a path that leads down the opposite ridge and out the other side of the Vale, but our trip would be made faster to go back down and cross Dragongate Bridge. We make camp at the base. The next day we will cross the bridge.
We wake early and break camp in only a few minutes. There’s nothing to pack up but for our bedrolls. Then we eat a quick breakfast and follow the road.
We reach the bridge before midday. We can see it before we reach it because of the sheer size of the bridge. Vines are climbing the ancient columns in the season. The trees seem to edge away from the bridge like they’re scared of something.
As we approach, I see a peculiar rock lying across the road just in front of the crenellated arch leading onto the bridge.
James narrows his eyes at it as we approach. “That’s not a rock,” he mutters.
We get closer and all agree that it is most definitely not a rock. Part of it seems furry and Jericho says, “It’s an animal.”
“No,” I respond. “It’s a person.”
And indeed it is. I crouch down and study him.
His hair is short and black, and his face seems almost cruel. He wears a dark traveling cloak with a fur collar and fur shoulders. An empty sheath lies on his belt. I look for the weapon for only a second, and then I find it lying under him; I can see the blade sticking out from under his arm. It glints; there is blood dried on it, but it is not his own. The sword’s edge has an odd sheen to it. I study it and touch my finger to the blade. “Poison,” I mutter.
His eyes are open, revealing brilliant green eyes.
“He died suddenly,” I say quietly. I look down towards his chest and stomach.
A nasty slash carves its way across his torso from his right shoulder to the bottom of his ribcage on the left. Blood soaks his tunic and undershirt; he wears no armor.
I look about him and find the shaft of an arrow. The head has been broken off.
I inspect his body again and find a wound in his heart. A broken shard of wood sticks out about half a centimeter. The arrowhead must lie within.
“He must be only a day or two dead,” I say. “He does not stink yet, but his eyes are beginning to sink.”
“Who is he?” James asks.
“I don’t know,” I respond. “He wears no insignia or flag of any kind. I would say that we must bury him, but we have no time to waste.” I look towards the river. “Somebody help me lift him.”
Percival takes his feet and I lift his shoulders. “Where are we taking him?” he asks.
“The river,” I respond. “Nobody deserves to be left dead on the side of a road.”
He nods in agreement and we take him onto the bridge. The river flows violently underneath us around the arches supporting the bridge. I nod to Percival and we lift him up and over the waist-high wall. The dead man rolls over the side stiffly and is engulfed by the white water, disappearing into the depths of the river.
“Pity,” James says. “I wonder who killed him.”
“And if he was killed in cold blood,” I add. “Or in self-defense.”
“What makes you think that?” he asks.
“His sword was drawn,” I say. “And it was poisoned. It was premeditated. He was going to try to kill somebody. But they put up more of a fight than he thought.”
“But he got cut and had an arrow in him,” says James. “Did he try to take out multiple people?”
“Possible,” I say. “Or that one person is stronger than he ever had imagined. Either way it is done, and we are not involved. We should continue.”
They agree and we resume our journey.
At the opposite end of the bridge, we pass underneath the arch and I happen to glance to the left. There, lying on the ground, is an unconscious woman.
I approach her immediately. She lies on the shore near the water, like she had been trying to reach it. She apparently had been too late.
She is young and beautiful. Her skin is white, but not pale; she has freckles across her upper cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her jaw is prominent, but in an attractive way. Her build is small, and she wears a dark indigo shirt with a similarly colored cloak and hood. Her hair is dirty blond and