The quarry track pinched between a stone bank and a steep cut. Qinghe walked beside the first cart and directed each driver through the turns one at a time. From the north ridge came the thud of battle, then the distant whistle of arrows.
“Leave a wagon’s length between you,” she said. “If one stops, the next must still be able to turn.”
Vessa walked with the lead cart, checking that the school children were all there. Iven carried the record case under his coat, holding it tight when the wheels jolted. Bai placed a lantern at each bend so the rear wagons could follow without bunching together.
The detour cost time, but the bank hid the families from the main road. Qinghe could hear the battle without seeing it. The sound was worse in some ways; she had to trust Han’s flares and the riders’ reports rather than judge the line herself.
A draft animal balked at the broken plank bridge ahead. Its driver pulled the reins, and the wagon behind crept too close. Noma raised both hands. “Stop pushing. Give the animal room.”
The lead driver tried again, but the horse’s ears flattened and its hooves scraped the wet boards. Noma asked for grain from the supply wagon. She and two residents unloaded the heaviest water jars and carried them across by hand. Yan heard the halt from the ridge and started toward the track entrance, but a yellow flare from Han signaled him back to the north…
