The camp sat two hundred yards back from the forest. That distance kept the fire pits from casting light down onto the valley floor below.

Cedd had surveyed it himself on the first night, fixing the cord against a root with his left hand while counting the distance with his right. The right hand still managed work like that. The gate skirmish months ago had taken most of its grip strength, and the tendons had never fully recovered, but years of practice had taught him how to work around the injury. By now the adjustments came without thought, folded into every movement.

He walked the camp in the last of the afternoon light. Walking it told him more than standing still ever could.

Sceotan rifles rested in paired stacks against tent poles throughout the camp. Every muzzle cover was tied down. Every frizzen lowered.

Cedd checked three separate stacks as he passed. All properly cared for.

The men treated the Sceotans with a care they rarely gave their pistols. The rifles tolerated dirt, rain, and rough handling better than most weapons, but they failed hard on one particular mistake. Every man in the company had learned that lesson during training runs, usually after fouling a reload under pressure.

Ahead, two soldiers from the fourth squad argued beside the supply crates. Cedd heard the problem as he passed by.

"Two paces uphill an’ we’re clear o’ the runoff."

"Two paces uphill puts my kit on roots. Felt ’em through the damn boot."

"How d’you know it’s roots?"

The second man snorted. "We’re in a forest, aye? Didn’t take a scholar to figure it."

"That ain’t figuring. That’s guessing."

"Fine. I felt four roots. Happy now? Street Dogs don’t need broken ankles before a push."

"Street Dogs don’t need soaked blankets neither."

"Then pick which misery you like better. That’s the Badlands."

The first soldier stood there another moment, then hauled his kit uphill with a muttered curse.

Cedd kept moving.

Brek stood at the third squad’s camp cluster, checking ammunition pouches against a tally sheet. His thumb and forefinger moved across each pouch in sequence, quick and practiced.

He didn’t look up when Cedd stopped behind him.

"Third squad’s short on powder an’ shot. If I don’t pull from reserve, turns ugly later."

The Badlands had worn most traces of the southern accent out of his speech, but some of the vowels still clung to it.

"Pull from reserve before the war table. Twenty minutes."

Brek grunted once and kept counting.

Farther through camp, Varo sat on a supply crate with a field sketch balanced across his knee. One finger moved slowly along the route.

The archipelago habits still made the man even after years in the Badlands. He handled every situation like a negotiation. First determine what each side expected. Then find the place where those expectations broke.

"I been looking over the high route," Varo said before Cedd reached him.

"Bring it to the council."

Varo folded the sketch with the neat efficiency of a merchant handling manifests. "I think it changes what they’re expecting."

That was how Varo described tactical problems. Expectations.

Ern stood at the edge of the forest overlooking the valley. It looked like he could spend hours watching without moving at all.

Most people would have mistaken him for idle. Cedd knew better.

Ern turned before Cedd reached him.

"Sentry turns confirmed at two hours."

Ern said quietly, keeping his voice from carrying downslope. "Last turn before dawn swaps three hours before first light. After that, night lads been standing half the damn dark already, an’ day watch ain’t in place yet."

He paused briefly. "Camp two response test’s confirmed too. Dropped a pack near camp one two nights back. Four men hit it in nineteen minutes."

"Nineteen."

"Aye. Confirmed once. Give or take a few minutes, depends who’s awake over there."

Ern kept his eyes on the valley while he spoke.

"Five hundred yards from there to camp one over open hills."

Cedd stopped at the forest edge and worked through the timing in his head. Rifle volley. Advance. Overwhelm. Fight reinforcement.

Tight, but workable.

"War table in fifteen."

Ern nodded once and turned his attention back toward the valley.

Fifteen minutes later, ten squad captains stood around the field sketch spread across the ground inside Cedd’s tent. The map showed both mercenary camps, the road between them, the high route, and every terrain feature Ern had confirmed during three nights of observation.

A single candle had been placed carefully to keep shadows off the drawing. Misreading ground in the dark created problems before a battle even started.

Ern delivered his report first. He repeated the timing and response estimates he had already given Cedd, then added the details gathered through observation. Confirmed sentry positions. Tent layouts. Supply lines. Areas he had failed to observe clearly.

Those last sections he marked as gaps without hesitation. Proper intelligence depended on knowing where it failed.

When Ern stepped back, Varo spoke immediately.

"The high route gets us in rifle range before they know where to look."

He traced the path slowly across the sketch so every captain could follow it. "These bastards spent years watching the flat ground ’cause that’s where trouble usually comes from. We come from above, we throw their heads sideways."

His gaze moved around the tent.

"We don’t need ’em blind. Just looking wrong way."

"The gully on that road’s bad after rain," Leod said. "Ground slips there, crossing’ll cost us time."

He had come out of wall repair crews before transferring into field operations, and he examined every plan the way a mason checked for cracks.

Cedd replied. "We budget the delay. The advance begins three hours before first light, that gives us the margin we need."

Brek studied the sketch with his arms folded.

"Eight squads hit camp one. So what’re the other two bastards doing?"

"They get in position."

Cedd pointed toward the marked section. "This is the only fast route from camp two to camp one across open ground. Two squads stay in position there to ambush any reinforcement, that strips away the speed that makes them dangerous."

Varo looked across the sketch toward Brek. "Your lot and mine. I take north side o’ the road. You hold south. Between us, nobody runs through clean."

Brek studied the markings in silence for several seconds, considering sightlines, distance, room to fall back.

"We split before the gully."

"Aye. Before the gully. We’ll be in place before the volley."

Brek gave a single nod.

Leod muttered. "So the ambush holds them back for how long it takes to overwhelm camp one. Could be quick. Could drag."

"It can’t be timed exactly," Cedd said. "It lasts until resistance ends."

"Twenty men against whatever camp two sends."

Leod shrugged one shoulder.

"Just saying what it is."

"The terrain favors us."

Varo snorted. "They got one proper road in. We hold both sides o’ it. They try cutting around us, they end up stumbling blind through forest in the dark."

He tapped the sketch lightly.

"Raiders live on speed. Take the road away, they start thinking slow."

His eyes shifted toward Brek.

"We hold it."

Brek said nothing. He continued studying the sketch.

A broad-shouldered captain near the rear of the tent spoke next. Years in the Badlands had roughened his accent, though traces of the southern inland regions still remained underneath it.

"The rifle line waits for the volley. Then all eighty rifles bark together an’ we rush straight after?"

"The volley is the signal."

Cedd informed. "Every squad captain makes sure his men understand that before we move out. Nobody waits for a second order once the volley fires, the noise itself is the order."

The southern captain thought it over.

"And if fog rolls in? Real thick. Thick enough we can’t see proper?"

"Then we hold position until it clears. Seventy yards is acceptable if the fog forces it."

Cedd met his eyes directly.

"At that range the rifles still do the job."

The captain nodded and stepped back.

One young eastern captain raised the last concern.

"If the advance gets blown before the volley," he asked, "what then? They spot us early?"

Cedd answered immediately. "We continue and fire from whatever range we reach. There’s no withdrawal once we start, and if they know we’re coming, speed matters more."

He held the young captain’s gaze until the point landed.

"That’s why noise discipline stays absolute from step-off until the volley."

The young captain nodded once.

Cedd looked over the sketch one final time, checking the plan from beginning to end.

Then, he nodded, "We move three and a half hours before first light. Every man confirms load before departure. Varo and Brek split at the fork before the gully entrance while the main force maintains the high route until volley position."

The captains filed out through the tent one by one into the cold autumn dark.

Brek left last.

He paused near the entrance and looked back down at the sketch, fixing the ambush location in his memory one final time.

"One way or another," he muttered, "Street Dogs earn the name tomorrow."

Then he stepped out into the night.