The Bridge

Chapter 19 — The Bridge

Deacon heard the battle before anyone saw it.

Steel.

Shouting.

The sharp crack of bowstrings.

Then something deeper—the massed, broken laughter of gnolls.

He stopped.

Every muscle in his body went still.

Zook, several paces ahead, looked back.

“You hear that?”

“Yes.”

Jandar drew his rapier.

Vegon listened for another moment.

“That sounds like more than a skirmish.”

Another roar rolled through the trees.

Human voices answered.

Deacon was already moving.

“Stay off the road.”

Jandar followed.

“I thought you might say that.”

They left the trail and pushed through the woods toward the sound.

The land dropped gradually ahead of them. Through gaps between the trees, Deacon caught flashes of water and pale sky.

Then they reached the edge of the slope.

And saw the bridge.

The river ran through a narrow cut between two wooded ridges.

It was wider than Deacon expected—deep enough through the center for boats, with a steady current sliding north beneath a long wooden bridge.

The bridge was not the problem.

The fort guarding it was.

A palisade enclosed the northern end, built around a squat stone watchtower overlooking the river. Sharpened logs formed most of the outer wall. A gate opened onto the bridge itself.

Or had.

Gnolls were tearing it apart.

Dozens.

Deacon crouched behind a fallen tree.

The others joined him.

For several seconds nobody spoke.

Jandar finally whispered, “That is a lot of gnolls.”

Deacon counted.

Not individuals.

Positions.

Three groups at the palisade.

Another on the bridge.

Archers firing toward the tower.

A smaller force across the river, keeping the defenders from concentrating on one side.

Two obvious commanders.

No.

Three.

One near the southern approach.

One directing the assault against the wall.

One standing farther back with hunters around him.

The defenders had perhaps a dozen people still fighting.

Maybe fewer.

Arrows came from the watchtower.

One gnoll fell.

Three more took its place.

The wall shook.

Deacon studied the construction.

Old timber.

Strong enough against raiders.

Not against this.

A section near the river had begun to buckle where gnolls hurled themselves against it.

He pointed.

“That goes first.”

Zook followed his finger.

“The wall?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Vegon looked across the battlefield.

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Jandar glanced at him.

“You stole that from Zook.”

“I improved it.”

The gnolls struck the palisade again.

Wood cracked.

A human voice shouted from somewhere behind it.

Jandar lowered himself beside Deacon.

“We can go around.”

Deacon looked at him.

Jandar nodded toward the river.

“This isn’t the road. We could stay in the trees, circle east, keep moving north.”

Vegon said nothing.

Neither did Xil.

Zook watched the fort.

Another arrow left the tower.

A gnoll hunter answered.

The human archer disappeared from sight.

Deacon knew what Jandar was doing.

Not arguing.

Making him say it.

They had a mission.

Ilbus.

The Great Swamp.

The Temple of Orozon.

Everything they had learned pointed north.

Stopping here could cost them hours.

Maybe a day.

Maybe more.

And there was no certainty they could save anyone.

Deacon watched one of the pack leaders raise a weapon.

The creatures around it surged forward.

He saw another place.

Another wall.

Not the same.

Never the same.

But memory did not care.

A village trying to hold.

People behind whatever defenses they had managed to build.

Gnolls outside.

Too many.

Always too many.

He had been young the first time.

Too young to understand why anyone would attack Ashlyn.

Old enough to understand what happened when nobody came.

“We’re not going around.”

Jandar nodded once.

No joke.

Zook drew his blades.

Vegon exhaled.

Xil adjusted his shield.

That was all.

No argument.

No vote.

Deacon looked at the battlefield again.

“Good.”

The gnolls did not know they were there.

That was the only advantage they had.

Deacon intended to use all of it.

He pointed toward the nearest rise.

“Zook, left side. Stay in the trees. Don’t go down until they turn.”

Zook nodded.

“Jandar.”

“Something reckless?”

“Probably.”

Jandar smiled.

“I knew you liked me.”

Deacon pointed toward the palisade.

“The wall is going to break.”

Jandar’s smile disappeared.

“When it does, that becomes the worst place on the field.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me there.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

“You asked.”

“I did.”

“Xil, stay between him and the gate.”

The drow looked at Jandar.

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“It will be.”

Xil checked the straps on his shield.

“Then I assume he will enjoy it.”

“Immensely,” Jandar said.

Deacon turned toward Vegon.

The high elf was already studying the groups below, dark hair stirring in the wind.

“Can you hit the center without hitting the wall?”

Vegon frowned.

“What do you think I do?”

“Set yourself on fire occasionally.”

“That has happened once.”

Jandar said, “That seems low.”

Vegon ignored him.

“Yes. I can reach them.”

“Don’t worry about killing.”

Vegon looked at him.

Deacon pointed at the gnolls clustered around the gate.

“Break them apart.”

A slow understanding entered Vegon’s expression.

“Movement.”

“Yes.”

“Make them choose.”

“Yes.”

Vegon nodded.

Deacon liked that.

Not the agreement.

The fact that he no longer had to explain the rest.

A few weeks ago they had been five strangers who happened to be fighting in the same direction.

Now he could say movement, and Vegon understood.

He could tell Zook left, and the ranger knew what that meant.

He could tell Jandar to go where the line would break and trust that the idiot would somehow still be alive when Deacon looked again.

Xil would find whoever needed him most.

They were becoming a unit.

Deacon had not noticed exactly when that happened.

Below them, the wall cracked again.

“Ready.”

He raised his crossbow.

The nearest pack leader stood on a rock above the others, barking orders.

Good armor.

Better weapon.

Red cord tied around one arm.

The same kind they had found on the road.

Deacon centered the sights.

For a moment, everything else went quiet.

The river.

The shouting.

The old memories trying to force their way forward.

All gone.

Only the target remained.

“Now.”

He fired.

The bolt struck the pack leader below the throat.

The creature staggered.

Zook’s arrow hit almost simultaneously.

Then Vegon released his spell.

Lightning crossed the battlefield.

Not from the sky.

From Vegon.

A bright arc of white-blue power tore through the first knot of gnolls, jumped to another, and then another.

The effect was immediate.

The pack leader collapsed.

Two hunters went down.

Others spun toward the trees.

Confusion traveled through the southern force faster than Deacon expected.

Good.

“Again.”

He fired.

Another leader took the bolt high in the chest.

Not dead.

Deacon loaded.

Below, Jandar ran downhill.

Of course he did.

His long coat flared behind him as he moved, dark hair escaping beneath the brim of his hat.

Xil followed at a more sensible pace.

Barely.

Zook vanished left.

Vegon began another spell.

The gnolls finally understood they were being attacked from behind.

Half the southern group turned.

That was exactly what Deacon wanted.

The pressure on the wall eased.

Someone in the tower saw it.

A horn sounded.

The defenders began firing into the gnolls caught between them.

For one brief moment, the battle became simple.

Then the palisade broke.

The weak section collapsed inward.

Gnolls poured through.

Jandar changed direction without slowing.

Deacon swore.

“He’s early.”

Vegon glanced at him.

“You told him to go there.”

“I told him when it broke.”

“It broke.”

“That isn’t the point.”

Deacon ran.

He fired while moving.

The bolt hit a gnoll crossing the bridge.

Another came through the gap.

Jandar reached it first.

His rapier slipped past a crude axe and disappeared beneath the creature’s ribs.

He ripped it free.

A second gnoll struck him from the side.

The old armor from Tavalon took part of the blow, but Jandar still went down to one knee.

Xil arrived.

His shield slammed into the attacker hard enough to knock it sideways.

Divine light followed.

The gnoll screamed.

Deacon reached the edge of the slope.

Better angle.

He planted his feet.

The battlefield opened.

This was where he belonged.

He hated that thought.

Not fighting.

This.

Gnolls.

Their movement.

Their bodies crossing open ground.

The knowledge of exactly where to put a bolt to stop one.

He chose the next target.

Fired.

Loaded.

Fired.

No anger.

Anger made people miss.

This was colder.

One hunter raised a bow toward Xil.

Deacon killed it.

A second gnoll climbed through the breach.

He killed that one too.

A pack leader farther back realized what was happening and pointed toward Deacon.

Three gnolls broke away.

“Come on.”

He fired at the first.

Missed.

The bolt struck the dirt.

Deacon frowned.

Fate.

He hated that thought too.

The strange being in the cave had said there would be moments when the world seemed decided before they acted.

Sometimes the blade slipped.

Sometimes it did not.

He did not need her.

He loaded another bolt.

The first gnoll charged up the slope.

Deacon waited.

Closer.

Closer.

Now.

He fired.

The creature pitched forward.

The second kept coming.

Deacon reached for another bolt.

Empty.

Wrong pouch.

The gnoll was almost on him.

Deacon drew his sword.

It had been years since gnolls made him feel young.

Not youthful.

Young.

Helpless.

Small.

He buried that feeling where he had buried it a thousand times before.

The gnoll swung.

Deacon stepped inside the strike.

Steel met steel.

He drove his shoulder into the creature and shoved.

It was stronger.

He knew that immediately.

So he did not try to overpower it.

He let the creature push.

Turned.

The gnoll overcommitted.

Deacon cut across the back of its leg.

It fell.

He drove the sword down.

Hard.

Once.

Twice.

The body stopped moving.

“Deacon!”

Zook’s voice.

The third gnoll came from his blind side.

A blade flashed.

The creature stumbled.

Zook appeared behind it.

The gnome’s bright red hair was dark with sweat, his small frame almost hidden beneath the larger gnoll as it fell.

“You missed one.”

Deacon looked at him.

“I left it for you.”

Zook grinned.

“Sure.”

Then they both turned back toward the battle.

The defenders were losing the breach.

Jandar stood in it.

That was helping.

It was also insane.

The opening was barely wide enough for three gnolls abreast. Broken timber leaned inward at dangerous angles. Bodies already made the footing uncertain.

Jandar fought there anyway.

A large gnoll swung a heavy blade.

Jandar moved just enough.

The weapon missed his chest and struck the palisade.

Jandar stabbed it through the throat.

“Move!” Deacon shouted.

Jandar looked toward him.

“What?”

“Move!”

Another gnoll came through.

Jandar ducked.

Xil struck over his shoulder.

Deacon swore.

They were too compressed.

Good for holding the breach.

Bad for everything else.

“Vegon!”

The wizard stood halfway down the slope, one arm raised.

His face tightened.

Magic gathered.

Then stopped.

Vegon jerked backward.

For an instant his eyes lost focus.

Deacon knew that look.

Taint.

“Vegon!”

“I’m fine.”

“You can’t see.”

“I can see enough.”

“That sentence is nonsense.”

Vegon raised his hand again.

Deacon almost told him to stop.

Then the gnolls surged.

Five.

Six.

Maybe more.

Jandar and Xil would not hold that.

Vegon knew it too.

The wizard forced the spell through.

Power answered badly.

It always did.

But it answered.

A line of fire erupted across the ground outside the breach.

Gnolls recoiled.

One caught fire.

Another stumbled into the one behind it.

The line stopped the rush.

Not for long.

Long enough.

“Jandar!”

This time the pirate listened.

He fell back.

Xil with him.

The defenders dragged broken timber into the opening.

For several seconds the breach became a wall again.

Deacon reached Vegon.

The elf blinked hard.

“What do you see?”

“You.”

“How many?”

Vegon frowned.

“One.”

“Good.”

“Two when you move.”

“Less good.”

“It’s fading.”

Deacon looked at the line of burning ground.

“That bought them time.”

Vegon’s expression was tired.

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re deciding whether to carry me off the battlefield.”

“I was.”

“You couldn’t.”

Deacon looked at the tall high elf.

Vegon was nearly a head taller than him and all long limbs beneath his robes.

Deacon considered it.

“I’d drag you.”

Vegon almost smiled.

“Comforting.”

“Stay here.”

“I’m not finished.”

“I know.”

Deacon ran back toward the breach.

The river complicated everything.

A second group of gnolls had crossed farther downstream.

Deacon saw them when arrows began striking the defenders from the east.

He climbed the watchtower stairs two at a time.

A guard nearly shot him when he emerged.

“Silver Crown!”

The man lowered the bow.

“You’re with them?”

Deacon looked down at Jandar, who had somehow acquired blood across half his face.

“Unfortunately.”

The guard stared.

Deacon pointed across the river.

“Who commands here?”

“I do now.”

That answer told Deacon enough.

“Where’s the last commander?”

The guard swallowed.

“Dead.”

Deacon did not ask when.

He looked across the river.

Smaller force.

One pack lord.

Two hunters.

Several lesser gnolls.

Enough to keep the tower pinned.

Not enough to survive if the tower turned on them.

“Stop shooting the wall.”

The guard frowned.

“What?”

“Your people below can hold the breach for another minute.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Deacon pointed.

“Put every bow on the far bank.”

The guard stared at him.

Deacon turned.

“Unless you enjoy being shot from two directions.”

That worked.

The guard shouted orders.

Three archers shifted position.

Deacon loaded.

Across the river, the pack lord stood in partial cover behind a rock.

He was directing the hunters.

Smart.

Deacon hated smart gnolls.

He fired.

The bolt struck stone.

The creature ducked.

One of the guards laughed nervously.

Deacon loaded again.

“Range?”

“Hundred and twenty.”

“Wind?”

“Downriver.”

The guard looked at him.

Deacon raised the crossbow.

The pack lord leaned out.

He fired.

The bolt struck the creature in the shoulder.

Not enough.

Another arrow from the tower hit it.

Then another.

The pack lord collapsed.

The hunters looked toward it.

A mistake.

The defenders killed one immediately.

The remaining gnolls on the far bank began to pull back.

Deacon watched them.

Not running.

Withdrawing.

Again.

Organized.

“Keep firing.”

The guard hesitated.

“They’re leaving.”

“They’ll come back.”

The guard looked at him.

Deacon kept his eyes on the far bank.

“Keep firing.”

The bows continued.

Below, the main assault broke.

Not all at once.

First one group stopped advancing.

Then another leader fell—Zook, Deacon suspected.

Then the gnolls nearest the bridge began looking behind them.

That was when Deacon knew.

They had reached the point every attack reaches eventually.

The moment when momentum changes direction.

Most people missed it.

They thought battles ended when one side fled.

They did not.

Battles ended a little before that.

When enough people realized they might flee.

The rest was consequence.

Deacon came down from the tower.

“Push them.”

Jandar looked at him.

He was breathing hard, blood running from a cut near his temple.

“What?”

“They’re done.”

“They don’t look done.”

“They are.”

Deacon stepped over one body and fired through the breach.

A gnoll fell.

Zook appeared outside the wall.

“How far?”

“Bridge.”

Zook nodded.

No explanation needed.

The gnome ran.

Jandar saw it.

“Oh.”

Then he grinned.

“Now I understand.”

He went through the breach.

Xil caught his shoulder.

“Do not get yourself killed because you understand.”

“I make no promises.”

“Jandar.”

“Fine. One promise.”

They followed.

The defenders hesitated.

Then someone shouted.

Humans came through the breach behind them.

The gnolls saw it.

The retreat became real.

Zook cut across the road and forced one group toward the river.

Jandar hit another at the center.

Vegon, vision apparently restored, sent a burst of arcane force into the rear rank.

Xil moved among the defenders, laying a glowing hand against a wounded soldier before continuing forward.

Deacon stayed behind all of them.

Shot.

Reloaded.

Shot.

The hatred came then.

Not rage.

Not the old panic.

Something quieter.

He watched gnolls fall and felt satisfaction.

Too much.

He knew that.

A creature dropped its weapon.

Not surrender.

Only fear.

It turned to run.

Deacon fired into its back.

The bolt struck.

The gnoll fell.

He loaded again.

Another was limping toward the trees.

He raised the crossbow.

“Deacon.”

Xil.

He ignored him.

The gnoll reached the edge of the woods.

Deacon tracked it.

“Deacon.”

The bolt was ready.

His finger tightened.

Then he lowered the weapon.

The gnoll disappeared among the trees.

Deacon looked toward Xil.

The drow stood twenty feet away.

His shield was dented.

Blood marked one side of his pale hair.

He did not look judgmental.

That made it worse.

“What?”

“They are running.”

“I noticed.”

Xil looked toward the woods.

“Then the bridge is held.”

Deacon glanced around.

Bodies covered the road.

Gnoll.

Human.

Too many of both.

The remaining attackers were retreating south.

The defenders did not follow far.

Good.

At least someone here had sense.

Deacon looked at the loaded crossbow in his hands.

He released the tension slowly.

“Yeah.”

Xil nodded.

“The bridge is held.”

Afterward came the part nobody sang about.

The wounded.

The counting.

People calling names and receiving no answer.

The search beneath broken sections of wall.

The work of separating dead defenders from dead gnolls.

Deacon preferred battle.

That was an ugly truth.

Battle gave him problems he could solve.

Afterward gave him results.

Xil spent nearly an hour with the wounded.

Whatever exhaustion he felt, he did not show it until the worst injuries had been dealt with.

Vegon helped where he could.

Zook carried bodies with the guards.

Jandar tried to repair a section of wall, demonstrated immediately that he possessed no useful carpentry skill, and was eventually told to stop.

Deacon reloaded his crossbows.

Then unloaded them.

Then checked every bolt.

Anything to keep his hands occupied.

The guard commander found him near the river.

He was younger than Deacon had realized from the tower.

Maybe thirty.

One arm had been wrapped from wrist to elbow.

“You.”

Deacon looked up.

The guard extended his uninjured hand.

“Thank you.”

Deacon took it.

“You’d have done the same.”

The man gave him a strange look.

“No.”

Deacon frowned.

The guard nodded toward the bodies.

“We were losing.”

His eyes moved toward the broken palisade.

“We knew it.”

Deacon said nothing.

“Your timing was...” The man searched for the word. “Impeccable.”

Jandar appeared behind him.

“Yes, we hear that frequently.”

Deacon looked at him.

Jandar smiled.

Blood had dried along his cheek.

“You look terrible.”

“So do you.”

“I always look excellent.”

The guard stared between them.

Deacon sighed.

“What is this place?”

The man turned.

“The watch post.”

“That I gathered.”

“It guards the river pass to Ilbus.”

He pointed north.

“Most traffic comes by boat or follows the road alongside the river. Merchants. Fishermen. Sometimes Order people.”

“How often are you attacked?”

The guard laughed once.

Not because anything was funny.

“Until a few weeks ago?”

He looked at the broken wall.

“Never.”

Deacon’s attention sharpened.

“Never?”

“Not like this.”

The guard shook his head.

“This used to be the dullest assignment anyone could draw. Two or three of us on watch. Check cargo now and then. Help someone whose boat gets stuck.”

“When did it change?”

“A few weeks.”

“Exactly?”

“I don’t know. First we saw things in the woods.”

“What things?”

“Gnolls, mostly. Other shapes. Never close enough to know.”

Deacon glanced toward Jandar.

Jandar was listening now.

“Then?”

“Small attacks. Two. Three. Maybe five at a time.”

“And today.”

The guard looked over the field.

“Today the forest emptied.”

Deacon crouched.

He drew a rough line in the dirt.

“This is the river.”

The guard nodded.

“This is your post.”

Another mark.

“Where did they come from?”

“South.”

“All of them?”

“Most.”

“The far-bank group?”

“Same direction.”

Deacon added another line.

“You’ve sent scouts?”

The guard hesitated.

“We don’t have many people to spare.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Yes. Two days ago.”

“And?”

“Neither came back.”

Jandar muttered, “There’s an answer.”

Deacon looked south.

The crystal.

The one Xil had shattered.

If that had been moving gnolls into the region, destroying it should have helped.

Should have.

The attack here had still happened.

Maybe they had already gathered.

Maybe the crystal had been one route among many.

Maybe there were more.

He disliked every possibility.

“We found something south of here,” Deacon said.

The guard waited.

“A crystal.”

Jandar leaned against the wall.

“That sounds less ridiculous the second time.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Deacon continued.

“It was connected to the gnolls. We think it was being used to move them.”

The guard stared.

“Move them how?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you destroyed it?”

“Yes.”

The guard looked relieved.

Deacon did not.

“We destroyed one.”

The relief disappeared.

Jandar glanced toward him.

Deacon stood.

“If they stop coming, good.”

“And if they don’t?”

Deacon looked over the battlefield.

“Then one crystal was never the problem.”

They buried the defenders before anything else.

The gnolls were moved away from the post and burned.

Deacon helped with both.

He did not know the names of the dead humans.

That bothered him.

A village became easier to remember when the people in it had names.

Ashlyn had names.

His family had names.

The dead here had names too.

He asked.

The guard commander told him.

Deacon repeated each one once.

Quietly.

No one heard.

Or if Xil did, he said nothing.

By late afternoon, smoke from the gnoll pyre drifted south.

Jandar stood beside Deacon and watched it.

“I’m going to say something you’ll hate.”

“That narrows it down very little.”

“We did good.”

Deacon looked at him.

Jandar shrugged.

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you stare at the dead like winning offended you.”

Deacon’s jaw tightened.

Jandar continued before he could answer.

“The wall held.”

“It broke.”

“It’s still here.”

“People died.”

“More would have.”

Deacon looked toward the graves.

Jandar’s voice lost some of its lightness.

“You know that.”

“Yes.”

“Then let it count.”

Deacon did not answer.

Jandar waited.

That was unusual enough to make Deacon look at him.

The pirate had put his hat back on. The brim shaded his face, but not enough to hide the exhaustion there.

Deacon looked away.

“Fine.”

Jandar smiled.

“Excellent.”

“I said fine.”

“I heard victory.”

“You hear many things that aren’t there.”

“That is one of my gifts.”

Deacon almost laughed.

He hated that too.

The guard commander found them again before sunset.

“We can take you to Ilbus.”

Jandar straightened immediately.

“Boat?”

“Yes.”

“Finally, civilization.”

“You’ve been walking four days.”

“Exactly.”

The guard pointed toward a narrow dock downstream.

“It’s about three hours by river.”

Jandar looked at the boat.

Then at the guard.

Then back at the boat.

Deacon knew the expression.

“No.”

Jandar frowned.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to ask if you can pilot it.”

“First, the word is handle.”

“No.”

“Second, I absolutely can.”

The guard looked between them.

“You know boats?”

Jandar placed a hand over his chest.

“My good man.”

Deacon closed his eyes.

Zook walked past them carrying his pack.

“Don’t ask.”

Vegon followed.

“Really. Don’t.”

Xil came last.

The guard looked increasingly uncertain.

Jandar smiled.

“I possess considerable maritime experience.”

“You grew up on a river?” the guard asked.

Jandar paused.

“Something like that.”

Deacon looked at him.

That answer was interesting.

Jandar noticed.

“Don’t.”

Now Deacon smiled.

“I haven’t said anything.”

Jandar stared at him.

Xil walked between them.

“Both of you stop.”

The boat was narrow, flat-bottomed, and built for the river rather than open water.

Jandar inspected it as though someone had asked him to purchase the thing.

“Acceptable.”

The guard commander frowned.

“It belongs to Ilbus.”

“I said acceptable, not impressive.”

“You can steer.”

Jandar brightened.

“But one of my people goes with you.”

“Distrustful.”

“Correct.”

Deacon climbed aboard.

Zook took the bow.

Vegon chose the center where he could keep his pack dry.

Xil sat opposite him.

Jandar moved to the stern.

The ease with which he took the steering oar was immediate.

Deacon noticed.

So did the guard.

Jandar caught both of them looking.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Deacon said.

“That was suspicious.”

“You know boats.”

“I told you I know boats.”

“You tell us many things.”

“Most are true.”

Xil said, “That qualifier did not help.”

The current caught them.

The boat pulled away from the dock.

Jandar adjusted once.

The craft straightened neatly into the channel.

Deacon raised an eyebrow.

Jandar saw it.

“No.”

Deacon smiled.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

Vegon looked between them.

“This is becoming intolerable.”

Zook laughed.

For the first time since the battle, Deacon let himself relax.

Only slightly.

The watchtower grew smaller behind them.

The broken section of palisade remained visible from the river.

So did the smoke.

Deacon turned and watched until the bend hid both.

He had spent decades thinking of gnolls as something behind him.

Ashlyn.

His family.

The life that had existed before and the creatures that had ended it.

That had been easier, in some ways.

A wound could be old.

An enemy could belong to memory.

But the tracks on the road had been fresh.

The crystals were active.

The packs were organized.

And today, dozens of gnolls had attacked a fortified position protecting a town they had never troubled before.

Deacon looked north.

Ilbus waited ahead.

Beyond that, the Great Swamp.

Beyond the swamp, the Temple of Orozon.

A dead warlock who had once commanded gnoll armies.

He did not know whether those things connected.

Not yet.

But the question had changed.

They were no longer asking why a few gnolls had attacked travelers.

They were asking where the gnolls were going.

Who armed them.

Who commanded them.

How many more were coming.

The river carried them north.

Behind them lay a bridge covered in blood.

Deacon rested his crossbow across his knees.

This was no longer an investigation.

Somewhere, whether the rest of Istram understood it yet or not, a war was beginning.