The old man's declaration that others would come to his signal proved true within the hour, just as Dominic was finishing with his efforts at helping the new arrivals assemble their yurt for extra space.
A rider on an oversized plow horse, wearing a patched but formerly quality coat, approached the farmhouse, which now had a fire going in the fireplace, giving off a small plume of smoke to show its occupancy.
"Hail to the rider." Dominic called, stepping outside to meet him.
"Hail to the Lord. Did you set up the flare?" The rider replied.
Dominic shook his head.
"No, the family patriarch of my new sharecroppers did. I am Dominic Wavemates, Duke of Wistover, where you are standing now. Are you travelling with a group?" Dominic asked.
The rider nodded. "We have fifty refugees from near Causter. Farm folk, looking to escape the aftermath of the war. Are we in Cygnia now?"
