Smoke from a hundred rifles still hung over the oasis when Swen reached the edge of the camp. The ground rose unevenly beneath him, forcing him to judge each step before he committed his weight. He kept his pistol forward and moved through the haze at a steady run.

The first volley had done its work. Now they needed to finish the camp before the defenders reorganized.

The smoke thinned as the company crossed into the tents.

The group closest to the water had absorbed the worst of the rifle fire. Three men were already down within a few yards of the pool.

One lay face-first in the dirt. The exit wound between his shoulder showed the shot had passed through at nearly full force, dark blood spreading steadily through the cloth around it.

Another man lay on his side with both hands pressed against what remained of his face. The shot had entered through the left cheek. The rest of the damage explained itself.

The third had taken a shattered femur. The shot had broken the bone and driven fragments through the leg, folding the knee sideways in a direction the body could not support. The man was still alive. The cries coming from him failed to become more than raw noise.

The middle sections of the camp had dissolved into confusion. Men stumbled between tents trying to decide whether to fight or flee. Some reached for weapons. Others had already chosen the foothills near the oasis and were running for it.

One man had been loading a crate when the volley hit. He was on his knees now, staring at his hands as though his mind still had not caught up with what had happened.

A soldier reached him to end his suffering.

At the far edge of the oasis, beyond the last row of tents, two of the six mercenary groups had managed to organize. Swen saw crossbows rising into firing position.

"Far row, left," Aldwin called from Swen’s right flank.

"Far row, right," another soldier answered from the opposite side.

The surviving mercenaries had found each other in the back section of the camp. That gave them cohesion, and cohesion made them dangerous. If the advance stalled there, the rest of the camp might recover enough to turn into a prolonged fight.

"Squads four and five, far row left. Six and seven, far row right."

The squads adjusted course immediately. Nobody wasted time discussing it. They had drilled this kind of split response too many times for that.

A crossbow bolt snapped out from the position and struck a soldier through the left forearm. Its tip pressed visibly against the skin as the arm lost strength and the soldier’s grip failed at once.

The nearest soldier reacted before Swen had time to bark orders.

Knife out.

Blade against the raised skin.

Push through.

The bolt completed its path through the arm instead of remaining lodged inside it. The soldier tore cloth from the field kit, packed both wounds, then cinched the forearm tight with cord from the strap.

"Still got the pistol." The wounded man checked his right hand through clenched teeth.

"Rear o’ the push. Stay upright."

Swen had already moved past him. The wound would not kill the man immediately.

Two more bolts came from the far row before the four squads closed inside effective reload distance. The crossbowmen were firing in sequence rather than together, trying to keep constant pressure while some reloaded.

A sensible tactic if the attackers hesitated.

The soldiers did not hesitate.

"Steady!" the mercenary at the far left shouted. "Hold your ground, hold-"

A soldier fired his pistol from eight feet away into a man reloading a crossbow. At that distance the shot did not leave a narrow wound. The crossbowman folded forward instantly and became a gory mess.

"Right side’s breakin’!" Godmar shouted from the flank of the engagement.

"Close the right."

Three soldiers from squad six moved before the order had fully left Swen’s mouth. They sealed the far end of the tent row, cutting off the breach the mercenaries had spotted. The attempted assault collapsed against the prepared defense without ceremony.

"Far row’s down!" Aldwin called.

That ended the last organized resistance in the oasis.

The remaining mercenaries made their own decisions after that. Some dropped weapons immediately. Most ran.

The soldiers let them go.

There was no pursuit order, and Swen made sure of it. Chasing scattered individuals into broken foothill terrain would fracture the company’s formation before the larger operation was finished. The camps ahead mattered more than isolated stragglers.

Osric stood near the basin with his record book already open.

"Flag the supply row for logistics," Swen shouted. "Don’t move anything."

"Already mapped."

"Move with the company."

"Aye, I know."

Godmar fell into step beside Swen as the company re-formed at the northern edge of the oasis.

His voice came out dryly, "Four camps and not one o’ the bastards could decide whose fight this was. Every lot treated its own patch like a separate war."

He glanced back toward the camp.

"Good order on our side. Embarrassin’ on theirs."

Then he paused.

"This stops bein’ this easy soon."

"Keep moving." Swen ordered.

They crossed the ridge.

The first camp beyond the hill mound had received roughly four minutes of warning. Swen judged that from the distance covered from the oasis. Four minutes gave men enough time to recognize danger. It did not give them enough time to build a proper defense.

There were twenty-three mercenaries in the camp. About fifteen were trying to reach a natural stone outcrop when the soldiers came down the slope toward them.

Swen halted the company at ninety yards. The stone position was the only terrain feature that could slow the attack. He assigned five squads to pin it with rifle fire while the remaining five closed distance.

The concentrated fire made the rocks useless almost immediately. Men behind cover started shifting position instead of aiming carefully.

The advance soldiers crossed the remaining ground before the defenders recovered.