He shook his head. “I’ve been all through that territory logging. In the winter, when the bogs are frozen, you could maybe move across, but now you’d be weeks trying to get through even on foot, let alone with horses. The firs grow so thick on some of the high ground that you have to squeeze between the trunks, and the swamps’ll swallow you right up.”

“And there are no other towns?” she asked. “No bridges?”

“Nothing but the log camps, and they don’t have any need for bridges. Unless those horses can balance on rolling tree trunks floating downriver, there’s nothing to help him in the north.”

“I wonder what became of your short, bellicose friend and his large bird,” Pyrre mused. “Maybe he got to Long Fist after all. Maybe they’re all just milling on the far bank because they have no idea what else to do.”

It was a tempting explanation, but after a long pause, Gwenna shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense,” she said. “If the Flea carried out the hit, he’d be back by now. And if Long Fist were really dead, wouldn’t the Urghul tear each other apart? Even Balendin wouldn’t be able to hold them without the shaman’s power backing him.”

“Just trying to be optimistic,” the assassin said with a shrug. “Bridger, do you have any more beer?” She gestured to the tankard in front of her. “Sitting on one’s ass watching men and women get rent limb from limb tends to lead to a thirst.”

Gwenna started to respond, but an urgent chorus of shouts from just outside cut her off. She was out the door in three steps, scanning the far bank, the near bank, the lake, hunting for the attack that she’d missed. The townspeople were pointing upriver, but, in the growing gloom, she couldn’t make out much. Certainly there was no Urghul assault.

“Oh sweet Ciena,” Bridger swore, horror in his voice as he followed her eyes. “The drive.”

“The drive?” Gwenna demanded. “What’s the drive?”

“The log drive,” he said, pointing to the dark shapes bobbing just above the surface of the river, so thick on the water Gwenna hadn’t noticed them, a loose raft of shifting logs jostling one another as they floated south with the current.

“They can’t cross on those, can they?” Gwenna asked.

“Not there,” he said. “Not on horses. But that’s not the problem.”

Gwenna scanned down the river, then stopped at the old bridge pilings, fear punching her in the chest.

“There,” she breathed.

He nodded grimly. “That’s why they tossed in the first logs. They’re going to make a dam.”

“How many of those are there?” Gwenna asked, gesturing upstream.

“Enough to clog the whole north end of the lake. Enough for a dozen bridges, if they get hung up.”