Grimhilt shifted through a pile of reports from his scouts, rubbing his forehead. His lamp guttered and went out—how long had he been up? A glance out the window led to a resigned sigh. Dawn would arrive in another hour, and he was scheduled to train a contingent of new recruits at the armory. He trimmed the wick, added more oil, and polished the buildup of soot off the inside of the glass. Another few reports, then he’d fill his water clock up to the twenty-minute mark and get a few ragged moments of sleep.

Errol’s message weighed on his mind. Someone knew about Indara’s plans—knew the purpose of the mission, the members of the team, the route they’d take. That worried him more than he’d let on to Indara during his security briefing. He tapped his fingers on the desk, looking for a pattern that, so far, didn’t exist. An old instructor had once told him to be wary of patterns he only found when he’d looked long enough—usually it was desperation playing tricks.

Right about now, desperation looked mighty tempting. They needed answers, and if he had to crack a few of the wrong skulls before he got to the right answers, then he certainly didn’t mind. Might do the body some good, in fact.

He’d called in every favor with Donalon to get access to his spy network. Apparently, the stunt he’d pulled to give the inspector access to Indara’s team hadn’t been enough on its own to curry favor, but Grimhilt didn’t care if he was on the losing end of the bargain; he just needed the information. He promised the man anything he wanted in exchange for help.

He shoved aside the stack of papers. Nothing useful. Just a bunch of rumors: A sect who worshipped an ancient storm god had tried to derail the hunters; Tinashe operatives were undermining the government; Indara’s old housekeeper stole state secrets because she talked in her sleep. Grimhilt snorted and tore up that report, shaking his head. Better for him not to risk her ire by implicating her nanny.

Two more reports went into the discard pile before he found a credible lead. One of the city guards had worked for the warden at the Imperial jail for a few years before transferring out to patrol duty, and he thought he recognized one of the spearmen in the attack. They’d need to confirm with the warden, but it sounded promising. The man was apparently a lowlife thug from Dockside who had also been employed by the warden a few years back as a prison guard. They had fired him when he was caught taking bribes from some of the prisoners.

Grimhilt would have to visit the jail and ask which area the guard had patrolled. Most of the inmates didn’t have the money—or the reputation—to pull off this kind of coordinated attack, and the ones who did were probably already rotting down at the bottom of the bay, courtesy of the execution squad.

Grimhilt stood up and knuckled his back, then stretched his arms to either side, sighing at each crackle and pop. He was getting too old to sit still for so long.

Retirement was still a few decades off, but the pressures of his station made him feel like a rag wrung dry. Maybe he'd take a leave of absence after this Bridge business wrapped up. Soon. A few more weeks and he could plug up any holes Donalon might find, declare success, and go back to the mundane tasks of keeping the peace.

Grimhilt chuckled. Stabbing and petty theft was starting to sound pretty good right now compared with political wrangling and evil storms. And, while Indara was most concerned about the Bridge and the disturbing research they had uncovered about the Stormorb, Grimhilt would rather fight a battle than deal with politicians, even if the opponent was an ancient evil he had no hope of defeating—which, coincidentally, was exactly how he described politics.

His eyelids drooped, threatening to close for the day. He rubbed at his eyes. They felt gritty and swollen with the night's work. His recruits would keep their mouths shut, but he could already imagine the jokes about red-eyed ol’ Grimhilt, not to mention the wagers that would fly about which activities kept him so exhausted all the time.

Maybe he should bribe someone on the inside to set the odds so that he could clean up the bets. New recruits invariably lacked the belief that he had once been in their boots; in their minds he was simply an institution of the Empire. An Imperial fixture.

He pushed away from the workstation and reached for his oiled cloak. Rain wouldn’t stop him from a quick walk to clear his mind. He felt like a street performer with too many clubs up in the air, and chances were good he’d drop them all if he didn’t take some time to organize his thoughts. He rubbed his head. I need to learn to come up with better metaphors.

The heavy rain cleared out the usual street urchins. Usually they kept an eye out for any suspicious activity and reported to Cedric, a “newspaper man,” or so he’d heard from Inspector Donalon. Grimhilt hadn’t read the paper, but he’d heard that the newfangled thing was becoming quite popular among the nobility. That give him all the information he needed to know about the value of the newspaper business, but if Donalon found Cedric useful, then maybe he could, too.

He trudged through puddles already ankle-deep, sloshing against the cobblestones. This storm was a bit of a letdown. Clouds had brooded all day and all night, but no thunder or winds accompanied the rain. Feels right, somehow. Matches my disappointment. Nights like these, he couldn’t even take out his aggression on a rowdy group of drunks.

He passed through empty vendor stalls in Selinsgrove Market, heading South from his quarters in Bellefontaine. He couldn’t afford to stay in Breeland, closer to Indara, and when he’d suggested finding housing in the City Center, she’d laughed at him. No living space among the administrative buildings, apparently.

The rain tapered off. A warm, gentle breeze swept through the streets. Wan light filtered through the mist of the early pre-dawn. He breathed in, suddenly invigorated.

Picking up the pace, Grimhilt broke into a jog. Foul weather or not, he could get in some exercise. No sense going soft in his dotage. Buildings clustered together more closely after he exited Selinsgrove. He glanced around, taking in the tenement housing and corner shops. South Side of the city had earned the distinction of a reputable, cheap place to live and raise a family. Unlike the slums outside the city walls, or the twisted warrens of Hubbard, South Side carried a sense of weight: plain, sturdy, trustworthy. The enterprising heart of the new manufacturing jobs, he reckoned it was the perfect place for a man like Cedric.

Grimhilt double-checked the address when he found the blocky, ramshackle building. Simple and unassuming though the massive house appeared, the imposing fence reinforced the secretive and often sensitive nature of the newspaper business. How did a former cobbler hoard up enough to buy an old mansion like this?

A young boy in a flat cap intercepted him before he reached the front gate. “Come round to the side, Cap. Cedric said to bring ya right in.”

“Eyes everywhere, eh?”

The boy doffed his cap, revealing a mop of curly ringlets. He shot a gap-toothed grin up at Grimhilt. “You know we do! That’s why you’re here. I’m Aruna; I run this street.”

Grimhilt slipped the boy a double-copper. “Pays to take pride in your work, son.”

Aruna winked at him and disappeared the coin. He ushered Grimhilt down an alley and stopped in front of a dark green gateway. Aruna glanced about the street quickly, then ushered him in, apparently satisfied that they weren’t being watched.

Once inside, a pair of older boys unlocked another door and waved the two past the little gatehouse. Grimhilt expected to cross the courtyard, but instead they veered left and trudged down a long stairway of undressed stone. After two or three flights underground, they emerged through an archway and into Cedric’s true palace of information.

A slim, dark-haired man a little younger than Grimhilt approached him and extended a hand in greeting. “Captain! What an honor to make your acquaintance at last.”

Grimhilt clasped his arm. “I regret it’s not under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Oh, no, on the contrary, I prefer work to personal visits,” Cedric said, laughing as he slid out of Grimhilt’s grasp and instead shook his hand in the modern fashion. “You’ll find that I’m a strange, somewhat singularly-minded man, when it comes to the news. Your visit is quite fortuitous; this saves me the trouble of arranging for an audience with you, which would no doubt incur a debt to Donalon if he set up a meeting.”

They shared an amused glance at the Inspector’s name, and Grimhilt allowed himself to relax a little. Perhaps he and Cedric were more alike than he’d suspected.

“I appreciate your forthright approach,” Grimhilt said, “so I’ll return it in kind. I’m sure you can guess that I’m here to ask for a favor—name your price, and we’ll get to it.”

Aruna tugged on his sleeve. “I can bring you the latest rumors on the daily, if you’ve got more double-coppers for me each day.”

“Two doubles every weekend,” Grimhilt countered with a stern frown.

“Deal!”

Cedric shooed the boy away. He turned back to Grimhilt, shaking his head. “You got the worst of that bargain, no mistake. I’m far more disposed toward honesty, however. I’ll settle for interviews—you don’t even have to reveal your name yet!”

“What kind of interviews?”

“Ah, an inside look at life in the guardhouse. Think of all the ways you can capture the imagination of our city’s youth! We’ll practically be printing recruiting papers. People love to read human interest pieces. It’s all the rage these days—the news alone is boring, as much as it pains me to say so, given my position—”

Grimhilt grunted to cut Cedric off, but he didn’t push the issue. “You heard of the attacks down Dockside a few days back?”

“Doesn’t the city guard have plenty of resources to find a few thugs?” Cedric asked, an eyebrow arched.

“I’ve got my methods,” Grimhilt said agreeably. “I’m looking for motives and connections, however. Don’t ask why, but the targets of the attack turns this into a matter of national security. I need to know behind-the-scenes details.”

Cedric grabbed a fresh print of the news from a stack and waved it at Grimhilt. “All the Information you need is right here. First copy is on the house. After that, you’ve got to pay for it.”

“You’re all alike,” Grimhilt grumbled. “But it’s hardly a surprise. I came prepared to pay a bribe. My stipend isn’t as much as you might think, however.”

Cedric chuckled and led him to a side office. “I simply meant that you’ll have to buy a newspaper, Captain. Of course, if you ever want to, ah, share anything exclusive, then I may be able to make arrangements to reciprocate.”

“You want me to divulge Imperial secrets?” Grimhilt growled.

Cedric gave him a smile that was probably meant to be charming. “What you share is up to you, although I won’t turn down a good story. Have no fear, my good Captain; my business is just as reliant on discretion as yours. I print far less than I know, you can be sure of that, but I do believe in an informed populace.”

Cedric must have seen the skepticism on Grimhilt’s face. He laughed nervously. “Before you go, could I interest you in a tour of the printing presses? Or how about a few stories from my Beggar Boys network? I’ve got the finest eyes and ears in the city.”

Cedric wilted a little when Grilmhilt just stared at him. “Right! Well, good meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”

Grimhilt gave him a flat look for a moment, then turned to leave. “I’m sure.”

Awkward silence settled between the two men. Grimhilt bid his farewells and made his way up to the courtyard. What a waste. I don’t know what Donalon sees in that man.

Footballs behind him made him pause at the gate, one hand on the latch. He glanced back, wondering who could make such a commotion.

Aruna dashed up the stairs, his gap-toothed grin wider than ever. “Might want to check the guest list at the Savona lately, Cedric says. That’s a freebie!”

=+=

“Ladder,” Gruvrik grunted, pointing ahead.

Errol squinted, but he couldn’t make out any features through the thick gloom. “I’m afraid that I don’t quite have your eyes, dwarf.”

“Good thing, too, cause I’d cut ya to get em back."

Errol groaned at the dwarf’s humor. He hitched his pack higher and picked up the pace. Maybe he could outrun the terrible jokes if he forced Gruvrik to move his legs faster. They had used up almost all their daylight nursing Jarkoda back to consciousness and patching up everyone else’s minor wounds. Taras looked pale after pouring healing into the halfdragon, and Rhae seemed more muted, too; she had played a song while the cleric performed his ministrations, strengthening their potency. Now they all trudged inland, looking for a way up.

Gruvrik sprinted far ahead, covering more ground than Errol would have believed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The dwarf churned over the path of dirt and rock like a badger, stout and powerful. He all but disappeared a moment later, swallowed up in the thick fog.

His voice boomed and echoed back to them from far ahead. “Ladder is no good. Too far off the ground for us to reach, even if we all stand on each other’s shoulders.”

Taras leaned over to Errol. “Ask the creature if she’s memorized the Bridge blueprints. If I recall, there are maintenance doors and passageways that we might use. On our own, it may take days to find them, and I doubt we want to spend any nights out in the open here.”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Taras shuddered, and Errol didn't blame him. They had all avoided looking at her after seeing the gore that coated the walkway like a new paint job. “I agree that the soulbond seems to have been performed flawlessly," he allowed. "So far, she only shows helpful inclinations, but I’ve spent a lifetime hunting and destroying many creatures like her. They are an abomination against the Light.”

Errol’s gaze flicked over his shoulder. Rashana and Rhae had moved forward to absorb Jarkoda and Maeda—and was that Maeda laughing at Rashana’s comments?

“I’ve seen some terrible people in my short life,” Errol said, turning back to Taras. “She doesn’t seem anything like them, despite that display. I killed an Adaro, too.”

Taras didn’t stop to look back. His stony expression never changed. “Our hunt is young, still. Keep your guard up.”

Gruvrik came bounding back then, nearly knocking Errol over in his haste to rejoin them. “Got more company up ahead,” he announced. “I won’t be much use until I’ve had a chance to recover my strength, so you get a chance to return the favor.”

Errol called for the stragglers to join them. “What are we dealing with, Gruvrik?”

The dwarf didn’t seem to hear him. He had his head tilted back, mouth open, one finger fishing through his teeth. Grunting, he pulled out a fishbone. “Snapped this up on my way out of the water. Nice snack.”

Rhae stepped past him, peering into the roiling clouds, which twisted and twined like an injured beast straining against a trap. “I hear singing.”

From out of the mist they came forth, three diminutive pale faces emerging from the thick darkness, a song on their lips. When they saw the hunters, they froze in place, then scrambled backward. Despite the fear etched on their faces, they spun around and sprinted away in precise, practiced unison. In a blink, it appeared that they had been assimilated by the storm.

Taras snorted. “That’s your company, dwarf? They’re children!”

“To be fair,” Gruvrik said, pausing to belch, “they all looked pretty big to me.”

Jarkoda twitched, fists opening and closing. He seemed to lose his patience with the old hunters. “I don’t care about their size or threat level. What are children doing on the Bridge? We had to move heaven and earth just to get stranded on the edge of its shores, and here they are, strolling about and singing like it’s a picnic in the park.”

“I think they live here,” Maeda said.

“You could be right," Errol said, "as strange as that would be. But why do you think they live here, if the Adaro use the Bridge as hunting grounds?” He wondered which details he had missed.

Maeda nodded, accepting his unspoken request to instruct him. He had a long way to go to reach Eel, after all. “All three wore long slats of wood on their backs, like a mat rolled up into a cylinder, but none of them had weapons. They didn’t appear to carry any food, since the sacks they had tied to their sides look too small to contain anything other than a few tools—probably something to start a fire—or perhaps a spool of fishing wire.”

“Good eye,” Errol said. He meant it, but Maeda gave him a flat look that killed any further compliments. “If they live here, which sounds likely, then the safe assumption is that they’re not alone. Chances are, they’ve already alerted the rest of their group. We should probably prepare for the possibility that the rest of them will have weapons.”

Taras loosened the straps of his shield, shifting it from his back to forearm. He tightened up the straps again, ready to fight. “Agreed. Anyone, or anything, that survives out here knows a thing or two about winning a scrap.”

“We should seek cover,” Rashana said. “Grimhilt provided us with blueprints, but I’ve had some trouble finding the right details. Anyone else had success?”

Blank stares met her question. Errol nudged Taras, who muttered an excuse that he had not yet had a chance to review the schematics.

Rashana led them around the back of the first tower, passing far below the broken ladder that Gruvrik had mentioned. “Look for an iron-bound door. I’ll bet that it’s rusted after decades of disuse, but it should be on this support pillar, perhaps fifty paces down.”

After nearly an hour stumbling back and forth across the shale and dirt to no avail, Rhae found the top of the door. Rocks and debris nearly covered the entire opening. Errol figured that a rock slide or earthquake had torn up the stone and obscured the entryway.

Or perhaps the ill effects of the Bridge itself had churned the ground into chaos.

Errol tried not to dwell on that possibility while he dug. He made slow progress, unused to digging with the small shovel in his thieves’ kit. Jarkoda and Gruvrik soon shoved him out of the way, and they managed to unearth the door in minutes.

“Told ya! Call me, uhh, Badger rank,” Gruvrik grated through a mouthful of grit and sand as he flopped down on the ground with a grin.

“Your digging is most impressive,” Errol said, staring at a rock still stuck in the teeth of the smiling dwarf.

He joined Jarkoda in the semicircle pit they’d dug, tugging on the door. Although he was strong for his age, he soon realized that he added next to nothing to the halfdragon’s efforts. Still the door didn’t budge. “Hammerhead, please help open the door.”

Maeda gave him a lazy smirk as they swapped places. Errol hated reminding everyone that he was still only a Mako, but he knew that if he didn’t use the honorific of Maeda’s rank, she would bristle at the idea of helping him with such a menial task. Even with their combined efforts the door barely budged until Rashana slid gracefully in place next to Jarkoda and bent the metal in two like parchment.

Errol felt Taras seek him out with his eyes, accusation and implications burning. Undealt with, Rashana was a threat. Sweat beaded on Errol’s forehead; even if he wanted to remove the threat, he didn’t have the strength. He ducked inside the door to get away from the cleric’s fierce gaze, but that only put him in lock step with Rashana, who had entered first.

“Ready for a climb?” she asked, cheerfully offering a smile.

Was that a . . . dimple . . . in her metal cheek?

“Lead on,” Errol said, motioning her forward, but he dragged his feet and let her outpace him into the repair tunnel and up a spiral staircase that seemed to stretch upward into infinity. If she could hear as well as she could tear things apart, his efforts might not matter, he realized.

Nonetheless, he gestured for the other five to gather next to him. Keeping his voice low, he asked what Taras considered the best course of action for the situation. “Does she pose too much threat? I mean to get you all out alive.”

Jarkoda drew himself to full height, towering over the rest of them. “The mission comes first. We must recover the orb and return it to Indara to break the curse. What are seven lives in the balance against an entire city? As for me, I owe her a blood debt.”

“I’ve been entrusted with those lives,” Errol said, tone low and controlled. He clenched his hands into fists and threaded his voltage stream from one to the other, the energy crackling to underscore his words. “Storms take Laurentum for all I care. My duty is to my squad.”

“I’ve got a mighty fine liking for staying alive,” Gruvrik said. “If we’re taking votes, I’m team shark, not team dragon.”

Rhae started humming, her eyes closed. Silvery-blue motes floated in the air like colorful raindrops that didn’t fall to the ground. Errol felt the familiar knot in his shoulders loosen and slip away. Everyone’s faces relaxed. Even Maeda looked calm for once. Friendly.

Errol shot a look of gratitude toward Rhae. "It's a long climb to the Bridge. Let's get moving. Together."