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.”