The King's Road changed. The trees retreated, the earth turned yellow and hard, and the wind no longer blew in gusts but in a continuous, monotonous stream carrying dust.

  We entered the Steppe. The lands of House Rumolt.

  Our squad, looking like a caterpillar bristling with spears, crawled across this wasteland.

  "I don't like it here," Tobias whined, constantly looking over his shoulder. He walked backward, clutching his crossbow to his chest like a baby. "Too open. No cover. If archers appear on that hill..."

  "If archers appear on that hill, you hide behind Dieter," the Sergeant soothed him.

  "Dieter is not infinite!" Tobias continued to whine. "His flanks are exposed!"

  In the center of the formation, strictly in the second row, marched Gisel.

  He held the Serpent Banner not like a hero, but like a surveyor holds a rod — vertically, carefully, and with a clear desire not to attract attention.

  "According to the principles of structural engineering," Gisel mumbled, hiding behind Dieter's broad back, "the center of gravity of the structure must be protected by load-bearing walls. Dieter is the Wall. I am the Spire. The Spire does not engage in combat; the Spire creates the vertical."

  By noon, we saw Grafen.

  The city sat among vineyards like a fat spider in the center of its web. It smelled of money, sweet fermented grapes, and... burning.

  The war was already here.

  On the horizon, far to the East, black columns of smoke rose. Villages were burning. There, House Berengar (Center) was testing the defenses of House Rumolt (South).

  We didn't test defenses. We went to the Market.

  "Current Wine Rate!" Gunther commanded as soon as the cart stopped.

  Prices were... wartime prices. Trade had stalled due to raids; warehouses were bursting with goods that no one could export. Winemakers wept, but lowered prices.

  "110 crowns per barrel!" Gunther's eyes expanded to the size of gold coins. "In the North, in frozen Tiefen, they would give 250! This is the Arbitrage of the Century!"

  "Do we have space in the cart?" asked the Captain, looking at the pile of junk.

  "We’ll throw out the Sergeant if we must, but we will find space!" the Accountant squealed. "Offload the barbarian axes! Sell them for peanuts! Wine is more liquid!"

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  We bought everything. Wine replaced the planks sold in Dunkel. Now we were not a timber truck, but a Wine Cellar on Wheels. The cart creaked, the mules groaned, Gunther smiled.

  In the evening, when we made camp (in a lowland, so as not to be a silhouette on the horizon), the First Contact occurred.

  Not with knights. With "scouts."

  Tobias, sitting on watch, suddenly hissed:

  "Riders! On wolves!"

  Gunther paled.

  "Goblin Wolf Riders. The fastest bastards in the steppe. If they flank the wine cart... If they break even one barrel..."

  "To arms!" the Sergeant barked. "Dieter, Knut, Baldur — circular defense! Protect the Excisable Goods!"

  There were five of them. Small green runts mounted on giant wolves. They burst out of the darkness, whooping and yipping.

  This was a probe. They were looking for a breach in the formation.

  The Goblins didn't charge head-on — they weren't idiots. They ignored the shields of Dieter and Knut, using their speed to slip into the second row — to the archers, Gunther, and Gisel.

  One of the riders broke the flank. The wolf leaped, aiming for the "Architect's" throat.

  And then Gisel acted.

  Our "Fake Architect" suddenly did something no one expected.

  He didn't run. He realized there was nowhere to run — behind him were only precious barrels.

  He swung the Banner.

  Not heroically. He simply used the long shaft like a boom barrier, thrusting it into the snout of the approaching wolf.

  "Where do you think you're going across the foundation?!" Gisel yelled in fright. "The mortar hasn't set yet! Construction zone!"

  The banner shaft slammed into the wolf's nose. The beast shied away. The inertia was lost.

  "Zone of Control restored!" Jem commented.

  SWISH!

  This was Vain. Our Anatomist stood nearby, clutching a trophy Hooked Blade — a rusty piece of metal on a long stick we had stripped from a raider.

  "Interesting joint anatomy..." he muttered and yanked the hook toward himself.

  The curved blade caught the Goblin by the belt. A sharp tug.

  The Goblin flew out of the saddle like a cork from a bottle.

  "Specimen dismounted," Vain stated coldly.

  Knut immediately pinned the fallen Goblin with his pitchfork.

  "Don't touch the wine, heathen!" the farmhand yelled. "It costs money!"

  The other riders, seeing that the "Caravan bites" and has a competent formation (with reach weapons in the second row), turned their wolves around and dissolved into the steppe.

  "They're gone," the Sergeant exhaled, lowering his sword. "Reconnaissance in force. They will return with friends."

  Gunther rushed to the cart. He wasn't feeling the people. He was feeling the barrels.

  "Intact! Not a drop spilled! Corks in place!"

  Then he looked at Gisel, who was shaking as he wiped wolf saliva off the banner shaft.

  "You used the Corporate Symbol as a stick to scare off dogs?"

  "That was 'dynamic load redistribution'," Gisel found his voice, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I restored the security perimeter to protect investments."

  "Well done," Gunther nodded. "Otwin would have died heroically. You survived pragmatically and saved the wine. You are an Effective Standard-Bearer."

  We left the campsite immediately.

  The night in the steppe is full of eyes.

  We walked Southwest toward the gates of the desert, the city of Hikmar, and its Great Arena, carrying a year's supply of wine in the cart and hoping not to meet anyone who wanted a free tasting.