Oath of Fealty

by Elizabeth Moon

  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 othe
r 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.

  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.

  “That’s good,” the surgeon said, as if to himself. “Now I can try more …”

  Arcolin realized that the surgeon had done this before, but he had scarcely noticed. Now he met the surgeon’s eyes.

  “If I can get water into him, it will help with the fever,” the man said. “And you, Captain—you look like half a demon yourself. When did you last drink something or move?”

  Arcolin shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Oh, gods take the lot of you,” the surgeon said crossly. “If Gird and Tir can’t save him, you kneeling there turning into a lump of stone won’t do it. You need to move, and you need to eat and drink something.”

  The Marshal and Captain had turned to look at the surgeon when he spoke; they now looked at Arcolin, at each other, and nodded.

  “You must,” the Marshal said first. “You have the cohort to look after. Let someone else take your place, and refresh yourself.”

  How could anyone take his place? But he saw Vik, sober-faced, and Tam, and others who knew Stammel as well, if not for as long as he had. He nodded, realizing then his neck was so stiff he could scarcely nod, and motioned to Vik, as the nearest. Vik helped him up, and then knelt in his place; Arcolin staggered, coming off the platform, and his people caught him, held him, thumped his shoulder.

  “Bathing room and spare clothes back there—” the Marshal said. “Water, bread …”

  Arcolin made it back to the bathing room, where a butt of water sat on its stand, the spigot over a shallow tub with a plug in the bottom. He stripped off his filthy blood-stiffened clothes, and dipped a half bucket of water over himself. The cold water woke him up; he took the lump of soap on a ledge and washed carefully—blood contained tiny demons, the surgeons always insisted, that brought disease. Then a rinse, then out to pad wet-footed across to the Marshal’s own rooms—the small office, the simple bedchamber with its clothes-press. Coarse gray trousers, too short for his long legs. A blue shirt that looked too big for the Marshal—perhaps it had been inherited. It was long enough for his arms, but twice as wide as he needed. A soft lump that turned out to be gray woollen socks with a hole in one heel, rolled into a bundle. He sat on the Marshal’s bed to pull on his boots, and realized he had not cleaned them. He walked out to the main room carrying his boots and his filthy clothes, sock-footed, feeling the chill of the stone through the hole in that left sock.

  The surgeon turned to look at him. “Did you eat? Did you drink something? Did you visit the jacks?”

  He’d forgotten that. He started to drop his clothes and realized he had no idea where the jacks was.

  “Back corner,” the Marshal said, anticipating his confusion. “And your surgeon’s right. Eat. Drink.”

  “Here, Captain; I’ll take those.” One of his troops—Bran, he thought—took his boots and clothes, and patted him on the shoulder as if he were a tired horse. He felt like a tired horse. He turned back to the side passage, found the jacks and used it, found water and drank a little, found a half loaf of bread and managed to haggle off a piece because he’d left his dagger, with his belt and all, out in the main room.

  His imagination revived, horribly, with the water and food; he saw himself having to tell the troops that Stammel was dead, and by whose hand … having to tell Burek … having to find another sergeant, only no one, no one in the world, could replace Stammel, not really.

  No one can replace anyone.

  He jerked upright, eyes open, only then aware he’d slumped over the little wooden table in the Marshal’s tiny kitchen. How long had he slept? Was Stammel—? He tried to get up but could not.

  Rest. You are not the only one.

  Rest? He had no time to rest. And only one what? But even as he tried to rise, darkness came over him again.

  When he woke, it was to hear voices nearby, voices he should know, but could not understand at first. Gradually sense came back to him. He was no longer at a table, but stretched on a bed; daylight came through a window, morning light by its color, by the feel of the air. He opened his eyes. Overhead was a plain plastered ceiling; the bed wasn’t his—wasn’t in a tent, but in a room, in—in the grange? He looked around.

&n
bsp; “Sir.” That was Devlin, by the door, red-eyed. Arcolin felt his heart sinking; he wanted to close his eyes and be somewhere else.

  “Yes,” he said instead. “I’m sorry—I fell asleep—”

  “He’s still alive,” Devlin said. “Still fighting. But Captain Burek wants to know if he should start the cohort on the road today.” He cleared his throat. “I—we brought you clean clothes. There, sir.”

  “Right,” Arcolin said. He pushed himself up. The clothes were on a chair; his boots were clean and polished; his sword—no doubt clean—in its scabbard on the hanger on the belt. Sleep had done its work; he was awake; he was not as tired. He ached, nonetheless, in ways he had not known he could ache. He went to the bathing room, stripped, poured another half bucket of water over himself, dried, and dressed again in uniform. Went to the jacks, came back.

  “Sir, are you going to stay—?”

  Arcolin shook his head. “I cannot. We have a contract; I cannot neglect the rest of you—you are all my people, not just Stammel. Gods know what Stammel is to this cohort—to the whole Company—but you know what he’d say—”

  Devlin said it, in a mock-Stammel tone.

  “Right,” Arcolin said. “And Dev, I can’t let you stay either. You’re the only active sergeant now; I need you. We’ll leave some here, to help out. One corporal—which?”

  “Arñe,” Devlin said at once. “Because she was Paks’s good friend. It might help.”

  “Good. Is she here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll send her. We can’t afford to leave a whole tensquad: pick five. Range of ages, anyone with good stories to tell.”

  In the main grange, five of his people were around Stammel, along with the surgeon, a different Marshal, a different yeoman-marshal, and the Captain of Tir. “Where’s Harak?” Arcolin asked, just as Harak appeared in the entrance, with a third Marshal.