He eyed the beat-up old door and then the rest of the two-story structure. The only window, on the second floor, glowed between cracks in the drawn curtains. He considered his options. He could just walk away and continue his journey eastward. That would be the least risky course of action. Or quietly search for wherever in the gods’ names the woman had run off to. But what was she to him? An acquaintance at best, whose path had crossed his own by mere happenstance. A stranger at worst. There was a third option, of course. He could smash the door down and demand answers from those inside.

He ended up taking a slightly softer version of the third option, marching up to the battered door and rapping on it sharply with his knuckles. “Open up,” he said gruffly, which immediately made all conversation and laughter cease from within.

Footsteps thundered down the staircase and then the door cracked open. A man with thick black hair down to his shoulders peered out. “Who the void are you?”

“You Crandon?”

“It’s Guard Crandon, and no, I’m Guard Prest. We’re off-duty. If you have a crime to report, I suggest you try the guard station.”

“I’m not here for that. Guard Crandon did me a favor earlier. I wanted to thank him.”

“And you are…”

“Goran White.”

“Fine, Mister White, I’ll pass on your message.”

“I’d rather tell him in person.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that. I just owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“Who’s there, Eppy?” a new voice hollered. A taller man with a shaved head craned his neck to get a peek at Ludo.

“Someone who wants to talk to Crando.”

“He’s busy. It’s late. Now scram before we help you along your way.”

“I’m asking nicely. Trust me, you don’t want the version where I’m asking not nicely.”

All that earned him was a growl as the door was shoved open the rest of the way, the second guardsman shouldering past the first. With the shriek of metal, he drew his sword.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Ludo said. Still, he didn’t react, nor drew any of his own weapons. Instead, he waited patiently.

He didn’t have to wait long. The attack came swiftly, an overhand slash of the bald guard’s sword. It was the type of attack he expected: rash, uncontrolled, borne of anger rather than strategy. He sidestepped, steel flashing past, using the nameless guard’s momentum against him, throwing his own knee into the man’s groin and then shoving him hard between the shoulder blades. He tumbled headlong, sword clattering from his hand.