Mikhail was still chuckling to himself when they left Myrrin’s manor. “Ah, my young friends, the lot of you are turning out to be surprisingly enjoyable company. Just for how flustered you got poor old Myrrin back there, I don’t regret risking my life to keep you safe.”

“Do you really think he’ll pull through?” Camille asked. “I got the impression he cared more about… other things than sending us home.”

“You mean treating you as a glory-seeking project?” Mikhail gave her a meaningful look. “Think again. Despite the opulence of his lifestyle and his appearance of a fat merchant, Myrrin is a noble soul. Too noble, for what was asked of him. It pays well, but the life of a warmage is a hard one, especially emotionally. And unfortunately for him, he was more skilled than most.” Mikhail shook his head sadly. “He’s done too much and seen even more. I don’t envy him his lot.”

“But he’ll still try to help us out?” Camille pressed.

“Like I said,” Mikhail responded as he began heaving himself into the cart’s driver position. “He’s a rare noble soul, and not even his stewing self-hatred has managed to dim that. These days he has to find some cynical reason, far-fetched as it may be, to justify his instinct of helping people.”

“You’re saying he doesn’t actually care about the fame?” Sam asked, helping the old man into the driver’s seat.

“Ah, thank you boy.” Mikhail took the cart’s reins and, once they’d all piled in, drove the horse forward once more. “Well, he certainly wouldn’t mind the recognition, and Lady knows he’s earned it. But realistically, suppose he sends you home. How would he ever prove it? He might make some great discovery along the way, but he can’t know that either. At best, it’d be a gamble. No,” Mikhail shook his head, “he’s really doing it out of the kindness of his heart, though he’ll never admit it, least of all to himself.”

“You know each other well,” Tasha noted.

“Aye, that we do. I mentioned we served together in the south, pacifying the Ulvar Rebellion. Gods, what a mess that campaign was, constant hit and run, our men getting butchered left and right. It’s where I lost my leg.” Mikhail liften his brown robes enough to reveal the wooden foot where a real one should have been. “We became like brothers down there. Of course, there were others. Masha, Tevrem, Little Vim… All dead now. We’re the last.”

The cart’s occupants remained silent as it clattered down the cobbled road towards the heart of the village. Finally, Mikhail spoke up again, tone just a bit too cheerful. “Ah, there we are! The Drunk Mason! Best Shepherd's Pie this side of the Bridge, and pretty good mead, too!” He pointed to one of the town’s larger buildings, two stories tall and very wide. “At this time of day, half the town will be in there for lunch. Perfect opportunity to have them see you in a controlled setting. Most likely no one will ask questions or pay too much attention, but they’ll have seen you, which is what matters. Try not to speak too much or attract attention and you’ll be fine.”

The cart rolled to a stop in front of a stout wooden door through which the sounds of conversation and laughter streamed through. Above the door, a swinging placard displayed a man falling off a stylized bridge with a hammer in one hand, a mug in the other, and a wide smile on his wooden face. “Alright,” Mikhail said. “Remember, don’t try to engage in conversation too much and we’ll be out of there quick as you please.”

The priest pushed in the wooden door and they all stepped in, the tavern’s noise washing over them as they did. The tavern’s common room was small and cramped, filled with tables and the smell of food and wine. The tables and benches were simple and utilitarian, and the ground covered in straw. At the far end, a long wooden bar split the room from what must have been the kitchen. Sam had to stop through the doorway to avoid knocking his head on it, and even inside the ceiling was uncomfortably close to his head.

As they stepped in, the din of conversation quieted as the patrons, burly manual worker types, paused to look at them, and then it trailed off. Soon, an unnatural silence gripped the room as the assembled occupants stared at the small group that had just stepped in.

Sam tensed. Mikhail had said they wouldn’t pay too much attention, but he could feel the eyes of the room on him like a physical weight as they scrutinized them. Next to him, Tasha fidgeted, her hand having darted to her pocket at some point. The moment stretched longer, interminal, and—

A cry sounded as someone shouted “Hey, that’s him! That’s the Wolf Wrestler!”

As one, the patrons erupted in cheers and hollering, leaping from their tables and raising mugs in the air, and those closest to the door rushed towards them. Towards Sam.

“Bloody Hells boy you’re e’en bigger ‘un I thought!” A burly man in simple clothes clasped his hand and shook it forcefully.

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“Uh, ah…” Was all Sam managed as a sea of people pressed in on him.

“The scars! He’s got the scars! Look!” Another pointed at Sam’s arm.

“Well fuck me with butter and eat me raw, that horseshit story was true!” An older man said as he stood up and thrust his mug in Sam’s hand. “Here take it young man, you’ve bloody well fucking earned it!”

“Ah… Thanks?” Sam said.

“Back! Back, dammit all!” Mikhail roared as he shoved people away from his group. “Back! Give the boy some room!”

Eventually he managed to manhandle, threaten, and shove away enough of the patrons that they could force their way to the bar. “There are no punishments severe enough on this earth for what Alder deserves.” He grumbled darkly. “That thrice-burned fool! I thought he’d carelessly spilled a detail or two to someone over drinks, but no! He’s gone and made you a bloody tavern legend! So much for discretion!”

Sam nodded dumbly, holding two tankards in his hands, a second having joined the first at some point, as the crowd still pressed in to try to talk to him about the story with the wolf. Behind him he saw more people streaming into the tavern, word having apparently traveled fast.

“Sam,” Kaisei whispered to him, “I take it back, I’m pretty happy with not being the hero, actually.”

----------------------------------------

Eventually, the crowd dispersed enough that they managed to eat some lunch, grab food and supplies for the chapel, and get back on the road without Mikhail having to murder someone, though he’d come close by the end.

“Damnation” He cursed, as he’d been doing for the entire trip. “Here I worried about slowly getting the villagers used to the lot of you, and now you’re a local celebrity, and so are the rest of you by association! Hooks and fire, that’s what I’ll get ready for that loose-lipped fool! Hooks and fire!”

“Not that this wasn’t stressful,” Camille said, “but wasn’t the goal to make them think we were credible elite Church soldiers? Fighting a fallwolf or whatever with just a knife should be enough for that, no?”

“That wasn’t the goal, that was the tool! The goal was to make sure they didn’t pay close attention to you! Temple Guards that can’t fight would have raised eyebrows, but not been nearly as attention-grabbing as this! Especially since now, if it turns out you can’t fight after all, we’ll really be in for it!”

“So, what does that mean for us?” Tasha asked.

“That we’re going to start your training ahead of schedule. Especially you, big guy. You’re going to have too many eyes on you to get away with being complacent anymore. We start today, as soon as we get back to the Chapel.”

“What… What about me?” Kaisei asked, some of his good cheer from the morning dissipated at the mention of training. “I’ll have classes with Myrrin, right? Every day at dawn?”

“And you’ll also have classes with me, every day.” Mikhail replied without turning around. “You should have thought about that before you committed.”

Sam smiled as kaisei facepalmed and groaned. “You know, even Gandalf had a sword, and he used it all the time.”

“And look where that got him!” Kaisei said. “He fights the balrog with weapons and then he just falls and dies! If he’d learned a flight spell, or something to collapse the bridge from a distance, he’d have been fine!”

“He comes back, though,” Tasha noted.

“Yeah well that was just lazy writing, and I don’t think I’d get that lucky. I’ll just learn a flying spell instead, thank you very much.”

They kept chatting away until the chapel came back in sight through the trees, and helped Mikhail unload the supplies.

“Good, that’s over with,” he said finally, when they were done. “Now follow me, let’s go to the courtyard.”

The Chapel’s “courtyard” was just a small grassless area at the back, enclosed by a low half-wall and by the chapel itself. Save for a small stone bench, it was completely clear.

“Wait here,” Mikhail said, “let me fetch some things.”

After a moment, he came back with a long wooden box in arms. “These,” he said, dropping the box to the bare dirt, “are the training weapons my predecessor left me with. Not as good as the real thing, but for rank beginners, they’ll have to do. I’ll get you some real weapons later.”

“Why the hell does a chapel need training weapons in the first place?” Camille asked as she bent down to open the box and took a thick wooden “sword” from it, though its heft looked more like that of a small club.

“The Faith doesn’t defend itself,” Mikhail said simply. “Now, before we go any further, I need to know. How much experience do you all have with fighting? The goal ins't making you formidable, but to appear it, so anything I can build off of will go a long way.”

Kaisei began speaking up but Mikhail interrupted him. “No, not you, I know you’re useless. I meant the others.”

“I did fencing for years when I was a kid,” Camille said, “but I’ve never gotten into a fight.”

“Fencing? Nobleman style? With those toothpick swords they use?” Mikhail grunted. “Bah, I hate that prancy crap. But it’s something to work with, at least. The two of you?” He looked at Tasha and Sam.

“I’ve gotten into a few fights. Fists. Mostly.” Tasha said with a shrug.

“Right, you do have that knife of yours. Hmm, it’s unusual for a Temple Guard, but not unheard of. We could try something like that. And you?”

A memory flashed through Sam’s mind. “Once,” he said simply, rubbing a finger at his knuckles.

“Starting from nothing then. Great, just great.” Mikhail sighed as he picked up a particularly thick looking sword-shaped club from the box, which he twirled with a nasty look on his face. “Let’s start with you, then, shall we?”