The beams in the roof above his head felt miles away. His backache told him he’d been lying on the ground. Someone had placed him on furs just thick enough to take away the cold of the earth, and blankets had been draped over him, wrapped tight enough to make him uncomfortable and sweaty. His head throbbed and his stomach hurt. The blonde woman leaned into his field of vision. “You . . . you’re not my wife. Don’t have a wife.” Claws of fear scratched at his spine. His voice was not his own. His words were slurred, and all that came out was a quiet whisper. “I know,” the woman whispered. “Drink this.” “No—hnnh—” Ulfar struggled, but he was as weak as a newborn child. She held his head firmly and tipped a small water-skin to his lips. Drops of a liquid of some sort tipped out. Ulfar tried to clamp his mouth shut. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t. You have to.” She pinched his nose shut. “Just drink it. Everything will be fine.” He gave up long before he wanted to, swallowing, coughing, and gasping.
