After days of winding through increasingly desolate foothills and sparse woodlands, the Old Salt Road finally led them towards the relative civilization of Shellwater Bridge. The town, Argren’s last major northeastern bastion, announced its presence with the smoky aroma of cured fish, followed by the sight of neat orchards clinging to the hillsides.

  Shellwater Bridge was a bustling, rustic trading hub sprawled along a wide, fast-flowing river – the Lastwater, which eventually fed into the vast K’thrall Fens – famed for its hardy nut trees and its smoked and dried river fish. This unique produce formed the backbone of its trade with the K’thrall via the Silted Isle outpost, and with the lake region east of the mountains, an area rumored to hold isolated communities of elves, dwarves, and renegade goblin tribes.

  To its north lay the vast, impenetrable K’thrall swamplands. To the south, beyond a range of arid hills, began the territories of the Ssylarr reptilians. Southeast lay the Lawless Lands and the fringes of the vast Dreaming Forest, a place no Argrenian dared to venture. And further east, across a rugged, poorly mapped expanse, loomed the Zha Khor Empire.

  As Ronigren’s party approached, the usual bustling atmosphere of Shellwater Bridge was conspicuously absent. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick and cloying like the smoke from its curing houses. The roads leading into town were choked with a ragged stream of refugees – men, women, and children fleeing outlying hamlets and farmsteads, their meager belongings piled onto rickety carts or carried on their backs.

  "Looks like the ripples from the north have reached even here," Masillius observed, his gaze sweeping over the ragged throngs. "This is worse than I feared."

  The town itself felt like a pressure cooker. The market square was now a makeshift camp for the displaced. The mood amongst the local townsfolk was lugubrious. Guards patrolled the walls with a stiff gait, scanning the eastern and northern approaches.

  As they entered the main gate, Ronigren presented the writ bearing Falazar’s seal. They were met with suspicion and a barrage of anxious questions.

  "More refugees?" a harried-looking town sergeant asked, coming to a stop over Snik with open hostility, despite the goblin’s attempt to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible behind Sabine.

  "We are on official business from Alkaer and Woodhall, Sergeant," Ronigren stated calmly. "We seek audience with your town council or garrison commander."

  The sergeant grunted, unconvinced, but Falazar’s seal carried weight. Eventually he pointed them towards the Town Hall, a sturdy stone building in the center of Shellwater Bridge. The scent of smoked fish and roasting nuts wafted over the crowded streets, overlaid now with the odor of too many people pressed into too small a space. Children looked up with hollow eyes, mothers clutched their babes tightly, old men stared blankly ahead.

  Shellwater Bridge was a town holding its breath.

  The Town Hall was a hive of febrile activity. Clerks rushed through corridors clutching scrolls, petitioners argued animatedly with impassive guards. Marquis Finchley’s private chamber was cluttered, dominated by a large map of the northeastern territories.

  Delan Finchley’s thinning grey hair was askew, his fine velvet doublet unbuttoned. He paced before his gold filigreed ebony desk, wringing his hands.

  "Finally!" he exclaimed as Ronigren and Artholan were ushered in. The others waited outside. "Representatives from Alkaer! Or at least, Woodhall, which is practically the same thing these days, given the Archmage’s pervasive influence." His voice was high-pitched, strung tight.

  "Marquis Finchley," Ronigren began, offering a weary, bow. "Sir Ronigren of Varden, at your service. We bring news from the siege of Woodhall, and are on a mission sanctioned by the Office of Northern Concerns—"

  "Yes, yes, the Office!" Finchley waved a dismissive hand. "Another committee! Another layer of bureaucracy while my town drowns in refugees and the King demands miracles!" He gestured wildly at a pile of scrolls on his desk. "Do you know what this is? This is a royal decree, delivered by raven this very morning. Full mobilization. Shellwater Bridge is to raise an additional five hundred militia. Five hundred! With what, I ask you? Sticks and harsh language? My existing garrison barely has enough arrows to see off a determined flock of pigeons, let alone a goblin horde or whatever Zha Khor deviltry is brewing to the east!"

  The Marquis’s tirade was a torrent of grievances: insufficient supplies from Alkaer, contradictory orders, the constant fear of attack.

  Ronigren listened, his own patience wearing thin. He understood the Marquis’s desperation. Woodhall had faced similar, if more immediate, terrors. Yet Finchley’s near-hysterical blaming of "Alkaer" and "the Archmage" grated on his nerves.

  "Marquis," Ronigren said, his voice firm, "we have all faced losses. Woodhall itself barely survived. But recriminations will not win this war. We are here to gather intelligence for our westward journey, and to offer what support we can—"

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "Indeed, my good Marquis," Artholan drawled, "while your anxieties are understandable, one might expect a modicum of composure from a representative of the King’s authority. Panicked lamentations rarely contribute to effective strategic planning. Perhaps if you focused less on the perceived inadequacies of the central administration and more on the efficient allocation of your extant resources—"

  Marquis Finchley’s face turned a dangerous shade of puce. "Extant resources? Efficient allocation? Do you have any idea, mage, what it takes to run a border town on the edge of three hostile territories with a treasury as meager as a picked-over carcass?"

  Ronigren put a warning hand on Artholan’s arm before the mage could deliver another ill-advised barb. He shot the mage a look that promised a lecture on military diplomacy later. "Artholan, perhaps now is not the time for logistical critiques." He turned back to the sputtering Marquis. "Your concerns are valid, Marquis Finchley. Shellwater Bridge is in a precarious position. But the threat is real, and it is kingdom-wide. The King’s mobilization is a desperate measure for desperate times."

  "Desperate indeed!" Finchley shrieked. "And who bears the brunt? We do! While Alkaer appointees swan about on your ‘fact-finding missions’!"

  "My Lord Marquis," Marta said, calm and steady, startling the three of them. She had quietly entered the room, unnoticed. “I am but an old woman from a small northern village, one that no longer stands. I have seen what these… 'northern troubles' can do. I have seen homes burn, and good folk die. Your fear, your anger; they are understandable. They are the bitter fruit of loss, and the dread of what is yet to come."

  She paused, letting her words sink in. Finchley fell silent.

  "But," Marta continued, "blaming those who also struggle, who also seek a way through this darkness, will not mend your walls nor sharpen your spears. Alkaer is far, yes. And perhaps its lords do not always understand the burdens carried by those on the frontiers. But we are all Argrenians. If we turn on each other, the true enemy has already won." She looked at Ronigren, at Artholan, then back at the Marquis. "We are here, my lord. Perhaps our journey is a desperate one, but it is undertaken in the hope of finding a way to aid all of Argren, including Shellwater Bridge. Perhaps, instead of shouting at the storm, we can look for a sturdy branch to cling to, together."

  A long silence followed. Marquis Finchley seemed to deflate, the frantic energy draining out of him, leaving him looking merely old, tired, and afraid. He sank into his chair, running a trembling hand over his face.

  "Forgive me, good woman," he said, his voice hoarse. "And you, Sir Knight. My… my nerves are frayed. This town… it carries too much weight." He looked at them distraught. "You seek to travel west, you say?" Finchley asked, rubbing his temples. "Towards the K’thrall Fens? That is… madness, in these times. The swamplands are treacherous enough without goblin hordes and who-knows-what-else stirring in the north."

  "Our reasons are… compelling, Marquis," Ronigren replied, choosing his words. "We seek answers that may be vital to Argren’s survival. Answers that lie in that direction."

  Finchley sighed. "Answers. Hope. We have little enough of either in Shellwater Bridge these days." He paused. "Actually… there is something.. Perhaps it is fate, or merely another sign of these accursed, upside-down times."

  He leaned forward, lowering his voice, barely audible under the frantic activity outside his chamber door. "Two days ago, a K’thrall messenger arrived at the Silted Isle. A rare enough occurrence in itself, as you know. But this one bore a formal request. From the K’thrall Spawning-Council of the Silent Deeps, or some such equally incomprehensible designation. They request an urgent parley. With representatives of Argren. On the Silted Isle itself."

  Ronigren exchanged a surprised look with Marta.

  "What is the nature of this requested parley?" Ronigren asked.

  Finchley shrugged helplessly. "The messenger was typically K’thrall. Cryptic. It spoke of 'great disturbances in the deep waters,' of 'shadows stirring where they should not,' and of a desire to 'speak with the Dry-Skin leaders before the waters consume all.' Frankly, much of it was untranslatable gibberish to my Silted Isle liaison. But the urgency was clear."

  He ran a hand through his chaotic hair. "Given the… everything, I have dispatched a small delegation. My cousin, Serjeant Allin as a military attaché, and Master Whisty, our town’s chief scribe and one of the few here with even a rudimentary grasp of the K’thrall trade-pidgin, as a civilian representative.”

  He looked at Ronigren’s party, a shrewd gleam appearing in his harried eyes. "A large mercantile river-barge, 'The Mudskipper,' is being prepared. It’s sturdy, armed with a few light ballistae for protection against river pirates or worse. It departs for the Silted Isle at first light tomorrow. If your 'fact-finding mission' leads you east, towards the Fens, you might as well…" He let the unspoken offer hang in the air. "You would, of course, be expected to provide your own provisions. Shellwater Bridge can spare little. And you would travel as passengers. Under the nominal authority of my delegation, at least until you reach the Isle."

  Ronigren looked at his companions.

  "Marquis Finchley," Ronigren said, a note of gratitude in his voice. "Your offer is… most timely. And most welcome. We accept."

  * * *

  As the first watery rays of dawn painted the Lastwater River in hues of grey and silver, they arrived on the bustling muddy docks of Shellwater Bridge. 'The Mudskipper' was a broad-beamed, shallow-drafted vessel, its deck crowded with supplies.

  Amidst the shouts of rivermen, the creak of ropes, and the scent of damp wood and river mud, Sabine and her companions boarded, finding what space they could amidst the cargo. Snik, wrapped in a thick cloak, huddled nervously beside her.

  With a final shout and the splash of mooring ropes being cast off, 'The Mudskipper' shuddered, then began to move, its large rudder guiding it into the main current of the Lastwater. Shellwater Bridge, with its anxieties and its fragile hopes, grew smaller behind them. Before them lay the river, and beyond it, the Silted Isle, the mysteries of the K’thrall Fens, and the secrets of her past. She watched the muddy banks of the Lastwater slide by, the scent of unknown swamps ahead. The road of earth and stone had ended; the path of water and secrets had begun. She grinned as the silly thought of her as a skipping stone came unbidded and surpisingly vivid in her mind.