They broke camp before the light finished deciding what it was.
Smoke was pressed down with wet leaf until it clung low and sour. Ash was scattered, then scuffed into dirt with the heel. Rope was checked twice. Knots were touched like they could be read by fingertip.
Eryk sat by Wagon Two and worked his wrap tighter while the ground was still cold enough to bite through cloth. The strip of waxed cord Fenn had given him yesterday lay smooth where it mattered. The brace held. His ankle did not.
When he stood, pain climbed up his leg in a clean, bright line. He waited for it to settle into something duller, something he could walk on, and forced his face to stay still while it happened.
Garr passed behind him carrying a barrel hoop as if it weighed nothing. He did not slow to watch Eryk's foot. He looked at the wheel path ahead the way a man looked at weather, as if it could change without warning and you would still be expected to move through it.
Fenn was already at the axle, hand on the housing, eyes narrowed at the first half turn of the wheel.
"Listen," Fenn said.
Eryk did. For squeal. For scrape. For the soft wrong sound that meant a problem was waking.
The wheel rolled quiet.
Fenn nodded once, satisfied, and moved to the next cart like quiet was something you earned by inspection.
The Company rider rode up from the hollow's edge, cloak still too clean for a man who slept on the road. He had not dismounted during the night. Eryk had heard him talking in a low voice with his guards, like sleep was a thing meant for other people.
The rider looked over the wagons as if they were late on purpose.
"We move now," he said.
Brann stepped into view from the shadow of Wagon One. Gloves on. Hair tied back. A posture that looked easy until you noticed how still it was.
"We move," Brann agreed.
The rider's mouth tightened at the lack of deference. He did not press. Yesterday had taught him something, even if it offended him.
The captain came up behind Brann, eyes scanning the treeline and the slope of the hollow before she let herself look at the road.
Her gaze flicked over Eryk once. Brief. Measured. Then gone.
"Positions," she said.
The band fell into place without fuss. Garr to the outer side. Fenn near the axle. Harl by the pot cart, muttering as he checked the lash like he was scolding a child. Sella was absent, which meant she was present somewhere that mattered.
Eryk took his spot beside Wagon Two's rear quarter, near the strap Fenn had told him to watch. Close enough to brace if the load shifted. Far enough to keep clear of the wheel.
The Company rider clicked his tongue. The convoy started forward.
The hollow fell behind them. The thin fire smell faded. The road took over. Damp earth, crushed leaf, the sour rot of places that never fully dried.
They made better time at first. The morning stretch was the kind of road that let you pretend it would stay reasonable. Packed firm, wide enough for the wagons to pass without scraping bark.
Eryk's ankle found a rhythm. A flare on the worst stones. A settle on the flats. He kept his breathing steady and made himself look like he belonged beside the wagon, like he had always walked this line.
A mile later, the river road ended.
It did not announce itself with a sign. The air changed first. The damp bite of water thinned. The ground stopped smelling like silt and began to smell like old soil and bark.
The Company rider raised a hand and pointed with two fingers toward a narrow cut between trees where the road pinched down.
"Inland," he said.
Brann's eyes went to the corridor. Then to the brush on both sides. Then back to the rider.
"This path won't hold three wagons abreast," Brann said.
"It holds," the rider replied. "It is used."
Harl made a noise behind them that might have been agreement if you were drunk.
The captain lifted two fingers. Spacing changed. Men drifted outward and back, giving each other room to move without tangling when the road forced them tight again.
Eryk felt it in his shoulders, the whole line tightening into something leaner.
They turned inland.
The light dimmed. Branches knitted overhead. Sound changed too. On the river road you had distance to throw noise into. Here the woods had nowhere to put it. Wheels sounded louder because the trees kept giving the sound back.
The first hill came quickly, a long pull on rutted ground where rain had carved channels deep enough to snag a wheel.
The oxen leaned into their yokes, breath steaming. Wagon Two's load shifted with dull thuds that made Eryk's stomach tighten.
He glanced at the strap. It held.
Fenn was there, already crouched by the axle as the wheel climbed.
"Watch the lash point," Fenn said without looking up.
Eryk moved closer, hand hovering near the strap where he could grab if it slipped. He did not touch it yet. Touching without reason was how you made something worse.
The wagon hit a rut hard enough that the whole bed rocked.
The strap twanged, small and sharp.
Eryk's hand snapped to it and pulled tension down. Not yanking, not fighting the knot. Just taking the slack out before it could become a song.
The twang died.
Fenn's fingers tapped the hub once.
"You felt it," Fenn said.
Eryk swallowed. "Yes."
"Good," Fenn replied, and the word carried weight because it was rare.
They crested the hill. The road fell into a shallow gully on the other side where mud sat in a long, dark trough.
The Company rider did not slow.
Wagon One entered first. Wheels sank. Oxen strained. Mud sucked at their hooves with a wet sound that made Eryk imagine teeth.
The driver cursed and snapped the reins. The oxen pulled harder.
The wagon lurched through, slow and heavy, but it moved.
Wagon Two followed.
Eryk stepped into the gully beside it and felt mud grab his boot. It held for a breath too long before letting go with a slick pull that made his ankle protest.
He clenched his jaw and kept walking.
Garr was on the outer side, boots finding firmer spots near the gully wall where roots held the earth together. His hand stayed near his knife, not because mud required steel, but because the gully forced everyone close.
Eryk's shoulder brushed the wagon bed once. He corrected immediately, moving half a foot outward. Small mistakes became bigger ones when the road narrowed.
Halfway through the gully, Wagon Two's left wheel sank deeper than the rest.
The wagon tilted. Crates inside shifted.
Eryk's heart jumped.
The strap held. Barely.
Fenn's voice came low. "Brace."
Eryk planted his good foot and leaned shoulder-first into the wagon bed, pushing into the tilt. His ankle screamed. He shoved anyway, feeling the weight through bone.
Garr stepped in at the same moment on the far side, shoulder to the wood, pushing from a better angle.
Between them the wagon rose a fraction. The wheel found a buried root. It climbed.
The wagon straightened with a slow, reluctant roll.
Eryk let his breath out through his nose and kept his face blank as the pain faded into a throb.
Garr glanced at him once, quick.
"Keep your foot," Garr said.
It was not comfort. It was instruction.
Eryk nodded because he could not trust his voice to be steady.
They got out of the gully and onto firmer ground. The convoy did not stop. Stopping meant paying for it later, and later always charged more.
A half hour on, Sella appeared from the woods.
She did not come in from the front or the rear. She stepped out beside the captain as if the trees had handed her over.
Her hood was down. Her hair was damp with sweat. A smear of mud sat on one cheek like a thumb mark.
She spoke low to the captain.
The captain listened without changing her face.
Then she lifted two fingers again. The line widened another notch. Garr drifted even closer to the brush. Fenn stayed with the axle, but his gaze lifted more often now, scanning between trunks.
Brann moved nearer the Company rider.
"What," Brann asked, voice quiet.
Sella answered instead.
"Tracks," she said. "Two sets running parallel. Fresh. They step off when we step off."
The Company rider snorted from his saddle. "Bandits."
Sella's eyes flicked to him. Cold. Flat.
"Hungry men," she corrected. "And someone guiding them."
The rider scoffed as if guidance was beneath him.
The captain looked up at him.
"Keep your mouth for orders," she said. "Not opinions."
The rider's face tightened. His guard beside him shifted, hand near his spear.
Nothing happened. Nothing had to. The captain's tone had already drawn the line.
They walked on.
The inland cut wound through a stand of young trees where stumps dotted the ground like old teeth. Some were fresh cut, pale and wet at the center. Others were dark and rotted, half swallowed by moss.
Eryk noticed the cut marks on the newest ones. Not saw teeth. Axe work. Fast. Ugly.
A place where people took wood because they had to, not because they had time to do it clean.
The road dipped again, then rose into a ridge where the path narrowed to a strip of packed earth between two shallow drops. Brush pressed close. Branches reached out like hands.
Eryk kept his gaze forward. He remembered the fallen tree from yesterday. He remembered how quickly a corridor could become a trap.
Even the Company rider stopped pretending the road was easy. His horse took shorter steps now. His head turned more.
Brann drifted back toward Wagon Two and walked level with Eryk for a few paces.
His voice came low, rough with lack of sleep.
"You're holding," Brann said.
Eryk did not look at him directly. That felt like a mistake around a man who made decisions for a living.
"I'm walking," Eryk answered.
Brann's mouth twitched. It might have been humor if it had been on another face.
"Walking is holding," Brann said. "Here."
He moved ahead again.
The ridge ended at a small creek.
It was not wide. It did not look dangerous. It ran clear over stones, thin enough that you could see the bottom.
The bridge across it was old planks on a frame of logs, sunk at the center from years of weight. One side rail had been repaired with a rope tied in three places.
The Company rider did not stop. He pointed.
"Across," he said.
Brann stepped to the first plank and pressed his boot down hard. The board flexed. It creaked.
He tried another plank. The sound was worse.
Brann looked at the captain.
The captain looked at Garr.
Garr stepped onto the bridge like he expected it to fail and wanted to see how it failed. He walked to the center and shifted his weight.
The planks groaned.
Garr stepped back off.
"It holds a man," Garr said. "Not a wagon."
The Company rider's face reddened. "It held last season."
Harl's voice floated up, cheerful and tired. "So did my patience."
One guard's head turned.
Harl went quiet for about a breath.
The captain's eyes stayed on the bridge.
"We do not cross that," she said.
The rider leaned forward in his saddle. "Then we lose time."
"And if we cross it and it breaks," the captain replied, "we lose your wagons."
The rider's eyes narrowed. "You do not know what is in that chest."
The captain's gaze stayed steady.
"I know it is heavy," she said. "I know it is bolted. I know your men touch it like it is holy."
The rider's jaw worked.
Brann turned away from him and scanned the creek bank.
"We lay a bed," Brann said.
The rider's voice rose. "We are behind already."
Brann turned his head just enough to include him in the world without offering him respect.
"We will be further behind if a wheel snaps," Brann said.
The rider opened his mouth again.
The captain cut him off.
"Get down," she said.
The rider blinked as if he had not heard correctly.
"Get down," she repeated. "Or ride back alone and explain to your superiors how you lost their wagons because you wanted to save fifteen minutes."
The rider stared at her.
Then he dismounted, stiff with anger.
"Do it," he snapped, as if the work was beneath him and he was granting permission.
Brann did not answer. He was already moving.
Garr went to the treeline and began to pick straight saplings with the calm certainty of a man choosing tools. He did not hack wildly. He cut clean, fast, low, taking young alder that would bend instead of shatter.
Sella slipped into the brush without a word.
Fenn crouched by Wagon Two and ran his hand along the axle housing as if making sure it was not already strained from the morning.
Harl walked up beside Eryk and shoved a coil of rope into his hands.
"You know knots," Harl said.
Eryk blinked. "Some."
Harl pointed with his chin at the creek bank. "Then use them. Lash the saplings into a mat. Tight. If it shifts, the wheel drops, and then we all get to swim."
Eryk's fingers tightened on the rope.
"Where," he asked.
Harl rolled his eyes. "Between the creek and the bridge. There is a shallow spot. The bridge is for feet. We make a crossing for weight."
Eryk did not waste time arguing. He limped to the bank where the ground was firmer, then waited as Garr and another man dragged saplings down.
When the first bundle hit the ground, Eryk dropped to one knee and started lashing.
Rope burned against his palms. The knots needed to sit flat so the wagon wheels would not catch. He tied a square knot, then backed it with a half hitch, pulling until the fibers sang softly, then stopping before the sound grew sharp.
Quiet was habit now.
Fenn came up behind him and watched for a beat.
"You tie too close," Fenn said.
Eryk's breath tightened. "It will hold."
"It will snap," Fenn replied, still calm. He crouched and pointed. "Leave space so it flexes. If it cannot flex, it breaks."
Eryk swallowed and redid the knot, leaving a finger's breadth of give.
His ankle throbbed. He pushed through it and made himself move with control, not hurry.
Garr dragged another sapling down and dropped it in place. He watched Eryk's hands for a moment.
"Good," Garr said, and the single word hit harder than praise had any right to.
They laid the saplings into a bed, overlapping, tied in a grid. They pinned the ends with stones and shoved smaller branches beneath to fill gaps.
When the mat was ready, Brann tested it by walking across. It sank slightly. It held.
Then Brann waved Wagon One forward.
The oxen stepped into the creek, hooves splashing. The wagon rolled down, wheels entering the water with a low churn, then climbing onto the sapling bed.
The mat shifted a fraction. Rope tightened. The whole thing held.
The wagon creaked across and climbed out the far bank without losing a wheel.
Harl let out a breath like he had been holding it since yesterday.
Wagon Two came next.
Eryk took his place by the rear quarter again, hand near the strap, eyes on the wheel line.
The wagon rolled onto the mat. Saplings sank. Water rose around the spokes.
For a moment the wagon tilted, and Eryk's stomach clenched.
Then it leveled as the wheels found the bed and kept rolling.
Halfway across, one of the lashings creaked. A small, sharp complaint.
Eryk saw the rope line lifting.
He moved without thinking. He stepped to the edge of the mat and shoved his hand down hard, pressing the rope back into place against the saplings, forcing it to bite.
His ankle flared. He bit down on a sound.
The rope settled.
The wagon rolled on.
When Wagon Two climbed out of the creek, Eryk's breath came ragged for a second before he forced it even again.
Fenn walked past him and tapped the strap once.
"Good catch," Fenn said.
Eryk nodded, too tired to answer with anything but movement.
Wagon Three crossed last. The iron-bound chest made the bed flex deeper. Saplings groaned. Rope strained.
It held.
When the last wheel hit dry ground, the Company rider exhaled like he had been holding his breath since the argument began.
He turned toward the captain.
"You delayed us," he said.
The captain looked at the wet mat and then at the intact wagons.
"We kept you moving," she replied.
The rider's mouth tightened. He did not have an answer that did not make him look foolish, so he swallowed the words and climbed back into his saddle.
They moved on.
The woods thickened as the day wore. Light became patches. The road became narrower. The air smelled of pine, damp rot, and something faintly metallic that Eryk could not place.
His ankle began to lose its rhythm.
Pain stopped being a metronome and became a constant pressure, a hand squeezing tight around bone.
He adjusted his gait to hide it. Shorter steps. Less roll. More careful foot placement.
Careful cost energy. Energy cost ground.
He could feel himself falling behind by inches.
The captain drifted back along the line and came level with him.
Her voice was low.
"You're lagging."
Eryk swallowed. "I'm holding."
"You are," she agreed. "And you are losing ground."
He forced himself to lengthen his stride. The ankle protested. He let it. He kept moving.
A sound came from behind.
Not a shout. A crack, sharp and dry, like wood snapping under strain.
The convoy slowed.
Brann's hand rose.
They stopped.
Eryk's breath came too fast for a moment. He forced it down. He watched the wheels. He watched the strap. He waited for the next sound.
The Company rider rode forward, irritation rising again like a familiar illness.
"What now," he called.
Sella appeared from the brush to the left, bow in hand, posture tight.
Her eyes were not on the front. They were on the road behind.
"Count," she said.
Brann did.
He did it the way a man counted trouble. Fast, exact.
Wagon One. Wagon Two.
No Wagon Three behind them.
The space where it should have been was empty road and bent grass.
The Company rider's face tightened. "That is impossible," he snapped, too fast.
Brann swung his gaze to the ground.
There it was. A set of wheel marks that had drifted toward the right, shallow at first, then deeper, as if the wagon had been pulled, not driven. Drag lines cut across the dirt. Hoof prints, more than one set, pressed into soft spots off the road.
Sella pointed without moving much.
"Two hundred paces back," she said. "Right side. Something heavy dragged. One wheel line. Not two."
A missing wagon.
Eryk felt cold creep up his spine.
The captain's gaze shifted to the Company rider.
"Your wagon is gone," she said.
The rider's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Where is the chest," he demanded, and the words came out as if he already knew the answer and hated it.
The captain did not blink.
"It is gone," she said.
The rider stared like the words had to be wrong because they offended him.
One of his guards leaned close and murmured something urgently. The rider's hands clenched on his reins until his knuckles went pale.
The captain lifted two fingers.
Spacing changed. Garr moved into the brush line. Fenn stayed at Wagon Two, hand back on the axle, guarding what they still had. Harl's muttering stopped entirely, which was worse than any joke.
Brann walked back along the convoy and spoke without raising his voice.
"Wagons hold," he said. "No one steps off the road without being told. Eyes forward. Hands ready."
His gaze flicked to Eryk for a beat.
"And you. Stay with the wheel. If things break loose, you do what the captain told you. Forward."
Eryk swallowed.
"Yes," he said.
The captain stepped closer, close enough that he could smell smoke on her cloak and damp earth on her boots.
She did not look at his face. She looked at his ankle, his hands, his position.
"Your job is simple," she said softly. "If the wagon stops, you keep it from tipping. If the wagon moves, you keep pace. If you cannot keep pace, you make yourself small and you do not fall behind."
Eryk nodded.
Her gaze lifted to his eyes for a heartbeat.
"This is the inland road," she said. "It does not forgive."
Then she moved forward again, and Garr followed her into the trees on the right like a shadow breaking away from its owner.
Sella slipped left, vanishing into undergrowth with the kind of silence that made Eryk feel loud just for breathing.
The convoy waited.
The woods did not rush to reveal anything. It simply held its quiet and let that quiet press against skin.
Eryk stood beside Wagon Two and watched the strap.
His ankle throbbed. His hands smelled like rope and creek water.
He listened.
A bird called somewhere deeper in the trees. Too late in the day for it to feel right.
Then a different sound reached him, faint and wrong.
A soft scrape.
Wood on dirt.
Dragged.
Eryk's stomach tightened.
The Company rider shifted in his saddle and leaned forward as if impatience could see through trees.
Brann lifted his hand once. A signal for silence, for stillness, for readiness that did not require words.
Eryk realized he had been holding his breath and let it out carefully.
From the right, Garr returned.
He did not come running. He came walking, which meant he had time, which meant it was worse.
Behind him, the captain followed, eyes hard.
Sella appeared a moment later on the left, bow now raised, arrow nocked.
Brann stepped forward.
"What," he asked.
The captain's voice was flat.
"A wagon," she said. "One of theirs. Off the road. Crates opened. Team cut loose."
The Company rider's face went white under his anger.
"And the chest," he demanded.
The captain looked at him.
"Gone," she said again, and this time the word landed like a door closing.
Brann's gaze sharpened.
"How," Brann asked.
Sella answered, eyes still on the trees.
"Set-up," she said. "Someone knew the route. Someone knew what mattered. This was waiting for you."
Eryk felt the road tighten around them without touching them. The inland cut had teeth after all. It had simply waited until the right thing walked into its mouth.
The Company rider drew breath to shout.
The captain spoke first.
"We keep moving," she said.
The rider jerked as if struck. "We do not. We find it."
Brann's voice stayed calm.
"You can find it with fresh men and dogs," he said. "You do not find it by stopping two wagons in a corridor where someone just proved they can take one without you noticing."
The rider's hands clenched on his reins.
His guard leaned close again, whispering urgently.
The rider's eyes flicked toward the woods, then toward the road behind them, then forward again.
He made a choice he hated.
"Move," he spat.
Brann lifted his hand.
The convoy started.
Wheels rolled. Oxen leaned. The line tightened.
Eryk stepped forward with Wagon Two, ankle screaming as it caught the first uneven rut.
He forced his stride longer.
He remembered the captain's words.
Break forward.
Do not fall behind.
Behind them, the woods kept its quiet.
Ahead, the road narrowed again.
And Eryk walked beside the wheel with the certainty settling in his gut that the next toll would not be paid in coin.