Nearly a week had passed since the destruction of Stratholme. During that time, Mortimer had been overtaken by caravans of displaced farmers and townsfolk from across the kingdom, making their way West from Lorderan. Since none of them knew him, many had offered food and drink to the Poor Old Man with his heavily laden wheelbarrow. To repay their kindness, Mort had offered them bread baked with grains he had nicked from the tainted shipments before his departure. Yes, he was a complete and total bastard. “So, where do you hail from, old man?” the barkeep yelled over the din.