The crossbar was pushed over the second bracket, and the gate began to open.

Heavy timber reinforced with iron bands swung on mountain hinges. The noise came lower and deeper than the scrape of the bar itself, a long groan that rolled across the yard, climbed the stone walls, and echoed through the fort.

Inside the barracks, the first questioning voice became several. Boots struck a wooden floor.

Then the yard-facing door flew open.

The first mercenary stepped through barefoot and unarmed. He saw the gate standing open and stopped in the middle of the yard, his head turning between the gate and the barracks. Something was wrong. He knew that much, but he had not yet figured out what.

Col stayed at the shadows in right flank of the gate and watched.

More men emerged from the barracks. Nine. Then twelve. Then the pace increased as they hurried into the yard, partially dressed and focused on the open gate.

Some carried swords. Others held crossbows awkwardly, as if they had grabbed them in haste.

The gate torch stood behind them, catching their outlines while the soldiers remained hidden in shadow.

The mercenaries gathered near the center of the yard, speaking in low, urgent voices as they tried to make sense of what they were seeing. The gate was open, and that fact held their attention. They kept staring at it instead of moving toward it.

Col counted.

He needed enough targets to make the volley worthwhile.

When the cluster reached forty men, packed tightly enough that any shot from the three firing positions would hit something without careful aim, he checked the flanks.

To the left, along the wall, Hod already had pistols raised.

To the right, near the depot shadow, the others were doing the same.

Col looked back toward Hod.

Hod’s grip tightened around his pistol.

Col raised his right fist above the gate flank.

Along the walls and from the depot shadow, twenty pistols came up in response.

He judged the cluster one last time, then dropped his fist.

Twenty flintlock pistols fired within a single second.

In a stone yard enclosed on all sides before dawn, the blasts merged into one massive concussion. The noise struck every wall at once and rebounded before the ear could fully process the original impact.

Col felt it in his chest and teeth before he truly heard it.

The roar climbed the walls, crossed the fort, and rolled out beyond the the valley.

The shots reached the mercenaries from three directions at the same time.

One mercenary took a shot high in the chest beneath the collarbone. It punched through him, spraying blood and torn flesh from his back across the man behind him. His knees failed instantly and he dropped straight down into the dirt.

Another man caught a shot in the left side of his jaw. Bone shattered inward. Teeth and blood burst from the wound as he staggered sideways into the soldier beside him. Neither man stayed upright.

A third shot struck a mercenary directly in the throat at close range. He dropped with both hands clamped over the wound as blood forced itself between his fingers in thick streams. No sound came from him. There was no airway left to make one.

A fourth mercenary had just begun raising his sword when a shot smashed into his arm. The bone fractured with a crack. Blood ran down his sleeve as the arm swung uselessly, no longer obeying the command that had sent it upward. He stared at it in confusion.

The pain had not reached him yet.

Twenty pistol shots in a confined stone yard filled the air with smoke almost immediately.

Within three seconds a dense grey cloud spread across the courtyard as a single mass. Visibility dropped to only a few yards. Even the gate torch became nothing more than a distant orange smear.

The cluster in the center vanished completely.

For two seconds, nobody moved.

Col drew his saber and advanced.

The soldiers emerged from the walls and depot shadow and entered the smoke.

At two yards’ visibility, the battlefield became a picture of shadows appearing without warning from the grey. The plan depended on one simple advantage.

The company knew to move.

The mercenaries did not.

A figure appeared ahead of one soldier. The mercenary had his back turned and was looking toward where he thought the shots had come from.

The soldier closed the distance before the man realized the mistake.

His saber drove into the mercenary’s left side between the ribs and entered the lung. He twisted the blade before ripping it free.

The man’s sword slipped from blood-slick fingers.

His legs folded unevenly beneath him and he crashed into the dirt while dark blood spread beneath his hip.

Another mercenary burst through the smoke swinging wildly at movement. His blade cut across the outside of a soldier’s left forearm, opening the skin from elbow to wrist. Blood spilled immediately, but the wound was shallow.

The soldier stepped back a pace, caught the next swing on the strong part of his saber, and drove his crossguard into the mercenary’s face.

Something broke.

Blood sprayed from the man’s nose and mouth as he stumbled backward into the smoke and never regained his footing.

"Left! Two yards! He’s on you!"

A mercenary’s voice answered from the far side of the yard.

"More men! On the yard! Get out here, damn it!"

Col moved left through the smoke, following the sound of fighting.

A figure emerged only three feet ahead of him.

The man had already started tracking targets by sound alone. His sword was out. His eyes found Col at the same instant he understood what he was seeing.

Too late.

The mercenary swung first.

Col rolled his blade beneath the attack, guiding the force aside instead of meeting it head-on, then cut back from the right.

The edge crossed the man’s neck in a clean line, opening skin and muscle from below the ear toward the windpipe. Blood sheeted down the front of his coat.

The mercenary staggered backward two steps, one hand rising toward the wound.

Col was already moving past him into the smoke.

During the minute after the volley, the smoke gradually thinned.

Visibility returned in layers.

First shadows.

Then bodies.

Finally the far side of the yard and the barracks door became clear.

The door had never stopped opening.

More than forty mercenaries now occupied the yard. They had begun organizing themselves into something resembling a plan, while more men continued pouring through the barracks entrance.

Survivors from the original group had recovered from the shock of the ambush.

Swords were out now.

Confusion had been replaced by anger.

One man emerged from the barracks after all the others.

He was fully prepared before crossing the threshold. Coat secured. Boots laced. Sword belted.

More important, he behaved differently.

He stepped to the edge of the yard and studied the situation.

Two seconds was enough.

Bodies from the volley.

The open gate.

The soldiers positioned near the center.

The mercenaries moving without coordination.

Then he spoke.

His voice carried with the flat certainty of command.

"All of you! On the gate, together."

The mercenaries who had been drifting toward the walls stopped.

The men still pouring from the barracks shifted toward the gate.

"Forty-plus, and more coming."

The nearest soldier kept his eyes forward. His saber never lowered.

Col saw the same problem.

The squads could not hold an open position in the yard against those numbers.

"Gate. Back up."

The withdrawal happened in stages.

Three paces back. Hold.

Three more paces.

Two soldiers covered while one moved, then they rotated positions.

A mercenary caught one retreating soldier from the side. His blade entered the man’s left shoulder from a direction the soldier could not easily watch while facing forward.

The strike went deep into muscle.

Rather than retreat, the wounded soldier stepped into the attack.

That brought the mercenary close enough.

He drove a knife upward into the man’s armpit.

The blade disappeared to the hilt.

The mercenary collapsed at once.

The soldier continued toward the gate while blood soaked through his coat and dripped from his sleeve.

A crossbow shot tore across the outside of Hod’s right thigh. It was not deep enough to reach bone, but blood immediately darkened the cloth and the impact shoved him sideways.

He caught himself against the perimeter wall before he could fall.

"Leg’s hit."

He glanced at the soldier beside him.

Then he kept moving.

Ric held the left gate flank while three soldiers passed through the opening behind him.

A mercenary wielding a sword in both hands reached the position before the gap could close.

His full-strength swing crashed into Ric’s blade.

The impact drove Ric backward two steps into the gate structure. Wood slammed across his shoulders.

The mercenary followed immediately, pushing through the opening.

A soldier arriving on Ric’s right reacted first.

He thrust his saber through the mercenary’s abdomen from the side. The blade entered and punched out the other side in a burst of blood.

The mercenary folded forward around the wound.

Ric stepped over the falling body and reclaimed the position.

The squad reached the gate structure.

The open passage behind them was only three men wide. Bodies already lying in the passage made it narrower.

Twelve soldiers formed the defensive line across that opening.

Beyond them, more than forty mercenaries pressed forward in the yard.

Yet only three attackers could reach the passage at once.

The man who had emerged last from the barracks studied the numbers from the opposite side.

He halted the advance.

His eyes moved from the passage to the bodies clogging it. Then to the soldiers holding the line. Then to the strength gathered behind him.

"Take the gate."

He did not raise his voice.

He did not need to repeat the order.

The soldiers heard it clearly.

"Reserve pistols."

The words passed quietly down the line.

"Ready."

Along the gate line, twenty second pistols appeared.

Across the yard, the mercenaries were already forming the charge.

And beginning to run.