Chapter 37 : River Crossing
The road south from the Hollow wound through forest so thick that midday felt like dusk.
Garrett led the expedition personally—ten Vanguard fighters, Solomon's wagon for supplies, and Mira riding at his shoulder with the focused intensity of someone expecting ambush. Five days of travel through territory that belonged to no one, past abandoned farms and overgrown fields, through the kind of wilderness that swallowed settlements without leaving traces.
"According to Solomon's maps, we should reach the crossing by nightfall," Garrett said, checking the position of the sun through gaps in the canopy.
"If the maps are accurate," Mira replied. "This deep in the territories, cartography is more art than science."
She wasn't wrong. Solomon had admitted as much—his maps were compiled from trader routes and secondhand reports, accurate enough for commerce but potentially unreliable for military precision. The waystation they were seeking might have moved, collapsed, or been claimed by forces Solomon hadn't encountered.
Still, the opportunity was worth the risk. Control of a river crossing meant control of traffic, trade, information. The foundation of the economic network Garrett needed to build.
The forest thinned as they descended into a river valley. Garrett caught glimpses of water through the trees—broad and slow-moving, the kind of river that could be forded in summer but would require a bridge for year-round crossing.
Then smoke appeared on the horizon.
"Cooking fires," Jin observed. His damaged arm hung at his side, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. "Multiple sources. Settlement, not camp."
"Solomon said the waystation was abandoned."
"Solomon's information might be outdated."
Garrett signaled a halt. The expedition spread into defensive formation, weapons ready but not drawn. Approaching an unknown settlement required caution, not aggression.
"Mira, take three. Circle north, observe. Jin, south. I'll approach with the main group."
They separated. Garrett waited until both flanking elements had disappeared into the treeline before advancing.
The settlement came into view gradually—a collection of rough buildings clustered around the river crossing. A wooden bridge, badly maintained but functional, spanned the water. Maybe twenty structures, ranging from proper cabins to lean-tos that wouldn't survive a hard winter.
People worked along the riverbank. Fishers hauling nets. Children carrying water. An old man repairing something near what looked like a forge.
"Not a waystation," Garrett thought. "A community. Small, struggling, but alive."
He rode forward openly, hands visible, no weapons drawn. The universal signal of peaceful approach—or at least, the attempt at one.
The old man spotted him first. He dropped his tools, reached for something leaning against the forge, and came up with a pitchfork held like a weapon. Despite his age—sixty, maybe older—he planted himself in the path with the stubborn determination of someone who'd defended this ground before.
"That's far enough, stranger."
Garrett halted twenty paces out. Behind him, his fighters spread into a loose line that suggested capability without threatening violence.
"My name is Garrett Cole. I'm looking for the river crossing waystation."
"You're looking at it. Or what's left of it." The old man didn't lower his pitchfork. "The waystation died three years back. We're what grew in its place."
"We?"
"Twenty souls, give or take. Fishers, mostly. Some farmers trying to make the soil work. My granddaughter works the forge." His eyes swept Garrett's people, counting heads, assessing threats. "You look like soldiers. We ain't got nothing worth taking."
"I'm not here to take anything."
"Then why are you here?"
Garrett considered his answer carefully. The wrong words could start a fight. The right ones might build an alliance.
"I'm building a network. Trade routes, protected settlements, mutual support. This crossing is valuable—it controls river traffic for fifty miles in either direction. I was hoping to find it abandoned so I could establish an outpost."
"Ain't abandoned."
"I can see that."
Silence stretched between them. The old man's grip on his pitchfork didn't waver.
"So what now? You got soldiers. We got fish. Don't take a genius to calculate that outcome."
"I'm not interested in conquest." Garrett dismounted slowly, keeping his hands visible. "You've survived here for three years. That's not nothing. But you're isolated, vulnerable. The territories are getting more dangerous—Baron conflicts spilling over, bandits getting bolder. How long before something comes along that you can't handle?"
The old man's jaw tightened.
"We've managed."
"You've been lucky. Luck runs out." Garrett stepped closer, close enough that the pitchfork could reach him if the old man chose to strike. A gesture of trust, or at least the appearance of one. "I'm offering something better. Join my network. You keep your community, your leadership, your way of life. In exchange, you get protection, trade access, supplies you can't produce yourselves. We help each other."
"And if we say no?"
"Then we leave. Find somewhere else to build what we need." Garrett met the old man's eyes. "I won't force this. But I will tell you honestly—refusing doesn't make the dangers go away. It just means you face them alone."
The pitchfork wavered.
"What's your name?" Garrett asked.
"Harmon. Been leader here since the waystation fell."
"Harmon." Garrett extended his hand. "Give us a month. A trial period. My people will help with fishing, defense, whatever you need. If it works, you join. If not, we part peacefully. Either way, you're better off than you were before I arrived."
Harmon looked at the extended hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered the pitchfork.
"One month."
They shook on it.
The month began with hard work.
Garrett's Vanguard fighters weren't fishers, but they were strong backs and willing hands. They helped repair the bridge—a project Harmon's people had been putting off for lack of materials and manpower. They reinforced the settlement's perimeter, not with walls but with simple barriers that would slow an attack and provide warning.
Mira ran training sessions for anyone willing to learn. Three of Harmon's younger men showed up the first day, curious about the fighting techniques they'd witnessed. By the second week, seven were training regularly.
The blacksmith—Harmon's granddaughter Vera—was a different kind of find.
She was twenty-three, dark-haired and practical, with hands scarred from forge work and eyes that assessed everything for usefulness. When she saw the captured Clipper swords Garrett's people carried, her interest was immediate.
"This is better steel than anything I've worked with," she said, turning a blade in the forge light. "Where'd you get it?"
"We took it from people who tried to kill us."
"Clippers." It wasn't a question. "I heard rumors. A settlement up north that fought off Baron Chau's soldiers."
"Rumors travel."
"Rumors are the only entertainment out here." Vera set the sword down carefully. "The techniques for this quality—I know the theory, but I've never had the materials to practice."
"We have Clipper armor too. Fourteen sets. Most of it needs repair."
Her eyes lit up.
"I could learn a lot from that."
"Then learn. Come to the Hollow when the trial ends. We'll pay you in materials, training, whatever you need to develop your craft."
"And if the trial fails?"
"Then you'll have spent a month studying the best equipment in the territories. Either way, you come out ahead."
Vera smiled—the first genuine smile Garrett had seen from the River Crossing settlers.
"I like how you think."
On the twentieth day, Garrett stood at the river crossing as the sun set.
The water moved past in endless flow, catching the fading light in ripples and eddies. The repaired bridge stretched across it—still rough, still imperfect, but functional. A connection between banks that could become a connection between communities.
"This is what I'm building," he thought. "Not just settlements. Networks. Connections. Something that can survive what's coming."
The System pulsed at the edge of his awareness, tracking progress he couldn't quantify.
[TERRITORY EXPANSION: PROGRESSING]
[NETWORK FORMATION: INITIAL PHASE]
[POPULATION POTENTIAL: +20]
Twenty more people. Seventy total, if the integration succeeded. Still tiny by Baron standards, insignificant in the grand scheme of Badlands politics. But growing.
Mira found him there as full dark settled.
"Harmon wants to talk about extending the trial."
"Extending?"
"Three more weeks. His people are cautious. They want to see how things go through the first winter storms."
Garrett considered.
"That's fair. Winter will test everything."
"You're not worried about the delay?"
"Rushed integration fails. We saw that with the Nomads—if Tomás and Marcus hadn't worked through their conflict, we'd have had civil war in the training yard." The memory of Tomás's grave still stung, but the lesson remained. "Better to take time and do it right."
Mira nodded slowly.
"You're better at this than I expected."
"At what?"
"Building things instead of breaking them." She looked out at the river. "My people spent years surviving by taking what we needed and moving on. What you're doing—creating something permanent, something that draws people in instead of driving them away... it's different."
"Different good or different bad?"
"I haven't decided yet." But there was something in her voice that suggested the answer was leaning toward good.
The water flowed past, indifferent to human concerns. Somewhere in the distance, a fish broke the surface. Life continuing, oblivious to the politics and power plays that shaped its world.
Garrett allowed himself a moment of peace. It wouldn't last—nothing lasted in the Badlands—but for now, standing at a river crossing he might actually control, watching a community that might actually join him, the future felt possible.
Two settlements. Seventy people. The beginning of a network.
The Hollow was becoming something more.
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