After nearly half an hour of fast, forced marching, Merv called a halt. Percy and Errol joined him at the front of the formation, where he crouched down, jotting notes in a small tactical journal. The terrain changed ahead. A series of rivulets split the ground into a criss-cross patchwork of gnarled ridges and deep crevasses, like an above-ground rabbit warren. Smoke billowed up from the still-smoldering earth.

“We’re approaching the monster corpse Ferid saw earlier. We could use your firepower in case there are more, Eel.”

Errol shrugged. “I know my place in a fight.”

Merv scratched his jaw. “Was hoping you’d take point. Leave the rest of us for scouting. We don’t have your firepower.”

Errol hitched up his backpack, trying to find a more comfortable position. He slipped to the front of the team as requested, sensor field scanning below the broken ground for threats. If he’d learned anything on the Bridge so far, disaster could strike at any second. He couldn’t trust his eyes alone. The scouts weren’t infallible, either. An extra second or two of warning might be enough to survive.

Crumbling clay gave way beneath his boots. He staggered, throwing his arms out to the side for balance, but without anything to brace against, Errol tumbled down into a shallow rut and plopped into a soft mound of dirt. He dusted himself off, climbed back to ground-level, and cast a quick glance toward the scouts. No one snickered or made a comment.

A bad sign, Errol mused. They’re too scared now to even laugh at my bumbling attempts to scout. I may be on my own in a fight if morale is this low.

Half an hour passed in agonizing slowness—testing out footing, constructing makeshift rope bridges to cross crevasses, scurrying for cover at every gust of wind. Something had them well and truly spooked.

Errol spat and pushed past the scouting line that marked a semi-secure position for their operations. He jumped across a narrow gap, hacked down a twisted clump of brush with a short machete he’d borrowed, and prepared to assault the rest of the thicket when a scream stopped him cold.

The scouts scrambled toward the direction of the cries. Merv arrived first, with Errol fast on his heels. The big man recoiled as he crested a small rise and found the source of the panic, clutching at Errol’s shoulder for support. “Dear gods, what is that thing?”

Errol peaked over the ridge. A massive, mangled maw met his sight, threatening even in death. Tongues of fire played across the ripped-open corpse of a monster unlike anything he’d seen before. His stomach lurched as his mind tried to categorize the twisted, horrifying anatomy of the beast. Bloated sacks of greying flesh bulged from between segments of purple carapace, leaking a pale yellow ichor. Razor-like talons stuck out at odd angles from far too many limbs, each claw as long as his machete. Three rows of black spikes jutted out across its armored top in asymmetrical projections. Sparks occasionally crackled and leaped between them, like tiny versions of Errol’s own shock lance, but without much potency.

Even singed and decaying, the monster corpse emanated danger. Errol waved the men back—they seemed only too happy to comply—and approached the monstrosity, scanning with his sensor field to ensure that it was dead. He picked up no signal to show it still counted among the living, but the thing still gave off a heavy aura of darkstorm. A beast born of storms?

Inching forward, a shock lance prepped, Errol finally reached the monster and nudged it with his toe. He gagged at the soft squelch and sudden release of redolent fumes and lurched away from the carcass, curiosity satisfied. “You can come down now. It’s definitely dead,” he called out to the scouts, trying to cover his trepidation by threatening their pride.

The scouts streamed down the slope, forming a half circle in front of the beast. A few jeered at the creature, but Percy and Merv pulled away from the pack. They leaned their heads together, whispering intensely.

Even if he focused, Errol couldn’t quite make out their words, but a glance at the other scouts made it easy to pick up the context. He didn’t like the unease written on their faces any more than they did. Time to move away from the monster. They would have to give the men a compelling reason to keep from deserting. Tracking down a few mages was one thing; finding evidence of storm-touched monsters was quite another.

“Footprints,” Ferid announced. He motioned for the others to follow, and they all scurried to fall in line. No one appeared eager to linger by the smoldering corpse.

Ferid led them uphill, tracking the footprints across sand and over pebbles. Errol couldn’t see the prints, but the others seemed to trust Ferid’s skills implicitly. They filed around a pile of rocks and through a dry arroyo, half-submerged beneath a scraggly forest that obscured the dark, angry sky. Ferid held up a fist to stop them as they reached the edge of the low, rambling thicket. He pointed to an empty campsite in the middle of a small clearing. “Looks fresh. A few hours old, at most. We’re closing in on our quarry.”

Errol jogged up to peer at the campsite with the advance scout.

A hulking silhouette loomed in the mists, emerging next to the ashes of an extinguished campfire. Smoke trailed behind its head. Ferid’s hands started shaking; he reached for his bow, but Errol laid a hand on his arm before the scout could shoot.

“A colleague of mine. Hold fire.”

As predicted, the monster materialized into a familiar, draconic form, although a deep frown transformed Jarkoda's face into a mask of fear and fury. He paced, snorting flames as he talked to himself, seemingly unsure of his next steps. No one else showed up, prompting Errol to wonder if Jarkoda had been travelling alone since Errol had lost the rest of the group, but the extra bedrolls belied that idea.

Errol sneaked back to tap Merv on the shoulder. “One of my companions is up ahead at the campsite. He’s covered in smoke and dried blood. I think he killed that creature we found. We should tread with caution.

“Which companion?” Merv pulled out his notebook. “I’ve got a list of the members.”

“Jarkoda, the halfdragon. He’s alone, but he looks angry. Stay back while I talk with him.”

“If he’s alone, this is our best chance to take him out—especially if he’s still weak from a fight with a monster like that thing back there.”

“I need to find out where the others went. And even weakened from a fight, Jarkoda is a match for your squad. Give me five minutes; I’ll signal once I have the information I need.”

Merv squinted and gave him a look, but finally shrugged. “Have it your way, Eel. I don’t want to get in the middle, anyway. Fire and lightning don’t mix well with my constitution.”

Errol squared his shoulders, breathing deeply to calm himself. If Jarkoda was looking for a fight, he wasn’t sure he could take the halfdragon, even after his Eel transformation, but perhaps he wouldn’t blame Errol for the team fragmenting during the sleet storm.

“Hail, Jarkoda!” Errol called, waving as he walked down toward the campfire. He smiled, projecting confidence and friendliness.

Jarkoda’s head snapped up, ears drawing flat against his skull, nostrils flared, but when he saw Errol, he returned the smile and ran to greet the man, clutching his shoulders with both massive hands. “You’re alive! We thought the storm winds knocked you off the Bridge. I never thought I’d see you again after that disaster.”

“Likewise,” Errol managed, returning the awkward embrace. “I’ve been tracking the team ever since, but I didn’t expect to take so many days to catch up. Where are the others?”

Jarkoda withdrew a step, growling. “I don’t know.”

“They weren’t with you?”

“Did you pass through the gulley?” Jarkoda asked, jerking his chin toward the place Errol had found the dead monster.

“I did. Your handiwork?”

Jarkoda nodded. “Took every last bit of fire and vengeance in me. I’m still lightheaded. I could barely stand for an hour, though I’m starting to recover now. They disappeared right after I fought the Dhambro Shade. I hid them in a cave for the fight, since they were injured, but when I got back, they were all missing.”

“What did you call it?”

“The Dhambro Shade. Guardian of the control tower.”

“Where’d you learn the beast’s name?” Errol asked.

Jarkoda tilted his head. “That’s your takeaway, that I know its name? The others are all missing; I can’t find them anywhere, not even their scents. Something strong and foul interferes with my nose.”

Errol latched on to the wording. “Something not the Dhambro Shade, you mean?”

“Correct. I can’t place this smell. It’s not natural, the way it permeates the entire area. As for the Shade, I’ll tell you about it once we’ve found the others. We need to look in a wider circle. With your help we can cover twice as much ground.”

Errol shook his head. “No more splitting up. We’ve got to stick together.” He paused to lick his lips and cast a glance over his shoulder toward the hidden scouts. “We’ve got company hot on our heels. I convinced them to let me talk to you before they attacked, but if we don’t give them a good reason to walk on by, they’re going to ambush you.”

Translucent, protective lids slid over Jarkoda’s eyes. He inhaled roughly and unhinged his jaw, kindling a flame deep in his throat. “Let them come.”

The scouts emerged from the thickets on all side, bows drawn. They’d flanked the two while Errol had spoken with his teammate. Fanning out, they set up in a simple double-rank of archers to provide covering fire, while Merv strode forward with a standard-issue shortsword, a buckler strapped to his other arm. “Strike a blow or move away from the halfdragon. We’ve got a mission to finish, Eel.”