Tom opened his eyes. He and eight other men sat around a campfire. Perhaps a dozen feet beyond the circle, the surrounding woods were completely shrouded in thick gray fog, as if a cloud had fallen out of the sky and landed around them. The flames leaping upward from the burning logs had a strange, verdant hue, casting an unhealthy-looking greenish tinge over the group.

  He looked around at the others. The thief he had killed during his time as a guard was to his left, and gave him a small nod. Beyond him, the drunkard blubbered into his mug, still wailing about being dead. The next man was a silent blur—the bandit he had managed to kill before the others took him down.

  Next was Davis the Knife, leader of the bandits. Tom would always remember the expression on the man's face as he clutched at his neck, desperately trying to keep his lifeblood within his body just a little longer. He'd heard the man speak, shouting orders to the others, so he could speak here as well.

  “Sellsword.” He raised his mug. “Glad you haven't forgotten us yet. Thanks for the ale.” He seemed a lot more resigned to his fate now, compared to Tom's previous dream about him.

  Continuing around the circle, the next three bandits' faces were sharp—Tom had seem them up close, because he had slit their throats while they slept. He had never heard their voices. Mute, they looked at him with dread, then down at their mugs, clutching them as if for protection.

  Finally, to his right, was a new soul, and Tom sucked in a breath, leaning away a bit as he recognized the man. It was Aiken Forester, Captain of the Guard in Oak Mill—the man who had been possessed by the demon Quazulin.

  The soul, or echo, or whatever he was, looked around in surprise. “Where...?” He fell silent for a few moments, then sighed. In a quieter voice, he asked, “Do dead men dream, then?”

  “It's not our dream,” Davis told him. “It's his.” The bandit leader pointed at Tom, and Forester turned to look at him.

  Forester sized him up for a few moments. “You killed me.”

  Tom swallowed. “Yes.” There was a pause, and then the Guard Captain stuck out his arm.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a world of emotion behind those two words. Tom stared at him, then slowly took the offered arm. The soul echo had a firm grip, and let go after a couple of moments. Tom hesitated, unsure of what to say. “It...”

  “—was necessary,” Forester finished firmly. “And I am grateful.”

  Tom's breath caught. His heart felt stabbed, but in a way that let out a poison. A weight seemed to leave his shoulders. “I'm glad.”

  “You must be a good man,” the Guard Captain declared. When Tom blinked in surprise, he explained, “You carry these souls with you, even though they were enemies.” He gestured at the circle of seated men.

  Tom shrugged. “This just...happens sometimes.”

  “It's been a while, though. Your women aren't letting you get much sleep, eh, kid?” Davis prodded with a small smile.

  Tom sighed. “I guess not.” It had been over a week now, and this was the first time he had dreamt like this since Oak Mill.

  “You killed Davis the Knife?” Forester asked.

  Tom shrugged again. “He killed my whole team, and everyone we were defending.”

  “How'd you survive?”

  “They left me for dead. Dragged myself after them from sheer stubbornness. An elven healer saved my life after it was over,” Tom explained.

  “You have the luck of the gods,” Forester said approvingly. “An elven healer shows up in time to save you? And then you killed me, and then the demon that possessed me?”

  Tom had a horrifying thought. “Quazulin isn't here, is he?” The green flames flared a bit as he said the demon's name. Forester pointed at the fire with a grim smile.

  “What's left of him, anyway.” Forester crossed his arms and glared at the flames, looking coldly satisfied. “How do you like burning forever, demon?”

  Tom eyed the campfire warily. “He can't get out of there, can he?”

  “If you keep wearing your Amulet of Protection from Demons, he certainly can't get out.”

  “Not bad,” Davis muttered with what sounded like grudging respect. Tom furrowed his brow, wondering why.

  “I'm starting to understand, a little,” Forester said with a distant expression. “We are...tightly bound, here. But, if there ever is anything I can do for you, Mr. Walker, just say the word. I am eternally in your debt.”

  Tom considered. “I know you can't tell me anything I don't already know, but there is one thing you can do.”

  “Name it.” The others perked up as well, curious.

  Tom stood, stepped back, and drew his sword. “Re-enact the blows we traded.”

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  He could see the shock, surprise and pleasure on the soul's face as he realized that he could actually help the man who freed him from the demon. Forester's eyes shone in the sickly green light. “Absolutely.”

  They discussed their encounters, and mimicked their moves, each blow exchanged. They repeated the moves, while the older soul drew upon Tom's own memories to correct his footwork and instruct him. They went through the pattern again, and again, while the others drank and sat by the fire, watching.

  And for a short while, Captain Aiken Forester got to smile.

  ° ? ? ? °

  Tom woke slowly, disoriented. It was still dark out. He could feel Diavla's warmth along his left side, her arm thrown across his chest possessively. Varga's light snoring seemed thunderously loud to him, because her nose was all but stuck in his right ear.

  “Hunnnnnnnnn...”

  Tom shifted his head carefully. He really was tired; his lovers had been exhausting him, and he didn't want to miss the chance for more sleep. He felt wrung out.

  “Hunnnnnnnnn...”

  Tom tried to focus on how wonderful the women felt. Just a little more sleep would be good...

  “Hunnnn...SNORK!”

  Tom flinched, and tried not to laugh. Keeping from laughing out loud was easy, but if he shook with silent laughter, he would wake Diavla up. Avoiding that was harder. He tried to shift his head a little farther away from Varga.

  “Hunnnn...SNORRRRRK!”

  There was nothing for it. Tom freed his arm from Varga's clutches, and then gently pinched her nose shut. Varga grunted, batted at his hand, and finally opened her eyes. Tom let go of her nose and pressed a finger to her lips.

  Varga responded by opening her mouth and closing it on his finger. Not what I was trying to... Tom sighed and retrieved his hand. “Roll over,” he whispered.

  The redhead grumbled wordlessly, sat up, and lay back down facing away from him, having trapped his arm in her clutches. He ignored her hopeful butt wiggling and tried to get back to sleep. It barely took a moment.

  ° ? ? ? °

  Someone was trying to wake him. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, then tried to pry them open. The light was dim; the sun had risen, but was hidden behind thick clouds.

  “Tom? Are you all right?” Diavla sounded worried. He tried to answer, but couldn't string words together. He closed his eyes again.

  “Tom. Tom, wake up. Tom? Wake up.” Whose voice is that...? What's his name...Kevin. He pried one eye open. Diavla was elsewhere, and Kevin was grabbing his arm. “Tom, can you stand?”

  “What's...?”

  “Tom. We need to get you into the wagon. Come on, Tom, up and at 'em.”

  “So tired...”

  “Tom, come on. The elves are going to be in danger if we keep on just squatting here.”

  Danger? Tom forced his eyes open, though he had to squint.

  “We might have to drag him out of the tent,” Kevin was saying to Arven, who looked about ready to grab his other arm. A moment later, he could hear Eubexa giving a translation.

  “Hang on,” Tom managed. “Lemme roll over.” With a lot of effort, he got to his hands and knees, and crawled out of the tent. Someone had put his clothes on but not his armor. The campfire was out, and the ground was very chilly. It looked as if the rest of the camp had already been packed up.

  The cold made him slightly more alert, but he still couldn't get up on his knees, let alone to his feet. What's wrong with me? he wondered vaguely.

  “Tom, put your arm on my shoulder...that's it...Oof, you're heavy.” Between his own feeble efforts, and Kevin and Arven on either side, Tom was hauled to his feet, and walked to the back of the rear wagon.

  “Wait...” he mumbled. “Wrong wagon. I need to drive...”

  “You need to get in, Tom. You're not driving anywhere.”

  “But...”

  “I'm taking the front wagon today. Arven will take the back one and keep his hood up. Come on, can you climb up?”

  Tom wanted to argue, but felt too tired. He planted his palms on the wagon bed. Someone offered a bent knee, and he used their leg as a step. Finally, he crawled into the back of the wagon, where a bedroll was waiting for him.

  Diavla was there, and helped him get settled. “Sleep, Tom. Sleep.”

  ° ? ? ? °

  Tom woke around noon, feeling slightly better. Diavla was lying next to him, warming his body with her own.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  “Hi. What happened?”

  “You are sick, Tom. I did see your sick. You need rest. Do you want water?”

  He nodded, and Diavla brought him a drink. He had to use a piss bucket, then lay down again and closed his eyes.

  ° ? ? ? °

  When he next woke, it was dark. What happened? He lay there a few moments, gathering his thoughts. I got sick. Really sick. He realized that he was both thirsty and hungry.

  Lying in the dark, he could feel the warmth from Varga against his back, and Diavla somewhere in front of him. He stirred, testing to see whether he had the strength to get up. He was a bit wobbly, and felt very weak, but he could tell he was able to move around if he had to.

  “Hello, tolanor.” Diavla's voice was a whisper. “How you do feel?”

  “A little better,” he whispered with difficulty. “Water?”

  She helped him to drink, and handed him something to eat that smelled strange. Tom took a bite, and his stomach roiled in reaction. He forced the bite down and tried to hand the rest to Diavla, who pushed it back at him. “Eat all. Sheema say.” It took a while, but Tom forced himself to eat the whole thing, whatever it was—a roll with something disagreeable inside.

  With some difficulty, Tom managed to exit the wagon to piss in private. A look at the stars told him that the night was more than half over. Arven was on watch, and nodded to him as he started back. I slept the day around? Diavla stopped him near the wagon.

  “Wait. I use magic.”

  Tom frowned. She doesn't know how to heal, I thought. What is she—? Abruptly, he shivered as a cloud of grit and grime seemed to fall off of him. He reached up and patted his chest and his arm a moment.

  “You learned how to cast Cleanse.” He smiled. “Good for you. Thank you.”

  “You eat more.”

  “Ugh...”

  “Not Sheema more food. Orvan more food.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  For some reason, he couldn't make himself eat very much, even though he ought to be starving. He drank a lot of water, and then lay back down to sleep in the back of the wagon. Diavla had to fight a sleeping but determined Varga for some of the blanket to put on him. He was too tired to help.

  “Thank you, Diavla,” he whispered. She pushed strands of his hair off of his forehead and kissed it gently.

  “Sleep, Tom.”

  He smiled at his love in the dark. It's so nice to have people who will care for me when I'm sick. I keep thinking I have to do everything, but I don't. They're my troop, my team. We help each other.

  Tom felt afraid whenever he got sick. One of his worst nightmares was becoming weak and frail again, losing the strength he had worked hard to earn. But his breathing was fine, and that helped to settle him. They had a skilled physicker and a gifted healer in their group. It will be all right, he told himself.

  We help each other.