<h2>Chapter 14: The City of Storhold</h2>


    The guards at the gate were thorough but efficient, checking wagons with practiced speed. When their turn came, Dayne handled the interaction with familiar ease, answering questions about their cargo while producing what looked like some kind of token.


    James tried not to stare as they passed under the massive gateway. The stone above them was carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the changing light. The passage through the wall was longer than he expected, like moving through a tunnel of fitted stone blocks, each one larger than their wagon.


    Then they emerged into Storhold proper, and James''s breath caught. The city opened up before them, buildings rising in tiers that followed the natural hill the city was built upon. Streets branched off in every direction, some broad enough for multiple wagons, others narrow and winding between towering structures. People filled every space, traders, craftsmen, and citizens going about their daily lives. The sounds and smells were overwhelming after days on the quiet road: metalwork from forges, cooking food, animals, and humanity pressed together in all its chaos.


    "Have to stay alert here" Dayne said, guiding their wagon into the flow of traffic. "Easy to get lost if you don''t know the ways."


    "What was that you showed them?" James asked as they merged into the city''s traffic, nodding toward where Dayne had tucked away the token. "At the gate?"


    "Trader''s mark," Dayne replied, keeping his eyes on the crowded street ahead. "Shows you''re registered with the city. What goods you''re approved to trade, what quarters you can sell in." He guided the Haulder around a stopped wagon. "Need one to do proper business here. Keeps the taxation orderly."


    James watched another trader at a different gate being turned away, their wagon directed to what looked like a separate inspection area. The whole system seemed surprisingly organized compared to what he''d expected.


    The city pressed in around them, buildings so tall they seemed to lean over the streets, creating shadows even in the morning light. People moved with purpose, clearly knowing their paths through the maze of roads and alleys. Markets appeared to be divided by type, they passed streets filled with textile merchants, others dedicated to metalwork, the sounds of commerce mixing with the general din of city life.


    Everywhere he looked, James saw evidence of a complex society that had built itself into something far more advanced than he''d imagined during his days in the grasslands. And this was just what he could see from the main thoroughfare.


    The traffic thickened as they moved deeper into Storhold, their wagon joining a steadily flowing river of commerce. The buildings pressed in close to the street, their architecture a mix of practical and ornate that spoke of generations of development. Stone dominated everything, from the cobbled streets to the towering structures, some rising five or six stories high.


    "Market district''s ahead," Dayne said, guiding the Haulder through an intersection where four major roads met. "We''ll stable the wagon there, get the Shellbacks sorted." He gestured toward what looked like official buildings rising above the general chaos. "Then you and I need to visit the registry."


    James watched as they passed through what seemed to be a craftsman''s quarter. Forges rang with the sound of hammers, and the smell of worked leather mixed with the general city air. Everything was organized with a purpose.


    A patrol of guards passed them, their horses moving easily through the crowd. Unlike the outer patrols, these city guards wore more elaborate leather armor, dyed in dark blues that must signify their status. Among the crowds, James caught glimpses of the black wolf insignia of the Northlanders, moving through the streets with a confident air that made others give them a wide berth.


    The market district announced itself with increased noise and activity. Multiple languages filled the air, none that James recognized. Goods from seemingly everywhere were on display, foods he''d never seen, crafts that defied his understanding, and creatures being sold that made the Shellbacks look ordinary.


    The stables were a marvel of organization, with different sections for various types of animals. Their Haulder was led to an area specifically designed for its kind, while the Shellbacks were moved to specialized holding pens. Workers moved with practiced efficiency, obviously used to handling all manner of creatures.


    "Payment up front," a stern-faced woman said, appearing beside their wagon with a ledger. "Three days standard rate for the Haulder, extra for the Shellbacks." She quoted a price and James watched curiously as Dayne counted out what looked like chunks of dark metal from a pouch at his belt.


    "Market fee''s separate," she added, making a note in her book. "Pay that at the registry if you''re selling. South tower, third level." She handed Dayne a marked piece of leather, some kind of claim ticket.


    James helped unload their essential supplies while stable hands dealt with the animals. The Haulder''s coat patterns showed uncertainty at the new surroundings, but the creatures here were clearly used to handling their kind.


    "Registry first," Dayne said, securing their belongings. "Then we find lodging."


    They made their way through the crowded streets, Dayne navigating the flow of people with familiar ease. The south tower rose ahead of them, its stone face marked with the same strange patterns James had noticed on the city walls.


    "Registry keeps track of all trade," Dayne explained as they walked. "Who''s selling what, where they''re from, how long they''re staying." He patted the pouch at his belt. "Different fees for different goods. Shellbacks are common enough, won''t cost much to register. Some traders try to avoid it, sell under the table. Bad idea in Storhold."


    "What happens to them?"


    "Best case? Fines, banned from the market. Worst case?" Dayne nodded toward a group of the blue-armored city guards. "Depends what they''re trying to sell. Storhold takes its trade seriously. Keeps things orderly, keeps the revenue flowing." He lowered his voice. "Also helps them track who''s coming and going. Especially now, with the Northlanders about."


    The tower''s entrance was crowded with traders waiting their turn, each clutching different kinds of papers or tokens. James noticed how the guards watched everyone carefully, paying special attention to those carrying certain types of goods.


    James tried to take in everything around them as they approached the south tower. Street vendors had set up between the larger buildings, selling what smelled like fresh bread and meat he didn''t recognize. Children darted between market stalls, some playing games, others obviously picking pockets from unwary travelers. Above the street level, he noticed walkways connecting buildings, with people moving between them like they were additional streets.


    Every surface seemed to have a purpose. Walls displayed notices and advertisements in writing he couldn''t read. Colored flags hung from certain buildings, probably indicating what was being sold or traded inside. Even the stone road had markings, lines, and symbols that seemed to direct different types of traffic.


    The tower itself was a testament to whatever civilization had built Storhold. Up close, James could see how the stone blocks fit together so precisely that not even a knife blade could find purchase between them. The patterns he''d noticed weren''t just decorative, they seemed to flow into each other, creating larger designs that drew the eye upward.


    "Registry takes up five levels," Dayne said as they joined the line of traders. "Different goods, different floors. Helps control the flow." He pointed to markers above the entrance. "Those tell you where to go. Food trades ground floor, textiles second, livestock third." He glanced at their trader''s mark. "We''re livestock."


    The line moved with surprising efficiency, guards directing people to different entrances based on their business. James noticed how some traders were pulled aside for more thorough questioning, while others, those with more elaborate versions of Dayne''s trader''s mark, were moved through more quickly.


    The third level was cooler than the street, its windows designed to catch cross-breezes. Multiple counters lined the walls, each staffed by attendants in matching gray robes marked with what James assumed were official insignias.


    Their attendant was an older woman with steel-gray hair pulled back severely from her face. She wore a series of small metal pins on her robe that seemed to indicate rank or position. Without looking up from her ledger, she held out her hand for Dayne''s trader''s mark.


    "Shellbacks," she said, not a question but a statement as she examined the token. "How many?"


    "Eight," Dayne replied. "Good size, healthy."


    Her quill scratched against the ledger as she made notes. "Origin?"


    "Western mountains, bred them myself."


    She looked up then, her pale eyes sharp. "You''re Dayne. Haven''t seen you in two seasons." Her gaze shifted to James. "New hand?"


    "Helper for the journey," Dayne said simply.


    "Standard rate for eight Shellbacks..." She calculated briefly, "one mark, and eight weights." Her quill never stopped moving. "Marketspace is assigned in section four. Three days."


    "Any other trade goods to declare?" she asked.


    "No other goods," Dayne said, already counting out the metal pieces. The attendant''s eyes tracked each one as he placed them on her counter, her quill noting the amounts with quick precision.


    She pressed an intricate stamp into a wax seal on what looked like a permit, then handed it to Dayne along with a small wooden token marked with numbers. "Section four, row seven. Standard rules apply." Her eyes lingered on James again. "Make sure your helper understands them."


    They turned to leave, but her voice stopped them. "Dayne." When he looked back, her severe expression had softened slightly. "Watch yourself. The market''s not as friendly as it used to be."


    Outside the registry, Dayne tucked the permit and token securely away. "Need to check our market space," he said. "Then find rooms for the night. Unless you''d rather sleep with the Shellbacks."


    The market space turned out to be little more than a marked section of stone flooring under a massive covered area, but its position near a main thoroughfare seemed promising. Their designated spot was next to an already established stall selling metalwork, a broad-shouldered woman with arms marked by forge burns had arranged her wares with practiced care. Woodworking tools lined one side of her display: well-crafted hammers, hand saws, and chisels. Mason''s tools filled another section: levels, squares, and measuring tools that looked like they''d survived longer than the Roman Empire had.


    She nodded briefly at Dayne as they inspected their space. Other traders were setting up their spaces, some with elaborate displays and others with simple stalls.


    "We''ll set up tomorrow," Dayne said, pocketing the location token after a quick inspection. "Need food and rest first."


    But before that, Dayne led them to a leather worker''s shop tucked between two larger buildings. The smell of tanned hide and fresh leather filled the air.


    "Can''t have a trader walking around in borrowed boots," Dayne said, answering James’ unspoken question "Need your own pair, fitted proper."


    The boots they found were sturdy but supple. Dark leather worked to a deep brown, and thick soles meant for long days of walking. They were not as ornate as some of the footwear James had seen in Storhold''s market, but they were practical and built to last.


    As they walked toward the tavern, James marveled at the difference. Dayne''s old boots had served their purpose, but these moved with his feet instead of sliding around them. Each step felt more secure and grounded. He hadn''t realized how much energy he''d been spending just keeping the borrowed boots from slipping until he didn''t have to anymore.


    They wound their way through increasingly crowded streets until Dayne led them to an inn three stories tall, built from the same solid stone as most of Storhold but with wooden balconies jutting from its upper floors. Unlike some of the noisy taverns they''d passed, this place had a quieter feel, clearly catering to those who needed actual rest between busy days.


    The inn''s common room was less crowded than the streets outside, filled with what looked like regular traders rather than temporary market crowds. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, though it sat cold in the summer heat. Behind a solid wooden counter, a heavyset man with close-cropped gray hair was deep in conversation with what appeared to be regular customers.


    His face brightened with recognition when he saw Dayne. "Been too long," he called out, making his way around the counter. "Started to think you''d found better lodgings."


    "Nowhere better, Torvan," Dayne replied, clasping the man''s offered forearm. "Got room for two for three days?"


    Torvan''s eyes flickered to James, assessing but not unfriendly. "Two mark and three weights. Extra two weights for a morning meal." The price was higher than the stables, but James noticed how other travelers seemed at ease here, relaxed in a way they hadn''t been on the streets.


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    "Serra!" Torvan called after Dayne paid. A young woman appeared from a back room, her dark hair braided intricately away from a face that made several traders straighten their postures. "Show them to the east corner room."


    She led them up two flights of stairs, her movements graceful despite the worn steps. The room she showed them was simple but clean: two narrow beds with straw-stuffed mattresses covered in wool blankets, a small window overlooking an inner courtyard, and a heavy wooden chest for securing valuables. A wash basin sat on a sturdy table, and hooks lined one wall for hanging clothes and gear.


    "Not fancy," Dayne said after Serra left, "but the beds are dry, the doors have good locks, and the owner keeps it quiet."


    They made their way back downstairs to find the tavern''s dining area had filled with traders and regular lodgers. Serra brought them each a bowl of rich stew, chunks of tender meat swimming in a thick broth with vegetables, and a loaf of dark bread to share. Dayne ordered ale, which arrived at room temperature but fresh-brewed. James was surprised by its smoothness, lacking the bitter bite he was used to from craft beers back home.


    After they''d eaten in comfortable silence for a while, Dayne spoke. "Should visit a healer tomorrow. For your..." he tapped his temple meaningfully, his eyes studying James with that same knowing look he''d had during the storm. "Memory problems."


    "Maybe not yet," James said, staring into his ale. "I was thinking more like... is there someone here who deals with strange things? Like an elder or wise person?" He felt ridiculous even asking, he was basing this on every fantasy movie and TV show he''d ever watched, where there was always some mysterious sage who knew all the secrets. But in this world with two moons and weird-looking predators, maybe those tropes existed for a reason.


    "Depends what kind of strange things you mean," Dayne replied carefully. His expression suggested he was weighing how much to ask.


    James took another drink from his cup, giving himself time to think. How exactly do you ask about interdimensional travel without sounding completely insane? "Just... things that aren''t easily explained. Things that don''t make sense."


    Dayne studied him for a long moment before answering. "There are those who claim to know such things. Whether they actually do..." He shrugged. "Most are frauds taking coin from desperate people."


    James nodded, feeling foolish. Of course it wouldn''t be that easy. This wasn''t a movie where some wise old mentor would appear and explain everything.


    James took another long drink, letting the smooth ale wash over his tongue while the reality of his situation settled deeper. Maybe there was no mystical solution. No way back. Maybe this was just... it. His life now. Learning to handle Haulders, and trading Shellbacks.


    "Need to see to some business," Dayne said, interrupting his thoughts. He placed several metal pieces on the table. "Two weights for another ale, if you want it. A mark is worth ten weights, and a clip is twenty marks. Don''t let anyone tell you different." He arranged the pieces deliberately: the small dark weights, the slightly larger marks, and a single bronze clip that caught the tavern''s lamplight.


    Before James could respond, Dayne had disappeared into the evening crowd, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the carefully arranged currency. Looking at what Dayne had left him, a single mark and five weights, James realized it was a surprisingly generous amount.


    The tavern''s evening crowd had settled into what felt like familiar patterns, regular lodgers claiming their usual tables, traders comparing market prices in low voices, servers navigating the room with practiced efficiency.


    Serra moved between tables with the same economical grace he''d seen in experienced co-workers back home, the kind who''d survived enough holiday seasons to develop a sixth sense for customer needs. She seemed to know exactly which traders wanted to be left alone with their drinks and which ones expected friendly conversation with their service.


    A group of merchants at the next table were discussing cloth prices, their conversation drifting over as James pretended to focus on his ale. They spoke with the same intensity he remembered from Electronics Paradise staff comparing sales numbers, though here they debated thread counts and dye qualities instead of phone cases and warranty rates.


    "Northern wool''s up eight weights per bolt," one trader muttered into his cup. "With the raiders about, fewer shepherds willing to risk the high pastures."


    "Everything from the north''s rising," another replied. "Even basic iron''s up two marks since last season." They lowered their voices further, glancing around before continuing.


    James moved the currency pieces around. Back home, he''d been saving up for a better apartment, counting dollars and cents toward a security deposit. Now here he sat, learning an alien currency system while traders discussed wool prices.


    The familiarity of it all hit him suddenly, people just trying to make a living, worried about prices and safety and having enough to get by. The details were different, but the basic concerns remained the same. Even Serra''s efficient movements reminded him of Carmen handling the electronics accessories section, making order from chaos.


    Carmen. The name brought a tight feeling to his chest. What did they think had happened to him? Was there a missing persons report? Had his mom put up posters around the neighborhood? Or had no time passed there at all? He''d been so focused on immediate survival that he hadn''t let himself really think about it until now.


    More traders entered the tavern, shaking off the market day''s dust. They carried themselves differently from the street vendors outside, more settled and established. These weren''t desperate people hoping for quick profit but professionals who''d built their lives around the steady rhythms of trade.


    A weathered woman with elaborately braided gray hair was holding court at a corner table, younger traders bringing her samples of their goods for inspection. Her opinions seemed to carry weight, James watched how a textile merchant''s shoulders slumped when she frowned at his offered cloth, while another trader beamed at her approving nod.


    "Another?" Serra appeared beside his table, startling him from his thoughts. She nodded toward his nearly empty cup.


    James studied the currency pieces before pushing two of the small weights toward Serra. It was a simple enough transaction, but he was determined not to look like a complete outsider. Serra''s brief smile as she collected them suggested he''d at least managed that much.


    Serra returned shortly with his ale, moving smoothly to catch a dropped cup at another table before it could spill. He took a long drink, letting the ale''s unfamiliar but pleasant taste ground him in the present moment.


    The tavern''s lamps were being lit as the evening deepened outside, their light glinting off the metal weights and marks traders used to settle their tabs.


    The noise from the street was fading as market hours ended, replaced by the more settled sounds of evening trade talk. James finished his ale slowly, letting the familiar rhythms of commerce and conversation wash over him. For now, at least, he had a place to sleep, money for food, and work to do tomorrow. The bigger questions, about home, about belonging, about his place in this world, could wait another day.


    <hr>


    The ale hit James harder than it should have. He''d never been much of a drinker back home. The tavern''s crowded room suddenly felt stifling, all those bodies and candles turning the air thick and heavy. He needed some air.


    Standing made the room tilt slightly. James steadied himself against the table, trying to look casual as he made his way to the door.


    The cool evening air felt good on his face, clearing his head a little. He started walking, not really paying attention to direction, just enjoying the relative quiet of Storhold''s evening streets.


    His mind drifted to tomorrow''s market day. What would it be like, standing in their assigned spot, bargaining over Shellbacks with traders who''d been doing this for generations? Would he be able to convince anyone he belonged here? He imagined himself confidently handling transactions, counting out weights and marks like he''d been doing it his whole life. Maybe Dayne would let him handle a sale. Or maybe he''d just stand there trying not to look utterly lost while Dayne did the real work. Either way, it was happening. His first day as a trader in an alien world. The thought was so absurd he almost laughed out loud.


    Tthe collision caught him completely off-guard. He''d been watching his own feet, making sure they behaved themselves, when he walked straight into what felt like a stone wall. Two stone walls, actually, Northlanders, he realized with sickening clarity as he stumbled backward.


    They loomed over him like carved granite, both well over six feet tall with shoulders broad enough to fill doorways. The one on the right bore a jagged scar that pulled his upper lip into a permanent sneer, his nose crooked from too many breaks, face weathered by harsh winds.


    His companion was younger but no less imposing, dark beard braided tight against his jaw, eyes the pale gray of winter ice, with tribal markings etched into the leather of his armor. Unlike the richly armored riders he''d seen entering Storhold, these men wore practical leather gear marked with their people''s symbols. Their black wolf insignia was stamped into the leather rather than richly embroidered, suggesting they were warriors rather than nobles. Both carried themselves with the easy confidence of men used to being feared, their muscles speaking of lives spent wielding weapons rather than quills.


    "Watch it," the younger one growled, shoving James down with casual force. His accent was thick, making even those two words sound like stones grinding together.


    "I''m sorry," James managed, pushing himself up from where he''d landed. "My fault, I wasn''t-"


    The punch came from the scarred one, the movement so fast James barely saw the smile before the fist connected. James had always wondered what getting hit in the face would feel like. Now he knew: it felt like an explosion behind his eyes, like someone had stuffed his skull with burning cotton. His head snapped back and he tasted metal. There was a moment of pure surprise before the pain really hit, radiating out from his jaw in waves of heat and pressure.


    He landed hard on the cobblestones again, his brain struggling to process what had happened. This was real pain, not like stubbing your toe or catching your finger in a drawer. This was the kind of pain that made the world go fuzzy around the edges. His entire face felt like it was swelling and shrinking at the same time, and he could feel his eye already starting to puff up.


    The younger one spat, the glob landing on James''s shirt as they walked past, his braided beard swaying with the motion. Their boots scraped against the cobblestones with unhurried confidence, the sound of leather and metal fittings gradually fading into the evening air.


    James stayed down for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The punch had knocked most of the ale''s fog from his mind, replacing it with a sharp, throbbing clarity. His jaw felt loose where they''d hit him, and he worked it carefully, testing for serious damage. Blood from his split lip dripped onto the cobblestones, leaving dark spots that disappeared between the stones.


    Getting up took more effort than it should have. His body didn''t want to cooperate, and his balance kept shifting like he was back on the storm-rocked wagon. Eventually, he managed to get his feet under him, using a nearby wall for support.


    The street had cleared during the encounter, locals apparently preferred to mind their own business. Now a few faces peered cautiously from doorways and windows, watching him with a mixture of sympathy and relief that it hadn''t been them.


    The tavern''s warm light beckoned from down the street. James touched his face gingerly, wincing at the tenderness around his eye. It was already swelling, and tomorrow would probably be worse. The metallic taste in his mouth was fading, but his split lip stung in the cool night air.


    Each step felt more stable than the last as he made his way back. The ale''s pleasant buzz had been replaced by a sharp sobriety and the first hints of what promised to be impressive pain once the shock wore off. At least he could navigate in a straight line now, though his pride hurt worse than his face.


    He''d survived Sarriths and learned to hunt Shellbacks, but one punch from an angry Northlander had laid him out completely. Different kinds of survival, he supposed, and he clearly had more to learn.


    James pushed open the tavern door, trying to keep his head down. The warmth and noise hit him like a wall after the cool evening air, making his head throb in new and interesting ways.


    Serra glanced up at the sound of the door, her usual welcoming smile freezing when she saw his face. She set down the cups she''d been carrying and crossed the room in quick, efficient steps.


    "By the moons," she breathed, reaching up as if to touch his swelling eye before catching herself. Her gaze flicked to his split lip, then to the spot of spit on his shirt. Understanding darkened her expression. "Northlanders?"


    James managed a slight nod, which turned out to be a mistake as pain flared through his jaw.


    "Torvan," she called to the owner, not taking her eyes off James''s injuries. "I''ll be back in a moment." She took James''s arm gently but firmly. "Let''s get you upstairs before that eye swells completely shut."


    The stairs proved more challenging than they had earlier, even with Serra''s steady guidance. She helped him navigate each step, showing the same patience she''d displayed with rowdy customers downstairs.


    "Sit," she commanded when they reached his room, directing him to the nearest bed. "Stay here. I''ll bring something for the pain." She paused at the door. "Don''t try cleaning it yourself. Wait for me."


    Before he could protest, she was gone, her footsteps quick and purposeful on the stairs. James touched his lip carefully, wincing at the sting. His reflection in the room''s small window showed the beginning of what promised to be an impressive black eye.


    The door opened a few minutes later, Serra returning with a bowl of water, clean cloths, and two clay mugs of what smelled stronger than ale balanced on a wooden tray.


    "Drink this first," she said, handing him one of the mugs. "The rest will hurt less after." Her tone suggested this wasn''t her first time treating someone''s injuries.


    James took a careful sip, mindful of his split lip. The liquid burned going down, nothing like the ale he''d had earlier. Some kind of spirit that made his eyes water even as warmth spread through his chest.


    Serra soaked one of the cloths in the water and began cleaning his face with practiced efficiency. "Hold still," she instructed when he flinched. "Blood needs to be cleaned properly or it''ll fester." Her movements were gentle but thorough, each dab of the cloth precise and purposeful.


    From a small pouch at her belt, she produced what looked like dried leaves, crushing them between her fingers before mixing them into a paste with water from the bowl. The sharp, herbal smell reminded James of his mom''s tiger balm, though this was more pungent.


    "This will sting," she warned, applying the paste around his swelling eye. She wasn''t wrong, it felt like angry bees were dancing on his skin. But beneath the sting, a numbing coolness spread through the tender flesh.


    "My grandmother was a healer," she explained, working more of the paste into his split lip. "Taught me which herbs help with bruising, which fight fever, which keep wounds clean." She examined his jaw carefully. "Nothing feels broken, but you''ll want to chew carefully for a few days."


    She pressed another cloth, this one soaked in something that smelled alcoholic but definitely wasn''t ale, against his lip. "Hold that there," she instructed. "The spirits will clean it and help with swelling."


    James did as told, watching as she prepared another mixture, different leaves this time, mixed with what looked like crushed flower petals. The strong spirits were definitely affecting him now, making him acutely aware of how close she was leaning, the way her shirt gaped slightly as she worked. He caught himself staring at the curve of her neck, the hint of cleavage, his eyes quickly looking anywhere else, feeling his face flush like some awkward teenager. The alcohol was clearly not helping his dignity tonight.


    She spread the paste more widely around his eye, her fingers moving in small circles that seemed almost ritualistic, and James focused very intently on a spot on the wall.


    "The bruising will still show," she said, "but this will help with the swelling and pain." She sat back, studying her work. "Drink the rest of that ale. Slowly. Then get some sleep, your face will thank you for it in the morning."


    She gathered her supplies, leaving one of the cloths soaking in the bowl. "Keep that against your eye tonight," she instructed. "And next time you need air, use the courtyard. Fewer Northlanders there."


    The door closed softly behind her, leaving James with his numbed face and the remaining ale. The herbs were definitely working, the sharp pain had faded to a dull throb, though his whole face felt like it was floating slightly to the left of where it should be.


    He touched the paste around his eye gingerly. The mixture had already begun to dry, forming a protective layer that smelled like his mom''s garden after rain. Something his mom never had to do was patch him up after being punched by warriors from another world. He wondered what she''d think of these traditional remedies, her son being treated with herbs and pastes instead of ice packs and aspirin.


    Following Serra''s instructions, he finished the ale from the second cup slowly and pressed the cool, damp cloth against his swelling eye. Tomorrow would bring questions from Dayne, but for now, he just needed to let Serra''s remedies do their work and hope he didn''t look quite as bad as he felt.