He could feel his flesh burning away to nothing, the blood in his veins bubbling. His breaths, when he was aware of them, burned his throat; fire blazed in his lungs. Why am I not dead? he cried silently. The unspeaking one in his mind promised he would be, dead and cold, if only he would surrender. It was too much, too long, for anyone to endure. The unspeaking one agreed, offering hope, offering a dream of green grass, shade, cool water, if only he would let go, let the other take control.
He was so tired, tired of the pain, tired of the struggle. Wherever this was, whoever the enemy was, no man lived forever; no man could fight forever. The voices he knew faded, returned, faded … one came again, a girl’s voice, trembling, begging him …
“You promised to tell me more about Paks,” she said; he could barely hear her over the crackling that was his bones in the fire.
Paks. What Arcolin had said. What the girl—he struggled to think past the burning, past the pain, past the pressure that bore in on him, the dark presence that held him down—who was the girl? Paks had—had gone into the thieves’ lairs, in Vérella … she had endured five days and nights. How long had he endured? Forever, the dark presence told him. And it will go on forever unless you yield. He struggled—was it really forever? The girl was still murmuring to him. “The Marshal says it won’t last; the demon’s weakening …”
Demon? Was it a demon he had inside him? Stammel strained, trying to see, feel, somehow know what—who—it was. Fire—fire and smoke, and a shadowy something, the first actual, visual image of his enemy. Pain seared him, worse than ever, but this time he had a focus; he concentrated not just on holding on, but on attacking, pushing back at it. He still did not know how or when it had come, but he was not—not—going to fail the Duke, or his captain, or Paks or his other recruits.
He heard the voice more clearly now—not Paks, but another of his recruits—he could not think of her name or see her face, but he knew he had known them. Flames licked him again, white-hot as always, and he cried out. This time he heard himself cry out, felt the hands that held him … and something cool and wet on his burning lips, his parched tongue. The pressure inside swelled, but this time, as he fought it back, it retreated a little. He reached out, in that shadow-world of fire and smoke, grasped at it, and squeezed … squeezed as it struggled and fought in its turn, as it shrank, shrank to the size of a wasp—and with one last bone-piercing pain, stung like a wasp and was gone.
Silence, after the roaring of the flames, but for the very human voices he heard around him. The pain … was gone, as if it had never been. He could feel some hard surface under his back, wet fabric on his body. He was cool at last—too cool, cold and wet and shivering suddenly in reaction.
“Fever’s gone,” came a gruff voice. “And he’s breathing.”
Stammel took a breath. Easily, as if it had never been different, cool air moved into his nose, filled his lungs. No burning. No smoke. Hands touched him, gentle hands pulling away the wet cloth, drying him, laying something soft on him.
“When do you think he’ll wake?” came the girl’s voice, from somewhere near his head.
“I don’t know,” the gruff voice said. “And I don’t know what he’ll be like when he wakes. That fever alone—that many days—such fevers can leave men reft of sense and speech.”
But he was not senseless. He did not know where he was, or when, or what had happened, but he would know—he would remember—he was sure of that.
He tried to speak, to say that, and though he felt his tongue move in his mouth, the sound that came out was a rough, animal noise, nothing like words.
“Let’s see if he can swallow,” the gruff voice said. “Lift his shoulders, one of you.”
Someone held his head; someone else slid a strong arm under his shoulders and lifted him to rest against a living, breathing human. A cup came to his lips; water flooded his mouth. He swallowed, swallowed again.
“That’s good,” the gruff voice said.
“Sergeant—it’s me, Arñe,” said another voice, older than the girl’s. “Are you all right now?”
“Of course he’s not all right,” the gruff voice said. “He’s been battling a demon for days. Let the man rest … we’ll get him to a bed now …”
Stammel felt himself being turned, lifted, carried somewhere … he didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t flames. He slid into sleep without realizing it.
When he woke again, he could hear someone breathing in the room with him. He felt clean, rested—a sheet lay over him; he moved his legs, and whoever it was stirred. “Sergeant? Can I get you something?”
It must be night, it was so dark, and they had left someone with him—and it had been dark before. He must have slept the day around. But fear ran a cold finger down his spine.
“A light, first,” he said, rejoicing in the sound of his voice—his own voice, sounding like himself, and ignored the fear.
The hiss of indrawn breath told him a truth worse than fire. He felt himself trembling, tried to sit up and could not. “It’s not … dark …” he said.
“No, sir,” the girl said. “It’s broad day outside, and—and I must tell the Marshal you’re awake.” Her feet scraped on the floor—a stone floor, by the sound.
“Wait,” he said. He was not ready to face anyone else. “Is there water?”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment.” He heard the small sound as she picked up a jug, then the water falling from the jug to a mug—clay by the sound—and then her footsteps coming to the bed. It had to be a bed; her footsteps were below him, and the surface felt like a bed. “I—I don’t know—”
“Take my hand and put it on the mug,” he said. This close he could smell the familiar uniform; she was one of theirs, a soldier. Probably a first-year, from her nervousness. Her hand on his was firm, callused—definitely one of theirs—and she pulled it up, set the mug firmly in his palm and waited until his fingers gripped before she loosened her grip, but only to guide his hand toward his face.
“Should I lift your head?” she asked. He could hear the tension in her voice.
“Probably,” Stammel said, trying for a lightness he did not feel. “Or I may spill it.” His arm was trembling with the effort—he hoped that was the reason.
She lifted his head and guided the mug to his lips. He drank, a cautious swallow first, and then drained the mug. “That was good,” he said. “Now tell me—what happened? Where are we?”
“The Marshal said I shouldn’t tell you things,” she said.
He remembered Paks saying something about her time in Kolobia, how annoying it was when people wouldn’t explain. “Perhaps you should find the Marshal, then,” he said. She eased her hand out from under his head, set the mug back on something—a table?—with a little clunk, and went out. The door was on his right … her receding footsteps told him of a passage.
A current of air from his left suggested a window; the smells with the air—rotting vegetables, human filth—meant a city. Had he caught a fever and been left behind? But he knew better than to drink tainted water or eat the foods most likely to give men fevers.
He tried again to sit up, but he felt dizzy and sick. He lay back, feeling for the side of the bed, for the wall. He had these few moments—for he heard heavier footsteps, booted footsteps, coming down the passage—to prepare himself, to master the turmoil he felt.
“Suli—your private—said you were awake. I’m Marshal Harak. I saw you at your camp, but we did not meet.”
Harak. The name meant nothing to him, but a memory came of the Marshal who had come for the Captain, and later ridden away with him … and he himself … he had been … the memory faded.
“Suli said you could not see.”
“It’s dark,” Stammel said. His voice was firm, at least.
“I’m going to look at your eyes,” the man said.