The higher the caravan climbed into the Widow's Throat, the more the world seemed to simplify into a binary of white and shadow. The sun, a pale and heatless disc, struggled to penetrate the jagged canopy of the cliffs, casting long, distorted fingers of blue light across the ice-slicked path. For three hours, the only sounds were the rhythmic, metallic crunch-clack of the horses' ice-calks and the agonizing groan of the sledges' wooden frames. It was a monotonous, grinding progress that lulled the militia into a false sense of security—a psychological trap that Staff Sergeant Rodriguez was determined to spring them from.
Renna moved with the restless energy of a caged predator, her mount—a sturdy, thick-maned mountain garron—stepping delicately around the deeper ruts of the trail. She kept her hand on the pommel of her saddle, her eyes constantly flicking toward the ridgeline. Unlike the raw recruits of the Oakhaven militia, she didn't see the mountain as a backdrop; she saw it as a series of overlapping sectors of fire and potential ambush points. To her, every protruding crag was a sniper's nest, and every overhang was a dead space where an entire platoon could be lying in wait.
"Stay sharp, you lot!" she barked at the lead Trio. "If I see one more man staring at his boots instead of the treeline, I'll have you breaking the ice for the horses with your bare hands! Eyes up! Scan your sectors!"
The militia members—Harlan, Piet, and Tomas—snapped their heads up, their faces pale with cold and exhaustion. They were good men, sturdy and loyal, but they were still thinking like farmers. They were looking for a clear, honorable enemy to charge them from the front. They hadn't yet learned that in a war of attrition, the enemy you don't see is the one that kills you.
Deacon rode near the center of the column, positioned between the third and fourth sledges. He was listening to the world with a different set of ears. He wasn't just looking for movement; he was feeling the rhythm of the march. In his experience, a successful ambush was preceded by a subtle change in the environment—a sudden absence of birds, a shift in the wind's pitch, or a feeling of "heaviness" in the air that defied explanation.
At the three-hour mark, the rhythm broke.
The wind, which had been a constant, abrasive presence since they entered the pass, suddenly died down to a hollow, haunting whistle. The stillness that followed was unnatural, a vacuum of sound that made the blood roar in Deacon's ears. Even the draft horses felt it; the lead team tossed their heads, their nostrils flaring as they caught a scent on the stagnant air. It wasn't the smell of woodsmoke or damp fur—it was the metallic, biting scent of old blood and rusted iron.
Renna signaled for a total halt, her hand raised in a sharp, unequivocal fist. She didn't wait for the sledges to settle. She slid from her horse with the fluid, silent grace of a commando and knelt by the edge of the trail. Deacon was off his mount a second later, his hand instinctively checking the retention strap on his holstered sidearm before he remembered his role as Lord Cassian. He stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the packed frost.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice a barely audible rasp.
Renna didn't answer immediately. She was brushing away a thin layer of fresh powder snow, revealing the jagged, blue ice beneath. Her fingers traced a series of shallow, rhythmic ruts that carved into the surface.
"Goblin sign," she whispered, her eyes dark with a sudden, cold intensity. "But it's wrong, Hayes. Look at the spacing. Look at the depth. These aren't the chaotic, dragging tracks of a raiding party looking for a quick kill. These tracks were made by a disciplined column. They were moving in sync, keeping their weight centered, staying in the shadows of the overhang to avoid casting silhouettes on the snow."
Deacon knelt beside her, his logistical mind instantly calculating the implications. "They're operating with basic infantry doctrine. March discipline. Counter-surveillance."
"Exactly," Renna said, standing up and scanning the cliffs above. "Our 'victory' at the North Gate didn't scatter them. It pruned the weak ones. Someone—or something—has taken the survivors and turned them into a unit. They aren't just scavengers anymore. They're scouts. And if they're scouting, that means there's a main body waiting for the signal."
The realization chilled Deacon more than the mountain air ever could. He had banked on the Goblins being a disorganized, seasonal threat—a force that could be repelled with a few "miracles" and a solid wall of shields. But an organized Goblin force, trained in basic tactics, was a nightmare scenario. It meant the Shadow Command's technological advantage could be mitigated by numbers and positioning.
A sharp, metallic clink echoed from the heights above—the unmistakable sound of a weapon striking stone. It was a small sound, but in the absolute silence of the Widow's Throat, it sounded like a thunderclap.
"Ambush! Trios, shields up! Protect the cargo!" Deacon roared, his voice echoing off the canyon walls.
The silence of the pass was instantly obliterated. A volley of blackened, jagged arrows hissed through the air, their fletching made of stiffened crow feathers. They didn't fall in a frantic, uncoordinated rain. They were fired in timed bursts, targeted at the draft horses and the drivers of the lead sledges. One of the heavy shafts caught a lead horse in the flank; the animal let out a high-pitched, gargling shriek, rearing back and nearly pulling the three-ton sledge toward the edge of the precipice.
From the jagged rocks and ice-covered crags of the ridgeline, dozens of small, hunched figures emerged. They were draped in stolen furs and pieces of rusted chainmail that had been meticulously oiled to prevent the sound of metal on metal. Their skin was the color of bruised plums, their eyes glowing with a dull, predatory amber.
They didn't charge. That was the most terrifying part. They held their positions on the heights, using the natural fortifications of the rock to rain down fire with a disciplined, alternating rhythm. While one group fired, the other reloaded, ensuring a constant stream of suppressive fire that kept the militia pinned behind their shields.
"Form a perimeter! Do not break the line!" Renna screamed, her axe already in her hand. She moved among the militia, physically shoving men into position. The "Trios" locked their heavy, iron-rimmed wooden shields together in an interlocking pattern, creating a sloped wall that deflected the majority of the arrow fire. It was a maneuver they had practiced for weeks in the muddy courtyard of the Hold, and now, under the stress of actual combat, the muscle memory held.
Deacon looked up at the ridgeline, his eyes searching for the brain behind the brawn. He didn't have to look long. On a protruding crag, nearly sixty feet above the trail, stood a single, tall figure. Unlike the Goblins, this figure stood straight, draped in a heavy, fur-lined cloak of Imperial crimson—a trophy taken from an Imperial messenger. The man's face was hidden behind a mask of polished silver, a featureless, haunting visage that caught the weak sunlight.
"Valois's man," Deacon hissed, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a sickening finality. "The Herald didn't just retreat to the garrison. He reached out to the tribes. He provided them with the intelligence on our route, and he sent an 'Advisor' to ensure they didn't waste the opportunity."
The Imperial-Goblin coalition was a masterstroke of deniable warfare. If the caravan was wiped out here, the Empire could claim it was an act of "savagery" by the tribes, while simultaneously removing the threat of Oakhaven's industrial independence.
"Sarge! We're sitting ducks down here!" Miller shouted, his voice strained as he wrestled with the harness of a panicked horse. "They're going to pick the teams off, and then we're stuck in the throat with six sledges we can't move!"
"I know!" Deacon yelled back, his mind racing through tactical options. They were in a classic "L-shaped" ambush. The Goblins had the high ground and the initiative. The smoke from Blake's "Pepper Canisters" would buy them some time, but it wouldn't clear the ridgeline.
"Blake! The 'Pepper Smoke'! Now! Mask the entire column!" Deacon commanded.
Staff Sergeant Blake, who had been huddled behind the third sledge, didn't hesitate. He pulled the pins on four of the specialized canisters and hurled them into the center of the trail. A thick, acrid cloud of white smoke erupted, billowing upward and filling the narrow pass with a scent of sulfur and concentrated capsicum. The militia coughed, their eyes stinging, but they stayed behind their shields. The Goblins above, however, began to shriek in confusion; the smoke obscured their targets and the biting spice of the pepper began to irritate their sensitive nasal passages.
"Renna! Take the Pepper Twins and get up that cliff!" Deacon ordered, drawing his longsword. The weight of the steel felt balanced, a comfort in the chaos. "I want that Advisor's head! I'll hold the center! Miller, get those horses under control—if we lose a sledge, we lose the mission!"
"On it, Sarge!" Renna replied, already moving toward the vertical face of the cliff with Pyper and Elan close behind. The twins moved like spiders, their specialized climbing gear and light armor allowing them to find purchase where a normal man would see only smooth ice.
Deacon stood in the center of the choking white smoke, the "Iron Shadow" of Lord Cassian finally merging with the Sergeant First Class he had once been. He wasn't just defending a trade route; he was defending the future he had built from the ruins of a dead world. As the first Goblins, driven by the Advisor's commands, began to scramble down the rocks to engage in close-quarters combat, Deacon stepped forward to meet them.
The "Trade Corridor" was no longer a path of commerce. It was a slaughterhouse. And in the frozen silence of the Widow's Throat, the Shadow Command was about to show the Empire that even in the dark, they were the ones who held the light.