Oath of Fealty (55 page)

More guards arrived; a surgeon followed. “Get that dead man out of the way,” he said to Arcolin. “All that blood, he can’t live.”

“It’s not his blood and he’s not dead,” Arcolin said. “He was strangled, but not killed; it’s the guards’ blood.”

“He looks dead,” the surgeon said. He reached down gingerly. “He’ll be cooling by now—well, he’s not. That’s odd. He’s probably going to die, though, from the looks of him. He’s in my way; move him.”

Arcolin stared at him, too angry to speak for the moment, and the surgeon gestured to two of the guards.

“Come here and drag this fellow out of the way.”

“Stop,” Arcolin said; the guards stopped as if struck on the head. He glared at the surgeon, who was already bending over the governor, ignoring him. “Fetch a door or something,” he said to them. “My sergeant is not dead, but injured; he doesn’t need to be dragged.”

“Yes, sir,” said one. They both left and came back with a plank three handspans wide and half again as long as Stammel. “This do, sir?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. He took Stammel’s shoulders and head himself, and helped the men lay him on the plank. “Lift him,” he said. He took his hanger and scabbard off his belt and used the belt to lash Stammel gently to the plank. “Give me your belts,” he said to the guards, and added them around Stammel’s chest and legs.

“We wouldn’t have let him fall,” one said, scowling.

“I think he’s been spelled,” Arcolin said. “If he starts thrashing, the belts may give time to set the plank down.”

“Oh … spelled. Well, then … where to?”

Where to indeed? Arcolin had no idea where to, other than Marshal Harak’s grange. He picked up his sword in one hand, the hanger and scabbard in the other and followed them outside. In the square, others were gathering—guards, citizens—and the councilors, recovering from their shock in the soft evening air, were talking rapidly to one another. He heard hoofbeats, wheels grinding, axles squeaking, and a carriage drove into the square. The councilors looked up at the noise, and saw him.

“Captain!” Councilor Janchek came over to him. “You saved us all! We cannot thank you enough—” Janchek looked at the men with the plank, at Stammel’s bloody body. “Your sergeant—he died, then?”

“He’s not dead yet,” Arcolin said. “And
he
’s the one who saved us all—he distracted Korryn enough to weaken the spell that bound us. I need that carriage—” He pointed.

“But—but that’s the chairman’s carriage—and he’s—he’s all bloody—”

“He’s worth more than any carriage ever built,” Arcolin said, grief and rage swamping deference.

“Sir—Captain!” His escort, left behind at the Merchants’ Guild Hall, came jogging into the prison courtyard.

“Gird’s grace!” Arcolin looked them over. “Vik—take my horse; ride at once for the camp and bring our surgeon to Harak’s grange. Smiths’ street. Tam—find Marshal Harak’s grange. Tell him we’re coming there. If you see him on the way—just find him. It’s Stammel; he may die.” Those two took off at a run, no questions asked. The other two moved over and took the plank from the local guardsmen. “Orders, sir?”

“Into the carriage with him.”

The Councilors in their cluster made no more complaint; Arcolin only realized he still had his bloody sword in hand when he tried to climb into the carriage.

On the short drive to the grange, Stammel’s condition didn’t change. Still that fixed unseeing stare, still the heat rising from him as from a stone left in the sun.

Marshal Harak was waiting outside his grange, Tam beside him. “What is it? What happened?”

“I think it’s a spell,” Arcolin said.

“And what about you?” Harak asked. “You’re soaked in blood.”

“Not mine,” Arcolin said, as he helped lever the plank out of the carriage. “And not his. Korryn—or whatever was in Korryn’s body—tried to strangle him. He fell. We were all spelled helpless; we couldn’t move. Korryn killed the guards—that’s the blood and gut stench—and Stammel crawled out of that welter when Korryn’s back was turned and stabbed him. That broke the spell for a moment; I killed Korryn. Then Stammel—” His voice shook; he fought to steady it, and told the rest.

They had Stammel in the grange by then. Harak pulled two benches out, bade them lay the plank across the benches, and called for his yeoman-marshal. “You say he said something was trying to invade him? And he was refusing?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Arcolin said. “But it was just those few words.”

“I think you’re right,” Harak said. “And I don’t like it. This Korryn you speak of—” His yeoman-marshal came into the main part of the grange, drying his hands on a towel. “Wait a moment,” he said to Arcolin. And to his yeoman-marshal, “Eddin—we need water, a lot of it, and towels. And bring the relic over here, if you would.”

Eddin, Arcolin was glad to see, was no youngster, but a steady-looking man who might be thirty or so. “Yes, Marshal,” he said, going first to a niche in the far wall and coming back with a small knife—a stone blade in a wooden haft. Then he was off at a jog, buckets hung on a pole across his shoulders, to the well down the street.

“Now tell me,” the Marshal said. He had laid the little knife on Stammel’s forehead and put his hands on Stammel’s shoulders.

“Korryn was a recruit we had years ago—” Arcolin began. He repeated what Stammel had told him.

“Tell me about the attack.”

Arcolin related it in as much detail as he could; Eddin came in with the water in the midst of that.

“Stop a bit,” Harak said. “I want to keep contact with him, but we must get this blood off him. You all must strip him, and then wash him of all this. I will hold his head; we’ll wash that last, when I can hold his shoulders.”

During that bloody business, Arcolin held his tongue. They unbuckled the belts that held Stammel to the plank, unfastened his
clothes, peeled them back, and then, with the help of the Marshal and yeoman-marshal, turned him side to side to get them off without having to cut them. Under the clothes, much less blood, but Stammel’s skin was flushed as if with sunburn and hot to the touch. His muscles still trembled; his eyes were still open and blank, the whites blood-red. They washed him, front and back, careful to clean off every smear of blood.

“Now his head,” the Marshal said. “Eddin, place the relic on his breastbone, right over the heart, and do you take your place across from me.” Without ever taking his hands completely off Stammel, the Marshal moved to his heart-hand side, and Eddin to the other; they knelt, heedless of the bloody water on the stone floor. Arcolin took a clean towel and bathed Stammel’s face, his hair, cleaning the blood out of his ears, the crease at the back of his neck. The bruises from Korryn’s grip showed dark against the red of his skin. “Be sure to get the blood off the plank,” the Marshal said. “We’re going to move him to the platform when he’s clean.”

Arcolin wanted to ask why, but instead wiped the plank with a fresh towel.

“Good. Now—we all go to the platform. Slowly, so that Eddin and I can keep our hands on him. You, Captain, keep your hand on his forehead as they carry the plank.”

As they neared the platform, Arcolin felt something—a cool touch of some kind—on his skin; he shivered. He felt struggled, fearing it was another evil attack; the Marshal glanced up at him. “Gird’s grace, Captain. It is but Gird’s grace; do not fear.”

“I—I didn’t know—”

“After what you’ve been through, I don’t wonder. Everyone step up, now, and do not be alarmed if it makes a noise.”

The platform made no noise, however. “Now, Captain,” the Marshal said. “We need a sheet from the back—there’s a narrow corridor with doors to small rooms. The third on the left is clean linens. Bring us two sheets, if you will.”

Arcolin found the linen closet without difficulty and brought back two clean, folded sheets that smelled of the fresh herbs kept with them. At the Marshal’s direction, he laid one on the platform; the others lowered the plank until they could slide Stammel off onto the sheet.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Arcolin asked. “What bespelled him?”

“If that fellow Korryn was invaded by a demon—if he invited one in, for some reason, and he seems the sort to do so—it might be seeking another host. Stammel, weakened by injury, would be easiest.”

“Korryn said something about willingly giving up himself to one greater than himself,” Arcolin said.

“That would be a demon,” the Marshal said. He slid his hands up to Stammel’s head and cradled it. “You go where I was, Captain. Both hands on his chest, above and below the relic. You others—” he said to the two soldiers. “One of you take each an ankle. What we need now is the power of those who love this man. He refused the invader; he is still trying to fight it off. We must help. But if he loses the fight, Captain, you must be ready.”

It took Arcolin a long moment to understand; he felt the blood draining from his face. “You don’t mean—kill him? Kill my own sergeant?”

“If the demon wins, we must. You and I both; you with the sword, and I to ensure the demon invades none other.”

“But surely you can save him—you, the relic—”

“I hope so. I cannot promise. Demons do not die when the bodies they take over die. Sometimes they fade, after a while, and if the person is strong enough, in body and will, then … but usually with some residual injury.”

Arcolin stared down at Stammel’s face, the face he knew so well … the absolutely reliable sergeant he had depended on for so many years. All that honesty, all that courage—could it be lost so easily, and would he have to—his mind shut that out. “Stammel,” he said, as if Stammel could hear. “Matthis … don’t give up. We’re here.”

“He’s not Girdish, is he?” the Marshal asked.

“No. He follows Tir.”

“When your people arrive, we’ll send one of them for a Captain of Tir. Keep talking to him, Captain, as if you expect him to hold a position. He may hear you; it cannot hurt. You others as well, or if you can, pray for strength for him. I will add my prayers.”

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.”

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.