Leth’s light orb banished the night like a bright, magnesium sun. Cempa squeezed his eyes several times, trying to adjust to the light. The two massive animals stumbled to a halt at the sudden brightness.

The lynxes were fifteen feet high at the shoulder and twenty-five feet long nose to hind. Both animals had brown fur with black spots, white bellies, and a white and grey ruff. Their pointed ears lay flat against their skulls.

The left-hand lynx had a black tip on its tail and the right-hand lynx’s white belly fur extended down the inside of its front legs. The lynxes recovered and charged again, their short tails streaking out behind them.

Sir Wulfslæd lowered his lance and clicked his tongue. Lemon tossed his head from side to side and whinnied. Sir Wulfslæd squeezed his knees, and tapped Lemon’s flank with his heels. Lemon snorted and broke into a trot. The lynxes were close now, Sir Wulfslæd would never get enough speed for a proper charge, but he did urge Lemon to a canter.

Cempa had no intention of taking the lynxes’ charge and, by the look of Milde’s stance, neither did she. Péton and Clæfre fired their crossbows. The bolts slammed into Black-tail, the left-hand lynx. It screeched, but didn’t slow.

Sir Wulfslæd focused on White-legs, the right-hand lynx, keeping Black-tail between him and the lethal bolts. Cempa was transfixed. White-legs and Black-tail knocked shoulders and hissed as they fought over who would run the knight down.

Sir Wulfslæd guided Lemon to the far right. White-legs knocked Black-tail aside, opened its huge jaws and leapt. Lemon skittered right at the last moment. Sir Wulfslæd’s lance shattered on White-legs’s bottom jaw. White-legs landed, shook its head, and roared. Cempa felt the ground shake from White-legs’s impact. Sir Wulfslæd pulled Lemon round in a half circle, drew his mace, and charged again.

Black-tail bounded closer.

“Cempa!” said Milde.

“What?”

“Jump!” said Milde. Cempa dived left as Black-tail pounced, his shield and spear tucked against his chest. Black-tail slammed into the rock, wobbled, and shook its head. Milde swept close, stabbed its belly, and danced back. Two more bolts struck Black-tail’s back. Cempa rolled to his feet.

“How’re we supposed to kill that thing,” said Milde. She was panting fast and her hands were shaking, “It’s so bloody furry, I don’t think I can even scratch it.”

“Hit it until it’s dead,” said Cempa.

“You alright?” said Péton, as he reloaded his crossbow.

“I’m fucking terrified,” said Milde. “Keep bloody shooting.”

“Milde, both sides,” said Cempa. She nodded.

“Now!” said Cempa.

Cempa and Milde sprinted at Black-tail and rammed their spears into the lynx. It bucked and hissed. It kicked its back paw at Milde. She caught the blow on her shield. There was a nasty snap and she tumbled several yards. Her spear remained lodged in the lynx’s flank.

Cempa heaved, pushed with his legs, and drove his spear further in. The shaft bowed under the pressure. Black-tail sprung sideways, trying to escape. Cempa followed, never letting up.

He could feel the spear edging deeper. Tiny flecks of ash wood peeled from the shaft as it splintered. The spear slithered inward and Cempa stumbled; he’d finally pierced Black-tail’s thick hide and dense flesh. Cempa lost his grip and fell to his knees. Black-tail yelped, swivelled its head and pulled Cempa’s spear from its flank with its teeth, then removed Milde’s too. More bolts stung Black-tail’s back, but it didn’t seem to notice. Black-tail circled Cempa, huge drops of blood splashing to the ground from its side.

Behind Black-tail, Sir Wulfslæd clashed with White-legs. Sir Wulfslæd circled White-legs at a trot. White-legs spiralled around itself, as if it were chasing its own tail, its body locked in a fluid crescent. The lynx hissed and snapped at Lemon. Sir Wulfslæd slammed his mace into its nose. White-legs screeched and jumped back.

Sir Wulfslæd urged Lemon towards White-legs. The horse burst forward and Sir Wulfslæd struck White-legs between the eyes as Lemon streaked passed. White-legs swiped Lemon with its front paw. Lemon shied from the blow, but a single claw savaged its flank. The horse screamed and bolted, taking Sir Wulfslæd with it.

Black-tail stopped circling Cempa and lashed out. Metal shrieked as claws shredded his cuirass. A claw stuck in Cempa’s armour and he was yanked into the air. Black-tail cocked its head to one side and shook its paw, rattling Cempa like a string of clanking bells. Cempa clamped his jaw so he wouldn’t bite his tongue. He dropped his shield, drew his sæx, and hamstrung Black-tail’s paw.

It hissed, smothering him with foetid breath. Cempa gagged. Black-tail shook him again. The claw wrenched free and Cempa was tossed into the air. He didn’t want to land on his sæx, so he lobbed it at Black-tail, but the blade tangled in Black-tail’s fur and disappeared.

Cempa crashed onto his back, leaving him stunned and unable to breath. At last he managed to gulp precious air. He tried to stand, but rolled onto his side and vomited. Feeling dizzy, he patted himself down. He was covered in blood. Cempa was too enraged to work out if any of it was his.

White-legs and Sir Wulfslæd had gone. He hoped the knight was alright. A groan snapped his attention to a figure prone in the grass.

Milde!

Black-tail limped towards her, its front-right paw tucked against its chest. Milde staggered to her feet and hobbled away, her arm and leg at an awkward angle.

Clæfre abandoned her crossbow, slid down the rock, drew her sæx, and ran at Black-tail, screaming. Clæfre wasn’t going to make it in time. Cempa dragged himself upright, yanked his longsword from its sheath and sprinted as fast as he could. His crushed armour made it difficult to move and breath. Bright lights pounded behind his eyes with every step. Horror swept through him. He wasn’t going to make it either.

Leth’s light orb vanished. At least Cempa wouldn’t have to watch Milde die. Clæfre wailed.

Black-tail was enveloped in a great sphere of fire. It bucked and jumped, howled, and ran for the water. With a deafening hiss, the flames sputtered out. The overpowering stench of burning hair rushed over Cempa. He coughed and spluttered. The smell was foul.

Leth’s light orb returned. Black-tail floundered in the water, sending great gouts of filthy water into the air.

Clæfre and Cempa reached Milde at the same time. Clæfre slipped her shoulder under Milde’s uninjured arm.

“Have Péton treat her behind the rock,” said Cempa. “Then get back here.”

“No amputations,” said Milde. She was white, sweaty, and shaking.

“I’ll make sure of it,” said Clæfre.

Black-tail began to haul itself from the water.

“Go!” said Cempa. The pair lurched away, Milde spewing obscenities with each step.

What was he going to do now? Fire had worked. Maybe he could chase it off. Cempa sprinted for the remains of the campfire. Grateful for his gauntlets, he dug through the ashes, searching for embers. He found one, picked it up, and blew on it while looking for more fuel.

He spotted a small bundle of dry grass and kindling. Thank the Gods Péton is so meticulous.

“What are you doing?” said Leth.

“Keep it busy!” said Cempa. He hurried to his pack and extracted his special sauce. Just thinking about what he was about to do brought tears to his eyes. Cempa returned to the fire and began assembling a torch from the ember, kindling, grass, and the protective rag for his sauce bottle.

Black-tail licked its wounded flank. Leth dropped his staff and picked up one of the abandoned crossbows. His light orb flickered, then stabilized. He fired. The bolt ripped Black-tail’s ear open and the animal hissed. Leth loaded another shot. Black-tail charged Leth. Before Leth could fire again, the lynx jumped and landed on the huge rock.

Leth scrambled down the rock and ran for Cempa. Black-tail howled and chased him.

“Hurry!” said Leth.

Cempa poured half his sauce on the torch and waved it in front of him. It started smoking, but didn’t ignite, “Light this!”

The light orb vanished, a couple of seconds passed, and the torch burst into flames. It belched greasy black smoke and fragrant spices.

Leth skidded past Cempa, Black-tail still in pursuit. Cempa downed his last bit of sauce. His cheeks bulged with the liquid and his eyes drenched his cheeks with tears. Gods, that burns!

His nostrils flared as Cempa breathed deep. Black-tail was nearly on top of them. Cempa held the fragrant torch before his face, puckered his lips, and sprayed the sauce into the torch. Fire spouted forth, wreathing Black-tail’s face in flames. The lynx recoiled, lost its footing, and tumbled. Cempa and Leth dived, avoiding a lethal squishing with few inches to spare.

Cempa snatched his sword from the ground and charged, blade high above his head in a two-handed grip. He put his left foot forward, braced, and slid until his reinforced boot touched the prone lynx’s front shoulder.

Cempa yelled and swept his sword into Black-tail’s neck. The creature howled and struggled to stand. Cempa cried with it and struck again, flooring Black-tail.

Cempa kept hacking until Black-tail’s head came off. Blood sprayed from the severed neck and knocked Cempa to the ground. He sat and panted. Lynx blood splattered against his tongue. So cooling! Cempa stuck his tongue out the whole way.

Clæfre returned, “You’re a right mess.” She gasped, “Gross! You’re drinking its blood!”

Cempa pointed to an empty glass bottle, “My mouth is burning.”

“That’s what you sprayed it with?” said Leth. “I’d have my mouth in its neck after that.”

Clæfre tossed Cempa a water skin.

“Thanks,” said Cempa. He swilled his mouth, spat, and downed the whole skin.

“How’s Milde?” said Leth.

Clæfre tucked her hands under her armpits and hunched a little, “Don’t know. Where’s Sir Wulfslæd?”

“I’m worried,” said Leth. “We need to find him.”

“Sure lad, give me a moment. I have to catch my breath.”

“Want us to take your cuirass off?” said Clæfre.

Cempa shook his head and stood, “I’d rather be half-suffocating in battered plate than face another one of those things in mail alone.”

“How do you think I bloody feel? I’m only wearing mail,” said Clæfre.

“Superior, because you must be braver than me.”

“Bollocks to that,” said Clæfre. She straightened, “Let’s go.”

Leth created a new light. The three soldiers jogged along the trampled grass, spear, staff and sword resting on their shoulders.

“At least it’s easy to follow,” said Cempa.

They found Sir Wulfslæd after half a mile. Lemon lay in the grass. The horse’s spine was twisted inwards and the animal’s throat was slit.

Sir Wulfslæd faced White-legs. His left spaulder and shield were missing. He held his mace one-handed, weaving it back and forth between himself and White-legs, gasping.

The Lynx’s massive head was a pulped, red mess. Its left eye was swollen shut, bits of its nose and lips were missing, and several of its teeth were a shattered jumble of scarlet-slicked ivory.

“Father!” said Leth. Sir Wulfslæd didn’t turn or respond, he just panted. His coat-of-plates was torn on the left side revealing gouged, metal sheets beneath the thick leather. Cempa gripped Leth’s arm before he tried something.

“We need to help him,” said Leth.

“We do,” said Cempa. “So stay back and keep that light up. If you set that thing on fire, Sir Wulfslæd will end up missing more than his eyebrows.”

“Alright,” said Leth.

White-legs hissed as Cempa and Clæfre approached. The two soldiers slipped between Sir Wulfslæd and White-legs.

“Back off, Sir,” said Cempa. Sir Wulfslæd nodded and retreated to Leth.

“Now what?” said Clæfre. White-legs growled.

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Cempa rubbed his wrist. He must’ve sprained it earlier during his slaughterous fit, “I’ve no idea. My mouth hurts too much to think straight.”

“Since you kept your fancy armour,” said Clæfre. “You can distract it. I’ll attack its blind side.”

“Fine,” said Cempa. He swiped at White-legs’s head. The lynx jerked its head back, exposing its neck. Clæfre dashed in and struck. White-legs reared. It balanced on its back legs and struck vertically with its front paw. Both Cempa and Clæfre were forced back. A red stain spread across White-legs’s grey and white ruff.

“You’ll have to hit it harder than that,” said Cempa. White-legs tilted its head, trying to keep the soldiers on its good side.

“I know that!” said Clæfre. She sounded frustrated.

“Father says you can’t do the same attack twice!” said Leth. “That’s how Lemon died.”

“We’ll both strike at its last eye,” said Cempa. He didn’t wait for Clæfre’s confirmation. Cempa stepped in and jabbed. White-legs recoiled, and Cempa’s blow fell short. He advanced again, forcing the lynx back. Clæfre followed. Her longer, lighter weapon scored multiple strikes against White-legs’s muzzle, but none reached its eye.

Mid jab, White-legs reared again and slashed at Cempa. He had just enough time to pull his weapon back, flatten the blade and place his other gauntlet underneath the blade near the tip. He braced and the paw hammered him. His sword bent in the centre, skittered off his helm and was forced against his chest. Cempa was knocked onto his back. White-legs raised its other paw.

Cempa pointed his ruined weapon up, but White-legs swatted it from his hand. Its jaws snapped down. Cempa rolled and Clæfre tackled the lynx’s head, offsetting its strike. White-legs’s chomped air.

White-legs swung its head, knocking Clæfre back. Clæfre rammed her spear underneath its jaw. White-legs growled and raised its head. Clæfre shoved the weapon through White-legs’s jaw and into its mouth.

White-legs yowled and scuttled back. It clawed at the spear. The shaft snapped, but didn’t dislodge. Crying out, White-legs scrabbled further away. No matter how much it wriggled its jaw, or dug at the spear, the lynx couldn’t extract it.

White-legs ran.

Cempa struggled to his feet, “It’s over, right?”

“I think so,” said Clæfre. Sir Wulfslæd limped over, leaning on Leth’s shoulder. Sir Wulfslæd was only three inches taller than Leth, but with his heavy build and armour, he dwarfed his son. Leth struggled to support his father’s weight.

“Need a hand?” said Clæfre.

Sir Wulfslæd straightened. He wrapped his right arm around his left side and winced, “Please, I think I’m about to squash Letholdus.”

“You have forty-eight years of food in you. No wonder you’re so heavy,” said Leth.

Sir Wulfslæd cleared his throat, “Thank you for your assessment, Letholdus, but most of all, thank you, everyone for coming to my rescue. I would have died without your timely arrival.”

“Just doing our jobs, Sir,” said Clæfre.

“That and more,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Facing a beast like that…” He shook his head, “It’s not the sort of thing you do for money alone. Thank you.”

“Tell that to Milde,” said Clæfre. “She’ll need something to cheer her up.”

“Did you drive the other beast off?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Cempa slipped his gauntlet off and prodded the gash in his cuirass. Every part of him was red. Many of the links in his hauberk were shredded. He probed deeper until his fingers touched his skin. He drew a sharp breath between his teeth. It was beginning to sting, but no way near as bad as his over-seasoned mouth. Some of his ribs were broken too.

“I’ll live,” said Cempa. “Péton and Mésia are unharmed. I think Milde has a broken arm and leg. We won’t know how bad it is until we get back. The other creature is dead.”

Sir Wulfslæd’s eyebrows shot up.

“Cempa blew fire in its face, hacked its head off, then drank its blood,” said Leth.

“I thought the monsters were bad,” said Sir Wulfslæd. He chuckled, then gasped, “I think I have a bruise or two myself.” He breathed slowly for a moment, “It might be wildlife, but I feel satisfaction from its death. I don’t like the idea of being bloodied without recompense.”

“Damn right,” said Clæfre. “Wish we’d nailed the other bastard as well.”

“We still might. Only we won’t see it.” Leth gawked at Sir Wulfslæd, “I don’t know how you fought one by yourself.”

“Anything to see you safe,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Leth went redder than Cempa.

Clæfre laughed, “You’re right precious.” She patted Leth’s back.

“Hey!” said Leth.

Clæfre offered Sir Wulfslæd her arm, “Can we go now, Sir? I want to check on Milde.”

Sir Wulfslæd accepted her assistance, “Lead the way, Miss Misthliþ.”

By the time they returned, Mésia had the fire lit and water boiling. Milde was asleep beside it. Péton sat next to her, cleaning his needles. Anggret and the pack mule were hobbled nearby. Clæfre abandoned Sir Wulfslæd and rushed over.

“How is she,” said Clæfre.

“I’ve set her bones, and wrapped them tight, I’ll find something to splint them tomorrow. The breaks were bad, but didn’t pierce the skin; as long as we don’t move her for several weeks, she should heal without infection. Her mobility will vary depending on her treatment. If we move her early, the motion will force the bone to heal faster, but it’ll be less likely to heal straight. As for the rest of you,” he glanced at the troop, “the sooner you’re all cleaned and bound the better.”

“Thanks, Péton,” said Clæfre.

“My pleasure. Cempa, you’re covered in red, I’ll see to you first. Leth, please help Sir Wulfslæd from his armour. Mésia, you can help Clæfre.”

“Alright,” said Mésia, her voice and hands shaking.

Leth helped Sir Wulfslæd to a spot by the fire. Clæfre stood by her sister and refused to move, but allowed Mésia to help her.

Péton beckoned Cempa over to the fire.

“It’s not as bad as it appears,” said Cempa, as Péton examined his chest.

“Bullshit.” Péton began undoing straps, “Another inch and you’d have bled dry, two and you’d be in pieces.” Armour thumped to the ground.

Cempa knelt, “I guess that makes me lucky.” He lifted his arms and gritted his teeth. Péton helped him wriggle from his hauberk.

“I’m not sure about that,” said Péton. “We hear stories about bad things happening to people, the monster attacks, mysterious events, and misfortune.” Péton removed Cempa’s aketon, exposing Cempa’s torso to the night air.

“Where are you going with this?” said Cempa. “Gods, it’s nippy out here.”

“I’ll try to be quick.” Péton wet a rag and began cleaning the wound. It ran from Cempa’s right shoulder to his bottom left rib, “Those stories are always about someone else,” said Péton. “You never think it will happen to you. I could’ve gone through my whole life and they’d have stayed as nothing but stories.”

“And now we’re in the middle of one ourselves,” said Cempa. “I see your point.”

Péton dabbed the wound with a transparent alcohol, making his leg smell like vodka.

Cempa’s eyes watered, “Argh! Bit at a time please.”

“I still have to stitch it. Do you want some poppy?”

“Of course I bloody do,” said Cempa. “Just because I’m tall, doesn’t mean I have to man through your ministrations.”

Péton chuckled and passed Cempa a thimble sized cup.

Cempa tossed it back, “What do you think of our predicament?”

“I don’t know yet. Both you and Milde have been wounded. Clæfre and Sir Wulfslæd are bruised and exhausted. We’ve left Weard and Hrolf behind, Arnwald and Tadhgán are running a message, and we’re stuck out here. We can’t move forward and we can’t move back. I feel lost.”

“Not what you had in mind then when Sir Wulfslæd recruited you to save the kingdom, right?”

“Ha! No, all I wanted was a change of scenery. Plus, I’d made a drunken nuisance of myself in the barracks earlier that week. Sir Wylde gave me an ultimatum, much like you and Weard.”

“I’m surprised I never met you.”

“I’m usually stationed at a roadside watchtower along the Hrycgweg, the road between Tégemýðe and Témúða. I was back for basic training refresh.”

“I’ve run a lot of those,” said Cempa. “Sir Wylde likes to ensure everyone in the army can fight: ‘baggage can’t be baggage’, he likes to say. Still, you did well, many would’ve run without regret.”

“Abandon people I barely know and leave them to die? I suppose I could’ve done that. It never crossed my mind.”

“Glad to have you with us.”

“Thanks.” Péton was quiet for a bit, “He’s a proper knight that Sir Wulfslæd. Didn’t panic and fended off a monster all by himself.”

“You don’t see many people like him,” said Cempa.

“Not that you did too bad yourself.” Péton nodded towards the misshapen mass at the edge of the fire’s light.

“We all did what we had to do.” Cempa knew he was trying too hard to sound good, but it was impossible not to feel a little smug.

“We did, didn’t we? Perhaps we’ll be the ones to save the kingdom after all,” said Péton.

“Maybe.”

“I’m done here. You feeling better?”

“Everything’s nice and fuzzy; keep that poppy coming and you can talk to me all night.”

Péton left to tend to the others.

Cempa shimmied closer to the fire. Mésia brought him a blanket and he fell asleep.

The following morning Cempa sat in the sun with Sir Wulfslæd’s mail repair kit. It contained a small hammer, pliers, a tiny anvil, and two boxes of pre-cut, oiled, iron links. The first box of iron links had been stamped from an iron sheet, the second set had an overlapping split within each link, similar to a key ring, so they could be used to attach the un-split links together. A hole had been punched through each split, creating a space for a rivet to be hammered in place and fuse the links together.

Cempa lay his hauberk on his lap and began to remove the damaged links with the pliers. He moved slowly, taking care not to open the wound in his chest or grind his cracked ribs. He wasn’t sure how he was going to fix his cuirass and sword without a proper forge, but given how good Leth was at heating things up, Cempa would manage somehow.

Milde was opposite him, dozing. Péton had propped Milde against one of their water barrels so she could sit more comfortably. She was wearing an undertunic and was half wrapped in a blanket. A delicate, copper chain necklace glinted around her tanned neck.

Her left arm was bound to her chest and her legs were tied together. They didn’t have any suitable wood for splints, so Mésia had butchered the front foreleg and paw of the dead lynx, removed the bones, and handed them to Péton to keep Milde’s bones straight.

Leth approached Cempa with a fist-sized, dark green bottle covered with arcane symbols and a small wooden spoon. Leth had the same expression plastered across his face as he had when he’d blown a crater in the Éaggemeare village green: a mixture of crazed enthusiasm and guilt. Cempa shivered.

“What, exactly, is that?” said Cempa.

“Is that suspicion or curiosity I hear?” said Leth.

“Can’t you tell?” said Cempa.

“Relax,” said Leth. “I didn’t make this. I purchased it from a Drýlic apothecary in Tégemýðe.”

“What does it do?” said Cempa

“It’s an expensive healing booster. They have limited use as you have to be able to activate the symbols on the bottle for it to work, but if you and Milde take a spoonful of this every few hours, you’ll be healed in a week and Milde can ride my horse if we keep the pace slow.”

Milde opened one eye, “What’s the catch?”

“You’ll feel incredibly hungry all the time and feel really energetic but not be allowed to move,” said Leth.

“That doesn’t sound particularly enjoyable,” said Cempa.

“I expect you’ll lose some weight too,” said Leth. “You’ll have to do a lot of exercise afterwards to rebuild your muscles.”

“You mean it’s a diet potion?” said Milde.

Leth blushed, “You’d lose weight everywhere.”

“It’ll shrink my boobs?” said Milde. “I’d rather have a broken leg.”

Leth shifted from foot to foot, “I’m sorry Milde, but taking this is Sir Wulfslæd’s orders. We’re in a precarious position here. If we get attacked again in our current condition, we’re screwed. Everyone needs to heal up fast so we can flee if necessary. No one wants to fight another monster.”

Milde lost focus and stared into the distance. Leth opened his mouth, but Cempa hushed him with a wave.

A light gust swept the camp.

“I’ll take it,” said Milde.

Leth nodded. He tapped the symbols, giving the bottle an eerie green glow. Leth fed her a spoonful of viscous liquid. He tucked the blanket around her still form. Milde continued to stare at the horizon, her lips were drawn in a thin tight line and a small frown creased her brow.

Leth passed Cempa a brimming spoon, “You next.”

Cempa sniffed it. It smelled of alcohol and salt. The liquid was so dark, it was almost black.

“What is it?” said Cempa.

“Kelp, willow bark, and honey in a base of alcohol,” said Leth. “Maybe a few other things too. The recipes for these things are always a secret.”

Cempa shrugged, held his nose and swallowed the liquid. It burned his throat. He refused to splutter, but couldn’t stop his eyes from watering. There was a weird aftertaste of bitter, salty honey. A feeling of warmth suffused his body. At least it didn’t burn him like the spicy black sauce had.

Cempa twitched.

He keeled onto his back, jarring his ribs. He winced. It felt like someone had given him a powerful static shock. His heart was beating far too fast. Milde must be in a worse state than he’d realized if she’d drank the potion with such disinterest.

“Have you tried this?”

“No, it’s for emergencies only.”

“I can see why. Do you have any other tricks in your bottle box?”

“I have one that stimulates blood production and another that encourages clotting. Take too much of either of them and you’ll have a heart attack or a stroke, take too little and you die of the injury anyway.”

“That sounds as horrible as being injured enough to need those in the first place. Are you sure you can’t heal with magic instead?”

“I know the theory: feed the patient with Feorhlíf aspect, that’s the yellow one, but you have to practice getting the quantity right otherwise you-”

“I don’t want to know,” said Cempa. “I’ve seen enough gore in the last twenty-four hours to satisfy me for years. I don’t need to hear about it too.”

“Makes you wonder though,” said Leth. “If that’s what it takes to heal someone, who or what fed those lynx the correct quantity of magic to grow so large while balancing their proportions and why did they do it?”

“You’ll have to wait until we arrive at the Wúduwésten to answer that.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

Cempa snorted. He pointed at his damaged mail, “I’d best get back to fixing.”

“Sure, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Wait a moment,” said Cempa. “I’ve had a few ideas. Think you could help?”

A little smile spread across Leth’s face, “Sure.”