The old woman drew back her short sword and laid Needle down on the ground. She then picked up the medicine bottle, wiped it on her clothes to clean it, and then handed it to the Priest.
"Nice work." Ferry nodded. "Drag his corpse out and dispose of it."
"Yes," she replied in a hoarse voice. She dragged the corpse effortlessly, utterly unlike an old woman who had one foot in the grave.
"My lord, do you believe what he said," Priest Shattrath asked after the old woman left. "A caravan is working with the witches under the command of the Lord of Border Town. As I recall, isn't that lord Roland Wimbledon, the fourth Prince?"
"We'll know whether it's true after we send someone to check it," Ferry said with a serious look, "but I think he has no reason to lie. As long as someone takes a look from the top of the city walls, he'll notice the actions of the refugees. If he wanted to tell a lie to exchange for the holy medicine, at least he would have made one harder to verify."
