Each wagon was loaded full with heavy grain sacks, tightly sealed at the mouth, and the marked cloth strips fluttered gently in the wind.
The coachman held a long whip, eyes fixed on the road ahead, as the wheels rolled over the stone-paved road, making a dull, rumbling sound.
The knight at the front raised his whip high and shouted: "Keep moving, no delays!"
The voice pierced through the valley, and the coachmen responded in unison, the convoy slightly accelerated, snaking its way to the end of the main road, slowly advancing towards Red Tide Territory.
......
The night wind grew stiff, and the chill deepened in the valley.
In the forest by the roadside, a squad of Barbarian scouts crept closer.
They were the vanguard of a certain Barbarian Race from the Northern Territory, about fifty of them, riding short-legged war horses with shaggy fur, faces smeared with black mud, wielding short bows and axes and spears, moving with the stealth of a wolf pack.
