75: Caravan

On the third day of traveling the Wan'an Highway, the road, curled into a pale spine by days of blizzard, was lined with ice-covered trees frozen into crystal branches.

The white mist exhaled by the packhorses of a small caravan ahead condensed into ice crystals on their eyelashes. Their only three oak wagons moved with difficulty through snow as deep as their axles, not much faster than us on foot.

When the caravan master shook the wolf-deterring brass bell for the third time, several mottled warhorses burst through the snow curtain—the bandits, wrapped in fur cloaks, had rusted scimitars etched with Orcish script. They were the usual roving bandits common to the Sword Coast.

"The Crown witnesses atrocities!" Randall's righteous cry pierced the howling cold wind. The Holy Knight raised his greatshield, blocking a flying spear for the caravan master beside him, the spear tip sparking against the shield's surface.

The two warhorses charging at the front were startled by the Holy Knight and veered off course, their hooves tracing erratic arcs on the ice. Though these beasts had no magical enhancements, their thick manes were covered in ice armor, clearly accustomed to raiding the snowy plains.

The battle unfolded amidst the pounding of hooves.

The scar-faced bandit leader blew a bone whistle, and the riders immediately split into two groups: four men galloped around the flanks of the wagons, and two attacked head-on.

John's longsword clashed with the first scimitar, deliberately guiding the blade to strike the wagon railing. As his opponent pulled back his sword, John countered with a slash, knocking him off his horse.

George's long spear shot out like a venomous snake, its tip accurately piercing the nostril of the second warhorse. The startled mount carried its rider crashing into an ice-covered rock.

I leaped onto the swaying wagon roof, steadying myself. Two arrows left the string, followed by four more in quick succession, arcing through the blizzard. Two embedded in horse haunches, and two pierced through leather armor seams—my dual-arrow shot technique was becoming increasingly proficient.

Dragon King and Black Little Leopard also tangled with a dark-faced bandit, who, in fright, fell from his horse.

The two Wild Dogs, who had been dodging hooves, seized the opportunity to swarm him.

"The crates!" The caravan master's voice cracked into a scream, mixed with the sound of splintering wood.

A red-haired bandit swung his axe, splitting open a wooden crate filled with goods. Randall immediately activated 'Defending Challenge,' drawing the two nearest enemies towards him.

When the red-haired bandit's axe was raised again, Randall had already sidestepped behind him, his greatsword severing his head.

The blizzard suddenly subsided after the fighting ceased, and the lead-gray clouds parted, letting through a sliver of thin sunlight.

After two were beheaded, the remaining wounded bandits used the speed of their horses to flee.

We only kept two horses.

The caravan master was a hunched, bald old man. He was wrapped in a patched bearskin cloak and tremblingly led an old packhorse from the caravan.

"May the gods bless kind-hearted people." The old man handed over the reins.

The moment Randall raised his hand to refuse, I quickly grasped the swaying reins. The old horse's breath puffed onto the back of my hand.

"You are truly as generous as melting spring snow." I nodded and smiled at the caravan master, my peripheral vision catching the Holy Knight's large hand frozen in mid-air.

"This old horse is called Grayhoof, and he's been with me for fifteen years," Edmund said, pushing the lame packhorse's reins into my hand. The large sack on its back contained twenty pounds of rye flour and one hundred and fifty pounds of radishes. "He can't run fast, but he knows the signs before a snowstorm comes." The old horse gently rubbed the back of my hand.

While the old man was rambling about Grayhoof's fondness for alfalfa, I felt the texture of the gold coins in my money pouch.

Randall always practiced the Holy Knight's conduct like an iron law, unaware that when the cold winds of the North blew through an empty satchel, even the most fervent holy light couldn't warm a frozen stomach.

A Holy Knight could sustain himself on faith, but a horse needed actual fodder.

After chatting with the old man for a while, I learned that this caravan was a small merchant group formed by several farmers from a nearby village. The goods were contributed by their respective families, and they intended to sell them for a good price at Gorebest's Midwinter Festival market.

After some negotiation, I spent another 80 gold coins and offered protection by traveling with them, buying the damaged wagon, along with a whole cartload of pumpkins and flour.

And upon reaching Gorebest, he would act as a guarantor to help us obtain a merchant permit for the market.

80 gold coins was roughly the normal price, but this cartload of goods, a few days later at Gorebest's Midwinter Festival market, could potentially sell for 2 to 3 times that price.

As the broken shaft creaked back into place under the 'Mage Hand,' John was patching mud onto a tear in a burlap sack—this crude repair technique perfectly complemented the farmers' method of tying goods with straw ropes.

Four puppy cubs chased and played in the pile of sacks, their flour-dusted paw prints leaving crooked plum blossom patterns on the wagon boards, becoming the most vibrant decoration on this dilapidated vehicle.

George's leather boots left deep imprints at the rear of the procession, as he led the packhorse Grayhoof, diligently performing his guard duty.

Dragon King continued to circle overhead, maintaining vigilance.

Black Little Leopard's shadow occasionally flitted across the left flank of the caravan, then reappeared behind a snowdrift on the right.

Two adult Wild Dogs scouted ahead of the caravan.

Randall was exceptionally strict when teaching me horsemanship.

The Holy Knight wrapped the reins around his wrist, and whenever the short-legged horse tried to nip at my boot heel, he would tighten the reins, making the beast rear its head and whinny.

"Keep your center of gravity back, over your hips," his admonition was colder and harder than a blade, "A trade route is not a dueling ground."

By sunset, I could finally maintain my dignity on horseback, at the cost of my cloak being covered in horse mane and its retaliatory snot.

The packhorse's neck bell jingled in the blizzard, tempering the most ordinary justice into a faint glow that even the North's wind and snow could not extinguish.