"Worst table I’ve had since Ashmark," Cedd said.

He pressed the near corner with the heel of his hand. The left joint shifted slightly as new timber rubbed against old before easing back into place. The repair held, but only just.

He studied it a moment, then lifted his cup with the hand that still closed properly.

"Another deployment in a row I’m doing an after-action report over somebody else’s furniture."

They were in a town called Osford, in their local hall. The ceiling sat low overhead. The stone floor had been worn pale through the center by years of traffic. A lamp burned on a shelf against the far wall, and the fire had been going long enough to leave a thick bed of ash beneath it.

The table itself had been repaired at least twice.

Three cups sat on its surface, each roughly two-thirds empty. That told its own story. The meeting had gone on long enough that nobody cared about formality anymore.

Swen sat to Cedd’s left with both forearms resting on the table, hands wrapped around his cup. He watched the tabletop while he listened. Weeks as the highest authority in the area had left habits behind. Even here, with no immediate threat, some part of him stayed alert.

Col sat opposite Cedd.

"We hit the two camps," Cedd said. "Eleven wounded. Nobody dead."

He set down his cup.

"After the first camp fell, we had twenty-one prisoners."

His hand remained beside the cup.

"I had them executed in the field."

Outside, a patrol completed the turn onto Osford’s main road. Boots struck stone in a steady rhythm before fading toward the eastern road.

Swen picked up the report.

"Fifteen camps across the foothills sweep. Nine wounded. No dead."

He rolled the cup between his hands.

"About three hundred mercenaries spread across all fifteen camps. Maybe two hundred stayed to fight. The rest decided they’d rather be somewhere else."

The cup stopped turning.

"The soldiers started calling us the Roughnecks. Said we weren’t fighting a campaign, but flushing rabbits out of holes."

One corner of his mouth twitched.

"They weren’t wrong."

"We assaulted the fort," Col said. "Two dead."

He waited while Cedd topped off his cup.

"The garrison locked themselves inside the barracks until after we pulled out."

Cedd looked across at him.

"Fighting inside a fort is a different kind of problem."

"No volley distance inside a building."

Swen grunted in agreement.

"We had men run from every camp we hit. Didn’t take a single prisoner."

His eyes stayed on the table.

"Different situation."

The lamp burned steadily. The fire settled lower. Outside, the patrol reached the eastern road, their footsteps fading into a distant percussion against stone.

Cedd folded his good arm across his chest.

"Against men sleeping in tents before dawn, the Sceotan was damn near perfect."

He considered the result.

"One volley. After that, most survivors were already deciding whether to run before we crossed the distance."

He lifted his cup.

"Then it was just cleanup."

His gaze drifted downward.

"One man in the first camp looked up when the shots hit. Thought thunder was coming."

A brief pause.

"He was still staring at the sky when the smoke rolled over him."

Swen snorted quietly.

"We put squads above the valley camps and had them shoot downhill from multiple sides."

He shook his head.

"Men heard the disturbance below and moved toward it. Took a volley in the back before they even knew where we were."

A faint smile appeared.

"Worked either way."

"In a passage three feet wide, the volley stops any vanguard," Col said.

He slowly turned his cup.

"The men behind them don’t stop."

The cup continued rotating.

"They climb over the bodies and keep coming."

His hand stilled.

"Twenty shots into the passage. Both flanks covered."

He released the cup.

"The lead mercenaries dropped. Blood everywhere. Bodies piled across the entrance."

His expression never changed.

"The men behind them climbed over their own dead and came forward anyway."

He paused.

"Sigg held the right flank gap when they broke through."

The room went quiet.

"Two-handed longsword through the base of his neck. Cut deep enough that he was dead before he hit the floor."

Nobody spoke.

Cedd reached for the bottle and refilled his cup without looking.

Swen studied the surface of his own.

The lamp hissed softly as the wick burned through the tallow. The fire answered with an occasional pop from settling wood.

Only after the silence had stretched did Swen speak.

"What’d you do on the reload? Three-foot passage. Bodies underfoot. Men still pushing."

"There is no reloading."

Col took a drink.

"Used the saber after that."

Swen nodded once.

The motion suggested he was filing the lesson away.

Then he lifted his cup.

"Earnmere. Ealdswick. Fenwold."

The settlements needed no introduction.

"All three had contracts with camps we cleared. Monster clearance. Road security. Nest work before planting season."

The cup rested in his hand for a moment.

"That service doesn’t exist anymore because the contractors are dead."

He glanced between the other two men.

"The nests won’t care about the schedule we kept."

"Ashmark’s patrol coverage doesn’t reach those roads," Cedd said. "Not with the men they have."

"Then somebody needs to tell Godric before reports start climbing the chain."

Swen looked up.

"I’m calling it a logistics issue."

His tone remained practical.

"I need to know how bad it is before I file it."

The conversation lingered there briefly. The campaign had removed a threat. That did not mean it had removed every consequence.

Cedd looked toward Col.

"That fort of yours, the survivors now know about the weapons, the volley tactics we use."

He let the thought sit.

"That knowledge goes wherever they’re hired next."

"I know."

Col’s answer came immediately.

"The mission was the supplies."

"The next operation in those hills gets harder because of it."

"No argument there."

Cedd nodded.

"Just something worth writing down before it becomes somebody else’s surprise."

"It’s the prince problem now."

One corner of Cedd’s mouth twitched.

He drank.

Nothing more needed saying.

The table accepted the statement and held it.

After a while the discussion drifted toward future operations. That was what all three of them did. A fact had been acknowledged. No useful action remained. The work continued.

"Hypothetically," Cedd started. "What would you do if a civilian latched at you to protection?"

Col frowned.

The question seemed to come from nowhere, but only at first glance. Campaigns ended. Refugees, dependents, and stragglers tended to appear afterward.

"Bring them to the city and let the administration sort it out. It’s their responsibility then."

"Right."

Cedd stopped there.

Swen picked up the opening before the silence could settle.

"It’s an entire merchant convoy we have out there. Enough to match even one large guild. Should be enough to remedy Ashmark’s situation a little."

A small shrug.

"I suppose it is the steward problem."

"This settlement needs a garrison company."

Col glanced toward the door.

"Which means one of us gets thrown back into rotation before we’re done recovering."

"Take it to Godric."

Outside, the patrol completed the eastern turn and returned along the main road.

The footsteps remained steady.

Nobody spoke until they passed.

"Two weeks ago I was the highest authority within three miles," Cedd said.

He studied his cup.

"Now I’m waiting to find out which one of us gets handed the miserable job."

"Welcome back."

Swen pushed away from the table and stood.

He was the youngest of the three. It showed only there, in the lack of hesitation older soldiers developed after sitting too long.

The reports had been discussed. The dead counted. The likely problems identified. There was not much left except waiting for orders from people farther up the chain.

He crossed the room and opened the door.

Settlement sounds flowed in immediately.

A soldier’s voice completed a handoff at the eastern corner.

Two men somewhere north carried on a conversation whose tone carried farther than the words.

At the main gate, metal fittings creaked as the watch changed shifts.

Cedd rose and joined him.

From the doorway they could see part of the road between two buildings.

A Grey Warden and a Roughneck stood together at a corner position.

The Grey Warden spoke with his arms folded.

The Roughneck watched the road while listening.

The posture was familiar.

Soldiers learned to do both when the land punished anyone who didn’t.

Farther down the street, where the main road met the eastern track, another Roughneck stood beside a Street Dog.

The Roughneck said something.

Checked the man’s reaction.

Turned back toward the road.

The Street Dog stopped walking and considered whatever had been said.

For a moment they both stared into the darkness at the same point.

Two men reaching the same conclusion.

No need to say it aloud.

"They’re already passing it around," Swen said.

"They always do."

Cedd leaned against the frame.

"Whether we’re there or not."

The Roughneck at the far corner said something else.

Short.

Dry.

Even from fifty yards away, the delivery was obvious.

The Street Dog let out a breath through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

Godmar.

Standing watch in a settlement that hadn’t belonged to the protectorate weeks earlier.

Talking to a soldier from another company.

Both men still learning the edges of a new rotation.

Both standing beneath the same cold foothills sky that had watched the campaign from beginning to end.

Along the sky above Osford, the horizon began to darken.

The light thinned.

Night was coming.

Col stepped into the doorway behind them and looked out across the street.