The top of the sand dune is hard sand; when horses trod on it, they only leave shallow hoofprints, which are smoothed out by the sea breeze.
Barlow glanced back at the temporary dock. The white cloth roofs of the prefabricated houses reflected a blinding white light in the morning sun. The staff on the pier were still moving supplies, and the Guard Corps at the sentry post were turning the sunshade of the observation post around.
The speedboat on the sea has lowered its sails and is gently rocking in the lagoon.
He turned his head and urged his horse forward.
The sand horse walks steadily on the hard sand, its hooves making a dull, soft sound as they land.
The three horses were lined up in a single file, with Barlow leading the way, Mila in the middle, and Roy bringing up the rear.
As the sun rose higher, the heat waves on the sand began to distort the distant horizon.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, Barlow's horse suddenly slowed down.
A small cloud of dust rose at the foot of the dunes ahead, and several black dots were moving slowly within it.
He raised his hand to signal the two behind him to stop. Mila reined in the reins, her right hand hanging naturally near the hilt of her sword at her waist.
Roy spurred his horse forward two steps to stand alongside Barlow, squinting as he looked in the direction of the sandstorm.
Several dark dots moved slowly between the dunes, their silhouettes distorted by the heat, but it was clear they were walking, not riding horses.
"They are refugees," Mila said.
She had seen too many refugees; gangs were often wiped out during the changing of the underworld, and the survivors walked in this manner.
Their pace was slow but their rhythm was chaotic, and they had a very poor sense of direction; people would stop and look back after walking for a while.
Barlow spurred his horse forward. Encountering residents who had escaped from the occupied territories was like delivering valuable intelligence to their doorstep, and no one in command would let such an opportunity slip by easily.
The three horses gradually approached the group of people.
There were a dozen or so people, including elderly people, a young woman holding a baby, and a middle-aged man carrying a bulging sack on his shoulder, probably filled with all his belongings.
A boy walked at the very back, barefoot, with tattered strips of cloth wrapped around his ankles, leaving shallow bloodstains on the sand with each step.
Their clothes were covered in sand, obscuring the original color of the fabric. Their faces were chapped and cracked from the wind and sand, and their lips were peeling.
Barlow dismounted, tossed the reins to Roy, and walked up to the refugees.
Mila dismounted and followed behind him.
She noticed the woman holding the baby's eyes, which were calm and empty, as if she had been frightened by something and was no longer panicked.
She'd seen that look before.
"Where are you from?" Barlow asked.
Leading the way was an old man with a white beard and a severely hunched back, leaning on a makeshift cane that he had broken off from a tree branch.
He looked up at Barlow's desert cloak, then at Roy and Mila on the two horses behind Barlow. His Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice was dry, like sand rubbing in his throat.
"Limestone Village, it's two hours north." He rubbed the crack at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, scraping off a bit of dried scab.
"It's gone now."
What do you mean by "gone"?
"The rebels are here," the middle-aged man carrying sacks behind the old man said for him.
His voice was hoarse, but he was stronger than the old man; he was used to physical labor.
"They arrived yesterday afternoon, about a hundred people. They occupied the village, took all the grain, and when the village chief tried to reason with them, his shoulder was broken."
"They said the village was now under rebel control, and those who didn't want to stay could leave; they could go into the desert and die of thirst, so we came in."
He glanced at the people behind him, then turned to Barlow. "Do you have any dry food? Water will do too; the child hasn't had any water all day."
Barlow glanced back at Roy.
Roy had already dismounted and taken a spare water bladder from his saddlebag.
He walked up to the woman holding the baby, knelt down, and placed the water bag in her hands.
The woman looked down at the water pouch, first licking her cracked lips, then unplugging it and feeding the child.
The baby started sucking frantically as soon as its mouth touched the water, and kicked its little legs a few times in the swaddling clothes.
The woman looked up at Roy, her lips moved but she didn't speak. Roy waved his hand, stood up, and went back to his horse.
"How many rebels are there in Limestone Village?" Barlow asked.
The old man said, "About a hundred people."
Are there any other villagers remaining in the village?
"Yes, there are elderly people who can't walk, and several women who were detained by the rebels to cook and do laundry for them."
Barlow was silent for a moment, then he turned and walked to the front of the horse, took out a map from the saddlebag and spread it on the saddle.
Mila went over to look with him, and the Limestone Village was indeed near the route she had marked; heading north required passing through that area.
Taking a detour would take more time, and it might also lead to encountering other rebel strongholds.
Bypassing Limestone Village doesn't mean you won't encounter the next wave of rebels; you might not be able to get this firsthand intelligence from the locals then.
More than one hundred people.
Barlow looked up at Roy.
Roy was distributing the remaining packets of compressed rations from his saddlebag to the refugees.
After he finished distributing the last cookie, he patted the crumbs off his hands and looked up to meet Barlow's gaze.
He was very familiar with that look.
"You just said you wanted to bring a few Guard Corps with you."
Roy paused for a moment, then a smile began to spread across his face.
"There are now one hundred rebels in one village."
Barlow folded the map and stuffed it back into his saddlebag, then mounted his horse with an even more decisive motion than when he dismounted.
Is this enough for you?
Roy fastened the scabbard he had loosened while distributing the rations, mounted his horse, and pulled on the reins, making the horse turn in a small circle.
"Three people, over a hundred, let me count..."
He deliberately counted on his fingers, "Thirty-odd people each, I'll take on forty, the rest are yours."
You hit sixty of them.
Mila's voice drifted from the horse's back.
"My second brother and I will split the remaining forty."
"You'll carry all sixty of them for me?" Roy turned to look at her.
"No need to carry him, I'll collect your body once you're lying down."
Can't you wish me well for once...?
"Stop arguing." Barlow urged his horse forward, glancing back at the old man with the cane.
"Sir, please lead the way. Once you reach the village entrance, please stay away; you don't need to go in."
The old man glanced at Barlow, then at Roy and Mila arguing on horseback behind him, and his lips moved slightly.
He probably meant to say, "How can the three of you fight against a hundred people?"
But he noticed the knives at their waists and their fearless demeanor.
His years of experience and intuition told him that this group of people were no ordinary individuals.
He swallowed his words, turned around, and walked forward with his cane.
Three horses followed behind, their hoofprints leaving three parallel lines in the sand.
The sand dunes continued to distort in the heatwave, and a small, brownish-gray outline vaguely appeared on the horizon ahead—the cliffs surrounding the Limestone Village, bleached white by the midday sun.