By the light of the stars, that was a grim morn. Archet, usually so peaceful, was a smouldering mess. Jon Brackenbrook, poor soul, his face all grim and smudged with soot, asked me to ride to Combe for aid. "Tell Lizbeth," he says, "tell her we need help, and fast."

So, off I goes, kicking up dust on the road. Arrived at the Comb and Wattle, the smell of roasting malt a sharp contrast to the smoke I'd left behind. Lizbeth, bless her, was behind the bar, her brow knotted wi' worry. I tells her what happened, the brigands, the fires, the fear in Jon's eyes. Mayhap I paused a moment, a swift pint or two o' Beakbreaker seemed a balm for me throat after such a hike. Anyhow, I tells her we needs help, and that right quick. She immediately started organising folk, and sending word. Combe folk are good folk, and they move quickly when help is needed.