Below, the river was swollen with snowmelt. No longer the peaceful current they’d followed days before, it was now a seething monster of whitewater, flying debris, and shattered ice.
“We’ll have to wait it out or find another route,” Resh said, jaw tight.
“Thereisno other route,” Zarrek replied. “We need to cross before night traps us in this gorge with the hounds.”
They paced the river’s edge, Resh weighing the risks. Over nineteen years, the Resh’Agar’s Kelvasari company had grown into more than a warband. It was a fortress in motion, tethered to his will, and now he had to carry it across a river determined to make dust of them. If he faltered, the current would claim them all. A hundred warriors, craftsmen, beasts, wagons—the weight of it pressed against his shoulders.
Auryn stayed mounted on Astenos at Resh’s insistence. She didn’t argue. Just stared at the water, like she’d seen it before in another life.
“Once frozen. Now alive,” she declared.
Resh almost smiled. That voice of hers—like some priestess whispering to the bones of the world—always tugged on some ancient part of him long buried.
A scout party tested the crossing. Two horses lost footing. A wagon nearly overturned. The river was too deep. Though each wagon wheel was taller than two men, they would still need magic to make this possible. Decided, Resh raised his arm, calling for the mages. Six men in brown and orange robes came forward from the crowd. Each one carried his own conduit—a staff, a focus stone, runes bound to a wand—each methodunique to the mage’s training and bloodline. Zarrek stood close, ready to carry out orders.
“Two mages per wagon,” Resh commanded. “Runes at the ready. Buoyancy cast, one spell per set of wheels, front and back.” He looked between them. “There is no room for pride here. This will drain you. Which of you has the largest mana capacity?”
The mages nodded, their faces set and grim. A few raised their hands. Not enough. There weren’t enough bodies to support all the wagons. Some of these men would need to cast for two crossings.
“Work with Zarrek to establish a rotation. If you assist with the first crossing, you rotate back, recover, assist with the last. If the supplies absorb moisture, we will be stranded without food and rations for weeks.”
Zarrek tapped his shoulder. “If we add two of the less experienced, it could help shoulder the mana cost. Even if they deplete, the healers can care for them on the other side. We can have them support on the final crossing.”
Resh nodded. “Let’s run a test. We can’t afford to waste mana on land. Get the wagons in the water. Assign the scouts to assist the stable hands in keeping the horses calm while they swim. If we can’t pull the wagons across with the men, I will cross and pull from the other side.”
“I can go with them,” Zarrek offered.
“It’s too deep, even for you. Need you here, keeping the men moving. Eight wagons total. Twenty to twenty-five crossing with each. It will take most of the day.”
It was doable. With care. He glanced at the sky, at the crimson clouds of the Bleed chasing them. They had no time to hesitate, and Resh wasn’t one to second-guess his instincts. This was the only way forward, and lingering wasn’t an option. Thus, the company began crossing in waves.
At first, everything went to plan. One of the wagons, lifted with magic, crossed. Twenty-two men alongside it, Reskala assisting the cooks and crafters. The scouts helped the stable hands move horses across. They would need support. Six horses tethered, four stable hands per crossing. Even if they moved six per crossing, they would still need to move the war horses too.
“Zar, for the next wave, each Reskala takes his own mount across. Draft horses are the priority. We cannot lose even one.”
“It’ll be done.”
Another wave of men pulled a second wagon into position. The mages cast, lifting it aloft. Resh walked between them, resting his hands on their shoulders.
“You’re doing well. Only enough to lift. Let the river do the work. Only support.”
The men crossed with the wagon and horses, stepping onto the opposite shore. Those watching breathed a sigh of relief. More prepared to cross next. Resh activated Krâthar—his rune of strength—in case any large debris came flying their way. He stood knee-deep in the freezing water, aiding with his inhuman strength in any way he could. The men shivered, their teeth chattering.
Six wagons across.
Then seven.
Every wagon was a heartbeat, every crossing another chance to lose everything.
At last, they pulled the final wagon into the river and gathered the remaining men and horses. Close to thirty Reskala, recovering mages, horses, and a few of the stable hands that still had energy to move. Resh tensed.
This had gone well.
Too well.
Better than he could have hoped for, considering the challenge. Zarrek slapped him on the shoulder and opened his mouth to say something when—
A whistle cut through the roaring water. The air split. Not thunder, but something worse. Resh’s head jerked up just in time to see the ice above them crack and break. An avalanche of frozen stone and ice plunged into the river.
