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.