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?”