He traveled throughout the day, following the Trough, hoping that the fort would lie close to its banks. He wished often for his pack and the food that it contained, the warm cloak, his father’s rope. All of those were now gone, along with the seax, left amidst the ashes and the bodies. He had eaten nothing since the Tor and could not remember the last time he was allowed to sleep.

Night came and he had neither the tools nor the stomach for a fire. He huddled through the cold, windy night, small and exposed in the middle of the fields. He plodded dumbly throughout the following day, each step feeling more pointless than the last. He was hollow, empty of nourishment, hope and reason. The river, the endless plains, the steely sky, they remained constant and tireless while he slowed and shrunk. A wet cough took up residence in his chest and soon he was sweating, shaking with fever. His joints ached deeply, robbing him of strength and the molten sloshing in his ears imprisoned his senses. Sound and sight bled together into a queasy morass of sensation. His head was heavy and hot, boiled raw through throat and nostril. His ribs quaked with chill, weak hands clutching to hold them still.

Stumbling, bent double with racking coughs, he trudged miserably on, dimly aware that he had lost a direct course miles ago. He careened, drunk with sickness until the crushing wool in his skull and the swamp in his lungs, sent him to his knees. Yet still he rose, stubbornly forcing the feeble steps, only to fall again.

And rise…and fall.

He awoke coughing, terrible visions of flames and burning corpses fleeing his mind, replaced by the smoldering coals of a hearth pit. Blankets covered him and Padric could feel the forgotten softness of a straw mattress cradling his back.

“Try not to move,” a man’s voice told him as a strong hand pressed gently into his chest. “The compress will loosen.”

Padric became aware of a cool tingling in his torso and the tightness of linen bandages. The cloud of feverish sleep was lifting, allowing the pounding of his head and the soreness of his throat to make themselves known.

The man stared down at him, features lost to the deep shadows of the room.

“Can you drink?”

Padric nodded and tried to answer, but a painful croak was all he managed. He was lifted easily from behind his head and a steaming cup was held to his lips. The brew was scalding, going down in a cloying torrent of bitter herbs and strong spirits. He swallowed and tried to lie back, but was held upright, the cup still under his chin.

“Breathe,” the voice instructed. “The vapors will help.”