The last mule planted its hooves at the bridge while Hans counted households beside the mill channel.
Its owner hauled on the reins until the bit cut red, and Hajin caught the leather strap before it tore. A scout's whistle shrilled out across the orchard behind them, warning every driver that the southern track wasn't clear anymore.
"Whoa, easy, you stubborn sack of glue," he hissed, rubbing the mule's neck and letting it sniff his empty palm.
"Nobody's asking you to charge the bastards, just walk away with better company."
The mule stepped forward as its owner loosened the harness, but a wheel caught on the bridge's lip.
Two spearmen heaved the wagon free while Hans marked the twenty-third household, children squeezed between sacks and hens.
'Eighty-two people, and every stuck wheel buys those scouts another minute to catch us.'
Grandma Hessa shuffled up clutching her chest of linens, flatly refusing the litter two militiamen kept offering her.
