Chapter Six:
Fever and Flame
Although Trug knew the hamlet was less than a mile distant, it felt like a thousand leagues. His arm felt like it was on fire, or covered in swarm of stinging wasps. Actually... on reflection, it felt like it was covered in a swarm of stinging wasps that were on fire. The bandage had soaked through, and Rhonny did not care for how pale his skin was getting. She tried to keep him talking, but all she got were grunts, nods and some mumbled nonsense in reply.
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After several thousand years in agony, Trug looked up and saw the outskirts of the village. A black tunnel was contracting and expanding around it, but the good news was that he could no longer feel the pain of his arm – he felt like he was floating light as a feather. He saw Rhonny in front of him, her mouth moving, but he couldn't hear what she was saying over the ringing in his ears. He gave her his best attempt at a smile, and then the darkness swallowed him whole.
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He drifted through black seas – for how long he couldn't be sure. Images emerged from the darkness from time to time, some likely real, some not. Things like Rhonny's father leaning over him and making him drink a cup of gods knew what sort of concoction were probably real. The winged horse which spoke to him about why the hammered dulcimer was better than a harpsichord, probably not. And always the teeth, lunging out of the darkness to tear out his throat. He always awoke just before the jaws closed, screaming for his mother, his father, anyone to save him. But there was always a cool hand on his forehead, and a gentle voice soothing him back to sleep. And finally, the fever broke.
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Trug awoke to sunlight streaming in through the slats of a shuttered window. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten, and his stomach practically roared at him in hunger. He didn't recognize the small room, but he could hear voices through the door – two male and one female. He tossed back the bedcover and attempted to hop out of bed, only to stumble and fall down on the floor as his knees gave out. And just to make his day that much better, as the latch on the door rattled and it began to open, he realized that he was stark naked.
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Rhonny stood in the doorway with a bundle of clothes and a faint smirk on her face. “Well, rise and shine, Trug. Glad to see you're back in the land of the living, I can finally get my bed back.” She tossed the clothes at him and turned to go. “And honestly, you don't need to curl up like a pillbug. I've got two younger brothers, you don't have anything I haven't seen before. Come on out once you've dressed, your father is here and we've got breakfast ready.” At the mention of breakfast, Trug's stomach vetoed his knees (which were clearly just being lazy) and got him up and dressed in no time.
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In the next room, William, Rhonny and Ronald sat at the family dinner table. William immediately leapt up and dragged Trug into a crushing hug, being careful not to bump his son's wounded arm. Trug returned the hug, albeit with just one arm. “Son... when Ron sent the news down to the camp I got here as soon as I could. For a minute there we were sure we'd lose you.” He eased up on his embrace and held Trug out at arms length, eyes glinting with tears barely held in check. “Don't you ever scare me like that again. And your mother! Gods, she was ready to leave the city and come down here by herself.” “I'm so sorry, father,” Trug replied hoarsely, “I didn't mean to scare you all like that. I should have been better prepared.” William shook his head. “No, son, don't apologize. You can't plan for everything. I'm just glad Rhonny was there with you.” He bowed his head to Rhonny, who coughed and looked down at the table, clearly embarrassed. “Don't mention it, sir, I'm just sorry I wasn't able to kill the beast sooner.” She gestured at the steaming tureen of porridge on the table. “Best get some food in your belly, Trug, before it gets cold.”
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Trug ate three helpings, and the conversation at the table revolved around a retelling of the cane attack, mostly from Rhonny with a few additions from Trug. “Have there been any more attacks while I've been asleep?” Ronald shook his head. “Damnedest thing, really. We expected to find a pack, or at least a mate in the area. But even the corpse was gone when a party went out to the oaks to take a look. Best we can figure is some other scavenger took it away, but nobody saw any tracks. Strange business, all around.”
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Following breakfast, Trug and William made ready to head back down to the site. Trug thanked both Ronald and Rhonny profusely, and William pressed a purse into Ron's hands despite his vehement protests. “Ron, take it. It's the least I can do for you saving my son's life, and I know you need the coin. No arguments.” Trug clambered into the back of his father's wagon, and the steady rumble of the wheels along the road soon put him to sleep.
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That night, back at the work camp, Trug was tucking into a hearty meal of charred venison and potatoes. His stomach was no longer in open revolt, but it still felt as though most of his midsection was hollow. In between bites, he asked his father how work on the town was proceeding. “As far as I can tell, we're still staying on schedule. You were out for the better part of a week, but Johan and Pierre are the best foremen in the County. They kept things going fine while I was upriver.” He turned over a page with one hand while spearing a slab of venison with the other. “Hngh... Well this is interesting. You remember your Uncle Edward from back in Chernsburg?” Trug nodded. “Of course, everyone knows Uncle Edward. Why?” William drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he continued to read. “It would appear that he's making a rare foray out into the countryside to oversee the installation of his new flywheel design at the mill. He should be here tomorrow, if I'm reading this letter right,” said William, with a wry shake of his head. “Baron Peregrinous, good old Uncle Edward himself. Never thought the city mouse would ever go somewhere without a good tailor or barber within a five minute walk. I -”
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Sudden shouts from outside brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. William ran to the door and threw it open, and Trug could see his father's silhouette framed in lurid, dancing orange light.
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“Fire, fire at the mill!” Branson's baritone shout cut through the night. “Get up you whoresons, FIIIIIRE!”
