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Mirra looked around. Even though the flames had subsided and the Briska had gone, the courtyard was still in uproar.

“He was right here? You’re sure?”

Herrin nodded, concern creasing his usually easygoing face. He ran into the stable to check, but there was nobody there.

“Tryls,” he shouted as he ran back into the courtyard. “Tryls?”

Mirra grabbed one of the more sober-looking customers. “You there, have you seen a night elf?”

He shook his head and stumbled off.

“All right,” Herrin said, running his hands through his hair. “Fact one, he was here when you blew the horn, fact two, he’s not here now, and neither are the Briska.”

Mirra blinked and stared. “You think they took him?”

“Bit of an odd choice when there’s handsome old me shouting his head off, but yes,” Herrin said, grinning awkwardly.

Mirra rolled her eyes. “There are some situations that aren’t helped by your humour, Herrin,” she said. “Saddle up a horse, we have to get after them.”

She ran back towards the smoking remains of the tavern.

“Ah,” he called after her, “slight problem there. The horses all seem to have run off.”

She turned and shouted over the din. “Then go and CATCH one!”

“Catch one. Right.” Herrin rubbed his hands through his hair again. “No fear Tryls old boy, we’ll be right behind you…”

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: This tale began with Herrin’s Escape, and I apologise yet again that I haven’t had time to write a longer/better instalment.)