“I suppose you do look rather strange to them,” Choshi observed. “Big stone creature, two women, and a man who just fell out of the sky in a flash of flame.”
I took in the details of the village. Their crops were a variant of wheat that I’d only heard about the Seven Realms, and their primary source of water was probably the wells and the local rainfall as it rolled in off the mountains. A gaggle of children appeared from the nearest house, dressed in roughly spun cotton clothes. Their little faces lit up in wonder at the sight of our weapons and the hulking golem beside us. Mahrai muttered something to herself as they skirted closer to her minion. A little girl with blond locks touched the leg daringly and sprang away from it as Mahrai growled at her.
“Be nice,” Vesma told her. “They’re just kids.”
Vesma slid off the golem with a warm smile. “Good morning.”
“Are you Vesma?” a small kid with a bowl cut asked.
It seemed the members of Radiant Dragon were known throughout Flametongue Valley. No doubt this child had seen Vesma during the exhibition match.
“That’s me,” Vesma said. “This is Mahrai. There’s no need for alarm. She’s a friend.”
A smith and two farmers appeared from a small tavern to my left. They were strongly built men, burned from the sun and calloused from a lifetime of hard labor. I strode over to meet them as the children shouted in excitement and clustered around the golem. Unless I missed my guess, there was trouble coming. And I wasn’t about to leave the people of Flametongue Valley in the dark if I could help it. I also preferred a little more information before marching into the castle, and these villagers might have some.
“Ethan Murphy lo Pashat,” I said, by way of introduction.
The smith bared a grin with a few missing teeth. “Well met, Swordslinger. My name’s Baldwell. That little exhibition of yours against Guildmaster Xilarion was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“You honor me.”
“He simply speaks the truth,” grunted one of the farmers. “Baldwell, get the man a beer. I’m Gerramund, Swordslinger. Most people around here call me Gerry. How can we help you?”
Baldwell vanished back into the tavern, and I took Gerry’s hand with a firm grasp. “We’re tracking down rumors of conflict in Wysaro Castle. Have you seen or heard anything?”
“Can’t say we have,” the other farmer cut in. “I’m Darris.”
I shook his hand with another confident grin. “No trouble on the borders? You haven’t heard any word of activity in Danibo Forest, or up in the city?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Darris assured me. “We’d have been sure to hand it on to the Wysaro patrols. They’ve been quiet of late, but aside from that, there’s nothing to report.” The farmer glanced up at the distant peaks and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You said something about conflict. Are we in trouble?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But you’d do well to keep your family close and fortify your houses, just in case. Bar the doors, barricade the windows, and keep a blade close to hand, if you have one.”
Gerry raised a shaggy eyebrow. “That bad?”
“It could be,” I said. “I didn’t come to alarm you, and I can’t say for sure if there is trouble brewing. But it won’t hurt to take precautions, just in case.”
“Do it again!” a child shouted in excitement.
I turned to the source of the commotion. Vesma raised her hands with a happy grin, and streamers of fire burst from her fingertips. They glided out into twisting ribbons, and the children cheered wildly as she entertained them with magic. I bit back a laugh as two little girls tied a garland of flowers around Mahrai’s neck. Her face softened as one of them whispered something to her, and a wry smile crossed Mahrai’s face as she patted the kid awkwardly on the shoulder and said something in return.
Baldwell appeared from the tiny tavern with a tankard of ale. A pair of steel-studded leather bracers swung from his other hand as he offered me the drink. I inclined my head in thanks, chugged down the cool ale, and wiped my mouth appreciatively.
“That’s some damn fine beer,” I said.
“The best in Flametongue Valley,” Gerry said proudly. “We’d be glad to house you and your companions for as long as you need us to, Swordslinger. It would be an honor to have you stay with us, if your Path allows it.”
I handed the tankard back to Baldwell, who offered me the bracers.
“He’s busy, Gerry, can’t you see?” the smith said to his friend. “The children seem to have the others well-compensated with gifts, but this is all I have to offer to you.”
I eyed the bracers as he held them out to me. “They look like good craftsmanship. But I can’t take them off your hands. A young lad in the village might need them more than me.”
Baldwell shook his head. “They were my son’s. He died in the fight against the Wysaros last year. Something that you took a strong hand in. If not for you and Guildmaster Xilarion, Jiven would have torn through the valley like a wildfire and brought us all to our knees.”
Sadness weighed on me as I considered the bracers. “Then they’re a keepsake. A reminder. I don’t want to take your son’s belongings away from you, even if it’s offered as a gift.”
“He’d want you to have them, Swordslinger,” Baldwell said quietly. “He was a lucky young lad. Born with Augmenting. Hells, he’d
