A foul miasma drifted over the land ahead. One that Gynefra Caul-Marrel had resolved to cleanse.

"Ain't never seen Elves in these parts," the ferryman began, attempting conversation with his two silent passengers as they approached the far bank. "Y'all merchants?"

The accent stung at Gynefra's sensitive ears just as badly as the acrid stench of these lands sting her eyes. It was even more degraded than the language spoken in the human kingdom of Altia. She shifted in place, wrapping a length of crimson fabric across her mouth and nose. Her companion regarded her with some amusement.

"There's no evidence the plague crosses species." Barnabus Kastebar, physiker of the Watchful Tower, bent down and hefted his thick leather satchel. Glass vials within clinked and rattled.

"Best not to take the chance," Gynefra replied with a sniff. "Besides, the land stinks of human."

The ferryman frowned, but Gynefra ignored him. Perhaps forty years old, he was like a toddler to one as ancient as her, though her appearance belied her age. Smooth and unwrinkled, she knew that her elegant features would draw attention among the grubby human peasants of the Frontier. Her eyes flitted from side to side, trying to make out any potential threats through the mist.

A rickety jetty emerged, sticking out a muddy bank. The ferryman adjusted his oar and they drifted closer. "No call for y'all to ignore me," he grumbled.

"I have been here before, as it happens." Gynefra glanced over. "During what you humans called the War of the Great Coalition."

The man blinked, unable to form a response until the raft drifted into the jetty. "But... but that..."

"Was a hundred years ago," Gynefra commented, grounding her staff for balance hopping across. "Yes." She turned and held out a hand for the physiker. Burdened by a heavy pack, the younger Elf sucked in a deep breath and leaped forward, not deigning to accept her help. The ferryman stared at them in shock.

"A pox upon you both," he murmured, spitting onto the muddy bank. "Knew I shouldn'ta taken your silver."

"Pox?" Barnabus cackled. "Why do you think we're here?"

"Come on," Gynefra urged, seeing little point in bandying words with the man. They were in the Frontier, now, which was all that mattered. A few days of investigation and samples and then they'd be heading back to the Watchful Tower. Whether they'd confirm the old plague had sprung up again or identify a new one meant little to Gynefra—she knew that she'd been selected for her martial prowess and familiarity with the area. She would get them there, fighting all the while if need be.

Barnabus would do the testing.

"Does this land look familiar to you, Sorceress?"

"This?" Gynefra scowled, her boots sinking into the mud as she pushed her way up the low ridge. Yellowed grasses waved lazily in the gentle, cool breeze that drifted along the river, creating holes in the fog around them. "No. I was part of the northern advance. Brynfried's division of foot." Sucking in a deep breath, she let her memories drift. They weren't entirely unpleasant. For most of the campaign, fighting the humans had been like driving a herd of stinking cattle.

Until they had stood their ground at Drenwald's Ford.

"I had just been promoted to aspiring battlemage at the time. My—"

Three sharp whistles interrupted her. The Elves whirled around to see the ferryman, his oars shipped, grinning at them with yellowed teeth. Then he snatched them up again and began hurriedly rowing. Gynefra felt her heart sink, even as a miniature sandstorm began to gather at the tip of her spear. An expert in wind magic, she could kill the man a hundred different ways, even as his raft faded into the mist.

But every use of magic came with a cost. Strong though she was, Gynefra wasn't about to risk exhausting herself at the very beginning of their adventure. So she turned back, grimacing as the outlines of three humans appeared on the ridge. A fourth, mounted on a horse, cantered up a moment later.

Barnabus sucked on his teeth. "This can't be good."

"Keep your head. Leave them to me."

The cavalryman gestured with his lance, and the three humans began descending. One clutched a crossbow in his hands while the other two bore short swords.

"I can carry my own weight," Barnabus replied stiffly, his pride apparently prickled. A prodigy of a physiker, not even out of his sixties, he still had the impetuous attitude of an adolescent Elf. He'd readied his wand, holding it low, pressed against the fabric of his pants. Still, he knew better than to start the fight without the permission of his elder. Gynefra scanned the field, her face expressionless. No other figures emerged.

"Gods, what a beauty you are!" an advancing swordsman said with a spreading smile. "A real lucky catch this is turning out to be. Drop your wea—"

"Thank you," Barnabus cut in. "I always heard you humans were the welcoming sort."

The bandit scowled over at him. "Not you. You're an Elf?"

"Keep the crossbowman busy," Gynefra whispered, her lips barely moving. She knew her words would be picked up by Barnabus' sensitive hearing. "I'll handle the other two."

"And the lancer?" he whispered back, but Gynefra was already moving.

We'll improvise, she thought, whipping her staff upward.

"Weapons," she said innocently, tilting her head. "You mean this?"

A tiny whirlwind was gathering just a hand's breadth away from her staff's tip, and it burst forward as Gynefra willed a dollop of energy into it. It blasted forward, scouring through the bandit's rusted cuirass and ripping through ribs and flesh alike. The human barely had time to shriek before his chest was punched through, spattering blood on the rocks beside him. He tottered to the side and was dead before he hit the ground.

A stream of concentrated ice shards whipped past, cooling the side of Gynefra's face as it came uncomfortably close, before slamming into the crossbowman. Frost congealed around his weapon and hands alike, the bandit barking out in dismay. Gynefra was already twisting around to the other swordsman, who'd charged forward as the fighting began. The sword flashed at her, Gynefra batting it aside with her staff.

Up close, she saw the rage in the man's eyes, and felt his hot breath upon her as he charged forward. Gynefra's boots slid back, before finding purchase, the Elf bending her knees and holding the man in place. "Give up," he growled, just as Gynefra pushed him back a pace.

She snapped her staff upward, nearly batting him in the face with it. At point-blank range even an underpowered blast was enough to tear through his skull. Decapitated, the lifeless bandit slumped to the ground before her. Smoldering, fleshy clumps of hair drifted in the air.

"Gynefra, watch out!" Barnabus snapped.

She glanced up to see the rider, still immobile, holding another weapon steady. Light flashed as his matchlock pistol fired. Gyefra whipped her staff toward it, sending a desperate burst of wind magic forward, and grimaced as a metal ball whipped just overhead.

Humans and their stinking powder weapons. The Dwarves should never have taught them their tricks.

The rider was cantering forward now, the slope too steep for a full gallop, and he couched his lance even as he rammed the spent pistol back into its holster. A blast of ice magic slammed into his armored shoulder, spreading frost along the edges of his steel pauldron but doing little else. Picking up speed, the lance point hovered in place, Gynefra feeling momentarily transfixed. Then she rolled away, ducking aside as hooves thundered over where she'd just been. The questing lance tip soared just over her, the human letting out a guttural oath as he passed her by.

Another blast of ice smashed into his armored side, spraying broken ice into the air, but the rider paid it no heed as his horse reared up. As Gynefra scrambled to her feet, the cavalryman was already approaching, grasping his lance midway along its length and readying another blow.

Gynefra moved first.

She thrust her staff forward, sending a blast of scouring sand and wind that took the man's helmet away. He called out, the words lost in the wind, squinting his eyes shut as his face reddened under the pelting barrage of superheated sand and wind. Then it ended abruptly, Gynefra scrambling back as the half-blinded rider nearly slashed her with his lance. Dodging away, she managed to fire off a concentrated blast at the rider as his horse picked up steam. The human lurched to the side, fighting to stay in his saddle.

For a moment it seemed he might recover—and then the horse reared up again, panicked by the fighting, and the human fell heavily onto his side. He groaned, his foot twisting unnaturally as it was caught in the stirrup. Barnabus rushed up, a wand in one hand and a boot knife in the other, but the horse dragged its rider away before he could deal a finishing blow. Muffled screams and the clanging of metal against rock marked their progress back up the hill.

"After him!" Gynefra ordered, stalking forward to where the crossbowman lay shivering on the ground. The frost magic had utterly fouled up his weapon, icicles forming along the wooden body and string alike. His hands were stuck tight against it, growing a dark purple under the unyielding ice. The human would lose most of his fingers to frostbite, if he was lucky enough to survive.

Gynefra noted the power and accuracy of Barnabus' shot with growing approval.

Perhaps he's not as useless as first I thought.

"You," Gynefra said, kicking the man in the gut. "Where's the nearest town?"

"Ugh." He squinted his eyes shut, tears forming at the edges. "You... bitch."

"Don't play dumb. You meant to rob us of everything we had, have your fun, and leave us in the ground." She kicked him mercilessly in the hands, the ice around them cracking. "I've seen your kind a hundred times over."

The man howled, then sucked in a deep breath. Tears were streaming down both sides of his dirty face now. "Hardscrabble Falls," he muttered. "They'll notice us missing. If you could just..."

The human continued babbling for a while, but Gynefra had already produced a folded map from her robes, scanning it for the village name. She nodded, then glanced over as Barnabus approached. He held the horse's reins in one hand and his bloody knife in the other.

"We're a bit farther north than I'd hoped for. It'll still be a few days to Izrum."

The bandit's groaning turned into a choking laugh. "Why do you want to see the ruins there? No one lives in Izrum."

Gynefra frowned down at the man. "What?"

"Let me... go," he rasped. "I'll tell you. Your..." he grimaced. "Map is out of date."

The sorceress sighed. That was likely true enough. Most of the landmarks dated from the War of the Great Coalition a century ago, though others had been added to over time, mainly through rumors and stories told by traveling merchants. Very few Elves had any cause to visit the Frontier.

"If you were to free me," the bandit attempted, "perhaps I could—"

"We'll make do," Gynefra replied, pointing her staff downward. She didn't even look as she released a blast of energy. The bandit's moaning came to an abrupt end.

Barnabus pursed his lips, though if he had a complaint he knew not to air it.

"The rider?"

"Dead."

"Good." Gyenfra adjusted her map again, holding it up to the dim sunlight. "I don't want anyone to know of our presence here."

"And where is here, exactly?" Barnabus asked, stepping close. The horse whickered nervously.

"If the nearest town is Hardscrabble Falls, then we must be in the cove right here," Gynefra mused, tapping her finger on the weathered paper. "A hard day's march should bring us to the town by nightfall. Perfect. And with a beast of burden to carry our supplies..." Gynefra's lips twisted back in a smile. To a casual observer, who did not catch the cold hardness in her eyes, it would come across as a vision of beauty. "This investigation should be wrapped up within a week."