As it happened, the small group hiding in Iorek's camp were not the only people around to notice the fire. Fires as big as that gather attention from miles around, and some of the attention it gathered was not pleased to follow the smoke back to its source and find the fire to be manmade.
"Just what do they think they're up to," the onlooker muttered, having found a vantage to examine the scene without being smoked herself. It was not nearly as bad as Lee Scoresby feared; the forest was not yet alight, but that was likely to change if things continued unchecked.
"Do they ever think?" asked the onlooker's companion, close by for once, as they had both been curious about the smoke and there was only so much air available that was clean in the vicinity. The onlooker had a knack for helping the air around her stay clear, but her daemon would have been choking if he hadn't stayed close.
"It's the wrong season for a burn," said the onlooker, displeased. "Gather my sisters; we will need to be sure we turn this, and a single missed spark could spell ruin. I will watch that it does not spread in the interim."
The bird daemon said nothing, but turned and, careful of his path through the smoke, made for a hidden lake some miles distant. The witch stayed, for of course, it was only a witch who could have sent her daemon from her side, as well as controlling the air currents and keeping herself airborne so as to avoid the smoke and fire while examining the remains of the stronghold.
She did not stay airborne though, still curious over what had come to pass, and she found a place mostly clear of smoke and not so close to the flames as to threaten her (she could not be harmed by cold and did not particularly fear heat either but she could burn; in fact that had been a favored method for killing her kind for centuries. And her branch that granted her flight was made of wood; replacing it would have been a nuisance.).
Two of the buildings by that point were little more than ash, as was the fence closest to them. The third building had more recently destroyed itself, torn apart when the casks of oil met with the fire, and its remains were scattered and burning and the largest danger to the forest. The stronghold itself was built over stone and the nearest trees had been long cleared away to give a better line of sight for the sentries and so the danger of the fire spreading was not as extreme as it could have been, particularly when the morning dew had still wet the earth. The day was progressing, however, and the dew had dried up, and one careless spark was all that would be needed to change the situation fast.
The witch looked at the fire first, and the dead bodies second. She took note of most everything, starting to form the story of what happened, in part from using logic and her eyes, but perhaps in part simply absorbing the knowledge of the stones beneath her feet, the memories of the dead, or something else entirely.
"An armored bear?" she said, her foot placed over the larger footprint made from a paw, invisible to most eyes. That was curious indeed. There had certainly been a battle, and it was not only the bear fighting against men, for bears do not often use pistols. She saw the shackles, and red of the blood on the stones, and her outrage at the fire slowly turned to a deeper curiosity. If she understood the story correctly (and of course she did), an armored bear was travelling as a friend to a man and his little girl. The man had been captured and hurt, perhaps the girl as well, and the bear had come to their rescue, evading a trap meant for him, and all three of them (five, the humans would have daemons) left the dead and the fire behind.
She should scold them over the fire, she supposed. Leaving a fire burning…they should know better. Still, the bear came from a land of ice where perhaps he would not know better because snow does not burn, and the man was clearly injured, perhaps dead (the stones were screaming DEATH), perhaps they could be excused; witches did not care about the affairs of non-witches, but they do take sides all the same, and she was already more than half on the side of the victors even without knowing all the details. She had a soft spot for children and a hatred for bear hunters.
Also she was deeply curious to know the story of the place in its entirety, and the survivors were the best source.
She did not set off at once to find them because the fire did need tending. First things first, she dragged the dead bodies clear, into the forest. She did not want scavengers to come into the stronghold and get singed or spread sparks and ashes, after all. She could have put them into the fire, of course (and some were already long consumed), but why add fuel to what she meant to extinguish? Besides, this was the natural way of things. Then she worked diligently to take away anything that might burn from the vicinity of the flames, stamping out sparks and feeling for hidden burns she may have missed.
Some distance, in the opposite direction of Iorek's camp, an unmanned zeppelin bobbed along, directed by the wind instead of its propellers, its sole passenger hanging limply from the open hanger, eyes unseeing. The zeppelin's ropes that had once anchored it to the stronghold had burned, but by chance the burn had not risen to the zeppelin itself. It was almost unnatural how it had managed to last so long in the air on its own, not burnt by a stray spark, not blown into the ground or tossed into a tree or crashed. An unlucky, violent, fiery end could have been its fate; there were many flammable parts and there was no one but a dead man to steer it clear of dangers. But it was not a likely fate; it was not at high speed, the winds were gentle; most likely it would slowly lose altitude like a dying balloon and then meet the earth and never rise again.
What in fact happened was that it caught in a tree, still buoyant and airworthy but no longer blown along. There were unpleasant, scraping, crunching noises as it came to its untimely resting place, but it did not explode or burst into flames.
For a while, the sole passenger continued to hang, his fingers grazing leaves, his skin scratched, blood slowly dripping to the earth, propelled due to gravity rather than the efforts of a beating heart. The other denizens of the forest were naturally timid of the unnatural contraption newly merged with the trees, but after a while the passenger was joined. Carrion eaters are seldom picky about the environs of their meal.
Some miles away, Iorek fretted, and attended to Lee Scoresby, determined that death not be his fate.
Bears, as a rule, do not fret, but it was hard to describe Iorek's actions in any other way.
"Are we going to leave?" Lyra asked, a sensible question when the air smelled of danger, of smoke, but the answer was far from simple. In the first place, where could they go that would be safe if the forest did blaze? Lee Scoresby had a grounded balloon, which was of no use. Lyra had thought of the zeppelin but dismissed it (rightly, it was far too far to be of any use to them by then). If Iorek could raid what was left of the stronghold, there might have been something to help in fixing the balloon, but firstly the stronghold was utterly destroyed, secondly approaching the fire seemed like folly, and thirdly, even if he could somehow, miraculously fix the balloon…Lee Scoresby was the one who knew how it worked and he was more or less down for the count.
Iorek's instincts said to move, and a bear rarely ignored its instincts. Of all the bears that might ignore its instincts, however, an armored bear was high on the list. An armored bear could reason, and reason could lead to conflict when reason disagreed with instinct.
And Iorek's reason told him that moving Lee Scoresby was a bad move.
His fever was rising. It did not matter how liberally Iorek had applied the bloodmoss; already Lee Scoresby had been made to wait long hours between receiving the wounds and having them tended. On top of wounds, the man had also been forced to push himself beyond his strength. He had to face battle, and hardships, and…Iorek was a bear and he did not completely understand the horror of having one's daemon manhandled by another but he did know enough to be horrified. Bears build their own daemon in the form of their armor, and it did not hurt Iorek for another to touch it, but he remembered when his armor was stollen and how he had felt like half himself, like…like those men had committed a sin. To separate a bear from its armor was as sinister as to separate a babe from its mother. There was theft, and then there was wickedness. And Lee Scoresby had faced that not once but twice (Iorek had heard what the leader had said to the sentry the day before, even if he had chosen not to share it with Lyra). Iorek could not say how all of this together was making things worse than they might have been, but he knew for a fact they had not made things better.
Lee Scoresby had a rising fever, and he smelled of a wounded animal, ill and weak, dying, and Iorek had already done all he knew to do and still Lee Scoresby's fever rose.
If Iorek had done all he could, and that was not enough, he did not know how to feel.
Then there was Hester, who was only a little better off than Lee but who had received even less attention. The wolf daemons had broken skin in their skirmishes, and she had been carried and tossed about and shaken in ways a hare was never meant to be. Iorek had not dared to tend to her wounds, not when she so clearly was not ready for anyone to touch her again who was not Lee, and Lee was in no shape to see to her. It was telling that he had never even seemed to notice she needed tending to, because Lee Scoresby always saw to her first in all the time Iorek had known the two. For him to not even realize she needed more from him than closeness said a lot for the state the man was in.
Hester did not want to leave Lee Scoresby's side, but she saw the sense in tending to herself, if only because her weakness was feeding into Lee's. Iorek did not dare to touch her, but equally, he did not dare to leave her untouched.
"Can you apply the bloodmoss to yourself?" Iorek asked, once Lee was fully taken care of and there was no excuse the hare could give to avoid her own treatment.
"They got the back of my neck the worst," Hester admitted quietly. That she could not reach that part of herself easily went unspoken, as did the fact that she did need help. Iorek hesitated, feeling ill at ease for navigating this situation. He was on the verge of suggesting Pan, thinking a fellow daemon might be better received, when Hester spoke again. "I'll need you to do it."
They both knew she did not want him to do it. The fact that she was asking anyway touched the bear in a way he scarcely understood himself.
He worked as quickly as he could with as little contact as he could manage. Lee Scoresby slept through it, but fitfully, wincing in tune with Hester, hand reaching blindly for her. She stayed close enough that he could touch but not close enough for his hand to interfere.
Lyra and Pan stayed close too, almost like they wanted to feel the touch of their companions. They had not completely given up their role as sentry, would not until Iorek told them they could relax, but though their eyes turned outwards it was clear their thoughts were inwards.
Lyra had been silent since asking if they were going to leave. This, too, was unusual, and likely a sign the child had been pushed too far as well. She might not have her skin flayed with open wounds for all to see, but that did not mean she was not wounded.
What she needed most, Iorek knew, was Lee Scoresby; Iorek would give her what he could, and he knew the child cared for him, loved him, but he could not give her Lee Scoresby.
Lee Scoresby's fever was rising, and moving him would tax him in ways he may not have the strength to withstand, but leaving him be may anchor them all to a dangerous place. So the bear fretted, and felt like less of a bear, because he was failing his friends, and he was failing his instincts, and he did not know how to make things right.
Lee Scoresby trusted Iorek to care for Lyra and Pan. It would be safer for the child if they moved further from the fire. It would be worse for her if their move caused Lee Scoresby's death. Iorek did not sense a growing danger, and they were by water, which was also a measure of safety. They stayed.
For a while Lee slept, not deeply or healingly, but fitfully, his fever and pains offering him no rest.
"I will keep watch now, Lyra Silvertongue," said Iorek, once he had done all he could for both the man and the daemon. He knew that she wanted to be close to Lee and did not think that would hurt the man. If anything, it might help. And if worst came to worst, it would be better if the child had had a chance for that final closeness.
The child approached Lee slowly, eyes wide. He did not look as bad as before, the worst of his wounds covered in bandages, and a light blanket covering most of him. Hester was there too, but under the blanket and out of sight. The worst visible wound was the bruising across Lee's face, now glistening slightly from the ointment Iorek had applied.
"He will be alright now, won't he?" Lyra asked, as she moved to sit next to him, clearly unsure of what to do but wanting to be close. That question almost went as unanswered as her question about leaving, but that seemed unfair to her. Bears do not turn their heads from reality, not even for the sake of the young.
"I have tended his wounds," Iorek answered, "But some were already infected, and a fever burns him. If the fever does not pass soon, I do not know if he is strong enough to bear it."
"He can't die," Lyra declared, as if saying that would make it so, as if the universe was fair. "We saved him. And…and…he saved me. He wouldn't just…just leave me. He wouldn't."
"If it is at all in his power, he will not leave you," Iorek agreed, because that was true too. He just did not know it would be in the man's power.
It would have been better for Lee Scoresby if he had fallen into a deep sleep and lay motionless for hours, but he did not, and after a while he became coherent once more, for a certain degree of coherency.
"Hester!" he called, or tried to, his voice weak and hoarse, "The prairies afire! Hester, the lake, the prairie…"
"We're fine, Lee," Hester murmured, "We got away just fine."
Lee did settle for a bit, only to notice Lyra and become concerned again.
"Lyra, honey, you have to get away, the prairie's ablaze and it will come for you, leave me and get to the lake…"
"Its alright, Mr. Scoresby," Lyra said, "There's been a rain and that put out the prairie fire. Don't you feel the water? You just rest."
The lie calmed the man faster than explaining the truth could have. The water part was real enough; at Iorek's suggestion she had been bathing his burning brow with a damp cloth. This had somewhat soothed the fever, but was likely also what helped to rouse him.
During these moments of semi-coherency, Iorek got Lee to drink, aware of how fast dehydration could drain a person during an illness. He remembered to get Lyra to have something as well, and would have felt better if Lee could have eaten, but the man seemed incapable, groaning and turning away when presented anything more taxing than tea.
"Please," Lyra said when he turned his head from the weak broth, and then Hester said the first words she had said for hours, "You gotta eat, Lee, it'll give you strength."
Between the two women, Lee allowed it, but it did little good, because moments later he was rolled on his side and heaving it back up again, only just missing his sealskin bed. Being somewhat still outdoors the mess was easy enough to clean; Iorek dragged the mattress slightly away and then buried what little liquid hadn't soaked into the ground.
If he noticed a bit of blood in the mess, he said nothing. He knew Lee had taken several blows to his soft organs, and that there were dangers there, but there was nothing he knew to do about it that he was not already doing.
"That was…that was not fun," Lee murmured, perhaps deriving some good from what little broth had made its way into his system, because he did seem slightly revived. He looked a bit embarrassed as he watched Iorek take care of the mess. He turned his glassy eyes to look at Lyra, and tried to give her a grin because he did not care for how worried she looked, and his hand petted Hester gently, aware enough when he neared a wound to avoid it, and both taking comfort from the contact. And then his eyes moved past Lyra and Pan, to something no one else saw.
The man blinked, eyes still glassy and not completely focused, and Lyra turned to look in spite of herself, knowing as she did it was likely a fever vision. As she thought, there was no one there, of course there was no one there; no one could creep into the camp invisible, not only to their eyes but to Iorek's nose and Hester and Pans' ears.
"It will be alright, Mr. Scoresby," said Lyra, moving to mop at the man's glistening brow with her damp cloth. "We'll try again in a bit."
Lee Scoresby did not turn towards her, his eyes still looking past her at something not there, an expression of confusion on his face.
"serf in a peck call uh?" he said, nonsense sounding syllables, and Lyra bit her lip in worry, then tried to smile so she would not worry him. Whenever he noticed her worrying, that is when he seemed to get worse, working himself to exhaustion trying to ease that worry and doing just the opposite.
"You'll be alright," Lyra repeated, and hoped with all her heart that this was not another lie.