The wooden axles of the lead wagon groaned under the heavy load as Javier’s supply train lumbered along the dusty highway.
Behind him stretched forty sturdy wagons laden with sacks of grain, preserved feed, and heavy iron-bound crates, followed by a thick herd of cattle and draft horses moving in a steady, lowing cloud of dust.
About a dozen hired mercenaries and a dozen more Artos guards protected the perimeter.
Sitting beside Javier on the driver’s bench at the front of the caravan was Tomas, an even lower junior clerk he picked up from the Cresting Waves headquarters.
He held a wooden writing board and a stack of parchment, furiously cross-referencing figures with an ink-stained charcoal stub.
"Master Javier, I’ve run the ledgers three times now," Tomas said, rubbing his tired eyes. "Lord Artos’ initial advance is completely drained. Every single copper from the fortune he handed you in Galehelm has been spent on the grain contracts and cattle purchases from the southern barons."
Javier adjusted his battered leather hat, leaning back against the seat with a sharp, satisfied grin.
"Drained down to the last coin, Tomas! Exactly as a masterwork of procurement should be," Javier boasted, gesturing grandly over his shoulder at the sprawling convoy.
"We didn't leave a single coin unused. When the northern mountain passes freeze over, the Marquess will not have to worry about where they'll get their next meal."
"It's impressive, sir, no doubt," Tomas admitted, shifting uncomfortably. "But we are cutting it terribly close on operational margin. If we encounter any unexpected expenses before reaching the Marquess's border..."
"Relax, Tomas. A true visionary pioneer foresees every—"
Javier's grand speech cut off abruptly as the lead wagon ground to a halt.
Ahead, blocking the main cobblestone thoroughfare where the road crossed from the neutral trade sectors into Viscount Vance’s border territory, a dozen border guards in faded blue doublets lounged around, their pikes leaning lazily against their shoulders.
A grizzled man with a sour expression stepped out into the middle of the road, raising a leather-gloved hand to halt the line.
"Halt," the man commanded, eyeing the massive line of grain wagons and cattle. "State your business, the purpose of your visit, and present your transit papers."
Javier forced a wide, energetic merchant smile onto his face, hopping down off the wagon seat with agility and dusting off his traveling coat.
"Ah, my good man! A pleasure, an absolute pleasure!" Javier chimed smoothly, strolling right up to the guard officer with a courteous bow. "Master Javier, chief procurement representative for the Cresting Wave Trading Company! Everything is fully documented and completely above board."
The captain squinted at him, waving a hand toward the long line of cargo behind Javier. "I am not your man, merchant. I'm the captain of this border patrol."
"Ah, as you say, apologies, captain!" Javier answered quickly offering an almost comedic bow. "We're just weary from the long travel."
"What are you hauling in such heavy quantities?" The guard captain interjected.
"Standard trade commodities, my good captain! Premium grain, dried rye, preserved winter feed, and a modest herd of livestock," Javier explained cheerfully, pulling a thick roll of stamped parchment from his satchel and handing it over.
The captain unrolled the parchment, skimming the trade manifests. "And where is this cargo bound? Who is purchasing forty wagons worth of southern grain right before winter?"
"We are contracted to deliver these supplies directly to the northern frontier," Javier declared proudly, stepping closer and tapping his fingers against the official crest pressed into the bottom of the document. "Bound for Galehelm, under the direct authority of House Artos."
Proving his point, Javier pulled out a heavy wooden token encased in iron, holding it up for the guard to see. Gleaming on its surface was the unmistakable crest of the Northern Marquess, two silver serpents coiled around a golden sword.
The captain’s eyes locked onto the crest, then at the men who rode out to the front bearing the same sigil, and his demeanor shifted instantly.
The casual indifference vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He slowly rolled the manifest back up and tapped it against his palm.
"House Artos..." the captain muttered, a faint, mocking smirk touching his lips. He glanced past Javier at the overflowing wagons of food. "I'm afraid this is a problem for us, merchant. We received orders from the Viscount that all produce shipments must first go through inspection by the export customs in the city."
Javier's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? We haven't heard anything of the like when we first passed through here about a week ago."
"That's because the Viscount just declared it."
Though the guard captain was stern, Javier knew the truth of it.
"Those scheming Golden Hands bastards move fast."
He knew that the Golden Hands Trading Company had a grip on the territories south of the Northern frontiers, and he knew that Edric cut ties with them only recently.
It would not take a genius to deduce that this is merely a ploy of that merchant company to strangle the Marquess.
One of the Artos guards dismounted and approached them. He wore a simple iron armor with a leather doublet underneath, his eyes weary and his beard white.
"Step aside, guardsman" the old man declared. "This is a caravan of Lord Edric Artos, Marquess of the Northern territories."
"That may be so, but this here is the road of Viscount Vance." The guard captain answered back. "And the Viscount declared that all produce be inspected at the city."
Both men rested their hands at the hilt of their swords.
Sensing the growing tension, Javier forced a warm, conspiratorial grin onto his face. He stepped between the two.
"Now now, there's no need for us to squabble, friends." He spoke as he waved off the Artos guard.
Then he approached the captain, lowering his voice until it barely carried over the creak of the wagon wheels. "Apologies for that, captain. The long travel has taken its toll on us."
Javier leaned closer, "Listen, we're in a bit of a hurry, so we'd like to expedite this process if possible."
The captain's eyes narrowed, but he didn't pull away. "The law is the law, trader."
"Of course it is," Javier agreed smoothly. "Which is why it would be a terrible shame if a busy man like you had to waste half your afternoon filling out entry forms and escorting forty heavy wagons to the city gates, when we could both be on our way."
He pulled out a small bag of coins from his breast pocket. "What say you we dispense with this bureaucratic nonsense, captain? Say, fifty silver pieces?"
Javier gently clinked the small pouch in his palm. "Say we do go to the city, what do you and your men get? Nothing."
The captain’s eyes flicked down to the pouch. His jaw twitched. It was a substantial amount for a border officer, and Javier made a valid point, only the bureaucrats in the city would benefit from an inspection.
He glanced at the old Artos guard, then back at Javier’s broad, unbothered grin. Slowly, the captain’s hand moved off his sword pommel and closed tight around the velvet bag.
"The road ahead has a few potholes," the captain muttered, slipping the bag into his doublet with practiced speed. "Mind you travel carefully, trader."
"Thank you, esteemed captain! We will certainly do so!" Javier answered back.
Returning to the lead bench, Javier took the reins as the caravan continued past the border patrol. Beside him, Tomas grabbed Javier by the shoulder.
"Master Javier!" he cried out. "You just gave away our commission to those guards! Why didn't we just go through with the inspection?"
Javier offered him a passing glance. "That would have taken days, maybe even weeks. Plus, we don't know for certain if they would have even allowed us through."
Tomas stared at him, confused. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Because the inspection was just a ruse concocted by greedy bastards. Pay it no mind, this is an investment on our part," Javier answered, cracking the reins as the horses picked up pace. "I'm sure the Marquess will be more than accommodating once we return with his goods."
Meanwhile, far west from the border, a thick cloud of dust hung in the hot afternoon air as a squad of a dozen mounted men rode into the sun-baked square of a farming hamlet.
They wore polished steel breastplates and doublets bearing the rose crest of House Sterling.
At their head rode Captain Kerwin, a weathered veteran with grey-streaked hair and sharp, tired eyes that scanned the cracked earth with growing dread.
The hamlet was perched near the eastern hills, far from the great roaring rivers that still sustained the lowlands, relying entirely on deep underground springs to survive.
As Kerwin’s squad reined in their horses, a group of desperate, hollow-eyed villagers rushed out from the low stone cottages, led by a frail village elder.
"Captain! Thank the heavens you’ve come!" the elder gasped, clutching his wooden staff with trembling hands. "Please... You need to help us."
Kerwin dismounted smoothly, his leather boots thudding against the dry dirt. "We received your urgent messenger this morning. Where is the main well?"
"This way! Quick, this way!"
The elder led Kerwin and his men to the center of the hamlet, where a massive, ancient stone well sat beneath a wooden frame. Villagers stood around it in hushed, terrified silence.
Kerwin stepped up to the edge, grabbing the thick hemp rope and dropping the iron-bound wooden bucket down into the dark abyss.
He waited for the familiar splash.
Thud.
The bucket hit solid, dry stone at the bottom with a dull, echoing rattle. Kerwin hauled the rope back up; the wooden bucket emerged empty, coated only in a fine layer of bone-dry gray dust.
Kerwin’s brows furrowed deeply. "Elder, your messenger swore this well was flowing three days ago."
"It was flowing yesterday evening, Captain!" the elder cried, tears welling in his sunken eyes. "We drew fresh, cold water for the cattle right before sunset! But when the sunrise came... nothing! It vanished in a single night!"
"A deep spring well doesn't just dry out in a day," one of Kerwin’s young squad members muttered, looking around nervously.
"The land is cursed.. water is being stripped from the land..." One of the villagers whispered.
"Quiet," the elder snapped before turning back to the captain, "why is this happening, Captain?"
Natural droughts withered crops slowly over months. They didn't swallow an entire underground spring overnight like a thirsty beast draining a goblet.
Kerwin unclasped a leather tube from his saddle, pulling out a detailed topographical map of the Western Marches and spreading it across his horse's flat saddle bag. He pulled a piece of charcoal from his pocket and pressed a dark 'X' over the hamlet's location.
As he stepped back to look at the map, his breath caught in his throat.
The pattern was unmistakable.
"Captain?" his second-in-command asked, leaning in. "What is it?"
Kerwin traced his gloved finger along a string of dark charcoal marks stretched across the parchment.
"The first villages to lose their wells three years ago were all clustered at the base of the northern mountain roots, under baron Alois," Kerwin said quietly, his finger slowly sliding down the map. "Then six months later, the high springs along the ridge dried up. Three months ago, it hit the eastern plateau..."
His finger stopped on the map, hovering over a massive, fortified city symbol surrounded by deep reservoirs and grand stone aqueducts.
Rosehall. The capital of the Western Marches, and the ancestral seat of Duke William Sterling.
"It’s moving," Kerwin whispered, his eyes wide. "Whatever is causing this drought, it began in the mountains and is slowly creeping towards the capital."
"Moving, sir?" the young guard blinked in confusion. "How can a drought move?"
Kerwin didn't answer. He couldn't. The thought of whatever was causing this creeping devastation getting closer to the heart of their duchy was too terrifying to voice aloud.
He rolled the map up tightly, shoving it back into its leather casing, and turned back to the terrified villagers.
"Listen to me, elder," Kerwin commanded, his voice firm and authoritative. "Gather your people, pack whatever food and possessions you can carry on your backs, and begin marching west toward Rosehall immediately."
The elder looked dismayed. "Abandon our homes, Captain?"
"If you stay here, you will die of thirst," Kerwin said bluntly, though his eyes softened slightly. "The capital's deep river reservoirs are still holding. The Duke will provide shelter and rations outside the city walls. Move now, while your legs still have strength."
"Y-Yes, Captain... at once! Gods bless you!" The elder bowed hurriedly, turning to shout orders to the panicked village.
Kerwin swung back into his saddle, pulling hard on the reins to turn his stallion back toward the main highway.
"Captain, where are we heading?" his second-in-command asked, mounting up beside him.
"Back to Rosehall," Kerwin said grimly, looking back one last time at the withered, dying village. "The Duke needs to see this map before whatever is swallowing our water reaches the capital's gates."