Brenin CrusStars above, that was a dark day.
Archet, usually a quiet place, was a ruin. Smouldering timbers, folk with soot-streaked faces, a right mess. Jon Brackenbrook, poor fellow, looked like he'd aged ten years in a night.
"Ride to Combe," he says to me, "tell them we need help, quick as you can."
I went straight to the inn to tell Lizbeth. Mayhap had a Beakbreaker or two to clear the smoke from me throat.
