“I don’t believe it,” Temaryn said, pulling a chair opposite him and sitting. “What brings you here of all places?”

“I take it this is your assigned village?” Darius asked, avoiding the question.

“One of several. Never enough shepherds for the sheep, as I’m sure you know. The Stronghold has me run a loop here in the vale. Have you tried the bread yet? Nothing special, but they have some fantastic honey to go on top.”

“Only butter,” Darius said, his voice barely a mumble.

“Betty,” Temaryn said, snapping his fingers. The serving girl came over and smiled. “Honey please, and some bread for myself.”

“Of course,” she said, giving him a smile Darius could only dream of getting.

“I don’t know what they do to it,” Temaryn said. “But you’ll never get honey anywhere else in all of Dezrel like right here in Helmshire.”

Darius felt his nerves relax, but only slightly. Temaryn remained at ease, the grin on his face never faltering. But his hand, though, stayed near the sheath of his sword. Habit, or conscious thought? The Temaryn he remembered from the Stronghold was an easy-going but faithful man. It could be either.

Temaryn leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to relax even more.

“So how are things in… what was that little place called? Durham?”

Darius thought of the two dark paladins and the priest that lay dead, slain by his hand at his false Tribunal.

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine? That’s it? I’m hearing stories of a thousand wolves held at bay by two paladins, amazing warriors of both Karak and Ashhur allied together against the entire might of the Wedge. Surely you don’t mean to tell me the simpletons around here are exaggerating your fantastical exploits?”