Col made a full round of the barracks from the outside. He needed a clear picture before deciding what came next.

The main door was secured from the exterior by Ric’s soldiers, timber braced against timber. At the far end, the secondary door had a crate jammed against its base. One of the soldiers had thought of that without being told.

Along the wall sat two ground-level windows. They were too narrow for a man to squeeze through, but wide enough for a crossbow. Two bolts had already come from those since the yard had been taken, and one had nearly caught a man crossing open ground. The company had learned quickly and kept clear of those.

He counted the exits twice to make certain he had missed nothing, then counted men. Based on who had emerged during the fighting and who had remained inside, he estimated roughly one hundred behind the stone walls.

Next came the wagons. At the logistics crew’s current pace, loading would take four to six hours.

That was the real problem.

He weighed the cost of forcing entry into a packed stone building in darkness against the cost of holding the perimeter while the wagons loaded.

When he completed the round, he stopped in the center of the yard, considered the numbers one last time, then turned toward the treatment area.

The wounded had been moved to the west side of the yard, outside the dangerous window line of sight.

The soldier with the calf wound had his boot cut away. Cloth had been wrapped from the injury down to the ankle after the bolt was removed, but dark blood had already soaked through the binding and run into the seams between the stones.

Hod sat against the yard wall with his right leg stretched straight across the ground. One soldier pressed folded cloth against the thigh wound while another held the wrap tight. Blood stained their hands and sleeves.

Hod’s face was strained. He was enduring the pain through discipline, not because it had eased.

Sigg rested against the lower wall. His weapons lay beside him. His coat had been pulled over his face, though a dark smear of blood still marked the stone beneath him.

Col looked at him for a heartbeat.

Then he kept walking.

Ern stood near the depot entrance with the field ledger balanced against his forearm. He had moved in and out of the fight alongside Eadig’s squad.

Ern said, glancing down at the ledger.

"We have two dead and nineteen injured."

He turned a page. "The fort depot include grain, salt, preserved meat, dried goods. Logistics crew’s waiting on the valley road and ready to start taking loads."

"How many wagons?"

"Thirteen."

Col considered that.

Thirteen wagons would be enough.

He moved on without comment.

The company had fallen into a siege rhythm. Halm had organized the squads without needing orders. The gate passage was covered. The depot was covered. The walkway was covered from the yard floor now that Hod’s squad was no longer above.

The yard itself still held bodies from every phase of the night’s work, some where they had fallen, others dragged aside to clear movement through the fort.

Even so, the perimeter soldiers kept their positions outside the crossbow range. Nobody needed reminding.

From inside the barracks came occasional sounds. Voices. The groan of the structure under the weight of so many men packed inside.

Once, something heavy struck the main door from within before falling silent.

Somewhere deeper in the building, men spoke in low tones. The soldiers guarding the entrance had listened to the noise for nearly twenty minutes. By now they barely reacted.

The sky beyond the eastern ridge had begun to change. The black mountain night was giving way to deep blue-grey along the horizon.

Time was becoming another problem.

A soldier left the door watch and crossed the yard toward Col.

"The captain inside knocked three times. Then he called through the door."

"What’d he want?"

"Says he wants a word."

Col glanced toward Ern.

The timing made sense.

The man inside had reached a decision.

"Start the loading. I’ll deal with it."

Ern dipped his chin and headed toward the logistics crew near the gate.

Moments later the first sounds of loading spread through the yard. Boots struck stone. A heavy crate scraped across the depot floor. Two soldiers shouted to each other about how to lift a load without spilling it.

Col headed for the barracks door.

Halm fell in behind him after two paces. Ric stepped aside from the entrance and took position a short distance back, pistol still in hand.

Col stopped at the timber barrier.

He didn’t knock.

If the captain wanted to talk, he could start.

The sounds beyond the door made the situation plain. More than a hundred men occupied a confined space. Movement. Breathing. Quiet voices. The occasional groan of timber carrying too much weight.

Then a voice came through the wood.

"Aldmar. I captain Bound Iron."

"Col."

Silence followed.

Col heard one man speaking to another somewhere deeper inside the building. Behind him, the first crate carrier crossed the yard toward the gate. The scrape and creak of the load carried clearly through the quiet.

Aldmar continued. "A hundred men can make breaking in bloody work. You know that."

"Aye."

He snorted, "You came in without warning. Half my men were asleep when it started. Usually a man gets terms before steel starts flying. Chance to surrender. You skipped that part."

"Bound Iron was holding a hostile position. We had orders."

"The lads who died in their beds didn’t know that."

Col flatly replied. "No, but they choose this line of work. A band of mercenaries cares not for laws or honor when they take a job. It’s only natural the same apply to them."

At the far end of the yard, the logistics crew called out a count to the wagon team. The words reached them in fragments.

Men working quickly.

Men who knew their jobs.

"Aye."

Just the one word.

No argument.

A soldier acknowledging a hard truth and moving on.

For a moment neither man spoke. Inside the barracks came the shift of boots across the floor. Timber creaked somewhere in the structure. A squad leader at the far end spoke quietly to the men around him.

Aldmar eventually continued, "Without that depot my men won’t have winter supplies. Mountain fort without provisions gets ugly fast."

"That’s your concern. The depot belongs to us."

The door shifted slightly in its frame. Pressure from inside pushed against the timber brace. It held.

A moment later the pressure eased.

"When your wagons roll out..."

The words trailed off.

Then came the question that mattered.

"What happens to my men?"

Col had expected it from the beginning.

The complaint about the assault. The issue of supplies. The tactical situation.

All of it led here.

What were a hundred armed men supposed to do inside a stone building for the next several hours, and what waited for them once the final wagon left the fort?

"We take the supplies and leave. The fort isn’t why we’re here."

A brief silence followed.

The loading operation had already reached the third crate. The relay line had found its rhythm. Light from the depot lamp stretched across the yard in a steady yellow band.

"And us?"

"I’ve got no orders concerning the garrison. You’re not my objective."

From deeper inside the barracks, the squad leader spoke again. Several sentences. Calm. Matter-of-fact.

The words passed toward the men nearest the door.

Perhaps Aldmar had issued instructions.

Perhaps the man had simply heard enough.

Col couldn’t tell.

After several seconds, the voice stopped.

"Right."

A pause.

"We’ll sort our own mess then."

That ended it.

Col heard the decision in the man’s tone. Aldmar had the information he needed. What he did with it now was his responsibility.

Col stepped away from the door and walked back toward the depot entrance.

He didn’t look back.

The loading operation had moved beyond its opening stage. Soldiers carried crates and sacks in a steady relay from the depot to the gate. Outside, the logistics crew had already filled the first wagon and shifted to the second.

Lamplight poured from the depot entrance, illuminating rows of supplies. Grain sacks stood stacked four high along the left side. Crates of salt and dried goods lined the rear wall.

This was the objective.

What the entire operation had been building toward since the objective had first been named.

Halm waited at the depot entrance when Col arrived.

"Six hours at this pace," he said. "Five if the lads stop dragging their feet."

"Make it five. Lean on them at the far end."

Halm nodded and headed off.

The eastern ridge above the pass had caught the first pale light of morning.

Through the open gate, the valley road was visible in the growing dawn. The wagon team waited below while logistics soldiers moved around the first loaded wagon.

Beyond them stretched the valley, opening toward the lowland route and the road back to Ashmark.

Behind him, the barracks door shifted once more in its frame.

Col turned slightly and listened.

The door settled.

Then stayed still.