Grimhilt paced in the council chamber, a foul mood poisoning his morning. His hands twitched to his sword several times before he mastered himself. He scowled at the half-dozen mercenaries lined up in front of the raised dais, but he smoothed his expression when he saw Indara tilt her head at him with a frown.

The Captain of the guard straightened his crimson cape and strode over to the front of the room, where the Chancellor greeted the members of the expedition. He signaled discreetly to catch her attention, hoping to exchange a brief word in private, but she denied his request, instead taking him by the elbow and leading him up onto the dais.

“Honored hunters, it’s my pleasure to introduce to you Captain Grimhilt, protector of the city and my personal bodyguard. He will brief you on the details of your mission.”

Duty called, so Grimhilt answered. Years of training ensured that he didn’t shift from foot to foot or clear his throat. He pointed to a map that Indara had unfurled while their attention was on him. “Blueprints from the original construction team assigned to build the Bridge. You will all familiarize yourself with the architectural layout. I’ve created smaller reproductions of the map and waterproofed them against the rigors of the voyage.”

One of the hunters leaned toward a neighbor and whispered something the Captain couldn’t hear, but apparently it was funny enough to elicit a barely-restrained snicker. He’d have to keep a close eye on that one. Her curling horns and short stature—she was smaller than the humans to either side of her, but still taller than the burly dwarf at the other end of the line—reminded him of the Chancellor, but without the refinement and aura of authority that allowed Indara to command respect among both the intelligentsia and the palace guards with equal ease.

Grimhilt fixed the Qeren with a stern glare, and her mouth ringed into a tiny O shape in surprise. Hot blood suffused her horns, causing them to glow slightly. She studied her shoes, picking at a stray thread in her skirt. She seemed altogether too young for this extraction mission.

“We’re looking for an artifact that the Chancellor has identified as vital to our survival as a city. Be on guard; its power is tainted. If you give in to the temptation to touch the thing, you may find yourself twisted by forces far beyond your comprehension. You’ve each been selected for your adroitness at finding things—and for following orders. You’ll be under Errol’s command for this trip, which we all hope will be short and successful. Let me introduce you to him now.”

The hunter glided onto stage next to Grimhilt with the customary grace of Shark Clan, but the Captain noticed that the lad’s hands were trembling. Strange juxtaposition: the deadly killer still in the throes of earnest self-consciousness. His youth worried Grimhilt, but if Indara gave her approval, then he would keep his concerns to himself.

Indara’s aides wheeled out the Testing Stone, a gleaming golden orb half as tall as Errol, mounted in a polished wrought iron frame embedded in a slab of granite. Strange runes were inscribed all along its edge.

Grimhilt gestured for Errol to place his hands on a gold sphere. A soft light wreathed around Errol's palms and radiated up his arms, then coalesced into details that hovered and shimmered in the air above the young man's head. He read off Errol's rankings.

“Mako Errol, a hunter of Shark Clan,” Grimhilt announced, glowering at the mercenaries arrayed in a semicircle in front of him as though he could hear their objections already.

The dwarf chuckled, his bearded face splitting to show a row of sturdy teeth. The low voice reverberated through the council chambers in a harsh brogue, but he sounded friendly enough. “What’s this? They send us against leviathan with a minnow at our side.”

“He knows the Bridge better than any Shark in Laurentum,” Grimhilt said, heat rising. He couldn’t believe he was defending himself to this woodland hermit. “He’s been part of a special task force. Ignore his rank; he’ll serve well as your guide.”

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An old man in the middle of the group, his shoulders square despite his age, adjusted a leather strap that held a smooth white shield across his back. The shield looked like its bearer: immaculate and precise, yet brimming with immense power tightly restrained. “We accepted the mission. We will abide by our leader.”

Errol nodded once toward the man, like a salute. “Thank you, friend.”

“Taras.”

“Well met, Taras. I’ll repay your vote of confidence many times over before the end.”

“I’ll settle for just once,” Taras said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

The dwarf burst into a cackle. “Well said, cleric. A suicide mission awaits, but maybe the shrimp will prove his worth—after all, I’m half your size, but I’m still worth the lot of you! Call me Gruvrik. I’m, uh, Badger rank, or Weasel, or Grey Squirrel, or any other cantankerous woodland miniature of choice.”

The two joined Errol next to the gold sphere, and he relinquished his place to his elders. Taras submitted to the scan next, eyes hard, bordering on resentful. Grimhilt held back an oath when he saw the scan's report. "You could probably handle this hunt solo."

“Glad to have you on board!” Errol said.

The young hunter warmed to the theater of the commission with surprising ease, Grimhilt noted. He flowed up and down the line, grasping forearms and conducting introductions, weaving in questions about the gaps in their readouts. Grimhilt scratched his chin and surreptitiously adjusted an earring in his right ear. The plain gold hid an intricate, inscribed interior. The runes allowed him to tune into the conversation. He listened as Errol inquired about their skills and histories, judging the young man’s interactions. Someone had taught him well; he made sharp observations about their fit with the team. Maybe they’d survive after all.

Gruvrik, the bandy old dwarf who looked like he’d crawled out of a bear’s hibernation den just this morning, tried to slip a flask to Errol, who declined. Errol laughed and promised to buy the dwarf as many rounds as he could put down at a tavern of his choice if they survived the passage back from the Bridge.

“Back, you say? I like your spunk!” Gruvrik growled. “You assume success is guaranteed and only something as treacherous as a vast body of water”—he grimaced—“could prevent our safe return.”

Taras made a fine speech, albeit a bit stiff, about purging the tainted spirits from the land and bringing light to the darkness. Errol watched in rapt wonder. Grimhilt sighed, sidling up to him after the applause died down. “Remember we put you in charge out there. Granted, there is wisdom in listening to your elders, but don’t let him sway you from your course.”

Pride and gratitude radiated out from Errol. He seemed to stand a little straighter, hold his head a little higher. That would do.

Jarkoda, a massive halfdragon, brooded on the edges, avoiding conversation.

Errol started to approach him, but Jarkoda caught his eye and snorted, scaled nostrils flaring wide in an alarming threat before pressing tight into narrow slits. With a quick smile, Errol bowed and redirected toward the smallest, least-threatening-looking member of the strike force.

Rhae, an overly cheerful young troubadour from the northern reaches of Wyvern’s Gate, was still on training assignment from her bard college in Fair Haven. With downcast eyes, she admitted to her new leader that she wasn’t the best fighter in a pinch.

“That’s okay. I’m not either. But don’t worry. I’ve arranged to bring some muscle along with us,” Errol said.

“Well, at the very least,” Rhae assured Errol, her curling horns suddenly brightening with a faint pulse of light, “I can keep our team safe from the corrupting power of the artifact’s evil with my songs, as long as your hired muscle keeps me alive. Balance!”

Indara seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Errol started as she appeared next to him like mist coalescing over a lake, only much more quickly. “Arrangements, young hunter? This is the first I’ve heard of this display of initiative.”

Errol held her gaze, eyes unblinking. His hands had stopped shaking, Grimhilt noticed in a moment of approval. Maybe there was more to the hunter than he’d originally thought, despite the lowly rank.

“Problem, Chancellor?”

She regarded him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. “Carry on, Errol. A leader must lead, after all.”

Errol returned her nod, turning back to speak with his team without waiting for Indara to dismiss him, as though they were equals. He was either more competent than he let on, or even more foolhardy than Grimhilt had feared. They would find out soon enough.