As dusk draws a purple veil across the hills the caravan plods forward, the oxen lowing and the wains creaking. Ahead torches twinkle on the ramparts of the small hilltop fortress settlement of Berek Sra. In the gathering gloom, the bandits that have followed the caravan since the ambush at noon are growing ever bolder.

Some of the more daring bandits, in an attempt to provoke the archers riding stoically on the jolting carts, dart and wheel their mounts within bowshot.

The caravan reaching the base of the villages hill, begins to inch up the rough road. After what seems an interminable period wait the gates swing ponderously open and the caravan passes within.

Inside, the travelers stripped of the tension of the past hours, pour from the wagons, mingling with the townsfolk in scenes of jubilation.

The mass of people follow the creaking wagons towards the marketplace, many of the guards from the wall joining in the celebrations. Then from the gate tower comes the wail of a horn. Almost as one, the crowd turns. Two shabbily dressed men stand at the gate, lifting the locking bar, above a cluster of guards impotently crane their heads to see. Cursing the carelessness of the guards, one of the caravans captains storms towards the gate, sword drawn.

Then with a thud, the bar drops free and the doors slam open. Through the open gates pour the bandits. The celebrations of mere moments before are forgotten, and frenzied the crowd attempts to flee, screaming women herding their children before them. The captain disappears beneath flying hooves of the wave of bandits and the next instant bandits are slashing their way through the herds of shrieking people.