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When the wagon pulled up to the farm gates, it was greeted by a portly woman in a burlap dress and a starched white apron. She held a torch in one hand and, with the other, pushed open the latch to allow the cart through. With concern coloring her face, she noted that all the bags had remained unloaded and were piled up at the back. Something must have happened because it was past dark now, and he had plenty of time to make it to the city.

“Call the boy,” Aimak instructed, and she’d run to one of the three houses built in a half circle around the courtyard.

Behind her came a young man who looked deep asleep when she pounded on his door. He blinked quizically at the grisly sight of the girl. The commotion had lit up the low windows of the second home, and a middle-aged man followed suit - his wife peeking out the door after him.

Together, they’d managed to bring the man and woman that had remained unconscious inside the third house. The farmer’s wife went to work with a hot cloth; the young man had retrieved his toolkit. The farmhand and his wife hurried to gather blankets, medicinal herbs and supplies.

The farmer’s wife had taken charge of the task at hand, her husband wearily sliding down onto a bench. She’d been a midwife in the community for a long time, but that task was nothing like what lay before her. The girl was pale and unresponsive. There was not much chance she was going to make it.

“Get me some rust and marigold from the cold cellar!” she’d instructed someone, “Iodine from the cabinet,” she instructed someone else. “Put her feet up and her head!”

The man was not so worse for wear - the only wound they found was a deep gash on his right leg - it was infected and poorly bandaged, but the marigold mixture would go a long way there. It looked like someone tried to treat it, but the work was sloppy at best. He was feverish and delirious, but he surely was going to live.

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The strong, sharp smell of iodine quickly filled the air inside the house. Its walls stood low, the vaulted roof making up most of the space inside. It was made of thatch and combed straw, and the walls were of clay and wood. There were no decorations here - only a stone hearth, large table and stools, chests, and cots. No ornate rugs lined the floor, but thick, rough leather was placed between the furniture far from the hearth. It was already lit and warm by the time the farmer had returned and now had grown hot inside the home.

The leather needle had been produced, and the farmer’s wife went to work.

For Marat, time did not exist. Everything was a blur of men’s voices, cold and heat. He felt the chills throb through him, and now his skin burned - he was trapped inside and desperate to get out. His eyes opened, but only barely. He saw shapes and shadows dancing on something, the walls? Was he indoors? It had been so long since he had seen indoors… except…

He jerked so hard he fell off the cot where the men had placed him. His head hit the cold floor, temporarily finding relief.

The Hag. The Hag was near, and she’d drugged him. She’d cursed him, and he could not wake up now. He’d fallen into the deep sleep that threatened anyone who had dared cross the boundary of her realm. Or perhaps it was her food or drink - why had he had so much? It was a hot meal that he had seen so little of in so long. Why had they come? Where was Erlan? Had the Hag gotten him as well?

Where was Valeria?

Who was Valeria?

The sharp smells of medicines burst into his nostrils forcefully, making his eyes snap open again - watering. Where was he? This was a dark place, but it smelled of damp straw and cured leather. The pain settled into his mind next - why was he in so much pain? He turned onto his side, lifting his head with much effort. Someone was hurrying toward him.

“Erlan…” he squeezed out, but whoever approached was not Erlan.

Whoever approached restrained him; there was nothing he could do - his muscles failed him, his strength gone. Someone else, rushing over, yelling something. They were talking about… something…

Why did they bring the saw?

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