Sasler’s family knew his secret, but nobody else did. Crogan, who was way too religious for a bandit, saw the “ghost shooter” as a punishment from gods, always wondering what would they punish him for. Didn’t he pray often enough? Weren’t his sacrifices generous?

Old Crogan had killed a lot of people during his lifetime, loved a good torture too. If you had asked him whether he remembered a boy he had tortured to death for pure fun in his youth he’d just say, “Which one?” for there were many. Sasler did remember, though. The boy was his firstborn son…

“No, these two are neither Crogan’s thugs nor some other threat,” concluded Sasler by the end of the day.

The strangers, a girl and a boy, had young, honest faces. They smiled and laughed often, making jokes and sharing stories as they walked. Sasler himself couldn’t help an occasional chuckle while lip-reading their conversations.

“Adventurers,” he thought, “Young and stupid, brave and defenceless… The boy looks a bit like my late son. He must be about the same age… Sure, I’ll let them pass through my lands, but what then? What will happen when they enter Crogan’s territory?” Sasler squinted. He didn’t like the choice he faced. His family, wife and little son waiting for him at home, were on his mind, they always were, but now his late boy was too.

“No! No, damn it!” he whispered angrily waving the dark thoughts away. “I’ll look after the kids. I’ll keep them safe if I can.”

The evening came, gentle and breezy, so unlike the harsh desert nights Kangassk knew. It was time to camp, to everyone’s joy, chargas included. The beasts got tired too. Once freed from their burden they got themselves busy stripping the young trees from bark which was obviously a treat for them. Chargas are omnivorous, so they could go hunting if they wanted. These two weren’t in the mood for the hunt, though.

Vlada sent Kangassk to gather brushwood. By the time he had returned she had built a proper fire pit, with a little cauldron hanging on a hook above the neat ring of stones. The cauldron was filled with water, bits of salted meat and dried bread – the simplest wayfarer food. All that was missing was fire.

“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire here?” asked Kangassk who felt uneasy in the forest. “What if somebody finds us?”

“I think it’s quite safe,” Vlada assured him. “As far as I know, the local bandits avoid this forest. They believe it to be haunted or something…”

“Oh, wonderful!” Kangassk gulped. “Then I’d better build the fire right away. At least I’ll feel safer.”

He didn’t even look at the tinderbox. Most likely he didn’t even know what a tinderbox was. Why would a Kuldagan dweller even need such a thing to make a fire? They have dragonlighters for that.

Kan promptly fished the dragonlighter out of his pocket. The pocket dragon was squeaking, clawing at his jacket, and trying to squirm out of his grasp. The little thing had just eaten all the tasty crumbles Kan poured into the pocket, so it was too full and sleepy to work, no wonder it was fighting back.

“See, this is a lighter,” said Kangassk, showing the dragon to Vlada. “Just squeeze it in your hand and – whoosh! – you have fire.”

Then he did squeeze the little dragon in his hand and moved its snout above the brushwood. The branches were a bit damp, so it took them some time to catch fire.

“See!” said Kan, clearly proud of himself. “Lighters are cool! We…”

There came a thin farting sound… Kan stopped dead mid-sentence, swore, and opened his hand. There was a grey foul-smelling spot on his palm.