The ground beneath Swen’s chest and elbows still had the night’s frost an hour after sunrise. The cold had sunk deep enough that the weak autumn sun had not yet touched it.

He lay at the forward center of the company’s formation among scrub and broken foothill stone, letting his coat take the earth’s chill while his elbows worked against the rock until his weight spread evenly. Too much pressure in one place led to numbness. Numbness led to mistakes.

The oasis remained visible from here. That had been the requirement when he chose the position.

The spring water broke from a seam in the low ridge ahead, gathered in a natural basin, then ran south into the dry scrubland. The growth around it carried the only real color left in the season. Denser brush, darker texture. Enough difference to stand out from two hundred yards away.

Around that patch, six independent mercenary groups had positioned themselves by arrival order backed by whoever had enough men to hold what they claimed. The group nearest the water occupied its ground like veterans of the practice. The other groups took what remained.

Swen counted fires in four of the six camps. The other two sat behind the ridge, marked only by smoke lifting past the rock.

The morning routines had begun below. Men moved between tents with the slow pace of soldiers who had not yet received news important enough to change it.

He reviewed the plan again.

They would start with a volley at whatever range Osric’s mirror signal gave from the designated rock wall. Swen estimated they would be able to close up to fifty yards before anyone noticed their approach.

Six camps without a unified perimeter meant six separate watches, six separate habits.

The volley would strike multiple centers of activity at once.

Normally, attacking scattered positions created coordination problems. Here, rifles changed the equation. Before the defenders organized, the advance would already be on them.

Then phase two, push through the cluster with pistols and sabers. Keep squads moving instead of fully clearing each group.

He had given the phase eight minutes in his tent the previous night. Now, he was thinking back on it. The size of the camps confirmed the time would be roughly there.

The remaining mercenary groups beyond the foothills remained out of sight. Osric’s mapping marked multiple confirmed positions and a few possible between the mounds.

Swen had no visual confirmation from this position.

He checked whether the plan depended on having it.

It did not.

The premise was speed. The company had to reach each camp before riders or runners from the previous one could carry warning forward. If that worked at the oasis, the foothill layout favored them afterward. The distances between camps were shorter than the overland routes needed to warn them.

He had spent the most time thinking about ammunition between the assault and the first march.

The numbers still balanced.

No further adjustment required.

Twenty feet to his right, Aldwin rested with his Sceotan across his forearm. He had already carried the rifle long enough to stop noticing the habit.

"I count four fires from here. Should be six."

"The two behind the hills?"

The soldier beside him spat into the frost. "Late bastards for the water. Got shoved out wide."

"Which means they’re further away."

"Aye. Means they’re facin’ outward too."

Aldwin grunted and left it there.

Farther down the left flank, Godmar finally reached the thought he had been chewing on for the past several minutes.

He let out a dry breath through his nose. "More than a dozen camps in one morning. Anyone asks me later, I want it known this ain’t a military operation."

A few men smirked at that.

"Oh? Then what d’you call it?"

Godmar shifted his rifle under one arm. "Move, hit, move again. No stoppin’, no holdin’ ground. We ain’t soldiers today. We’re bloody kennel beasts drivin’ rabbits."

Three positions farther down the line, someone answered without looking up from the basin below.

"Not beasts. Roughnecks."

A short pause followed that.

The man scratched at his jaw with a gloved thumb.

"Dogs run prey down till it drops. Roughnecks flush bastards out, keep after ’em, keep movin’ till the work’s done."

Godmar considered it for a second, then gave a low chuckle.

"That’s better."

From the right, Aldwin spoke in the flat tone as before.

"Call us what you like. We don’t stop."

After that, nobody bothered saying the name again.

The soldier immediately to Swen’s left had found a pebble sometime during the wait and had been rolling it between two fingers. He stopped when movement stirred at the company’s far edge, created nothing, and faded back into still scrub.

"Twenty seconds."

The man beside him frowned.

"What?"

"After the volley. Twenty seconds before any poor bastard down there gets a weapon in hand."

A snort answered him.

"Cute. Fifteen."

"Fifteen, and the lads far away are already scramblin’ for crossbows."

"The lads far away are the late arrivals. We just went over that."

A short silence, then.

"Fifteen seconds and they’re still starin’ the wrong bloody direction. That’s the wager."

"What’re you puttin’ up?"

"Next week’s latrine duty."

"Done."

Swen heard the exchange and left it alone.

Godmar spoke one last time, quieter now.

"The bird came last night, aye? Cedd’s people were already in place?"

Aldwin replied

"Osric confirmed it, message came before midnight. Street Dogs are ready to bite."

"So we’re the ones keepin’ them waiting."

"We move on Osric’s signal, not Cedd’s clock."

"I know." Godmar adjusted the sling against his shoulder. "Just countin’ the pieces."

The flash came from the rock wall ahead and to the right.

One sharp second of morning light caught on mirror glass and returned directly to the company’s position.

Confirmation.

Osric had seen what he needed to see.

Swen exhaled.

He turned toward Aldwin.

"Pass the advance."

Aldwin handed the order to the captain beside him. The command moved down the formation, captain to captain, until it reached the far end.

A moment earlier the foothills had looked empty.

Then the empty foothills rose.

One hundred soldiers stood from broken ground in one motion. Morning light ran across rifle barrels as the company advanced toward the oasis at steady pace.

At the camp perimeter, a figure turned.

One arm lifted toward someone behind it.

Sixty yards.

At fifty, Swen raised his right fist.

The company halted.

One hundred rifles came to shoulder.

He counted to ten the way he verified every number, no compression, no extension, each second allowed its full measure.

At ten, he drove his fist forward.

One hundred rifles fired into the oasis.

The Roughnecks charged into the smoke.