I had hoped to find the woman before we crossed the last expanse to Nesmé,” Wulfgar remarked to Catti-brie. Their caravan had stopped to re-supply at a nondescript, unnamed cluster of houses still a couple of days’ travel from their destination, and the last such scheduled stop on their journey.

“There are still more settlements,” Catti-brie reminded him, for indeed, the drivers had told them that they would pass more secluded lodges in the next two days.

“The houses of hunters and loners,” Wulfgar replied. “No places appropriate for Cottie to remain with Colson.”

“Unless all the refugees remained together and decided to begin their own community.”

Wulfgar replied with a knowing smile, a reflection of Catti-brie’s own feelings on the subject, to be sure. She knew as Wulfgar knew that they would find Cottie Cooperson and Colson in Nesmé.

“Two days,” Catti-brie said. “In two days, you will have Colson in your arms once more. Where she belongs.”

Wulfgar’s grim expression, even a little wince, caught her by surprise.

“We have heard of no tragedies along the road,” Catti-brie added. “If the caravan bearing Cottie and the others had been attacked, word would have already spread through these outposts. Since we are so close, we can say with confidence that Cottie and Colson reached Nesmé safely.”

“Still, I have no love of the place,” he said, “and no desire to see the likes of Galen Firth or his prideful companions ever again.”

Catti-brie moved closer and put her hand on Wulfgar’s shoulder. “We will collect the child and be gone,” she said. “Quickly and with few words. We come with the backing of Mithral Hall, and to Mithral Hall we will return with your child.”

Wulfgar’s face was unreadable, though that, of course, only reaf-firmed Catti-brie’s suspicions that something was amiss.

The caravan rolled out of the village before the next dawn, wheels creaking against the uneven strain of the perpetually muddy ground. As they continued west, the Trollmoors, the fetid swamp of so many unpleasant beasts, seemed to creep up toward them from the south. But the drivers and those more familiar with the region appeared unconcerned, and were happy to explain, often, that things had quieted since the rout of the trolls by Alustriel’s Knights in Silver and the brave Riders of Nesmé.

“The road’s safer than it’s been in more than a decade,” the lead driver insisted.

“More’s the pity,” one of the regulars from the second wagon answered loudly. “I been hoping a few trolls or bog blokes might show their ugly faces, just so I can watch the work of King Bruenor’s kids!”

That brought a cheer from all around, and a smile did widen on Catti-brie’s face. She looked to Wulfgar. If he had even heard the remarks, he didn’t show it.

Wulfgar and Catti-brie weren’t really sure what they might find when their caravan finally came into view of Nesmé, but they knew at once that it was not the same town through which they had traveled on their long-ago journey to rediscover Mithral Hall. Anticipated images of ruined and burned-out homes and shoddy, temporary shelters did not prepare them for the truth of the place. For Nesmé had risen again already, even through the cold winds of winter.

Most of the debris from the troll rampage had been cleared, and newer buildings, stronger, taller, and with thicker walls, replaced the old structures. The double wall surrounding the whole of the place neared completion, and was particularly fortified along the southern borders, facing the Trollmoors.

Contingents of armed and armored riders patrolled the town, meeting the caravan far out from the new and larger gate.

Nesmé was alive again, a testament to the resiliency and determination, and sheer stubbornness that had marked the frontiers of human advancement throughout Faerûn. For all of their rightful negativity toward the place, given their reception those years before, neither Wulfgar nor Catti-brie could hide their respect.

“So much like Ten-Towns,” Catti-brie quietly remarked as their wagon neared the gate. “They will not bend.”

Wulfgar nodded his agreement, slightly, but he was clearly distracted as he continued to stare at the town.

“They’ve more people now than before the trolls,” Catti-brie said, repeating something the caravan drivers had told the both of them earlier along the road. “Twice the number, say some.”

Wulfgar didn’t blink and didn’t look her way. She sensed his inner turmoil, and knew that it wasn’t about Colson. Not only, at least.

She tried one last time to engage him, saying, “Nesmé might inspire other towns to grow along the road to Silverymoon, and won’t that be a fitting response to the march of the murderous trolls? It may well be that the northern border will grow strong enough to build a militia that can press into the swamp and be rid of the beasts once and for all.”

“It might,” said Wulfgar, in such a tone as to show Catti-brie that he hadn’t even registered that to which he agreed.

The town gates, towering barriers thrice the height of a tall man and built of strong black-barked logs banded together with heavy straps of metal, groaned in protest as the sentries pulled them back to allow the caravan access to the town’s open courtyard. Beyond that defensive wall, Wulfgar and Catti-brie could see that their initial views of Nesmé were no illusion, for indeed the town was larger and more impressive than it had been those years before. It had an official barracks to support the larger militia, a long, two-story building to their left along the defensive southern wall. Before them loomed the tallest structure in town, aside from a singular tower that was under work somewhere in the northwestern quadrant. Two dozen steps led off the main plaza where the wagons parked, directly west of the eastern-facing gates. At the top of those steps ran a pair of parallel, narrow bridges, just a short and defensible expanse, to the impressive front of the new Nesmian Town Hall. Like all the rest of the town, the building was under construction, but like most of the rest, it was ready to stand against any onslaught the Trollmoors in the south, or King Obould in the north, might throw against it.

Wulfgar hopped down from the back of the wagon, then helped Catti-brie to the ground so that she didn’t have to pressure her injured hip. She spent a moment standing there, using his offered arm for support, as she stretched the tightness out of her pained leg.

“The folk ye seek could be anywhere in the town,” their wagon driver said to them, walking over and speaking quietly.

He alone among the caravan had been in on the real reason Wulfgar and Catti-brie were journeying to Nesmé, for fear that someone else might gossip and send word to Cottie and her friends to flee ahead of their arrival. “They’ll not be in any common rooms, as ye saw in Silverymoon, for Nesmé’s being built right around the new arrivals. More than half the folk ye’ll find here just came from other parts, mostly from lands Obould’s darkened with his hordes. Them and some of the Knights in Silver, who remained with the Lady’s blessing so that they could get closer to where the fighting’s likely to be….”

“Surely there are scribes making note of who’s coming in and where they’re settling,” said Catti-brie.

“If so, ye’ll find them in there,” said the driver, motioning toward the impressive town hall. “If not, yer best chance is in frequenting the taverns after work’s done. Most all the workers find their way to those places—and there’re only a few such establishments, and they’re all together on one avenue near the southwestern corner. If any’re knowing of Cottie, there’s the place to find them.”

Word spread fast through Nesmé that the arriving caravan had carried with it a couple of extraordinary guards. When the whispers of Catti-brie and Wulfgar reached the ears of Cottie Cooperson’s fellow refugees, they knew at once that their friend was in jeopardy.