Adventure of Brandon Dubois

The ford roars black beneath the ice, and Brandon Dubois stands at the edge with Valerius beside him. Fresh carriage ruts cut straight into the freezing current, then vanish under the chop.

Valerius points to a darker seam in the water, where the wheel marks reappear on the far bank. The path is not blocked, only dangerous, and it leads onward toward the capital.

Brandon tightens his grip on the hidden scroll and steps toward the current, choosing the ford as the fastest road between Hadrin Bellwrought and King Eren Sharp.

Brandon loosens his cloak at the throat and checks the fold where the scroll rides against his breast. The waxed wrap stays tight, dry as bone under the cloth.

Valerius watches the inspection, then tucks the map scrap closer to their chest as the wind hammers the ford.

A low crunch rolls out from the far side of the crossing. Something heavy is moving onto the ice, slow and deliberate.

The darker seam in the water shivers. The frozen skin of the ford takes the strain with a sharp, uneasy crack.

Brandon steps onto the ice with his blade low and his boots placed careful as prayer. The ford answers with a thin crackle under his weight, but it holds, and he moves onto the far side before the sound can spread.

A sharp splinter runs through the frozen skin behind him, and the scroll strap bites hard against his chest as the crossing gives under the drag of his haste.

Valerius stays on the near bank, one hand clenched on the waxed map scrap, eyes fixed on the widening fractures and Brandon's landing point.

Ahead, the dark shape of Hadrin's transport grinds onward beyond the ford, while the ice moans louder beneath it and the chance to strike from surprise begins to thin.

Brandon watches the transport struggle against the shifting ice, but the driver sits alone at the reins. No guards emerge from the canvas cover to defend the carriage, leaving the vehicle vulnerable and isolated on the frozen expanse.

Brandon breaks from cover and sprints over the hard crust of snow, boots biting for purchase as the far bank rushes toward him.

The carriage lurches on the ice ahead, its weight sending a sharp crack through the ford, but its driver keeps the reins tight and keeps moving.

Valerius stays on the near side, half-turned against the wind, one hand lifted in warning as Brandon closes the distance.

Brandon reaches the carriage at the edge of the broken ice, sword still in hand, the wheels groaning as they slide and catch.

The driver glances back once, then snaps the reins, and the transport jolts forward with the far bank still ahead and the ice shivering under it.

The driver is indeed alone, but as the carriage jolts, a heavy, iron-bound crate shifts in the open rear compartment, its lid rattling loose to reveal the glint of stolen Iskan steel.

Brandon’s gloved hand clamps the carriage frame, and the jolt runs up his arm as the wheel bucks against the ice. The body of the transport shudders, but it does not tear free.

He plants his boots hard, shoulder low, and holds the frame through the violent sway. The open crate slams once more, its iron corners knocking loose a few pieces of stolen steel.

Across the ford, Valerius leans forward with the waxed map tucked against their chest, watching the far bank with tight, alert stillness.

The driver’s reins snap taut, and the carriage lurches sideways instead of surging ahead. Snowy spray skitters over the ice as the wheels slide, slowed by Brandon’s grip.

For a breath, the transport hangs pinned between motion and ruin, the exposed weapons glinting in the half-light. Then the driver jerks the team again, trying to wrench the carriage free.

Brandon heaves, and the carriage gives at last. The whole transport skews broadside on the ice, wheel rims screeching as the rear end slews toward the current.

The driver’s hard pull fails to right it. Instead, the shafts twist, the team jerks crooked, and the open crate crashes against the bed with a dull metal clatter.

Several stolen blades spill against the slush rimmed boards, no longer pointed down the road but canted uselessly under Brandon’s hand.

Across the ford, Valerius lifts the waxed map higher, eyes wide at the shift in the carriage’s path.

The ice answers with a low, spreading crack beneath the rear wheel, and the driver yanks the reins again, trying to recover the road before the whole load slides free.

The driver abandons the reins and leaps from the carriage, vanishing into the thick mist along the riverbank. Brandon scans the road ahead, but the path is empty, save for the swirling snow.

Brandon lunges to the abandoned pole and reins, seizing both in a single grip as the carriage lurches beside him. The leather bites into his glove, but the team answers to his pull.

The horses strain, then settle under his control, their heads tugged hard toward the bank. The wagon jerks off its worst line on the ice, wooden wheels shuddering where the surface still holds.

Valerius stands on the near bank with the waxed map clenched in one hand, watching the span for any fresh split. Ahead, the empty road disappears into mist, and the stolen blades rattle in the crate behind Brandon.

With the reins in hand, Brandon has the carriage under his command, but the ford still groans around the wheels. The river hisses beneath the ice, demanding his next move.

Brandon shifts his weight and guides the carriage toward the bank, the runners biting a straighter line through the frosted skin of the ford. The team obeys at once, hauling the load where his hands command instead of where the ice would drag it.

The wagon surges, clears the worst of the broken surface, and bumps onto firmer ground with a harsh shudder. The crate of stolen blades stays inside, rattling less as the wheels finally find dirt.

Across the ford, Valerius lowers the waxed map slightly, their shoulders easing at the sound of the carriage leaving the ice behind. The river still groans, but the weight is off the span at last.

As the carriage settles, Brandon catches a dark scrap snagged on the axle, a narrow strip marked with an Iskan knot and road dust. It looks torn from a harness or signal cord, a clue the fleeing driver left behind in haste.

The far road lies open ahead, with fresh tracks leading into the mist and no escort visible between Brandon and the next bend. The carriage is his for the moment, and the chase has a new shape.

Brandon crouches by the axle and pinches the torn scrap free. It is an Iskan harness tag, frayed at one end, with a tiny knot-mark pressed into the cloth where a seal cord has rubbed hard and often.

He turns it in his fingers and finds road grit packed into the weave, but also a smear of pale wax, the kind used to keep knots from slipping in wet weather.

That wax matches the waxed map Valerius carries, and the knot-mark matches the hidden cord Brandon saw on the spies. The scrap is not from a passing laborer, it belongs to a courier's harness.

The cloth snaps loose at last, and a second, thinner thread comes away with it, cutting a shallow line across Brandon's thumb. A bead of blood dots the snow-dark edge of the tag.

Across the ford, the river still mutters under ice, while the open road ahead waits with fresh tracks and no friendly shape between Brandon and the mist.