A few, leaking tears flickered on Asher's cheeks. Johanna seemed so close to her brothers. Like a real family. He didn't even have parents. Emerson had been the closest thing, and even then, Asher had felt there were times when the two of them weren't connected. He'd never felt that familial bond. When she finished, he remained motionless, staring into the fire for a while.

"Oh, my apologies." Asher looked up, blinking away the tears. "Your story was quite interesting, I promise. It seems you and your brothers are close." He turned away for a moment, trying to clear his eyes. [i]A true man is not afraid to cry, Asher, but he knows the time and place.[/i] Emerson may not have been a total father, but he had been an excellent mentor. The time to cry was not now. He returned his gaze to the fire, and opened his mouth to speak.

Then a scream ripped through the night air. Asher's head snapped to the right, where the noise had originated, and he leapt to his feet. A swirl of torches, high in the air, milled about near one of the other fires. "Bandits," he growled. "The bastards." He had heard stories about black-hearted people preying on the refugees, stripping them of even the smallest, trivial artifacts. They were worse than animals.

He started off, halted, and turned to Johanna. "I can't tell you what to do, but if you wish to fight, there's a spare sword in my pack. Be careful." Off he went, his sword sliding from its scabbard. The sword was medium in length, a powerful metal-hybrid weapon he had procured during one of his several trips to Rohnad. The swords there were some of the finest he had encountered.

Some of the raiders were on horseback, while some were on foot. Attacking the mounted would be suicide with sword like his, no matter how sharp and strong. Instead, he opted for a safer route. He stooped low, and grabbed a torch from the ground, lighting it in one of the fires. Then he leapt into the fray, swinging sword and fire alike, blinding the attackers and cutting them apart.

He tried to maim rather than kill, mainly because most of the bandits were simply the most desperate of the refugees, and because Emerson had once said, [i]Only a coward kills the enemy. A coward who sees only the enemy, and not the man. Though they would kill you, you may gain powerful friends with a bit of mercy.[/i] And the man had been right--some of Asher's most steadfast allies had been enemies he had defeated in combat, through luck, skill, or concentration; he wasn't the best swordfighter, but he could handle himself in a fight.

He was more worried about Johanna. If she was injured, captured, or killed, he'd lose his best and only chance of finding what he sought. And, though he wasn't sure to admit it yet, he'd lose a friend.