The aqueduct bell stopped ringing as the gate settled into place. Yan and Wei crouched behind the rise with the assault team, watching the lanterns above Dusk Ridge. They had reached the foothills before night, but the guns still faced the western valley.
A runner came up the ditch, muddy to his knees. “Tew,” he said, holding up a red strip of cloth. “Han’s guard sent this. The rear is intact. The signal is an hour old.”
Wei checked the knot. “What did the west-route captain report?”
“The convoy’s size is uncertain. The carts were still moving when the scout turned back.”
Tew wiped rain from his face. “Han’s rear guard sent the strip with a local runner. He said the red cloth was made at the bridge and tied twice for the rear. He saw the last group crossing but couldn’t count the far bank.”
“Did the runner see artillery?” Wei asked.
“He heard one shot from the west. He didn’t see where it landed.”
Yan glanced toward the dark line of the valley. “That matches the sound we heard before we left.”
