Vorck was a small, stone-walled town nestled in the lowlands beneath the shadow of the Foreguard Peaks, perhaps a day’s hard ride south of Grand Tower and several days west from Red Sands. Kendrell entered through the small wooden gate in the north wall, trying to look like a simple farmer without much of interest in the world. It proved rather easy, as Kendrell was, in fact, a simple farmer without much of interest in the world. A dozen armed guards patrolled the wall, but they paid him no mind aside from a cursory examination at the gate.

Once a thriving crossroads town, Vorck had fallen on hard times. It had sprouted like a hardy weed in the dusty northern no-man's-land, supported by traders and travelers heading between Denlare in the west, Grand Tower in the north, and Red Sands to the east. Despite its favorable location on the Long March running across northern Faeos, it wasn't the kindest of places to live, what with the isolation and the nearby desolate and deadly Raptor Country. But the inhabitants were used to hard living. No, the reason for Vorck's troubles was due more to certain of its neighbors than ill fortune.

Bandits, to be precise.

Kendrell fortunately had not run into any highwaymen on his way into Vorck. Perhaps they were busy elsewhere, or perhaps he was merely lucky. Although, he mused, with precious little worth stealing, he'd hardly be a tempting mark. It hadn't stopped the Clans in Red Sands, though...

Kendrell ruthlessly quashed that thought. Where to go from here? It seemed there was too much he needed and not enough time. Food, shelter, coin, stealth. Fortunately, Kendrell was intimately familiar with this kind of situation. On the farm, there had always been more work that needed doing than time to do it. He just had to break out his priorities, and pick the first thing. He had little money, enough to pay for food and lodging for a few nights. Even a small town such as this would have a place to stay, and food sellers, so Kendrell's first priority had to be bolstering his flagging funds. Money could buy you a lot of things.

Once past the gate, Kendrell scanned the town for landmarks. Near the very center of town, a tall walled keep loomed, and to the north a belltower rose above the squat thatched roofs of Vorck. The badly-paved road led towards the belltower and opened into what Kendrell assumed was a market square. He could make out the shape of a few taller buildings in that direction; one of them might be an inn.

Resolved, Kendrell made for the town square. If there was any work to be had, it would be found there.

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The Vorck market square was small and largely empty. A gibbet stood in the center of the square, boards worn low by use. A steady clink of metal on metal punctuated the noise, giving it an almost musical quality. This latter sound came from a heavyset man working an outdoor smithy slightly west of the main square. A few peddlers shouted offers at passerby, competing to make the most enticing claims about their totally ordinary wares.

The scene reminded Kendrell of countless market-days back home. Before the drought, he regularly brought the cheese, cabbages, and rye from the Harrows farm into town for sale. Hawking food in a crowded market was one part bookkeeping, one part wiles, one part charm, and one part sheer volume. It had been something he was good at, then.

Vorck was a shadow of even the small-town market Kendrell recalled. A lean dog sniffed around the square, occasionally scarfing down a dropped scrap. The one real source of bustle was a merchant caravan parked near the center of town. Several wagons stood open, with burly men hauling goods out and setting them behind stalls where merchants could sell them to the townspeople. The wagons had a few guards of their own, but Kendrell noticed an odd sight - a short, squat man with almost comically-large muscles bulging out of his sleeveless leather armor. The sword strapped to his back was so tall that the tip nearly scraped the ground. He stood with his arms folded, shaggy black hair tied back, and watched the unloading closely.

His armor was strange - the shape was that of leather, but the texture was oddly bumpy. The image of a plucked and baked chicken popped unbidden into Kendrell's mind and he repressed a snort. This was not the sort of fellow one laughed at.

A younger man, perhaps Kendrell's age, approached Mr. Big Sword at a jog. Clad in a similar leather, the newcomer was taller than average, which made him appear to tower over the older man. The youth stood smiling beside his elder and said something Kendrell didn't catch. The older man threw back his head and laughed. He clapped the younger man on the shoulder, and the youth took up position beside the wagons.

They seemed friendly. Maybe Kendrell should introduce himself. Then again, he probably wanted to keep a low profile, even out here in the Malachite Fief. He was an outlaw now, after all. But...Kendrell frowned, thinking about his anemic coin purse. Maybe the caravan could use some help unloading? Now there's a thought.

Kendrell eyed the wagons again. The unloading was proceeding rather slowly - only a couple of laborers were working on it, and there were a lot of crates. One fellow, better dressed than most, seemed to be doing most of the talking. He looked about as merchant-like as Kendrell expected, and might be willing to pay for an extra hand. Deciding it was worth the risk, Kendrell approached, trying his best to appear confident.

"Oh, sorry, lad, didn't see you there. Mind you stay out of the way of our workers, right?" He gave a meaningful glance to the burly youth standing guard, who nodded.

"Actually," offered Kendrell, "I was thinking of helping out. Looks like you could use an extra pair of hands. You hiring?"

"Hmmm. Well, you got me there," answered the merchant, giving Kendrell a more calculating gaze. Evidently he liked what he saw, because he nodded. "Name's Vail. I was just about to go and rustle up some local help. Going rate is two coppers for an afternoon's labor, what do you say?"

Kendrell thought about it. The offer was a bit low, but he could understand the merchant's position. "Ken- uh, Kenchant,"- gosh, how easy it was to forget you were a wanted murderer - "and if you make it three coppers it's a deal."

"Now why would I pay you more than the locals get, stranger?" asked Vail wryly.

"Because," answered Kendrell smoothly, "if you could rustle up enough locals you'd already have 'em. It looks to me like workers are pretty scarce right now." He smiled lightly to take some of the sting out. It was true - back home, or even in Red Sands, a load this size would have five or six workers hauling it. Something was making the locals wary. But Kendrell couldn't afford to be picky.

"Heh. You run a fair bargain, I'll give you that. Alright, it is. Git movin', you work for Vail now!"

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Kendrell leaned against the wagon for a breather. He'd been hauling crates in the hot sun for several hours, now, and the work was nearly finished. He looked forward to a long rest - a bath was probably out of the question on his limited coin, sadly.

Vail's wares were pretty standard for an eastward-bound merchant. Tools and cutlery, jewels, furs, dried snailberries, foreign ales, a few carefully-preserved books, a smattering of faintly magical trinkets and ingredients that would fetch an exorbitant price. Kendrell had already seen Vail and the blacksmith negotiating a price for a batch of metal ingots refined from the mountains near Denlare. The Citrine Fief was known for its magic and metal; a natural consequence of its status as the seat of the Academy and the most mountainous region in Faeos. In contrast to Vorck, Denlare was one of the most prosperous cities in Faeos. And it's also where my brother died, thought Kendrell bitterly. He had briefly considered fleeing to Denlare, but he wanted nothing to do with that city.

"You're a pretty good worker," noted the burly youth guarding the wares.

Kendrell glanced up, his thoughts scattering at the interruption. "Thanks. I used to live on a farm, this is relatively tame."

The guard chuckled. "Easier than hauling animals, eh? At least the crates don't wander off."

Kendrell nodded. "You don't seem like a farmer yourself." His weapons were too good, for one. And the bands of metal on his shield were steel, not shoddy iron.

"Nah, I'm a saurherd originally. From out east in the Hills."

"Huh," Kendrell mused. "I guess that explains the armor."

"Oh, this? Good eye." Thoros tapped absently on his bumpy leather outfit. "Yeah, this is genuine saurhide. Looks ugly as heck and it's a pain to get the feathers out, but it'll soften a blow like any other leather, if not better. Them beasts have thick skin." He grinned. "Won't stop a sword or spear though."

Kendrell frowned. "You're awfully well-armed for a herdsman."

"Had to be. Our tribe bordered the Loamen Wilds."

Kendrell started. He was that kind of herdsman. The tribes of the Ilvorn Hills were infamous near his former home, for three things: their saurian livestock and steeds, their skill at combat, and their habit of vicious raids against the farmers of the Emerald Fief - or in other words, against Kendrell's family. He'd never been the target of such a raid himself, but his neighbors had. Ilvorn raiders had killed a cousin of the Harrows when Kendrell was nine. The farmboy immediately grew more wary. "What brought you here to Vorck?" he ventured.

"Well," sighed the guard, blind to Kendrell's discomfort, "long story short, we got kicked out. My old man," he nodded at the squat figure with the claymore, "lost a challenge for leadership, and I followed him into exile." The subject of their conversation grimaced, but kept silent.

That wasn't as bad as Kendrell feared. Still, he sensed this was a poor choice of topic and steered desperately away. "Uh, right. I'm Kenchant, by the way." The lie came more smoothly this time.

The guard cracked his thick neck, casually sweeping his gaze over the wares as he did so. "Thoros Spelloyal. That there's Mel."

"Wait, Spelloyal? That's not an Ilvorn name." Kendrell frowned. For some reason, this made Thoros wince.

"Oh, here we go..." growled the squat hunk of muscle named Mel.

"Dad, be nice," cautioned the younger man, with an exasperated air.

Spelloyal. It jogged Kendrell's memory. Something Nikolas had said in passing...

He remembered. Kendrell's eyes widened. "No mucking way."

Spelloyal wasn't a name. It was a title. A mark of honor bestowed to the heroes of Denlare, to someone who had done a great service to the Citrine Fief. How did the City of Magic end up indebted to a barbarian from the opposite side of the country?

Kendrell was looking at a legend.

Evidently his awe showed on his face, because the legend grimaced again. "See that, son? That right there," grumbled the scarred barbarian lord, "is why I don't like giving our name."

"Dad."

"No, seriously, people hear our name and they think it means saurdung - "

"Dad."

"- it's never 'wow, what a beautiful sword' or even 'such a majestic beard', no, it's always the sodding name that makes them bow and scrape - "

"DAD, you are scaring the locals."

"Good!"

He was right. People were staring. And whispering.

The older man sighed. "Yes, alright, it was a long time ago. I don't want to talk about it. Now get back to loading the wagons and stop looking at me like I'm some kind of hero. I'm not. I couldn't - when it counted, I - " His face contorted into a queer expression, a mixture of rage and...was that grief? "I'm no hero. NOW GET BACK TO WORK!"

Kendrell jumped. So did a dozen bystanders. Mel's shout had left his ears ringing.

Kendrell got back to work.

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It took several hours to finish unloading the wagons and set up the merchant's wares in the marketplace. Kendrell was sore and sweaty by the end, but it was a kind of work that he knew. Half a continent away from his childhood home, it was comforting in a way to distract himself with simple chores. Some things stayed pretty much the same wherever you went. Manual labor, it seemed, was one of them.

Mopping his brow, Kendrell leaned on the side of a wagon. The boy he'd spoken to before, Thoros, approached, giving a stiff wave. "You did good work there. Kenchant, you said?"

Kendrell blinked, then nodded, inwardly cursing himself. He'd almost forgotten about the false name and given himself away. "Yeah. Thoros, right? Your dad's got...quite the temper."

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"Runs in the family," chuckled Thoros. "Where I'm from, that's a compliment."

Kendrell couldn't resist smiling too. "I can't really blame him for not wanting attention." This young man was a far cry from the vicious raiders Kendrell had heard about. But from his looks and the way he stood, Kendrell would bet he could look properly terrifying if he wanted to. The young guard had taken up a position at the corner of the wagon, back to the wood, where he could see the town square and the streets alike. A good spot to talk, without sacrificing his field of vision. Kendrell doubted anyone would dare to make trouble, though; if the Spelloyal name didn't scare off any wannabe thieves, the fierce appearance of the watchful pair likely would. Perhaps that was why Vail only had a few guards.

"It's not exactly that," mused Thoros, as he idly scanned the square. "He's fine with attention, with being loud and noticed. It's more...he doesn't want to be praised for the wrong reasons. It's one thing to admire someone's strength, to see their virtues for yourself, and respect them for it. It's another thing entirely to respect someone just because everyone else does, without knowing why."

Kendrell thought about this, then nodded. He supposed he could understand. Three years ago, on one of his rare visits home from the Academy, Nikolas had confided in Kendrell about the way people treated him in the nearby town of Wheatfields. They would praise and compliment him for being smart and capable, or for just being nice. Some of these people barely even knew him at all. It felt wrong, Nikolas had told his brother, because he didn't feel like he was anything special; he didn't choose to be smart, or to develop strange magic. And his friendliness was just doing what he felt anyone should. "I dunno, Ken," Nikolas had mused. "It just seems like people sometimes have really low standards for basic decency. If just being halfway competent and polite is all it takes to be the town darling, what else is there to strive for?" If the people in the Malachite Fief were anything like the townsfolk back east, Kendrell thought, it might have been frustrating for someone like Mel.

Speaking of, here he came now. "Bored yet, son?" drawled the older Spelloyal.

"A bit," admitted Thoros.

"Well, I can cover things here if you want to take a look around town. You've earned yourself a break."

Thoros nodded, smiling. "I think I'll check the local blacksmith. Got a few ideas I'm looking to try out."

"Mind if I tag along?" Kendrell asked. "I don't know weapons well but I could use your advice in picking one out."

"Sure," nodded Thoros.

Together the two youths strode towards the smithy adjoining the square. Kendrell hated to spend any of his precious remaining coin on something that wasn't food, water, or shelter, but he needed a way to defend himself. He caught the smith's eye, trying to look confident. "Just a minute, and I'll be right with yeh," nodded the man, before laying a few final blows on the bit of metal he was working. Kendrell recognized the half-formed tip of a spade. To the side, he saw a couple more. They looked well-made; as someone intimately familiar with digging in the dirt, Kendrell could appreciate the importance of a well-crafted tool. This man knew what he was doing. Rather than interrupt, Kendrell let him work.

A couple minutes later, the smith laid his tools aside and turned his back, opening a door into a small building just behind his stand. Inside, Kendrell could see several racks for tools, weapons, and armor. There were a lot of empty spots on the racks - either the smith had been slacking, or he'd done a lot of business lately. Kendrell suspected it wasn't the former.

Kendrell followed the man inside. The smith grinned, and patted the worn wooden counter with a soot-stained hand. "Welcome to Tallorn's. I'm Mori Tallorn. What be you looking for today?"

"Just looking for now," said Thoros, "nothing in particular."

Kendrell nodded.

"Actually," mused Thoros, "you happen to have any thunderstones in stock?"

"What, those loud bangy things? Nah, we don't keep 'em around here. You should check with the town alchemist, Faltzer's the name, just across the street. If it explodes, odds are good he's got it."

Kendrell smiled despite himself, warming up to the helpful smith. Thoros browsed for a bit, and Kendrell eyed a collection of a half-dozen daggers and short swords.

Tallorn waited a bit while they browsed, then spoke up. "Anything else I can get you while you're here? Mighty fine weaponry for a small town, if I do say so myself. But you needn't rely on my word, ask anyone in town. I furnish the captain's guards myself."

"Really?" inquired Kendrell. "I thought the lord would pay for their equipment?"

A scowl flashed across Tallorn's face, quickly replaced by a blank mask. "Our esteemed Lord Vergus does compensate me for arms and armor supplied to his garrison," he answered coldly. Kendrell heard him mutter "usually..." and from the corner of his eye the boy saw Thoros frowning. But after a pause, Tallorn seemed to warm up again. "Captain Elune's the best around, though, and it's an honor to supply the soldiers under his command."

"Elune?"

"Guard Captain Felmer Elune," replied the smith reverently. "Takes his job seriously, he does, but you can tell it's because he cares about this town. He thinks I didn't notice, but he paid for some of the guards' armor out of his own pocket. Doesn't want his men getting wounded on his watch, see."

Kendrell couldn't help thinking about the guards in Red Sands. He wished they showed the same devotion. No, that isn't quite right, he corrected himself, frowning. It wasn't a lack of devotion to duty. It was just that the guards who weren't corrupt got murdered in their sleep by the Clans.

Meanwhile, Thoros was checking over the remaining equipment. After a minute, he asked, "It's been a while since I've been around these parts. What news should I have heard that I probably haven't yet? Assume I've been living under a rock, it's usually a fair bet."

The blacksmith chuckled. "Well, there's been some nasty raids by a band of raiders, led by one Ladrark. Way I hear tell, the man's a half-orc and he's got some magic at his command that makes his band a terror in a fight. But the odd thing is, most folks that have to deal with him report that he only takes a third - same as the Mizer, in fact, but less legitimate. Although," he grimaced, "the Mizer's...ah, never mind, not my place."

"Ladrark, eh?" mused Thoros.

"It shouldn't matter to us, right?" asked Kendrell hopefully.

"Nah, not in the walls of Vorck." Tallorn shook his shaggy head.

Alas, he was dead wrong. It would in fact become relevant in the very near future.

CLANG.

Thoros whipped around towards the door. Kendrell nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What the kingsaur was that?" bellowed the hillman.

"Alarm bell," replied Tallorn grimly. "We're under attack."

CLANG.

Thoros hustled out of the shop, cursing. Kendrell followed, eyes wide.

Outside, guards rushed to the walls, yelling. An armored woman pointed a spear over the eastern ramparts, shouting something Kendrell couldn't quite make out over the hubbub in the square.

CLANG. The bell rang again, echoing through the tumultuous panic of the square. "Attack!" cried a voice, closer than the woman on the walls. "It's Ladrark's men!"

Guards hauled the wooden gates closed as others on the walls nocked arrows and drew back crossbows. It was an eclectic mix of arms and armaments, Kendrell noticed with a bit of worry. Quite unlike the shiny matching gear of Red Sands guards.

"Attacking a walled city in broad daylight," Kendrell heard Thoros mutter. "That bandit has walnuts of steel." That was all that Kendrell caught before the hillman rushed over to the caravan he was tasked with protecting.

The blacksmith stepped outside his shop, wearing a round helmet and a chain shirt. The helmet tilted slightly and the shirt lacked a belt, betraying the haste with which he'd donned them. A round shield and a long sword completed the outfit. In one hand he held a short sword in a scabbard, which he handed to Kendrell. "Ever use a sword before, boy?" he asked, scanning the wall. Kendrell shook his head. "Well, you may need to. Better learn fast."

CLANG, the bell repeated.

"Would we really need to fight?" asked Kendrell, desperately hoping the answer was "No."

Tallorn hefted his shield, checking the weight, and nodded approvingly before replying. "Normally we'd want to leave it to the guards. But if that bandit's coming for the town, he thinks he's got an advantage we don't. Magic or numbers or both. So we'd best be prepared to help Captain Elune, Warpriest Thorne and their men do their jobs."

He pointed with the sword. "See up there on the wall? That's Captain Elune." Kendrell turned his attention to the wall. Sure enough, a man in a polished steel breastplate directed the troops on the wall. The guards might be mismatched, but they moved with discipline.

Now what? Kendrell wondered. He didn't want to fight bandits - and not just because he feared for his life. He'd fought wolves and other creatures before when on the farm, and the threat of death was not wholly new to him. But he didn't know how his strange new power would behave in a fight. What if it gave him away? "Death by lightning strike" was something of a clue to anyone who might be hunting him.

Kendrell's eyes fell on the caravan, and he made his decision. If there was any safe place to be had in this mess, it would be the spot the Spelloyal was hired to protect. Kendrell made his way through the panicking throng to where Mel and his son stood, grimly awaiting something to kill. (Or so Kendrell would guess, by the expressions they wore.)

Another deafening CLANG echoed through the square as Kendrell crossed to the wagons.

Thoros gave Kendrell a short nod of acknowledgment before returning his attention to the walls. Meanwhile, Kendrell looked to the streets, where market-goers were fleeing to the relative safety of buildings and the belltower. Then his eye caught a flash of movement in the wrong direction. A small and wiry figure thrust its way through the chaos. As Kendrell watched, it rushed up the stone steps that led to the parapet of the small wall around Vorck, then approached Captain Elune. The erstwhile farmer saw the figure stand on tiptoe to whisper in the guard captain's ear, gesturing towards the center of town. Even from his spot in the market square, Kendrell would swear he saw the guard captain go pale.

The captain shook his head, but the figure spoke again. The captain grimaced and looked as if he were about to shout, but something made him stop short. Then Captain Elune turned, beckoning stiffly to the other guards, drawing their attention.

The chaos in the square had begun to die down, and so Kendrell heard the next order distinctly. It made his hair stand on end.

"Retreat to the keep."

Kendrell stared up in shock and stunned disbelief. The nearest guards turned to look at their captain, their faces even at this distance mirroring the feeling.

CLANG, the bell suggested helpfully.

Captain Elune waited a moment, scowling, then ground out the order again. "Lord's orders. Retreat to the keep."

Kendrell hadn't thought it was possible for Mel to look even grimmer, but he somehow managed it. Kendrell himself was struggling to understand. Was this some clever ruse?

"NOW!" bellowed the captain. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at the wiry figure beside him.

The soldiers looked mutinous, but complied. Kendrell watched as they descended the ladders and steps outside the sentry tower and made their way through the square. A relative quiet began to fall as word spread of the events on the walls, punctuated by the ever-present CLANG. Someone started sobbing.

"What's wrong?" asked Tallorn, stepping forward to speak to the guards. "Captain Elune, have the raiders retreated?"

Captain Elune said nothing, but his face showed a fury that looked like none Kendrell had seen. He stormed past ahead of his men, towards the central keep of Vorck.

"Captain! Captain! What of the defense?"

"Your Lord Protector," growled Elune, "has decided to see to his own defense, Tallorn. Do not resist and Ladrark will only take the tithe."

The blacksmith stood rigid, agape, as the entire city guard of Vorck abandoned their places atop the walls and retreated into the city keep.

CLANG, mourned the bell, one last time.

At that moment, a wrenching crack echoed through the walls and streets of the town. The wooden gates peeled themselves apart, almost as though a pair of giants' hands had driven deep into their structure and yanked them asunder, heedless of nails or splinters.

A grinning, tusked shape towered beyond the doors, stepping confidently through the wreckage. Heavily tattooed and rippling with muscle, clad in chain armor and a polished steel breastplate, it looked the picture of martial prowess. Kendrell had met few orcs in his time, but he guessed the figure was a hybrid, a half-orc. Probably Ladrark himself. Further cementing his suspicions was the banner the orc carried, which had as its motif a toppled, crumbling grey tower in a field of green.

The half-orc looked from one side to the other, nodding at the scene, then stepped forward into the town of Vorck.

The half-orc gestured, and bandits poured through the warped wreckage of the gate, some pulling carts or driving small horse-drawn wagons. "Only the third, men," grunted the leader. "We are here to steal from the Mizer, after all, not the town." He raised his voice. "Oi, Vorckians! I'm here to collect the Malachite Mizer's tribute, a third of your crops and earnings. Load up the wagons and nobody gets hurt."

Thoros hefted his shield, looking questioningly to his father. Mel, in turn, looked to Vail. "I don't think I can kill them all," he stated flatly, as though announcing that it looked like it might rain. "And it'll go badly for you if your guards are the only ones fighting." Vail looked like he had swallowed a stinkthorn, but after a brief pause, he nodded. Mel didn't relax, exactly, but he looked slightly less ready to commit mass slaughter.

Kendrell just hoped to stay out of the way; he hid behind a barrel as more and more of the wild-haired band poured into the town and set to looting. Inwardly, he seethed. What were the guards doing? Where was the Lord of Vorck?

As he watched, though, confusion and curiosity began to supplant Kendrell's anger. It was an oddly orderly progression, as though the bandits were handling the town with kid gloves. Kendrell watched them hustle into a barn, then hustle right back out again, leading a cow by a leather strap. But though the half-open doors, Kendrell could see a bull and a young calf left behind in stalls.

Tallorn stood stock-still, white-knuckled fists clenched at his sides and teeth grinding. A trio of bandits surrounded him, the meaning of their wicked spearpoints and bared blades quite clear. Any movement had best be worth your life.

The bandits were not so kind to the blacksmith as to the peasants. Judging from the quantity of arms and armor they carried from his shop, they were taking all he had.

"You there, boy. You have a weapon. Un-have it, now."

Kendrell started. A pair of bandits were giving him an appraising look. His hand clutched at the hilt of his new sword. “Don’t be stupid, now.” The speaker pointed to a wicked-looking falchion in his own hands, and the other gave a savage grin. “You’re out of your league.”

Kendrell swallowed.

"Do you have any money?"

"Uh - no, no nothing," Kendrell stammered automatically, then cursed himself inwardly. He looked like a farmer, not a beggar. The bandit could tell -

"You lie. Out with it, let's see what you've got."

Yep. Kendrell didn't have a choice; he handed over his coin purse. The man rifled through the ratty satchel, frowning, likely at the meagre contents. "Don't lie to us again, traveler. You'll find things go better that way." Then he handed back the coin pouch, considerably lighter this time, but surprisingly, not empty.

Kendrell let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Whatever the cost, at least he wasn't dead.

Not far away, the bandit leader stepped across the paving stones as though he owned the place, which for the moment he may as well have. Ladrark glanced in Mel's direction and frowned, as if remembering something. Thoros saw him mutter an order to an underling. A larger force began to peel off their looting and gather around their leader, eyeing the caravan guards from a safe distance.

They approached Mel cautiously, weapons at the ready, and Ladrark at their lead. "I do believe I've heard of you," growled the half-orc to the barbarian. "Going to make trouble? Or will you pay your tithe?"

Kendrell could not hide his sharp gasp. Ladrark's stance was deliberately casual, but the tension in his neck and the nervous glances amongst his troops belied his lazy confidence.

But to Kendrell's shock, Mel simply laughed. "Naw. Take yer third, bandit, it amuses me. I'd pay a heftier price to see the Lord of Vorck holed up in his keep, shivering like a wet pup left out in the middle of winter." He poured some coins into a pouch and tossed it to the half-orc, who caught it with a nod and flashed a savage grin.

"I like you, Makspool," grinned the bandit leader. "I think you can live for today." He pocketed the coins without bothering to count them, and strode past.

Kendrell heard Thoros let out a breath, and Mel chuckled. "Well, now, that was interesting."

His last obstacle removed, Ladrark strode towards the keep at the center of town. Guards at the keep pointed bows and crossbows at him, but did not shoot the lone half-orc. This may have had something to do with the quantity of bows and crossbows which were leveled in their direction by the bandits. The half-orc spared the keep an appraising glance, then leaned back. Kendrell saw the guards flinch, but the bandit leader merely horked once and spat a great glob of greenish snot onto the flagstones before the keep.

Then, without a word, he turned to leave. The bandits followed, gathering their loot and hauling the now-laden wagons out through the ruined gate.

They were gone as swiftly as they came.