They had reached a point some fifteen milles north of Ephra, and while the troopers watered mounts and took a break, Quaeryt, Vaelora, and Skarpa stood under an oak tree that was shedding leaves with each gust of a damp wind that felt only a trace less than raw. “So far as I can tell, there’s no way to cross the river except by ferry,” said Skarpa. “The maps don’t show any bridges. None of the locals know of any, and the only ferry is supposed to be at Geusyn. That’s maybe five milles north of Ephra.” He gestured to the far side of the river. “Over there all I can see is marsh and swamp and trees … and sometimes our supply flatboats.” “We should think about building a bridge somewhere,” suggested Quaeryt. “If you need to deal with the Antiagons, you don’t want to rely on ferries.” “Needs to be closer to Ephra,” said Skarpa. “We’d have to slog through swamp on the west side.” “We’ll have to see if there’s any place with solid ground on both sides and where the river’s not too wide,”
