impress on the students the beast’s sheer menace. He’d only just spotted the dark shape charging to meet them head-on when explosions tore through his eardrums as two of the heavy machine guns began spitting death. The onrushing creature was obliterated; its dying wail lasted no more than a blink.

  But there was no time to revel in the mounted firearms’ destructive power since a second beast came soon after. Followed by two more barrelling at the humans together.

  Another series of bone-rattling bangs – and a fountain of gore showered one of the gunners.

  A girl shouted in alarm from behind him; Cillian whirled around and saw that a monster had managed to slip past the perimeter on the opposite side. But he didn’t even have time to startle before it tumbled to a halt still twenty paces away, spluttering the tall bracken with its dark blood. Just another broken body only now catching up to the fact it was already dead.

  Cillian watched, transfixed, his ears covered. The machine guns kept erupting, momentarily brightening the environment with their muzzle flashes. As the bullets were flying and the monsters were squealing and collapsing, he couldn’t help but shuffle closer to the edge of the circle of students to better appreciate their assailants’ unique biology. He found himself standing next to instructor O’Rourke, who held his lever-action shotgun ready but wasn’t firing.

  This species was called batfoxes, Cillian knew. Named such because from a distance and with its bat-like wings folded, one could easily pass for a normal fox. Listening to the monsters’ dying screeches, he thanked aether that humanity had invented ranged weapons. Although, one popular theory suggested that aether was the reason the ordinary foxes had turned into these abominations in the first place.

  A temporary lull took hold of the scene. Without the painful pounding on his ears, Cillian used the moment to wrack his brain for more information on the beasts.

  The most dangerous thing about batfoxes wasn’t their maws that opened much wider than should’ve been possible, nor their retractable, razor-sharp claws, but rather an ability to shift their bodies from solid and strong to almost liquid-like and back at will. The favored tactic of theirs was to allow a strike to land only to “go soft” at the last possible moment and start slithering up and around the off-balanced attacker, in hopes of quickly smothering the unfortunate victim or biting at a vital body part.

  He could clearly see the rows of keen-edged teeth of the closest corpse. Its death rictus was chilling. Cillian’s hand itched for something more substantial than an aether compass for a weapon. Just in case.

  The shots rang out once again, this time to Cillian’s right. The other students stood in the way, but he still glimpsed a pair of gunners working in concert to bring down a quartet of monsters. Only one managed to break through the enclosure, limping and dripping blood, its shrieks no longer ferocious but pitiful. And even they abruptly cut off once instructor Gehler put the beast out of its misery with a well-placed bolt from a small crossbow.

  Where had she even been hiding it?

  A boy next to him whooped.

  Batfoxes were also considered clever. Probably not these ones though. Now that he could see more than one corpse, Cillian registered that the lot of them were only waist-high. Young. Therefore, likely possessed little intelligence and magic, and their wings were all but useless. Without an elevation advantage they couldn’t glide down and ambush them from above in any case.

  The cracking broke off. Thundered one more time in a sustained rapid staccato. Then fizzled out again.

  But no silence ensued. Cillian and everyone else could hear a miserable whine coming from out of sight. It appeared at least one beast wasn’t dead yet.

  The gunners, the instructors, and the students – all swiveled where they stood, like wind vanes decorating the roofs of some buildings, waiting to see if anyone else would grace the party with its howling presence.

  Once it became clear that no more monsters were immediately coming, headmaster Gorman picked up an oversized polearm, which had been stowed on the “second floor” of one of the trucks, and proceeded to follow the sound. A few heartbeats later the yowling grew even more desperate – it punctured the air, causing everyone to hastily shield their ears again, before dropping off to a quiet whimper. The man returned, the polearm used like a giant skewer, dragging the bleeding creature behind him.

  The batfox was shuddering erratically, and at first Cillian thought the trembling was its death throes but then realized that the beast was trying to shift. Trying and failing. It was stuck in the “liquid” state.

  “Look at your compasses!” the headmaster barked at the fascinated students.

  Cillian did and saw the arrow point straight at the floundering creature.

  Before the departure, they had been explained how aether compasses worked. Despite the name, an aether compass wasn’t used to find aether – that would be quite useless considering that the substance was everywhere – but rather to detect living beings that were drawing on the aether. A magical beast draws aether, which leads to a vortex forming around the creature’s elanroot and waves rushing in to fill the void. The said waves that, in turn, could be picked out by an aether compass, hence the name. That was the theory.

  In practice, there were all sorts of complications with the process. Most notably – more than one creature in the vicinity meant overlapping waves, which the implements couldn’t always accurately decode and separate.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “As you can see, even in situations like this a compass is generally reliable.” Headmaster Gorman showed them his own, which, too, had the arrow directed squarely at the dying batfox, who kept struggling. The man had no trouble pushing the polearm down with one arm.

  “The lighthouse and all the vehicles stopped burning aether a while ago. The disturbance still lingers, but not enough to confound the compasses. Although, in fairness, the motorwagens didn’t create much disruption in the first place, not compared to the lighthouse. It’s the facility’s primary purpose, after all. If it was still active though, in all likelihood you would only receive garbage data, which is worse than no data at all. So keep in mind that, like I said, aether compasses are generally reliable but not invariably.”

  The other instructors dispersed. Not expecting any more noise, Cillian instinctively ducked when another shot ruptured the relative stillness. He spun to look in the direction of the sound and spotted deputy Zweber kneeling above a dark lump on the ground. No one among the chaperones appeared alarmed, so he willed himself to relax. The embers were almost gone now, making it difficult to discern what the deputy was doing. Carving out the elanroot?

  “Look at the beast! Don’t stare directly at the cloud!”

  Having said that, headmaster Gorman proceeded to put on a pair of weathered, bronze-colored goggles.

  What cloud? Cillian wondered, but before he could voice the question aloud, the man fished out a small cylindrical yoke from his belt and declared, “Here’s an impromptu lesson on operating an aether grenade. You grab it tightly so that the safety lever is pressed down.” He showed them how. “Then pull out the pin, still holding the lever.” He did so. “And, finally, release the lever and throw it.”

  The grenade did not fly very far.

  “Don’t stare at the grenade! Watch how the batfox reacts!”

  Cillian did as instructed and braced for more noise, but there wasn’t even a loud pop. Instead, out of the corner of his eye, he spied a shimmering clump of aether, growing rapidly. A soft whooshing sound accompanied the discharge. The effect on the scenery was akin to rotating the regulator of the aether-powered lamp in his room – gradual brightening of the surroundings.

  The effect on the batfox, on the other hand, was vastly more dramatic.

  Even in the current barely alive state, it instantly switched from quietly whining to hissing and hungrily snapping its jaws in the direction of the cloud. The monster tried to slither there, but probably wouldn’t be able to make it even if it wasn’t pinned down.

  After half a minute of this pointless struggle, during which the batfox succeeded only in aggravating its wounds even further, it vomited more dark blood and expired.

  “Typical beast,” Donnacha Gorman all but spat. “Driven by nothing more than an insatiable desire to consume, all of them.”

  Ironic. I can say the same about Foerstner.

  The aether outburst died down shortly after, and the man evicted the polearm from the body with a sickening sucking sound, cleaned the unwieldy weapon on its fur, knelt down, and started carving the corpse open with a knife, carelessly.

  Another instructor approached – Callum Hipke, I think? – and presented the cadets with his bloody hand, illuminated by the peculiar yoke he held between the thumb and the index finger. The object strongly resembled a plant root – a collection of hairs branched out all along the main tendril’s length. The veins decorating the tendril emanated a dull orange glow.

  The man spoke up, “Elanroots like this one are less useful than laymen think, but still have some utility. As long as they are preserved correctly, which I didn’t do.” He gestured at his colleagues, who were still occupied.

  “Huh.” Eamon leaned forward to study the elanroot. “Never seen me such a fresh root. This is how you harvest scions?”

  Instructor Hipke shook his head. “Too dangerous since you can never be sure what the lighthouse attracts. Once in a while you get a nasty surprise.” He then forcefully dug his fingers into the tendril and began rummaging inside. The glow dwindled. “There have been many fools thinking they could burn some aether in an area with young and not overly dangerous beasts and just gather the scions.” The remains of the elanroot were discarded to the ground, and his fingers now held a tiny quartz-like object. “Besides, the economics simply don’t work out. More often than not you end up spending more scions on ammunition and hires. Not worth the peril and effort.”

  “What if you also sell the meat?” Eamon asked. “Come to think of it, why not use lighthouses for easy hunting?”

  The man scoffed and addressed the audience, “Anyone wants to answer this one?”

  “Aether saturation!” Shauna exclaimed almost before the man had finished speaking. She looked at Eamon condescendingly. “Obviously.”

  “Yes and no. Aether saturation is a theory suggesting that the concentration of aether near installations like this gets so high as to make the arriving beasts saturated with the stuff, which, in turn, makes them all but impossible to drain for human consumption. However, more recent studies and advancements indicate that not to be the case. After all, the aether brought here,” he pointed at the lighthouse, “is tightly contained with minimal leakage, and what gets released back is not aether but its embers, so aether concentration should not increase dramatically.”

  He nudged the corpse next to which headmaster Gorman had been crouching a moment prior with his boot. “Nowadays, it is believed that the burning reaction itself releases something undetectable – a kind of ripples that influence the beasts around, which make them not only go mad, or madder, but also affect the aether within their very bodies if exposed to the burning for long. Again, making it problematic to drain.” His eyes drifted to the cadets once again. “Any other reasons?”

  Teagan was the one to answer this time, “Generally, only predators get attracted to aether burning, not herbivores.” At the man’s encouraging nod, he elaborated, “Herbivores are more likely to run away than come near. And, as far as I’m aware, no one hunts batfoxes or other carnivores for their meat.”

  “There are several kinds of ursine beasts that are popular among hunters, along with a few other species. Mostly those that store substantial fat to last them through leaner periods. But, essentially, correct. I can tell you from personal experience that you can survive on batfox’s meat – properly de-aethered and prepared – but it’s not something to be recommended if you have any alternatives.”

  Eamon chuckled. “What does a batfox taste like?”

  The man answered with a completely straight face, “Like desperation.”

  The other instructors finished their gory business and rejoined the main body.

  Afterward, the students were allowed to wander as long as they kept within the established perimeter and were prepared to sprint back to the trucks if commanded.

  Cillian first trotted around the lighthouse, curious to examine it from an arm’s length away, but it proved uninteresting. With embers gone, the structure was just a monotonous slab of muddy and bloodstained concrete. He left it and joined Eamon and Nuala in inspecting one of the mutilated corpses, which the sentries had helpfully dragged inside the circle.

  The pair of them, as well as several others, were crowding around a thicket of bracken that was snuggling the dirt, crushed underneath the body as it was. The plants’ large and highly divided leaves were almost pristine, but Cillian could see a grisly trail the batfox had left in its wake.

  He squatted and pried the beast’s maw open with his hands.

  “What the rotten arse are ye doing?!” Eamon hissed.

  “What? The thing’s dead and ain’t going to regenerate.”

  There was no mistaking the fact since the top of its head sported a gaping fissure, where one of the staff had extricated the elanroot from. Thanks to the constant chill breeze the foul smell was just about bearable.

  Nuala knelt beside him and asked, “What are you looking for?”

  Cillian shrugged. “Just studying the enemy.” He moved on to the batfox’s wings and stretched out one of them – the membrane was yellowish and surprisingly translucent. “Actually… anyone has a knife?” The faces above him contorted in confusion. “A souvenir for my oul fella.” He mimed cutting the wing off with the reverse grip.

  Eamon guffawed. “Say again? You want to send a bat wing in a package?”

  “I don’t think we are allowed packages, only letters,” Nuala mumbled, while gingerly holding the upper jaw and peering inside. “Take a fang instead.”

  “Nah. A fang could come from anyone. A wing like that, on the other hand…”

  “What’s wrong with ye two?” Eamon asked and descended to their elevation. He poked the orange fur uncertainly.

  “Maybe I can make a necklace out of all these teeth,” Nuala suggested. Cillian couldn’t discern if she was joking.

  “Or three,” one of the upright boys noted. “And there’s even going to be some leftover for a neat bracelet.” He cracked a delighted grin and turned to the guy on his right. “Hey, Oisin, Nessa’s birthday is in two days, isn’t it?”

  “Alright, pack it up, lads and lasses!” headmaster Gorman’s harsh voice overcame all other sounds in the neighborhood. “Time to head home!”

  “Home,” Eamon snorted on the way to be sequestered in the cage once again. “Hardly a home after only a couple of nights.”

  “Well, it’s a place where I have to cook and do dishes; sounds about right,” Nuala said, smiling.

  “I wonder if the quartermaster can buy things from us, not just sell,” Cillian mused aloud.

  “How do you mean?” Eamon asked. “It ain’t no pawnshop.”

  “I mean like fur and carapace and stuff. Also, lots of creatures have poison, and I know that some species’ blood is valuable. That sort of thing.”

  “I doubt we are going to get many opportunities for free harvesting.”

  “Aye. I’m just pondering. In case I ever need some tokens urgently.”

  “How many have you got? We both have three,” Nuala asked.

  “Four.”

  “Wait.” Eamon stopped. “How come ye have more than us? I thought everyone had the same amount?”

  “No, remember Rory? He had only two. There were sets of threes and twos and one set of four waiting in the communal area together with the chronicles. First come, first serve.” The boy made a puzzled face, so Cillian explained, “I grabbed four for myself and put a string of three in your folder. Thought you might sleep too long.”

  “Oh, now I dig. Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.”

  They reached the same motorwagen that had carried them here and joined the line waiting to climb inside.

  “Uh-oh, speaking of the knucklehead. He seems to be displeased again.”

  “Who?” Cillian glanced around. “Oh, the gorilla.”

  Rory Raskopf was glaring. At him or Eamon – it was hard to tell.

  “What’s crawled up his arse this time?” Eamon muttered, waving at the boy and smiling. “Maybe a batfox? Shifted, crawled up, then shifted again.”

  Cillian made a face. “Thanks for the image. And I think it’s just his resting mug. Don’t provoke him. We don’t need a scene in front of the headmaster and the instructors.” He pushed Eamon up the steps.

  The trek back to the settlement was just as uncomfortable. Five minutes into the journey, a commotion took place somewhere at a distance, which inside the coffin materialized as muffled rattles of gunshots. It subsided promptly and didn’t resume. The rest of the trip transpired peacefully.

  Cillian spent the time bobbing up and down, holding on to the bench, and contemplating the fact that a lot of his peers seemed to know more than him. Not quite peers after all, eh? He recalled the students’ faces when the instructors had been enlightening them as to the operation of the compasses and the lighthouse. Clearly, most of his fellows had already known.

  It seemed Foerstner primary wasn’t just about prestige. There was a difference in education, too.

  Does Eamon know even less?

  Once back at the academy, the students were dismissed. It was supposed to be their day off, after all.

  Cillian gratefully inhaled the cold air, trying to steady his head, then checked his boots. They had been issued several pairs for outdoor activities; the ones he was wearing were already grimy, even after such a brief outing. That’s wilderness for you, city boy.

  “You’ve got any plans?” Eamon was seemingly itching to leave.

  “Do you suppose we have to scrub the footwear after every excursion? Don’t want to be penalized.”

  Eamon grimaced and glanced down at his own shoes. “Look clean enough to me!”

  “Nah, I’m not going to risk it. Gotta polish them till I can use one as a mirror. Then will hit the repository. You?”

  “Change and go try me luck with the guards. Maybe they’d let me and Nuala out to the settlement. We still haven’t seen it! They smuggle us in and out like contraband whiskey.”

  Cillian chuckled. “Have fun. Maybe I’ll join you later. Although, something tells me they would turn you around.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He let himself be swept by a stream of students flowing into the dormitory while Eamon went to join Nuala, who was talking to Mairead Gehler.

  We’ve seen the companions, we’ve seen the monsters. And all before a single class. What’s awaiting us next?

  Too absorbed in his musings about the future, Cillian failed to notice two pairs of eyes – one contemplative and one angry – following him inside.

  Back in his room, Cillian quickly undressed just to the trousers, put on his favorite red-and-black tartan shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and went about washing the caked mud off his boots. Once the unpleasantness was attended to and with his hands clean again, he patted the garment’s lone patch pocket and discovered his skeletal hand stashed inside.

  There it is. He’d forgotten about the trinket. Cillian dropped it on the bed, exited his unit, and ambled the path to the repository. Hope I won’t be told off for wearing casual on Sunday.

  He’d been prepared to part with a token, but, to his surprise, Mr. Foley rented him a phonograph free of charge. A fee waived in honor of being the first customer of the year. Cillian spent a good third of the following hour poring over the catalog of available records, before at last settling on a five-part account of a desperate struggle for survival of a chevalier named Desmond Blau in the ruins of Kilkenny, a coastal city, some four decades prior.

  The man himself narrated the tale, and Cillian guzzled the harrowing details of his ordeal with rapt attention. The chevalier had spent two weeks eluding a legion of akhluts (a hybrid beast that can take the form of a hideous orca or wolf, depending on the environment) and trechends (a three-headed monstrosity reminiscent of a mythical hydra, writ small) and surviving on rain and what scant provisions he had. All alone. Cillian had hoped to gain some valuable insight and instead stumbled upon entertainment.

  Even better.

  He’d just unscrewed the brass horn – heftier than the yoke attached to the apparatus Mr. Foley had used for his demonstration the day before – returned the record labeled “Part 2” back to the wooden casing, and prepared to grab its sibling when a firm trio of knocks intruded upon his solitude. With a groan, the boy went to answer. He needed a break from people.

  “Who is it?” There was no peephole.

  “Umm, Cillian? It’s Keefe.”

  “Who?” The voice was familiar, so he opened.

  The heavyset boy stood there. He was still in his corduroy jacket and looked quite grim.

  “Hello. What do you–?” A hand snaked out from the left and lunged at Cillian’s throat. “–Akhh!” He was seized and roughly pushed back inside.

  “Hey, what are you doing?!”

  Cillian was scrambling, but the hand gripped him tightly. Another joined to cover his mouth.

  “Shut up and close the door!” It was Rory.

  Cillian lashed out with his right arm – couldn’t reach. Went for the knee with his leg – no real power behind it, scurrying back as he was. Then a train smashed into his stomach, and he doubled over and was shoved sideways onto the bed.

  Air!

  Another punch came, but he was numb to it.

  “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND?!”

  He needed air!

  Cillian only saw light and only felt an overwhelming urge to take a breath but couldn’t.

  “I said shut your trap!”

  And couldn’t think either. Seemed like his brain got overloaded by the suddenness of the assault.

  A croak came like a dying animal. Who made it? A stray thought about batfoxes surfaced and slipped away.

  Cillian writhed on the bed like a fish out of water, heaving, gasping for air, while loud, indiscernible noises resonated around.

  Are they arguing?

  His left forearm hurt for some reason.

  Fuck me.

  Half a minute of agony dragged along.

  In and out. In and out. In and out. Too shallow.

  It wasn't enough.

  But eventually, painfully, the spasms began slowing. With each passing second he could gulp more of that sweet, sweet nectar.

  Oh thank fuck.

  There was more racket.

  The boy felt like a warhammer had been lifted off his chest. To be replaced by a smaller hammer.

  Heaven, air feels good.

  Cillian blinked, then again – still only light.

  At least now he could comprehend the words being shouted.

  “– just talk! I never agreed to this!”

  “You don’t talk with rats like him! They don’t understand words, only strength!”

  “What if he complains to the instructors?! You can’t even claim–!”

  It carried on for some time. He heard movement too. Sounds of his belongings being tossed aside.

  Once Cillian could marginally breathe again, a thought came unbidden, The heavy fella’s name is Keefe. What a grand way to find out.

  He was still panting, but his vision had finally cleared. It appeared he’d curled up at some point.

  “– found them!” The gorilla seemed mighty pleased. More shuffling followed, then, “You should’ve never touched things you had no right to, understand?” When Cillian didn’t answer, Rory loomed over him and repeated, “Do. You. Understand?”

  Cillian gave a feeble smile. “Aye.” A shuddering breath. “I under-stand.” While thinking, More like under-lie.

  He felt lightheaded. Tried to straighten up. His head touched a hard object on the bed.

  The boy closed his eyes. Deep breaths, man, stay still.

  Keefe came and said some words. They sounded apologetic, but he didn’t pay attention and, instead, patted his body. It appeared fine.

  The pair quickly discussed what to do next. Nothing, it turned out. Keefe’s voice all but vibrated with agitation.

  Then Cillian finally heard footsteps leaving.

  No time to hesitate.

  He grabbed the horn, rushed to stand up, and smashed it at Rory with momentum behind him. Or tried to.

  “What the–?!” Keefe threw his arm up to block above them both.

  “Aaagh!”

  “Fuck!”

  Clang – the horn hit the floor.

  Cillian didn’t wait. He lunged knee first at Rory, who was now half crouching next to the wall.

  He didn’t know where the hit landed, but the accompanying yawp full of hurt was encouraging. He swung his arm and punched the brute’s ugly mug.

  Blocked!

  Then it was Cillian’s turn to fall with a yelp as his left leg got swept under him. Rory was on top again in an instant.

  He protected his head, but a blow came to the chest. One more. Then another to the liver. He grunted in pain, reached out blindly, and grasped something cold on the floor. His skeletal bracelet. What’s it doing down here?

  The gorilla snarled and pounced at him again.

  “STOP!”

  Keefe seized the furious fella from behind and tried to drag him away, but the knucklehead still managed to drive his boot down at Cillian’s pelvis.

  He cried out, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. So he sprang forward, pushing hard with both legs – his metal-decorated fist arched and pummeled Rory’s face.

  The fella howled, and Cillian swore at the same time. The stupid yoke broke and cut into his fingers.

  “LET ME GO!” Rory struggled. “I’ll fucking MURDER him!”

  Cillian was pain. Still, he rolled away and couldn’t help but snigger upon catching sight of the gorilla’s face – the guy had been “fingered”.

  Aether, what’s with the stupid jokes? I haven’t been hit on the head, have I? He thought, grinning like an eejit. Then coughed.

  The grappling match continued. Keefe was saying something, seeking to calm the buckling beast.

  “– there’s no way no one's heard that! We need to leave before they call an instructor!”

  Rory didn’t want to leave. Keefe persisted.

  Finally, dozens more words that followed, all saying essentially the same thing, seemed to penetrate the arsehole’s thick skull. He stopped shouting and trying to wrestle away.

  For several agitated heartbeats, the three of them just sat there, on the deck, panting heavily and exchanging heated glares.

  Then Keefe slowly got up, both arms holding Rory. “We are leaving.” His tone dared Cillian to challenge, who was in no state to do so.

  The gorilla followed, the long vertical gash on his right cheek drizzling red. He literally spat on the carpet, loathing clear in his eyes. But no more words were said. Keefe insistently tugged on the other boy’s broad shoulders. After a few more breaths, the latter relented, and they turned and cleared out, with the heavier fella still half dragging his partner in crime away.

  Cillian watched them go. He allowed himself a moment to relax, counted to ten, then crawled to the door and pulled it shut.

  No more fights, my arse.