Guided only by the light of the silver moon overhead, six men clad in cloaks as dark as the night around them thundered down the beaten road on steeds glistening with sweat. Dispatched from the party now making camp, these six lean figures on panting mounts were the best scouts Daeven had to offer - the swiftest and most cunning of his many, many followers. On special orders from their master they rode, racing along the dark path through the trees at breakneck speed. Their destination lay perhaps another hour's ride away, and with three hours behind them already, the horses were lagging under the cruel lashes of their riders. The beasts' eyes were rolling in their skulls, tongues flopping over the steel bit in each mouth as they were pushed harder and faster down the road. With a pitiful cry one horse mistepped and lost a shoe - pitching the exhausted beast sideways as it reared in pain and took its rider with it.

Five men clad in cloaks as dark as the night sped on without even looking back; their mission far too urgent to spare a moment for a fallen comrade...

The bridge, Father Daeven's words echoed in five pairs of ears, it must be secured at all costs. There is only one truly safe path across the river, and we will not afford our enemies the advantage of its use. Destroy it if necessary, but only if you cannot hold it until my arrival.

In a couple hours the party would awaken for an early march - setting after the black-clad riders on foot and bringing their master with them...

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They were moving fast; more running along the road than marching on it. Double-time had faded a couple hours ago into a brisk jog, and then accelerated an hour after that into something resembling a pell-mell sprint. The scouts, clad in their varying shades of greens, browns, and greys flitted through the trees on either side of the road like spirits. Sometimes visible, other times not, the skilled archers and woodsmen were silent as they ran; ghosts accompanying a company of steel.

Like the footsteps of the general infantry around him, Teric's iron-shod boots were loud on the packed dirt road - each foot fall a drum beat intermixed with the jingle and jangle of steel and iron cuirass. The group had started the morning as a small group of scouts with a couple soldiers under Captain Wilthelm's command, but over the course of the day their numbers had swelled. There were multiple parties it seemed; several independent groups of scouts and infantry that had thus far operated independently of one another. Each seemed to obey the all-encompassing orders of Father Daeven, and as they approached their target, the groups melded into one another to form one large war band.

Much larger than I would have anticipated for a mission like this. Teric thought as he kept time with the soldier next to him. It would seem Denebriel's lackeys are pulling out all the stops for something...

Their target was a small bridge crossing the Tagareth River, and one of the few bridges that connected the roads leading in from Salvar to the roads winding always towards Ettermire, the capital of Alerar. While it was possible to wade the river in several places, the Tagareth was infamous for its unpredictable currents. Those currents, plus the jagged rocks that seemed to line the riversides and riverbed like so many teeth, tended to herd individuals seeking to cross the river towards the few bridges that offered safe passage over the flowing waters. Father Daeven seemed to be counting on the fact that the heretics they sought would be crossing the bridge soon - assuming they had been gaining ground at the rate they believed they were. If anything, the priest was hoping to secure the bridge before the thorn in their side, Elijah Belov, made his way across.

I just hope we don't get there too late. The mercenary thought as he felt the muscles in his legs start to burn.