“Do you know what’s happening?” Arcolin asked. “What bespelled him?”
“If that fellow Korryn was invaded by a demon—if he invited one in, for some reason, and he seems the sort to do so—it might be seeking another host. Stammel, weakened by injury, would be easiest.”
“Korryn said something about willingly giving up himself to one greater than himself,” Arcolin said.
“That would be a demon,” the Marshal said. He slid his hands up to Stammel’s head and cradled it. “You go where I was, Captain. Both hands on his chest, above and below the relic. You others—” he said to the two soldiers. “One of you take each an ankle. What we need now is the power of those who love this man. He refused the invader; he is still trying to fight it off. We must help. But if he loses the fight, Captain, you must be ready.”
It took Arcolin a long moment to understand; he felt the blood draining from his face. “You don’t mean—kill him? Kill my own sergeant?”
“If the demon wins, we must. You and I both; you with the sword, and I to ensure the demon invades none other.”
“But surely you can save him—you, the relic—”
“I hope so. I cannot promise. Demons do not die when the bodies they take over die. Sometimes they fade, after a while, and if the person is strong enough, in body and will, then … but usually with some residual injury.”
Arcolin stared down at Stammel’s face, the face he knew so well … the absolutely reliable sergeant he had depended on for so many years. All that honesty, all that courage—could it be lost so easily, and would he have to—his mind shut that out. “Stammel,” he said, as if Stammel could hear. “Matthis … don’t give up. We’re here.”
“He’s not Girdish, is he?” the Marshal asked.
“No. He follows Tir.”
“When your people arrive, we’ll send one of them for a Captain of Tir. Keep talking to him, Captain, as if you expect him to hold a position. He may hear you; it cannot hurt. You others as well, or if you can, pray for strength for him. I will add my prayers.”
Arcolin leaned close; he could feel the heat rising from Stammel’s body. “You are the best, Stammel,” he said. “You are the one we all rely on. Hold now—hold hard. I trust you, Stammel; you will not give up; you will not let evil win. If Paks were here, she would say the same. You trained a paladin, Stammel; she knows you are the toughest and best …” He murmured on.
It seemed an age before Vik arrived with a tensquad and the cohort surgeon, who immediately began giving orders. “Two of you—get this mess cleaned up at once,” he said. “You see buckets; you saw the well. Now.” Just like every surgeon he’d ever known, Arcolin thought. The surgeon came up to the platform, bowed, and stepped onto it. “What’s amiss here?”
“A spell, possibly a demon trying to get control of him,” Arcolin said. “The Marshal hopes he’ll have the strength to withstand it long enough.” He looked past the surgeon and said “Vik—the Marshal said to find a Captain of Tir.”
“At once, sir,” Vik said, and turned on his heel.
“Those bruises were made by hands,” the surgeon said. He pulled down Stammel’s jaw. “His tongue’s swollen.” From his bag he pulled out forceps and grabbed Stammel’s tongue, pulling it forward. “At least he’ll get more air. What a fever! Not natural, you say?”
Arcolin glanced at the Marshal, whose eyes were closed, and answered instead. “No. It began when I killed the man who choked him.”
“Um. Heat promotes swelling; we need to cool him, especially this throat.” He touched it gently; for the first time Stammel groaned. “I’m sure it does hurt, Sergeant,” the surgeon said, as if Stammel were conscious. “You’re lucky you have such muscle here—a finger’s breadth to the side, and you’d be dead for sure. I need clean water, clean cloths.”
Arcolin told one of the others where to find the linens.
“I don’t deal with magery,” the surgeon said. “No physical wounds other than the throat?”
“None,” Arcolin said.
“That’s good, but this fever … I don’t know how to counteract it other than cool wet cloths. And I don’t know what cooling will accomplish. Some fevers need to run their course. Ah—” He took the towels and water the troops brought, wet one, waved it in the air to cool it, and laid it on Stammel’s throat. “And we must close his eyes—they’ll dry too much this way.” He pulled the lids down and weighted them with a wet cloth. Arcolin felt relief at the disappearance of those blood-red eyes, yet he hated the sight of Stammel with a bandage like the blind wore.
“Here’s the Captain of Tir,” Vik said from the entrance, now darkening as the evening drew on.
The Captain, in the usual black cloak, the iron symbol of Tir at his breast, bowed as he came into the grange. “Peace to this grange,” he said in a deep voice. “I ask Gird’s grace to enter.”
The Marshal opened his eyes. “Gird’s grace to you, Captain, and my thanks for your arrival. We have here one of yours, in the grip of a demon, I believe. A brave man, who saved others this day, and now lies stricken.”
“He does indeed.” The Captain hesitated before mounting the platform and bowed again. He knelt beside the Marshal. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since early evening,” Arcolin said. “The man who was the demon’s host strangled him and left him for dead before killing others he’d spellbound. But Stammel was not quite dead and struck the blow that lifted the spell from us; I beheaded the fellow … but then apparently the demon attacked Stammel.”
“Stammel,” the Captain said. “He is known by name to many of us as a soldier of good repute. It would be dire indeed if he fell to a demon.”
“Can you save him?”
“I do not know. I will try; it is up to Tir—and Gird,” he added, with a nod to the Marshal.
“By your leaves,” the surgeon said. “I would treat this fever with cool water.”
The Marshal and Captain exchanged a glance; both shrugged. “It cannot hurt, I suppose,” the Captain said. “But if it is a demonic fever, I don’t expect it will help, either.”
“The gods made bodies to follow certain rules,” the surgeon said. “If it is clear thinking and determination he needs to resist the demon, he will do better if he is not burning with fever. Fever drives men out of their minds; it is how we are made.” With that, the surgeon set up a relay, whereby he handed hot cloths from Stammel’s fevered body to those who passed them to the door, where they were dipped in the coldest clean water that could be found, then brought back, waving in the breeze to cool them more, and laid on again.
Arcolin went back to talking, encouraging Stammel with everything he could think of: memories taken from their years fighting together, reminders of times Stammel had held a line, prevented a rout, answered one demand after another, always faithful, always steady, dependable … he knew the Marshal and Captain were praying, knew the surgeon was doing his best to cool the fever, knew vaguely that his troops, across the grange, had finished cleaning, scouring the stones, then drying them. Some had come to the platform to pray with the Marshal.
Evening slipped into night; someone lit candles around the grange. Those who came to stand in the doorway murmured to the troops, and then more came, and more. The slow dark hours passed with all of them working over Stammel, with Stammel—as Arcolin could sense—fighting to hold off what fought to take him over. Arcolin’s back ached; his knees burned from the platform, but he dared not shift his position. Anything he changed might be the wrong thing, might lessen Stammel’s will to fight. Stammel’s lips were dry and cracked now; his tongue, held forward by the surgeon’s forceps, looked unnatural, a fissured dry stone. The surgeon reached over and squeezed a little water onto Stammel’s mouth. His tongue glistened a moment then looked dry again. The surgeon squeezed a little more, enough that a tiny trickle ran down the back of Stammel’s tongue. His throat moved.