At the moment, he would occasionally glance around to see if there was anyone worth one of his dwindling supply of pfennigs. Then a few seemingly worthwhile prospects made an appearance. It was a group of three men-at-arms. They appeared to belong to the local knight, outfitted rather humbly, which was little surprise as their master was probably not a man of great means. This was probably about the best he could hope for today, so he might as well try his luck.

Once the men at arms were seated at a table, Sir Burkhardt walked up to them and said, "Greetin's there, gents. Mind if I treats ye te a roun'? Jes' te shew we's grateful fer ye keepin' th' peace an' sech."

Sir Burkhardt then told the alewife, "Woman, a horn a head fer these three."

Sir Burkhardt held up his hands to appease the man, saying, "Well, maybe it's been too long since I las' been in polite comp'ny. I don't mean no offense."

Sir Burkhardt was playing a part, but he may have gone too far. He was trying to win these men over, after all.

When the alewife came bearing the three drinking horns, Sir Burkhardt put on a show of looking abashed, saying, "My 'pologies there, Missus." He nodded to the men-at-arms. "These gents was jes' correctin' me o' me bad breedin'."

This seemed to flatter the alewife, who told the men-at-arms, "Well now, if you boys kin straighten out an ol' ruffian as this, I'd say it warrants somethin'. Next round's on the house, what fer yer gallantry o' defendin' me honor."

The one man-at-arms raised his horn and said, "I'll drink te that, Mutti."

His two companions also raised their horns to the alewife. Once she left, the one said, "That's two rounds o' drinkin' an' not one coin out o' our purses. That's enough te put a man in a right fair mood, I says."

Sir Burkhardt saw his opening and said, "Well, seein' as how ever'one's in sech a fine mood, maybe ye could be tellin' a man where's work to be had if'n he's got a sword te sell an' the arm te wield it."

One of the others added, "All hell's broke loose out in Milon an' word's travell'd out here."

The first man-at-arms explained, "Witch Queen's men, damned Kobolds an' suchlike, got themselves butchered like autumn hogs. Now not jes' in Milon but here in Lewenfort too we're te be lookin' fer the ones what done it, 'cause if'n we don't find 'em, we'll all be made te suffer fer it."

Sir Burkhardt feared as much, but it would seem that word of what happened in Grau had travelled this far and that they would not be safe from pursuers here. With the locals facing the threat of reprisals for what happened to the Witch Queen's men, and with this being territory firmly in the enemy's hands, there would not be many allies to be found, not that Sir Burkhardt had held out much hope of that to begin with.

So despite the villagers turning on their would-be rescuers, they were still punished for being ill-fated enough to live to tell the tale. Sir Burkhardt saw this coming, which was why he would not have stuck his neck out if the girl had not already done so first. He would have to keep this truth from her. Though it might serve as a lesson for her, he doubted that she would be prepared to learn it.

If Sir Burkhardt denied it, all they would have to do is ask around to find someone who saw him come into the village. He could not let himself get caught in a lie that was so easy to expose. He worried that he might not have the head for this sort of thing even if he was stone sober, which he of course was not at the moment.

Sir Burkhardt sized up the men-at-arms. Three against one. Younger men than him, not as well trained or as seasoned, but likely men who had seen battle before. You had to check your weapons with the alewife, so none of them were armed. Without taking his eyes off the men-at-arms, he began searching the immediate area for anything he could use as a weapon. As he was doing that,the men-at-arms were subtly shifting their weight in their chairs, preparing themselves to spring up to attack.

Could he best three men and whoever else among the alehouse's patrons might choose to join in the fray? In his prime, with a sword in hand, there would be no doubt, but now... And even if he could best them, could Hänsel carry him out of the village fast enough before every able-bodied man and possibly even some of the women were out for his blood? Damnation...

Before he could make a move, before they could make a move, there was a sharp crack and Sir Burkhardt's vision flickered for a moment. By the time he realized that someone had hit him from behind, the men-at-arms were on him. Still reeling from the blow, he tried to defend himself. He did not know how he fared, but he imagined he was making a poor showing of it.

She swore to herself that she would sew Sir Burkhardt's mouth shut so that he would never drink again. Were she in the mood to permit cold reason into her head, she would have admitted that she had done far more than he had to endanger their mission and in a single ill-advised move at that, but at the moment, she was in no mood for such arguments and it was a fortunate thing that no one attempted to insert them into the conversation.

Instead, it was Corothas who appeared to be alerted to something and turned toward the village. Despite nursing her irritation at Sir Burkhardt, Lys was aware that Corothas made few moves that were without significance and even a small motion from him was enough to get her attention.

A shock went through Lys.

At first, Lys was annoyed at him for being needlessly roundabout at a time like this, but she then took his admonition to heart. It was precisely because it was a time like this that she needed to rely on herself to judge the situation rightly. She closed her eyes and attempted to trace out the thread connecting her to Sir Burkhardt, much as she had done when she searched for Master Kolman. It was much easier then as their respective magicks reacted to each other more strongly than the spirit of one without any touch of magic to him. All she had was the strength of their bond, but how strong was it in the end? Sir Burkhardt was one of her father's companions and had been something of an uncle to her when she was small. They had been close enough then, but the years of separation had left them little more than strangers to each other. The memory of what their bond once was and their common purpose were what held them together, not exactly a shining beacon to draw the mind's eye amid the vast web of all living things. And yet, it was by focusing on the link that bound them, her father, that a singular thread shone with light enough to lead her along to its source.

Yes, she knew this soul like tarnished silver anywhere. She could remember how much purer it once was, when his conviction was firm and he was at the height of his accomplishments. Now regret, despair and a host of other negative emotions clouded that purity, but his essential nature had not changed its substance. Instinctively Lys had known this. It was why she relied on him when all others turned her away.

She then remembered her purpose, and now that she had confirmation that he was still alive, she opened her eyes and said, "We have to save him."

Corothas simply nodded and the two clerics stood up and dusted themselves off. Nothing more needed to be said.

Although Corothas was fully capable of tracking Sir Burkhardt himself, he yielded the lead to Lys, who held fast to the connection she had made to seek out Sir Burkhardt here in the material plane just as she had done in the spirit plane. He was being moved outside the village but not so quickly that Lys and the others could not overtake him.

Some distance from the village, there was a small donjon on a hill, a little fortress that probably was the residence of the local knight. At the foot of the hill were some cottages, pens for sheep and swine and such. She could sense Hänsel among the horses in the stable. Sir Burkhardt's captors probably carried him off atop the mule, which was why they had not arrived too much earlier than four pursuers on foot.

Compared to taking on a band of Kobolds nearly fifty strong, this would not be so daunting, but they would have to be cautious in their approach. Though Lys had been taught by her master that all lives are equal, she still weighed the lives of humans differently.

Lys would certainly feel better about a solution that did not require them to resort to bloodshed, so she nodded in assent to the priest's suggestion. Much as he had done to the village in Milon, Father Tristram pointed his crook at the donjon and chanted, "Weary, weary, lids are heavy, eyes are bleary. Work is done and night has come. Deep, deep, go to sleep."

If he could put some two hundred to sleep, then doing the same to fewer than twoscore ought not to have been any great challenge. However, Father Tristram's eyes snapped open as the flow of his magic was disrupted. Someone had blocked his spell.

Corothas, however, took him at his word and said, "For negotiations, we must have leverage on the other person, and it must be less than the leverage they would use on us."

Seeing that Corothas had taken his not so serious suggestion seriously, Father Tristram opted to play along.

Lys gave him an annoyed look. As always, he had a way of getting under her skin. He seemed to enjoy testing her. At times it felt like she was on trial and he was setting traps for her, just waiting for her to say or act in such a way that would condemn her. Perhaps there was more truth to the notion than she thought. He had a way of keeping his thoughts clouded from her, so his intentions were never fully clear except for some vague feeling of goodwill, which could easily be feigned if he knew what he was doing.

Lys could not help being skeptical.

Lys remembered how Father Tristram was driven to wrath at that village. Had Sister Ysolde not intervened, Lys might have seen just how bloodthirsty he truly was. Perhaps the residents of this donjon would fare better so long as they did not make the mistake of directing any violence toward his his sister.

Of the lot of them, he was most certainly the best equipped for treating with others, but based on their experience thus far, it was still not terribly comforting. Nevertheless, Lys was fairly confident that the priest would indeed avoid any unnecessary bloodshed, so perhaps the people holding Sir Burkhardt could be induced to yield. It would seem that any course would gamble Sir Burkhardt's life, so the least she could do for him was take the gamble that gave him the best chance of living.

Lys nodded to Father Tristram as the signal for him to go forward with his plan. The priest tied a handkerchief to his crosier and took a breath to steel himself, as he was risking an arrow or two from the donjon's defenders the moment he attempted to approach them. He waved his crosier as he walked calling out in a loud voice, "Hail! I come under the banner of peace! I would treat with the master of this keep! I pray he come forth!"

Father Tristram held the silver cross that hung from his neck and said, "I am a priest true, by nature and by word, and truly I say that no harm will be offered if none shall be given. Tell me, good sir, who am I speaking to? Are you the master of this keep?"

Father Tristram placed his hand over his heart and gave a half-bow, saying, "We must decline your most kind invitation to make His Lordship's acquaintance. We are pressed for time and really must be on our way. If you would but return our man, it will be as if we were never here."

Father Tristram sighed. Lys could feel her skin tingling as the priest began to draw power to himself.

His words were calm, but there was a hard edge to them. Lys knew what he meant to do and was torn between her own conflicted feelings. She could not surrender Sir Burkhardt into their hands any more than she could surrender herself, but at the same time, she did not want to see any needless bloodshed among their own people. Could someone forced to serve under threat of pain and death by the enemy truly be called an enemy himself?

A bolt of lightning then streaked from the crosier through the narrow slit of a window from which Master Pippin's voice could be heard. There was a loud clap of thunder and a great commotion inside the donjon that followed. Lys could not tell for certain if Father Tristram had killed Master Pippin outright or if the sorcerer had been merely laid low by the attack. It was one thing to disrupt a sleeping spell and quite another to block an attack of such power. Lys was not wholly confident she could do it herself.

Father Tristram wasted no time chanting his sleeping spell once more, but neither were the remaining defenders of the donjon slow to respond to his attack. Arrows flew at the priest, only to shatter against a wall of light. Lys knew Father Tristram could not be casting two spells at the same time, and when she turned to look, she saw Corothas with his hand outstretched. Had Father Tristram counted on Corothas to protect him or had he simply chosen to brave the arrows to stop the defenders before they could do anything, such as make good on their threat to kill Sir Burkhardt rather than allow him to fall out of their hands?

The three or four archers inside did not even have the chance to loose a second volley when the donjon went silent.

Father Tristram struck the ground with his crosier and said, "I thank you for the assistance, Sir Corothas."

Lys would have liked to go inside herself, but she thought better of insisting on it. She left the donjon and Sir Burkhardt to Father Tristram and Corothas while she and Sister Ysolde went to the stable to get Hänsel. Unsurprisingly for someone who seemed to do all of her travelling on foot, Sister Ysolde was not much help in saddling the mule, but holding the saddle steady while Lys secured it in place was at least some service. The saddlebags had been emptied and Lys wondered if they would have the time to attempt to recover all of their provisions and Sir Burkhardt's gear. His stock of ale they could do without, she thought.

As Lys and Sister Ysolde were leading Hänsel out of the stable, Father Tristram and Corothas emerged from the donjon, carrying Sir Burkhardt. Either due to Father Tristram's sleeping spell or violence at the hands of his captors, Sir Burkhardt was unconscious. The dried blood crusted onto the hair of the back of his head would seem to indicate the latter.

When Lys rushed to Sir Burkhardt's side, Father Tristram assured her, "He is alive, Miss Elysabet. Have no fear of that. Sir Corothas tended to his wounds, so it is just a matter of him waking up whenever the mood strikes him, unless you would like to wake him up earlier."

Father Tristram only needed to look at Hänsel's much lighter burden to confirm as much.

Corothas tapped his nose and said, "I know what bears his scent."

Father Tristram grinned and said, "The dearly departed Master Pippin was quite insistent on how true he was, Sir Corothas. It would shame his memory to make a liar of him."