The heat was sweltering. How could a field littered with rocks burn for so long? Now Horghmund stood, staring out at scorched earth and the blackened bits of prairie grass that jutted up from overturned soil. This hadn’t been the first time someone had tried to burn the village, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Each time the flames licked closer, and now the dwarven armorsmith was worried for the families that lived on the edge of town.

Today’s fire had claimed the thatched rooftop of a family home, though luckily no one inside came to harm. The Alerians had come through, sweeping through with their noses almost too high to look at any of them, back when the first fires had broken out. The rains had just been through, without the lightning storms that made spring so dangerous. There shouldn’t have been fires, they’d all insisted. The Kyorl didn’t say anything, and they all knew the patrol wouldn’t be back, even when two more fires started up.

What if next time everyone was busy, or asleep? What if next time buckets weren’t as quick or wells were dry? What if next time Lemelle wasn’t here with her magic to bring a tide from the clouds?

Reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow, he could still marvel at the heat left over now that the field was nothing but embers and ash. It felt like he was in front of his forge, not standing on the packed earth street. Hopefully the next strike would wait. In the morning his father should be back from Kachuk with volunteers to help the little group of artisans find the source of their misery. The rooms above the stable would be filled with men better at scouting and skirmishing than any of the villagers and soon they would have peace.

It was time to sleep, as the golden light faded and the sun started to slip below the horizon to the west. The night would be long, as it always was with the sun needing to climb the Mountains of Dusk before it could shine on their rooftops. Horghmund was determined to be among the first to greet their saviors, whoever they may be.