They set the poor man up near the front door, with a bucket of fresh water nearby. Every now and again, Kre would wipe some of the cool water over Braun’s face with one of the spare dish cloths.
“He’s burning up,” he noted to the others. The Rangers paid no mind, they simply kept on eating their stew. The Ylveryan girl sat on the floor next to the pot, keeping warm by the fire and waiting for everyone to be finished with the meal so she could have the leftovers.
Lowil seemed to be the only one that expressed any concern, but he had nothing in his repertoire to help the situation except to offer words of comfort. “Poor man. I’m sure it’s just working its way through his system. He should feel better in a couple of hours.”
Kre sat back down at the table and sighed. He had to admit that he felt more than a little guilty at having wished Braun ill earlier. The man was, and likely would always be, a weasel in every sense of the word, but that didn’t mean he should be made to suffer like this. Kre remembered being incapacitated with something similar several years back. His illness lasted a week and it was a week of sleepless nights, high fevers, chills, and a complete emptying of his guts. It was horrendous and to think that another human being was feeling the same way made his own gut wrench slightly.
A small clay bowl full of stew was slid in front of him, the steam tickling his face. Glancing up, he caught the flash of gold from the girl’s eyes before she averted her gaze and returned to her seat next to the fire.
He left the food untouched and eventually Marce grabbed the bowl from in front of him and shoveled it into his mouth. “When you’re on the road boy,” he sputtered between bites. “You best learn to eat whenever food presents itself. Sometimes you might go days between meals, especially hot ones.”
Petriv laughed, “Might not matter much if something happens to him on the road though. Lots of dangerous folk out there.”
Marce jabbed his colleague in the ribs with his elbow and the younger Ranger, suitably chastised, clammed up and pushed around a stump of carrot still sitting in his bowl.
Kre barely noticed the interaction between the two. His mind was on Marce’s words and how he really needed to better focus on the journey ahead. He looked up to ask Marce about the regions to the south but paused while the elder Ranger issued forth a huge yawn. As if on cue, both Lowil and Petriv yawned as well. They truly were contagious.
Lowil yawned a second time and then his head slumped down slowly into his chest and then his body drooped down until it rested on the table, his head across his outstretched arm. It seemed odd, but then again, they had a very long day.
Glancing back at Marce, Kre noticed that his eyes seemed glazed over and he was staring out into space. He was just about to ask what was wrong when Petriv fell backwards off the bench and hit the ground, unconscious.
“Ranger Petriv?” Kre asked worried. “Are you okay? Ranger Marce, what’s…”
Marce jumped up shakily and wobbled a bit as he fumbled at his belt. Finally, his hand closed on the handle of his dagger and he drew it. “You little elf devil-spaw….” His voice trailed off and his eyes rolled up into his skull. Kre barely managed to grab hold of him and lay him down gently to the ground.
“Figured he would be the last. He is so damn big.” The female prisoner rose to her feet with the grace of a cat rising from a long nap. The golden flecks in her eyes were clearly evident now, as she shed the act of being a scared, timid little prisoner and looked directly at Kre. She looked proud, confident, and exceptionally dangerous.