A large fire blazed in the center of the ring of wagons. Marek lost himself in the roiling flames after finishing the warm meal he'd generously been given. After being allowed in, he didn’t expect much of anything from these strangers. He’d quickly learned most of the people bound in this strange alliance hadn’t been acquainted before the raid. Several groups had simply joined into one out of necessity.

The raid had ended hours ago. Every kobold lay cold and dead or had ridden off with whatever spoils they could carry. Despite this good news, the leader of the caravan refused to break up their defensive ring until morning. The old man was staunch in his efforts to protect those in his care. Guards were posted, and the bonfire stoked to burn away the shadows that might conceal a stray band of kobolds.

Warmth and company and a generous helping of stew eased Marek’s nerves greatly. Mags was in bad condition, though. Aside from gashes, cuts, and the arrow wound, Marek suspected the woman suffered from a head injury. Those were scary, for someone could seem to be in good health only to perish unexpectedly. She sat beside him, prodding a chunk of meat at the bottom of her bowl dubiously.

"You can do it," he encouraged with a smile. "Finish it, and you'll be thankful tomorrow."

Mags curled up the corner of her lip like a dog snarling. Though her eyes had cleared, the woman’s pallor remained troubling. She was Ardean in every sense, so her skin was as fair as it came. Despite her lack of tact, most considered the woman beautiful, though not at all in a delicate sense of the word. Right now, though, her cheeks had a yellowish-gray tint that made her seem on the verge of passing out or vomiting at any time.

"If I toss it up, I'm gonna do so on your lap, Marek."

Still, Mags finished her stew and groaned. She dropped the bowl, then slumped against Marek's thigh.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Good job, Strongtower. Rest a bit now, but remember..."

"Aye, how could I forget? Why would I want to sleep anyway? It's a right pleasure to stay up all night after being ground to bits on the Quartz Road."

Marek sighed. There was nothing he could say that would help, so he offered his lap and promised himself to remain alert so that she didn't drift off. Inwardly, he cursed their luck. Blasted kobolds hit us hard when we least expected it. Why did Mags have to take the brunt of it?

He’d been tempted to give her another potion. The cost was too steep, though, and drinking two in a short span of time could be dangerous. Mana toxicity was a major cause of death in times of war. But damn, it's hard seeing her like this… he thought as he clenched his jaw. I have to advance my Class faster. If I gain a few more Soul Knight Skills, I'll be able to protect her.

In the end, he took solace in knowing he'd done all he could. Hours of hard work had followed the raid, Marek taking part throughout. He regretted not having had a chance to thank the valiant stranger, but as soon as the dust had settled, Marek had pulled out the Dilly’s Chalice he’d harvested along the journey. Two women—wives of the caravanners, he suspected—had already been at work making poultices, so he'd introduced himself and handed over the herb. He’d promptly made two new friends, and the women had added his herbs to their own medicinal stock, recruiting him to speed up the process. His efforts taught him many things, including how Dilly’s Chalice could be made more potent with the addition of Yellow Cedar Gum and Rye Thistle. After the poultice was finished, a large pot of Willow's Bark and Quickberry had been boiled until the water turned a vibrant red.

Finally, the impromptu healers had told Marek it was time to do the real work. Working with the women, Marek had treated over a dozen caravanners. He’d scrubbed out wounds with rags soaked in the strong tea, and the injured had been encouraged to drink a little as well. Afterward, they’d applied the poultice. Mags had enjoyed the greatest portion, for she was bloody from head to heel. Marek could even now smell the pungent aroma of the poultice wrapped around her ribs.

The kindly voice of Una cut through the fog occupying Marek's head. "Hello again, young man. Sorry to bother, dear, but I wanted to thank you again for the Dilly's Chalice. We don't see much this far north."

Marek greeted the older woman with a smile. Her face had been etched by sun and wind, her tawny skin highlighting the intense blue of her eyes. Una reminded him of Mags' Nana, who’d passed nearly a decade ago. "Please," he said, grasping her hand, “don't mention it. I'm grateful for everyone here. Some might not have opened up their line like that to let in strangers."

Una's sigh held a multitude of stories. "I wish that weren't true. It breaks my heart to see men and women treat each other like animals. It's one thing to compete—my husband and I have run our caravan for twenty-nine years, so believe me, I understand! Why some feel the need to cut their neighbor's throat for a bit more bread, though—that’s beyond my understanding.”

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Marek knew the type well. There were the Isaacs of this world, men who were cruel because it made them feel big or because they were twisted enough to enjoy suffering. Then there were others that simply desired more. "Speaking of food, please tell Patricia we said thanks for the stew. Was that pork I tasted?"

Una chuckled. "We harvested five of those monsters the kobolds rode in on. If you stay on with us as we return to Swiftwall, you'll get your fill of pork." The woman leaned over and whispered, "That's the real reason I came to speak to you. Not sure what Classes you two have, but we're always in need of extra hands.” She raised a finger, perhaps reading his expression. “Let me finish! You two survived a nasty bit of fighting. You've fine horses and weapons as well. I won't ask you your business, young Marek, but if you're looking for a job as a caravan guard, keep old Una in mind, eh?"

"I will, thank you," he said, honored she’d consider him worthy of such a position. “I appreciate the offer, though we’re headed in the opposite direction.”

“Into Shirgrim?”

Marek sighed. “I know the dangers, Una. We’ll be careful.”

The old woman pressed her love into a scowl. “I won’t waste my breath trying to convince a young man of anything he’s set his mind to. Do me a favor, though, and don’t travel alone. Most of these folk will be headed east again after doing business in Middlebrook. Yet a few still travel into the mountains, and those tend to be a tough sort.”

“Thank you,” Marek said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, there’s something else I meant to ask you. Do you know anyone in Middlebrook that…”

“That what?” she asked, eyes askance. “Didn’t take you for the unsavory type, especially since you’re traveling with a wife.”

Marek’s cheeks burned. He shook his head in a hurry. “No! Not that! And Mags is my friend, not my wife!”

The person in question stirred, glaring at Una through one squinted eye. “Don’t be gross. Nobody would marry Bones over here. Ugh.”

Una chuckled, apparently amused by their reactions. Before anger took root, Marek said, “We recovered some goods along our way. Leave it to say that Ardea’s been relieved of a few bandits.” Una’s brows raised a full inch, but he continued, lowering his voice further as he spoke. “My actions were just, Una. Heard directly from their mouths they were murderers and worse, but still… I’m loath to draw undo attention. Do you know anyone in town that’s discreet and might know what to do?”

She folded her arms and studied his face for nearly a full minute. Finally satisfied, she nodded once and leaned close to his ear. “Mr. Shutterkeep. Only shop in the Merchant District with a purple door. Keeps a fat mouser that sleeps all day in the window. In case he doubts your intentions, tell him Una sent you, and that his cat’s name is Pickles.”

“Really? A cat named Pickles?”

Una chuckled and shrugged. “I’ve heard worse in my days.” The woman’s eyes flicked up, and her expression shifted rapidly. Guarded and uncomfortable, Una said, "Well, I'll be getting back to the cookfires. Keep an eye out for skewers of bacon. Should be coming around soon."

Marek froze when he felt a looming presence above him. He looked over his shoulder only to find a pillar of dark, glittering stone. “Rift take me!” he said, neck craning as he tried and failed to take in the golemite creature.

Mags gasped and sat up in a start, which prompted her to clutch her forehead and groan a second later.

Then the air vibrated with the deepest voice Marek had ever heard. “I pray to the Shard Fathers you never feel the Rift’s touch,” the golemite said. “Apologies for the fear my presence may have inspired. My heart is gentle, but we of the stone are not so small or soft as humans. Fear grows like salt crystals every time we speak to the other races."

Marek blinked a few times, but when the looming mountain didn't vanish, he stood to face the creature.

"There's a lot of you to be afraid of," Mags said. Unsurprisingly, she'd found her wits before Marek—even with a head injury. "Did you come to warm up by the fire?"

A sound like boulders churning under a waterfall emerged from the golemite. It seemed to resonate from its entire body at once. "We born of the stone have no need of fire. We only burn for the beauty and to warm the small soft ones we bond with."

Mags nudged Marek in the side of his leg. "I think that was a laugh," she muttered. "Imagine what he sounds like when he's angry?"

"I am not he, and I am not she," the golemite said stoically. "And I have not been angry in seventy-four years."

Mags snorted but cut off her laughter when it became obvious no joke had been made. She nudged Marek again and cleared her throat.

Marek shrugged awkwardly. "So, why did you come over? Just wanted some conversation?"

The creature took a step backwards. One enormous leg somehow managed to bend, and the golemite performed what could only loosely be described as a bow. With its head closer to the ground, its enormous eyes were suddenly more present and imposing. Each larger than a man’s head, they shone with an inner glow, the glass-like surfaces reflecting the firelight.

The golemite people didn’t have a single body type. They were creatures of stone with two legs and two eyes, yet that was the extent of their uniformities. They ranged in size, in shape, in the color and density of their rocky bodies. Some had one arm, or several, but this one had two. And like most, the golemite bowing before Marek lacked any semblance of a neck. Each leg was as thick as the trunk of a cedar, and three large fingers sprouted from each hand. Seemingly cut from a single dark gray stone, the creature baffled the eye when it moved.

Its mouth opened, and Marek couldn’t help but stare. Four large teeth rested along the roof of its mouth, wide and flat. “Ashurai spoke of the fight you had with the kobolds,” it said, the words startling Marek back to the present. “Most do not have eyes to see so far, but our Ashurai is exceptional. Will you come with me? Some in my camp wish to meet you, and we can help the little woman's head as well. It looks like someone dropped her.”

Marek stammered and glanced down at Mags. She shrugged, eyes widening with the universal don't look at me gesture. "We would be honored," he said, unsure he could deny such an offer. "Lead the way and we'll follow."