Flickering firelight cast long, dancing shadows across the weary faces gathered near Sharwood’s sputtering well. The air, thick with smoke and the smell of wet ash, pressed down as Roland’s question, “Is there any other way south?”, hung unanswered, heavy with the weight of their entire mission. Every eye fixed on Captain Oswald.

  The militia captain scrubbed a hand across his soot-blackened jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the sudden hush. He looked away towards the dark, silent mass of Tallenwood, his expression pained. “Sir Roland,” he began, voice rough, “I wish I could offer you an easy path, or any path, truly. South through Tallenwood from here… it’s simply not done.” He shook his head, gesturing vaguely. “The known trails, the ones traders use, the ones your scout would know, they follow the valleys, the easier ground. And right now,” his gaze hardened, “that’s exactly where the Goblin King’s army is moving, just as your man assessed. Trying those routes?” He met Roland’s eyes squarely. “That’s suicide. Plain and simple.”

  The confirmation, blunt and unequivocal, landed like a physical blow. William saw Roland’s jaw clench, Caspian’s hopeful expression deflate, Julia’s hand tighten at her side. Project status update: Critical path blocked. All primary land routes compromised. Contingency planning required, effective immediately, William’s internal analyst reported, coldly cataloguing the dead end. Probability of mission success via known variables: Recalculating… approaching statistical insignificance. The desperate hope of reaching Lumenar felt suddenly, crushingly remote.

  Just as Roland seemed about to demand if Oswald was certain, Jett Shadowfox spoke, his voice quiet, hesitant, unusual for the normally decisive scout. He stared towards the impenetrable forest edge, brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Captain,” Jett began slowly, as if retrieving fragmented data from deep memory, “the main trails, aye, death traps now. Agreed. But… years back. Listening to old trappers, maybe some disreputable types hauling furs downriver near the capital… campfire talk. Mostly dismissed it.” He finally looked at Oswald. “Whispers of a river. Cuts deep into Tallenwood, starts somewhere north, but bends south eventually. Fast water, deep gorge, not just a stream.” He paused. “Anything to that? Or just drunken tales?”

  Oswald blinked, surprised by the question. “A river flowing south, deep in the woods? There’s streams aplenty feeding the Aver down here, but in Tallenwood… Most get swallowed by marshes or vanish underground.” He frowned, searching his local knowledge. “No major river flowing south through the deep woods is marked on any map I’ve seen, nor confirmed by reliable hunters.” He looked apologetic. “Sounds like those campfire tales, Jett. Smugglers' fantasies.”

  Data source reliability: Low (Tertiary hearsay, unverified rumours), William noted internally. Potential strategic value: High, if validated. Recommend seeking primary source confirmation.

  Roland looked ready to move on, but Jett persisted, a rare urgency colouring his low voice. “Maybe not navigable all the way, Captain. But if it exists, if it offers any kind of southward passage, even a dangerous one… it’s a route the main goblin force wouldn't expect. Wouldn't easily follow.”

  Oswald hesitated, then rubbed his forehead again. “But…” A flicker of recollection. “If anyone might know some gods-forsaken hidden waterway up that way… it’d be old Herbert. Herbert the Fisherman. Lives… lived, down by the old mill trace.” Oswald’s expression turned slightly sour. “Spends half his life drunk, the other half on the water, sometimes disappears upstream for days chasing rumours of deep pools himself. Claims he knows every trickle and snag for miles.” He looked uncertain but shrugged, grasping at the only straw Jett had offered. “It’s less than a rumour, Sir, but…” He turned and barked an order at a nearby militiaman. “Find Herbert the Fisherman! Hauled him back here yesterday when the fires started. See if he’s sober enough to string two words together and bring him here. Now!”

  The soldier scurried off into the smoky chaos. Information source profile: Primary witness (Potential). Reliability: Low (Suspected high alcohol saturation). Cross-reference statements with known geographical data impossible, William mentally prepared himself. Apply increased scepticism filter.

  Minutes later, the soldier returned, half-supporting, half-dragging a man who smelled powerfully of river mud, stale fish, cheap ale, and woodsmoke. This was Herbert the Fisherman. His beard was a scraggly, grey-streaked disaster, his eyes bloodshot and struggling to focus, clothes torn and stained. He blinked owlishly at the assembled group, particularly at Sir Roland's imposing figure and Caspian's fine attire.

  “Wha... whass this then?” Herbert slurred, trying to pull away from the soldier. “Fires out? Goblins gone?”

  Jett stepped forward smoothly, positioning himself in Herbert's wavering line of sight, voice calm and steady. “Herbert. Focus. Information. A river, deep in Tallenwood. Starts north, flows south. Do you know it?”

  Herbert squinted, the specific question seeming to penetrate the fog. Recognition dawned slowly, mixed with fear. “South...? Deep in...? Aye,” he nodded sluggishly, scratching his beard. “Aye… there’s one. Flows outta the high hills, gets lost deep. We… we call the bad stretch… call it Hammer Falls.”

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  “Hammer Falls?” Roland repeated, latching onto the name. “Why?”

  Herbert, the fisherman they’d summoned from where he’d been 'recovering' near a salvaged ale barrel, let out a short, harsh laugh that dissolved into a hacking cough. Hauled before the group, smelling strongly of fish, stale ale, and smoke, he swayed slightly, eyes bloodshot but holding a flicker of terrified awareness now the specific location was mentioned.

  “Why d’ya think?” he rasped, wiping his mouth on a grimy sleeve. “Cos it’ll smash yer boat t’kindling an' pound yer bones t’dust if yer fool enough t’try runnin’ it!” He gestured vaguely north. “Upper reaches, where I sometimes set nets… gentle enough. Wide pools.” His voice dropped, fear momentarily cutting through the alcoholic haze. “But then Tallenwood swallows it. Narrows down, see? Rocks like teeth just under the surface. Turns fast. Angry.”

  He shuddered, pulling his ragged tunic tighter despite the heat radiating from the dying fires. “Rapids. Miles of ‘em. Churnin’ white water, whirlpools that’ll suck a log under without a ripple. Smashes everything like a thousand forge hammers. No boat gets through that alive. Leastwise, none I ever heard of.” He spat onto the charred earth. “Drown ye, smash ye, feed ye t’the fishes.”

  He leaned closer conspiratorially, breath thick with cheap ale. “An’ that ain’t the worst. Downstream, where it slows again, near the Black Pools… things live down there. Old things. Somethin’ in the water.” His eyes widened. “Never seen it. Ain’t goin’ lookin’. But heard tales. Heard… screams, sometimes, driftin’ up on the mist. Folk go missin’. Somethin’ big. Somethin’ ancient an’ hungry.” He crossed himself raggedly. “River demon, guardian, curse… call it what ye will. Hammer Falls don’t like company.”

  The fisherman's raw, fear-laced testimony cast a heavy pall. Deadly rapids and a rumoured monster lurking in the depths. Risk assessment updated, William thought grimly. New potential route identified: Hammer Falls River. Associated Hazards: Extreme navigational difficulty (rapids), high probability of vessel destruction, potential large-scale aquatic hostile entity encounter. Environmental Risk Factor: Critical. Recommended course: Re-evaluate primary objective feasibility based on unacceptable risk levels.

  Except… what was the alternative? Marching directly into the disciplined, waiting goblin army was guaranteed annihilation. This river… it was merely highly probable annihilation, with a potential side order of being digested by Nessie's less-photogenic cousin. The known certainty of failure versus the unknown possibility of survival, however slim.

  William heard himself speaking, his analytical circuits overriding his rapidly fraying sense of self-preservation. “It’s still a path,” he stated, his voice unexpectedly steady in the silence. “A terrible one, rife with hazards. But the alternative, the land routes, leads into Virrerk’s main force. That's not risk. That's mission failure confirmed. This river… the rapids, the… entity… these are dangerous variables, yes, but variables we might mitigate or bypass. The goblin army is a known constant we cannot overcome.” He looked directly at Roland, making his case. “We have to investigate Hammer Falls, Sir Roland. Assess the rapids, verify the threat level ourselves. It's the only option left on the table that isn't statistically equivalent to suicide.”

  Roland stared towards the dark line of Tallenwood, his face unreadable granite. Weighing certain death against probable death. He glanced at his team. The scout who’d remembered the rumour, the mage whose face was pale but determined, the prince now looking intrigued despite the danger, the analyst who’d survived Fastblade through sheer unpredictability.

  “William is right,” Roland declared finally, his voice devoid of doubt, heavy with resolve. “The odds are appalling. The path is lethal. But it is the only vector remaining that offers even a fractional probability of success.” He turned back to Herbert, command returning. “Fisherman. Your boat. Where is it located?”

  Before Herbert could fully process, Roland continued, pulling a hefty pouch from his own belt. “The Guild, on behalf of the Crown, will compensate you fairly for the use, and likely loss, of your vessel. And for this information.” He pressed a significant weight of silver coins into the stunned fisherman’s hand. “Goblins damaged your livelihood, this may help rebuild.”

  Herbert stared at the coins, then back at the burning town, then at the determined faces before him. The earlier anger faded, replaced by weary resignation. He pocketed the silver. “Downstream from the old mill trace,” he mumbled, gesturing vaguely. “Pulled ‘er ashore near the willow clump when the burnin’ started. She’s leaky, mind, but sturdy oak.” He looked at them as if they were mad. “Take ‘er. Rather the river has ‘er than the goblins burn ‘er.” He shuffled away, shaking his head, likely towards the nearest source of oblivion.

  “Right,” Roland clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive, galvanizing the team. “No time to spare. Jett, get precise directions from Herbert, locate the boat, scout the river access point. Report back within the hour.” He turned to the others. “William, Julia, Caspian, supplies. Everything needed for river travel under duress. Waterproofing essential. Oilskins, tar, waxed canvas. Rope, as much as we can carry. Check salvaged stores, requisition from the militia stockpile. Move quickly.”

  He surveyed his team, the weight of command settling heavily again. “We lost a day to this raid. We make for the river access as soon as Jett confirms the boat's location and we're equipped. We enter Tallenwood via Hammer Falls tonight.”

  The orders sparked them into motion. William, Julia, and Caspian hurried towards the less-damaged parts of Sharwood, minds already racing through supply lists. Resource acquisition phase initiated, William thought, mentally calculating weight distribution versus essential function. Optimize loadout for high-risk aquatic environment infiltration with potential hostile entity encounters. Standard project parameters, really. The terrifying reality of Hammer Falls loomed, but at least they had a direction again. A dreadful, statistically alarming direction, but a direction nonetheless. He briefly considered his 3 unallocated stat points. Agility for balance on a boat? Vitality for enduring the rapids or… whatever lives downstream? Decision pending further data. For now, focus on the rope.