Quintus rolled his shoulder and leaned back against the bar. He didn’t know how Octavia and Celesta could tolerate doing this hero nonsense for more than ten minutes. Dealing with the netherborne was bad enough, but these humans were just as, if not more, insufferable. “I think what you meant to say was ‘thank you for saving my skin.’ And you’re welcome.”

“And how do we know you didn’t lure it here, necromancer?” Again, he said the word as though it was a curse or sin.

“I didn’t,” Quintus replied with a shrug. Malachi opened his mouth to speak again, but Quintus cut in. “Oh? Were you about to call me a liar, Mister I beat a netherborne twice the size of this tavern all by my lonesome?”

Malachi went red in the face and his jaw ticked.

“Uh… Malachi…” one patron said, pointing at his shoulder. “Why are you growing trees?”

Malachi pulled his hand away from the wound and a tiny sapling popped up from his shoulder while a network of roots bulged from under his skin. His face turned nigh as white at his coat as he watch the sapling unfurl its little leaves and budding flowers burst open to release their sweet scent.

Quintus held back a smile. He had such a love-hate relationship with the blight. On one hand, he felt bad for any poor sap who contracted it. On the other, it was like watching it spread was fascinating, like seeing spring happen in double time. “It’s called the blight. Never seen it before?” The patron shook his head. “It’s a flesh rotting disease. Get scratched or bit by the right netherborne or nightwalker and you start turning into a walking garden.”

The guard took a step away from Malachi. “Sh-should we go get the doctor?”

“Nope.” Quintus rolled his bell around in his hand. “I’m sure Malachi knows no doctor can help him with that. He knows what, or rather, who he needs.”

“What’s going to happen to him if that thing goes unchecked?” The guard eyed the still growing tree like it was a nest of spiders.

“I’m glad you asked. See those roots growing under his skin? Once they reach his heart, he'll die, and either bocome a permanent fixture in this tavern or his body will remain animated—what we call a nightwalker in my line of work. Then he’ll bite one of you poor saps and the same will happen to you, etcetera etcetera until you’re all soulless, walking corpses. Considering it was a netherborne that scratched him, the latter option is much more likely.”

At that revelation the patrons scrambled away from Malachi, some went so far as to press themselves against the walls. Even the guard took a step back, his hand lingering near his sword. Lopping the Priest’s head off wouldn't stop him from turning into a nightwalker, but it would be an amusing sight.

“You not going to help me,” Malachi said.

Quintus gave him a cheeky grin. “Oh, I might. If you’re willing to do something for me. Something simple.” He leaned forward and laced his fingers under his chin. “Pay your tab.”

Once again, the patron’s eyes trained on Malachi, this time with suspicion instead of hope or fear.

“Surely your life is worth more than a handful of coin,” Quintus continued. “I know the Divine City sends you Priests stipends every month. You have no excuse.”

“It’s more than a handful,” Lailah grumbled from behind him.

The Priest turned to one of the patrons, a spindly boy who looked as though he didn’t belong in a bar. “Colin, go up to my chambers, bring the box. You know where the key to the safe is.” The boy nodded, his greasy curls bobbing, and ran out the door. Pretty fast for a little guy, Quintus had to admit.

“Hey Lailah,” Quintus turned back to the bar. “Can I get another one of those ales? I’m a little parched after my fight.”

The rest of the patrons seemed to take his cue. They retrieved their dice and cards, settled into their seats while keeping a good bit of distance between themselves and Malachi. The merriment was subdued, as though they feared too much noise would summon another abomination to their village.

“Well?” Malachi asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

Quintus blinked. “I said you have to pay your tab first. I’m not doing anything until it’s paid.” He accepted his drink from Lailah and took a swig. He was tempted to order something stronger but needed his wits about him as Celesta so eloquently put it.

“This thing is spreading fast.” Malachi’s voice rose an octave with every word.

“Well then, you should’ve told the kid to hurry.” He turned away from the Priest to nurse his drink. His first day on his own and he was already killing netherborne and dealing with the Divine City’s stooges. He’d need more than the death god’s strength to survive more than a week in this backwater region.

Lailah drifted to his side of the bar, looked over at Malachi, then down at Quintus. “Is he really going to die? I don’t need the money that bad, you know.”

Bless her heart, she actually felt sorry for that useless troglodyte. Quintus shrugged a shoulder. “Depends on how fast the kid gets here. Actually…” He turned his attention to the street, heard the pound of feet on the dirt road and the jingle of coin against wood.

A moment later, Colin burst through the door, sweat dripping down his face and soaking into his shirt. He ambled his way to the bar and set a decorative wooden box down on in front of Lailah.

“Make sure it’s all there,” Quintus said with a nod.

The barkeep stacked the coins in neat piles of ten on the table, her lips moving silently as she counted them up. “It’s… a little short.” The tavern fell silent, eyes going to Malachi again.

“Well.” Quintus set his tankard down. “That’s just a damn shame.”

Malachi glanced around the bar, sweat pouring down his face. “Wait. Wait, I can get more. My stipend comes in next week. Just, please.”

Lailah cleared her throat. “Listen, stranger.”

“It’s Quintus, actually.” He assumed a more charming air. “Quintus Evander Sarahi.”

“Alright, Mr Quintus. You seem to be a man of principle, and I respect that, but… just help him, please. I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“Fine,” he huffed, like a child who’d been forced to apologise. He rose from his seat and crossed to where Malachi sat. The Priest’s skin was clammy and his chest rose and fell with quick breaths. The tree had grown to the size of his hand.

Quintus laid his hands around the base of the plant and search his brain for the ancient tune that killed the blight. It had been a while, a long while. “How does it go again?” He didn’t realise he’d said the words out loud until the priest glared up at him. “Ah, I remember.”

He sucked in a breath and hummed the song, pouring his necromancy into the tune. Gentle vibrations flowed down his arm and into the roots. They rose above the skin and curled like gnarled fingers before turning black and falling away. The tree withered, its flowers and leaves turning brown. If watching the blight spread was like seeing spring in double time, then watching it die was like seeing autumn fade in winter.

When the last note of the song rang out, Quintus lifted his hands. The skin around the wound was still inflamed, but he wouldn’t be taking a bite out of anyone’s necks anytime soon. “There, disaster averted.” He flexed his fingers and went back to the bar to finish his drink. Part of him had been hoping the Priest would die before the boy got back, but knowing he had to rely on a necromancer to save his life was probably worse than death by blight.

Quintus fished a few more coins from his pocket and laid it on the bar. “Lailah dear, which room will I be staying in? I’m exhausted.”

“Head up, take a left and go straight to the end.” She produced a key and slid it down the bar to him. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks.” Quintus shouldered his cross and ascended the steps. A warm bed was nice, but a pretty boy to help keep it warm would’ve been nicer. Oh well…