It looks like it’s going to be another cold morning, but another clear one too. The sun’s still not yet really approaching as we make our way back down that same oversized alleyway that we had to fight our way into just a day ago, the blue of the sky growing lighter but there’s still no shadows yet but what torchlight picks out. I’m sharp on guard like Kesla as we approach, I can feel her tension even though you’d never be able to tell looking at her – she seemed incredibly relaxed when she joined us at our regular table in the Broken Back Inn for a very early breakfast indeed. Old Turrel, the perpetually grumpy landlord, looked as baleful as ever as he served up a nonetheless very well-cooked spread, but I’ve known him long enough now that I think I can tell he really didn’t mind, he just understood. He was a mercenary himself once, he understands the rigours of the profession. We might have been checking out for an indeterminate time, but apparently this is just the latest of many times, he’s used to the comings and goings of the Creeping Bam by now.

Art gave her a particularly sly look when she came in but she just gave him a gentle clip round the ear and he laughed. I’m still not sure what he was even going on about back there, but the powerful good humour she was in when we reunited has eroded on our journey back to the Order’s warehouse. She’s gripping her sword tight at her side, right hand constantly flexing like she’s itching to draw it. I know just what it is that’s bothering her now, of course. It’s the same thing that’s bothering all of us – Min the Reckless is out there somewhere, waiting, and her people could be anywhere. They could be shadowing us right now and we probably wouldn’t know it, although I think Yeslee would probably have timely warning for us if needed.

Even so, we arrive at the those big doors unmolested, and after Kesla pounds on them a little they’re opened with surprising promptness, just swinging inwards with no-one touching them. The ogre’s waiting just beyond their arcs, looking us all over with their stony, beady gaze, then they grunt mightily and step back to the side, gesturing for us to proceed with the gradual ease of a crawling glacier.

As we do as we’re bid Wenrich emerges from the shadows in the back, clapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly, already smiling. “Good morning, my good fellows. So prompt, once again I’m impressed. I trust you’re all ready to leave?”

“We did all our prep last night or first thing this morning.” Kesla hefts the heavy duffle bag she’s had slung over her shoulder all the way from the Broken Back, letting it hang from her hand at the side now with the barest shift in stance as she takes what seems to be a substantial weight. I’m still wondering what’s in there. “We went over it all after we left, and merrymaking was kept to a minimum cuz we knew it was gonna be a heavy start.”

She gives Art another pointed look when she says that and he completely ignores it. He’s surprisingly bright-eyed and literally bushy-tailed this morning – usually during our off-time he cuts loose and pulls all-nighters, happy to entertain himself and others with all the companionable relaxation he can get. I would have expected resentment this morning but he’s been in a very chipper mood all the way.

“Good, good.” Wenrich continues to beam away as he looks us all over, clearly making calculations as he’s going. I realise now that he’s dressed differently from yesterday – he’s kept that somewhat battered travelling coat but has largely discarded his distinctive robes of office now, his only remaining concession to our colours is a scarf of white and silver that’s wrapped rakishly about his neck and allowed to hang down across his chest. Otherwise he’s clearly dressed for the road, in britches and a heavy quilted jacket with tightly-strapped leather boots with their soles cut away. There’s even a pair of woollen gloves peeking out of one of the pockets in his coat. “The sooner we can depart the better.”

“We?” Kesla frowns. “You’re coming with us?”

“Of course I am.” The look he gives her is one I know well, and it permits no arguments. “I am fully responsible for the safeguarding of this mission, and so I intend to see it through to its completion.”

“This could get nasty, Master Clearwood.” Kesla gives me a sharp look, clearly wanting me to back her up. Damn it. “I’m not at all convinced it’d be in your best interests to accompany us on this journey. We’ll be moving fast, and if it is Min the Reckless on our arses it could get violent. There won’t be any room for passengers, and looking after one could be a major hindrance we could really do without if we’re to succeed.”

Wenrich’s smile doesn’t fade one jot. “I fully understand your concerns, Mistress Shoon, but I assure you I will be fully capable of pulling my weight on this expeditions. I’m a seasoned hand at this kind of enterprise, and I still have plenty of tricks up my sleeves. And to be brutally honest, you’re not getting that cargo out of here if I’m not with you.”

They stare at each other for what feels like an age, although I’m sure it’s just one long, drawn out moment. Finally Kesla sighs, nodding. “All right then, welcome aboard, sir. But I’m in charge out there. You hired the Creeping Bam, the Creeping Bam are takin’ care of business. You help out as needed, but if things go south you’re taking orders same as anyone, clear?”

“As crystal, Mistress Shoon.”

Kesla nods, looks back at me. I try not to wince, feeling wretched about not coming to her aid there. She’s the boss, but this is Wenrich’s show when it all comes down to it. He’ll defer to her if we get into another fight, he wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise, but he meant it when he made that threat. He comes along without exception, which I knew the moment we started that conversation.

“This way, please.” Wenrich leads us towards the back, in the direction the ogre went with the cargo yesterday. It’s interesting, it’s like the interior of the space has been rearranged in the night, but it’s not a big surprise given the capabilities available. Now the whole ground floor is a large staging area prepared for our departure, with a fresh new cart that looks a good deal more mobile and robust than the one that got annihilated yesterday, four powerful-looking draft horses harnessed to it. Four more saddled mounts wait nearby, each one held calmly in place by nondescript grooms in the Order’s robes who look suspiciously similar, instantly convincing me they’re constructs that will simply melt away the as soon as we leave. A fifth horse is being led up as we arrive by Wenrich’s unsettling pale assistant, his face as creepily unreadable as before. This mount is larger than the rest, clearly as powerful as the carthorses but in a more sleek, dangerous-looking way, with a rich jet black coat and thick, glossy mane. I’ve never seen a destrier before, but I think I can tell a warhorse from a draft horse.

“Mistress Shoon,” Wenrich points her to this particular horse, seeming particularly proud to be showing them off. “This is Ulrich. Given your background and training I thought you would appreciate an appropriate mount.”

I’ve known her long enough now to know when Kesla’s particularly impressed, and the look she has as she approaches the horse is at once familiar and surprising. “Master Clearwood, this is … he is really pretty.” She reaches up, slow and gentle but assured as she lightly touches the horse’s nose, giving it a very careful pat and stroke as she digs something out of one of her coat pockets, and holds it out towards his mouth. Sugar cubes. She came prepared, then. Ulrich grunts appreciatively as he guzzles them right out of her palm, and when she strokes his head this time she doesn’t have to be so wary about it. “Hello there, gorgeous.”

“Very good.” Wenrich doesn’t clap his hands together, clearly in deference to the nerves of the other horses, but he still rubs them together in his usual ushering gesture. “Right then, shall we get underway, then?”

Yeslee’s already interacting with the carthorses in a way I’m growing very familiar with, whispering in their ears and genuinely seeming to listen to their snorting responses. Once she’s satisfied with them she turns to Kesla and gives a nod, then goes to the remaining mounts and gives them a once over. This time she waits until we’ve made our selection and has each of us interact with our own horse in a similar way to when Kesla won Ulrich over, whispering into their ear in the same way as we do so. When it comes to my turn, the sleek white mare I’ve chosen reacts perfectly to my touch and is as gentle and accommodating as I could ever have wished for as I swing up into the saddle. It’s incredible what she does, I’ll never stop envying her of that particular kind of wild magic her kind have. Finally she takes her own mount, and while she looks rather ungainly in the saddle she doesn’t seem uncomfortable, and the piebald gelding seems perfectly happy with her on his back.

Once the ogre has placed the cargo in the bed of the cart and all our supplies are packed with it, my staff included, Wenrich clambers aboard and settles into place on the bench, taking up the reins. He looks around at the rest of us once, making sure we’re all ready to go, then gives the reins a gentle flick with a click of his tongue. We begin to move.

As the doors close behind us, I’m trying hard not to scan the rooftops, or check corners or doorways for threats, attempting to concentrate on just guiding the horse along. I’m sure the others are fighting similar urges – Kesla said she doesn’t expect us to get attacked again while still in the city, not after that little ruckus we kicked up yesterday, buried as it might seem today, but I can tell she’s not truly bought into that idea either. I can feel eyes on me even though I doubt we’re really being watched, and I wish it was easier to ride with my staff, feeling dangerously naked without it right now. Almost without even thinking about it I reach under my robe, checking through my harnesses until I find the wand, tucked safe in its holster. It makes me feel a little better, at least.

The sky’s lighter now, and it’s starting to look like day now, even if the sun hasn’t shown over the mountains yet. The day-watch townsguard are out now, watchful as we pass but not seeming unusually suspicious, while some businesses are starting to open up their doors now. I take in the humble surrounds of what’s become something of a home for the past six months, on and off, the slightly rundown dark board buildings and unpathed roads that once looked depressing to someone who grew up in Bavat now become something of a comfort. I feel sad to be leaving it behind now, especially given how fond the rest of the party are of Rundao’s most ramshackle city.

We reach the main gates without any incident, finding the guards there have only begun to open up for the day. We wait for a few minutes while they finish lifting bars and shooting bolts before the oxen harnessed to those big chains are prodded into action and the gates begin to slowly drag inwards with a lot of noisy shunting and creaking. We’re offered a lazy farewell as we pass through, and once we’re outside the walls the sun finally rises, cresting that familiar cleft between two peaks in the east. We’re a little blinded by it, but not in an unpleasant way.

Another fifteen minutes takes us far enough down the road to begin to losing sight of the walls through the scattered thickets of pine and spruce that litter the valley floor, now approaching the turn in the river that borders the territories of the city itself. The gentle chattering of water in the distance is soothing, and while we’re out in the open now I feel strangely calm and comfortable being out of those enclosed streets.

Passing through another small grove we emerge into the open to find the river in sight now, half a mile further down the road with a far wilder, thicker, unbroken expanse of woodland rising into the foothills beyond. I spot a string of barges surging down it at impressive speed, piled with crates and bundles headed steadily south for more civilized corners of Rundao, and I wish we could just reach Bavat that way, though I know it’s not in the cards. Getting to Bavat from Hocknar by river entails a constant upriver battle for over thirty miles before reaching the fork in the Icespine that flows to the Hallowed Falls under the shadow of the Citadel. The way we’re going, through the mountains and then straight cross-country to Bavat’s eastern gates, may be slower but ultimately it’s also much less work, and perversely we’re also more likely to arrive in one piece.

In the lead with Yeslee, Kesla breaks away from the road once we’re out of the trees, leading us across open fallow fields amongst fat grazing cattle that barely even register our presence. There’s a small homestead directly ahead now, smoke already lazily stabbing the sky from the modest cottage holding court amongst barns, work-sheds and outhouses. I’ve only been here twice, but there’s a warm familiarity to this place that makes me feel good.

Wenrich shifts on his bench, giving me a moment’s look before regarding Kesla. He’s calm, but there’s a slight questioning look on his face. “If I may ask …?”

“Last stop before we move in earnest, Master Clearwood.” she replies “Nothin’ to worry about, I assure you.”

He gives me another look but says nothing further. Kesla’s tone was gentle and reassuring, and I think it’s done its intended job on him. He follows easy enough.

Once we’re on the outskirts of the farm itself we can make out signs of life, figures moving amongst some of the buildings. Then a human boy of about ten steps out of the nearest outhouse, still fastening his britches, and he pauses when he spots us, his face colouring when he realises his situation. His smile is sheepish, but easy enough once he recognises Kesla and, of course, Yeslee, and he waves before running back to the main house. We continue until we’re in the main yard, then rein up and wait.

The front door of the cottage opens a minute later and a small girl, no more than five, bursts out and starts racing towards us. “Kes! Kes! Hi!”

Kesla jumps down from Ulrich with practiced ease and jogs forward, dropping to her knee and scooping the little girl up when she reaches her, hugging her tight. “Hey there, nibblet. You doin’ good?”

“It’s good, all good.” she chirps as she’s let down again, beaming up at the big woman who still towers over her when she’s down on one knee. “Nothing’s happened since you came, we’re all fine.”

“That’s great, it’s so good to hear.” Kesla stands up again and immediately takes the tiny hand when it’s offered. “Your da in?”

“Course he is!” She skips a little as she starts to lead her back towards the cottage, from which the boy has now re-emerged. He’s accompanied now by a tall woman, beautiful in a rustic way, and a girl of fourteen or so. They all wave when they see us, and we all wave back, Wenrich following suit after a moment with an amused crook to his smile.

“Are you stayin’?”

“Sorry, no.” Kesla sighs, stopping again and looking down at the girl. “I’m sorry, Nola, we’re just passing through. ‘Fraid we gotta make a collection while we’re here.”

The girl’s face seems to fall hearing that, and she lets go of Kesla’s hand as she kind of shrinks into herself a little. “You’re gonna take him away, ain’t you? But he just got here.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, nibblet, but we got a job to do, and he’s stronger than the rest of us put together. We can’t do this without him.”

She pouts for a few moments, and clearly the tears want to come but she’s fighting them hard. I barely know little Nola, really, but from what I’ve seen I know she’s really tough for such a small child. She looks around at us, and I can feel an unusually sharp watchfulness when she turns her piercing blue eyes on me, then looks down, sighing. “Yeah, okay. I know, you gotta take him. It’s okay.”

A large man steps out of the nearest barn then, pulling on his jacket as he emerges, and he pauses when he spots us. He watches us for a few moments, then turns back to the barn and shouts something inside I don’t quite hear. Then he turns back and starts walking up. He’s not smiling, but there’s a pleasant calm to his broadly handsome face all the same. “Had a feeling something was gonna happen today, just didn’t know what. It’s had me tense since I woke up, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

“Hello, Paul.” Kesla sighs again, kicking idly at the dirt under her feet. “I’m sorry, we gotta borrow your best workhorse. Can’t say when we’ll bring ‘im back, either.”

“It’s alright, knew ‘e was just a loan anyways.” He turns back to the barn as the second door is swung open good and wide. “Here ‘e comes.”

A figure steps out of the barn, slow and somewhat awkward. The door’s a good ten feet high at its lintel but he still comes close to brushing it coming out, and he’s about as wide as he is tall. He’s a great hulking brute to look at, built loosely like something akin to an ogre, but only in a very broad descriptive sense. His whole body is made of some kind of a dull, dark grey ceramic that’s tougher than steel, and I suspect it was designed to be functional rather than aesthetically pleasing, with a face that only vaguely deserves that description. A massive jaw and the jutting brow that have been sculpted in place, never intended to move so he has no real emotional range. His eyes are the only part of him that really seem alive, deep set coals that blaze with a hot red light.

Driver 8 pauses after he emerges, having seen us and started to realise what that means. He looks over at the family, then at Paul, and finally back at us, and I swear he seems to sag a little. I think he’d sigh if he could. Finally he pushes the barn door closed and holds up one hand towards us, one thick finger pointed upwards as a signal for us to wait. Then he moves past Paul to the firewood shelter built alongside the cottage, at least three quarters full of thickly chopped cords that I’m sure he’s been hewing himself from logs he cut down from the nearby thickets, or out in the forest itself. He reaches underneath the roof and pulls something loose, a long bundle wrapped in a massive swath of brown canvas.

As he plods towards he raises his head, and from somewhere deep inside him a voice that sounds like a bass-heavy man speaking through a very long, acoustically rich pipe comes out. “Thank you for the work, Paul. I enjoyed it. It felt good to be useful without having to resort to violence.”

“You’re welcome, Big Man.” Paul smiles up at the golem as he lumbers past.

Coming back around the cottage, Driver 8 again sees the rest of the family waiting just outside the door, and stops. He sags again, clearer this time, and his head droops once more, at least as much as it can since he has no real discernible neck built into those immense shoulders. “I am sorry, I must go now. My friends need me.”

“It’s alright, Big Man.” Reet, Paul’s wife, gives him a fond smile and the boy and girl flanking her, Hol and Lann, break free and move towards her, looking almost as solemn and broken up as little Nola. As they approach he holds up his hand with finger cocked again, then starts to unwrap the bundle, moving our way as he does so. By the time he’s reached the cart he’s uncovered two truly massive weapons – a long greatsword, pretty scary to look at and as tall as I am, and a long-shafted greataxe, with a broad double-edged blade that looks to have seen a lot of use. He plants these in the cart with the rest of out stuff, then turns back to the children, still holding the canvas.

As they walk the rest of the way out to him, he swings it around until it’s wrapped around his back and shoulders like a gigantic cloak, then pulls free the straps that have been heavily stitched into it and drops to one knee, bending low. With Hol and Lann’s help he straps the cloak to his torso, then as he stands again they look up into his bright eyes with faces that are on the verge of tears. After a moment he opens his arms out and they just rush him, hugging his lower half good and tight. Nola runs up and wraps around his left leg, hugging him even more fiercely as she starts to quiver with sobs.

When the older children have finally withdrawn, Driver 8 reaches down, very gingerly indeed, and with slow, faltering motions, reaches down and just barely caresses the top of Nola’s head. I’ve known this living machine as long as the rest of the Creeping Bam, and I’ve seen him inflict some horrific damage on our foes in the heat of battle, but he’s clearly extremely aware of just how strong he is. He is unbelievably gentle when interacting with those he regards as his friends, or at least doesn’t view as threats. I’ll admit there are still times he makes me somewhat uncomfortable and, I think, justifiably wary to be around him, but I do believe he’s genuinely incapable of hurting this little girl.

Once she’s finally worked the tears out of her system, Nola finally lets go and steps back, rubbing snot from her nose on her sleeve with the kind of casual disregard you only find in a five year-old. She looks up at him, and her eyes are still wet, lip still quivering. He looks right back down at her, finally takes a big step back and hunkers back down onto his knee so he can lean his face as close to her as possible.

“Little Nola. I promise this is not goodbye forever, only for now. Do not cry. I will see you again when I can.”

“Promise?” Nola sniffles.

“I promise you. I will return. Perhaps when our business is concluded for good your father will allow me to become a permanent member of his workforce.”

“Bugger that, Big Man.” Paul says, placing his hand on the golem’s shoulder. “You’re family. You don’t have to work to earn your way with us. But you’re the best worker I ever seen so I ain’t gonna turn you down if you’re offerin’.”

“I enjoy cutting down trees and splitting logs far more than ending lives, Paul. It is an ugly business.”

“That it is.” Paul reaches down and picks up his daughter, hitching her up high into the crook of his arm so she can wrap her arms as much as she can around his thick neck. “The gods know I never wanna fight again either.”

“For now I have no choice.” Driver 8 stands up again, and while Paul is a good six foot five the golem makes him look very small. “It is not a chore, but an obligation. My friends have given me a purpose, they have given me their trust, and they have given me their love. I will follow them until their journey is at an end and they need fight no more.”

Paul nods, and Nola reaches up. Driver 8 leans down enough for her to touch his face, and his eyes seem to dim for a few moments at the contact. I think for him this is as close as he can get to closing them.

“Farewell, Paul. Farewell, little Nola. Take care of your family. You are all very dear to me.”

Nola starts to cry again, but she’s clearly trying to rein it in for her friend. Paul gives his massive chest a final pat and a nod and moves back to join his family.

As we begin to head out again we wave to them and they respond in kind, Driver 8 lagging behind at the back so he can keep looking back, waving as he does so. He doesn’t stop until after we’ve returned to the road, once it’s curved around alongside the flow of the river, now an omnipresent low roar in our ears, and the farm’s been lost from sight behind another screening grove of pines. After a few moments he begins to pick up speed again, stalking forward with his familiar implacable certainty until he’s keeping pace alongside the cart.

Wenrich’s not concentrating on the road any more, but the carthorses are finding their way fine on their own. He’s just perching at an angle on the bench now, not even trying to hide his fascination as he openly stares at Driver 8. “Well will wonders never cease … a genuine juggernaut from before the Calamity. However did you acquire it?”

“He is his own person, Master Clearwood.” Kesla calls back over her shoulder. “We didn’t acquire him, we just kinda stumbled across him. Krakka woke him up, and then he saved our lives. We kinda felt we owed him after that. Eventually he just became one o’ the family.”

“We call him Driver 8.” Krakka adds. “He’s my friend.”

“Well he is very impressive.” Wenrich just keeps looking at him with unabashed awe. “Tell me, sir, do you know how you came to survive for so long? Not many of you old pre-Sundering wonders are left, and I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one.”

“I know nothing of my existence before I was re-awakened. My first memory is of Krakka accidentally tripping my proximity warning system by falling over me. An orc with a battleaxe missed him and hit me instead. This allowed me to designate the orc as a threat, so I was able to designate Krakka as a friend. It is as simple as that.”

It’s when he says things like that that I have to wonder exactly what’s going on in that inscrutable ceramic skull of his. I know he would no sooner harm me than the others, but he was created using a technology our world no longer has access to. I don’t really know exactly what he’s supposed to be, any more than the others do. Even Wenrich is only really guessing at what he is going off what he’s learned about golems in the Order’s libraries. It’s facts like this that make me lose sleep occasionally when he’s around.

“You seemed reluctant to leave that farm back there. I take it you consider those people back there your friends as well.”

“Paul Tarach and his family are my friends, yes. Just as the Creeping Bam are my friends. They appreciate me for how I act, and my regard for others like them, not for what I am. It is not always this way. They have been through hard times, and we gave them aid. I have continued to give them aid, and they have repaid me in kind. More than in kind. I am very grateful for their friendship, and if it is my destiny I will happily return to them.”

Wenrich cocks a brow and looks at me. I can’t help frowning. I don’t need this right now. “A couple of months ago, something was attacking Paul’s cattle and carrying them off in the night. Something big and hungry. It left a horrific mess at the edge of the woods, on the far side of the river, every time.” I shudder at the memory of the corpse we were shown. There wasn’t enough of it left to really identify it as a cow.

“Wolves?” Wenrich ventures, his expression unreadable now. “Perhaps dire-wolves, given the size of the prey? I hear they can be found in these parts.”

“The day we arrived another party hunting near the end of the valley came across an older kill-site.” I can’t see Kesla’s face from here, but her voice is a little sour. I think her face might be too, remembering this. “It wasn’t pretty. One of the farms furthest up, close to the pass, other side of the river. Whole place was trashed. The cottage was half down, and the family … nobody left. Just dried blood, bones, rotting leftovers. They were just as torn up as the buildings.” She turns in her saddle now, looks back at him. I was right about her face. “We’ve hunted dire-wolves. They don’t do that.”

“No, they don’t.” Yeslee mutters, somewhat under her breath but loud enough she clearly intended to be heard. Thinking ill of nature is a sticking point with her.

“We staked out Paul’s farm. First night we caught up to an attack in same field we just rode through. Whole pack o’ something. Most of ‘em got away, without their prize, but we ran one of ‘em down. Tough fight, but we killed it.” Kesla reaches into her coat, rummages for a moment, then pulls something out and tosses it to Wenrich. He holds it up to examine it, and I see it gleaming, sharp and white. A big fang.

Frowning, he tosses it back. “You said it wasn’t dire-wolves.”

“It wasn’t. It was a pack of werewolves, real nasty bunch. They’d been workin’ their way towards Hocknar for months, looked like. Reckon they were workin’ up the courage to go into the city, maybe try blending in for a bit. That coulda been real nasty. But first they were gonna work Paul’s farm for all it was worth. An’ that family woulda been the last straw. So we tracked ‘em into the woods an’ wiped ‘em out.” Kesla reaches into her coat again, pulls out one of her knives, holds it up to the light. There’s a special kind of shine to the way it reflects the sun. “Good thing Yeslee taught us to get our weapons silvered.”

“You saved their lives, then.”

Kesla nods as she puts the knife away again. “Paul was proper grateful, the whole family were. They took to us fast after that. Driver 8, he tends to stick out. Like you said, ain’t many of his kind out there, and I hear most of ‘em have been snapped up by the Terrors. War effort or whatever they wanna call it, I don’t trust ‘em. He’s one of us, ain’t gonna let those bastards take ‘im away.”

“So Paul and his family agreed to take him in while you were in Hocknar.”

“Yeah, they did. Most of the time, we come to villages and smaller towns, we can get away with him with us, folk stare but they don’t muddy the waters much. But anywhere there’s gonna be any kinda official presence, best not to take chances. Normally he stays outside the big towns or cities, we find a nice secluded spot, a little wood or a cave or something, and he holes up in there ‘til we come collect him. He can look after himself well enough, but we hate doin’ it. He shouldn’t have to put up with it, ain’t fair on him. But from now on, when we come to Hocknar, he’s got a place to stay, with friends, and he gets to be useful. Pretty sweet deal, I reckon.”

Driver 8 doesn’t really nod, but he dips forward as he’s walking in a way that could be read as such. “It is much better than the alternative.”

We ride on in quite comfortable silence for a while after that, Wenrich still periodically looking at the golem as he plods on, implacable as ever. He’s genuinely fascinated, and I don’t blame him.

Another half hour’s travel and we’re approaching the bridge. It’s an elaborate affair for the size of the river, but these waters are the most swiftest transport route for goods from Hocknar to the south, so when it was built particular considerations were made for the easy access of the big barges that regularly traverse the Icespine. As a result it’s been somewhat over-engineered, a thoroughly oversized affair that takes up a good deal more space than you’d expect. Towering an imposing thirty feet over the river’s surface, it’s an impressive stone structure, the kind of solid workmanlike majesty that instantly identifies it as being dwarven-made.

Kesla draws us to a halt a good two-hundred yards shy of it. We watch it for a few minutes, taking in the bridge itself and the surroundings. There’s a particularly large grove of evergreens to our right, while the bank drops at a pretty steep angle, enough to hide someone if they were lying in wait. Clearly she’s thinking the same thing I am – this is a good place for an ambush.

“Alright then, Master Clearwood.” This time Kesla doesn’t even bother to turn in her saddle, she just wheels Ulrich around to face him. “You’re the divinator. How likely is it Min’s got folk ready to jump us when we try crossing this thing?”

“I couldn’t say.” Wenrich is stood up on the bench, looking around. He seems as concerned by the possibilities as the rest of us. “This would be a prime spot for an ambush, though.”

“Obviously.” Kesla reins the destrier up and wheels him about more forcefully this time, letting him trot and prance for a few moments as she takes in the woods. Narrows her eyes, urging Ulrich forward a few feet. I turn to look back the way she is, convinced she’s seen something.

The trees are fairly evenly spaced, but the bushes and undergrowth are thick enough it’s hard to really make anything out. There could be dozens of bandits hidden in there and we’d never know. Which makes the crawling feeling in my spine, the certainty that we’re being watched, all the stronger.

Another minute must tick by, and I can almost feel the others getting restless. Only Driver 8 seems immune to the tension, but I’ve never seen him get even remotely anxious in the six months I’ve known him. He’s a stone.

“Well it’s either cross here or we double back three miles to the ford. Otherwise we’re stuck on this side o’ the river.” She looks around at us for a moment, thoughtful now. “Bugger it. It’ll happen sooner or later. Might as well get this over with.”

I look over at Wenrich, whose own eyebrows have shot up, but there’s a subtle smile starting to curl his lips now. He finally catches me looking and just winks back, sitting back down on the bench and taking up the reins again before clicking the horses into a slow walk so he can follow Kesla and Yeslee. I let out a deep sigh, my own nerves still very much on edge. This is not a smart play.

Moving around in a wide curve, we wheel about to the bottom of the bridge, the road extending out over the spine of the bridge in a tall but fairly shallow slope intended to make it as easy as possible for heavily-laden vehicles. It’s wide enough for two big carts to pass side-by side while crossing, so there’s room enough for Driver 8 stay beside Wenrich as he rolls up the incline behind Kesla and Yeslee. I hang back with Art and Krakka, who thankfully seem as wary as I am right now. The bakaneko catches me looking and gives me a suitably sharp grin, but it doesn’t quite ring true, his nerves showing through.

The carthorses are easily strong and fresh enough to pull their load without any real difficulty. We make it to the top without incident, reaching the level stretch across the peak of the bridge in a couple of minutes at most, and Kesla wheels about enough to check we’re all moving all right. Satisfied, she turns Ulrich back and starts to descend, Wenrich starting to follow her … then she reins up again, raising a hand in a clear sign to stay put. That crawling chill comes back in an instant.

Urging my mare forward a little, I rein up again just behind the cart, then stand up in the stirrups in the hope I can see what’s happening. Given my own height combined with the horse’s I can just peer over the cart and the crest of the road, seeing the far end of the bridge in the gap between Kelsa and Yeslee on their own mounts. Maybe ten feet forward from the far end there’s another cart, this one with a big canvas pulled over the bed, and at least six men and women stood around it, all of them armed. The cart is parked at a very extreme angle, and between it and the horses harnessed in front it’s effectively blocking the road given the five foot-high walls on either side. Just like I thought. Ambush.

We stay like this for several moments, us watching them, them watching us. They don’t look too certain, especially with one of them constantly looking over the wall of the bridge to the trees that now lie behind us. Where we suspected the rest of the ambush to be laid in wait. The reinforcements, clearly, waiting to surge in behind us and cut off our retreat, trapping us in a vice on the bridge. And I think they’re waiting for a signal that’s not coming. Someone back in the woods is having second thoughts. Most likely about the humongous golem they hadn’t factored into their plans …

Finally the man who keeps looking over the wall kind of sags and heads to the cart, speaking in clipped tones I can’t really make out to his companions before jumping up into the seat and grabbing the reins. He gives them a good pull and the horses react, a little confused at first until they begin to understand his urging and orders and start to pull around, the cart slowly rumbling in a clumsy arc until there’s enough room to ride out into the open. As they go the rest of the group seem to accept their lot, their weapons sagging at their sides as they follow the cart in defeat.

After a moment the canvas is flung aside from underneath and a figure stands up, a little unbalanced given the cart jerking about so unsteadily. I recognise them instantly – the wizard from yesterday’s battle, that same red-scaled dragonhalf, jet black hair tumbling loose down their back today instead of bound up in the braids I noticed them wearing before. They growl something at the driver and he snaps back, and they look up at us, bright eyes narrowing instantly. Looking us over, finally settling on Driver 8 and widening considerably. A moment of calculation, then they frown as they mutter something and wave out a sigil, and that familiar emptiness suddenly appears around then before snapping shut and they’re just gone.

Bloody portal spell again. That’s it, I’m going to have to work that bloody spell out as soon as I can. Maybe when we camp tonight. Preferably far away from this mess …