Varo had been watching the road since the squad took position.
His men lay spread in a line twelve meters back from the edge of the path. Far enough into the autumn foliage that the forest broke up their silhouettes. Close enough that a rifle shot fired from here would hit anything man-sized moving along the worn earth below.
He had chosen the placement himself when they reached the place. He and Brek had walked opposite sides of the track, counting distance, considering sightlines.
The position needed two things at once, concealment and a clear field of fire. Too deep in the trees and they would lose visibility. Too shallow and the enemy would catch movement before the volley.
The kill zone lay where both firing fields crossed. Four meters of packed earth. Any hostile force moving through that stretch would take fire from both sides at once.
Sounds from camp one had been carrying through the valley ever since the assault started.
The first crack of gunfire had reached them clearly. After that came the lower, uneven percussion of pistol fire.
The attack was progressing. Even at this distance, the rhythm of the fight made that plain.
One of the soldiers two positions to Varo's left whispered while they waited.
"Bloody hell. Sounds like they're havin' all the fun without us."
"Keep your damn voice down."
The man snorted softly. "Half a valley's crackin' off and that's what worries you? Come on then, who're we hidin' from now?"
Nobody answered.
The question was reasonable.
Varo kept his attention on the far bend where the track curved around the slope and vanished from sight. The enemy still had scouts somewhere in the area, and discipline mattered more before contact than after it.
Movement appeared a moment later.
Men rounded the bend at a run. Some had managed full gear. Others looked half-dressed, weapons hauled on in haste. Many carried crossbows slung across their backs while others already had weapons in hand.
More shadows kept spilling out behind the lead group as the force drove toward the kill zone.
Varo counted automatically.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
He stopped at sixty.
More were probably still coming.
He turned toward the soldiers around him.
"Raise your rifle with both hands. Hold until you see confirmation from the other side."
The soldier lifted the Sceotan overhead, just high enough for the barrel to show through the foliage.
Three seconds later, a figure rose briefly across the track, then dropped back into cover.
Brek's squad was in position.
"Their vanguard will reach the large birch tree in approximately forty seconds."
Varo said quietly, loud enough for his own squad to hear but not enough to carry across the track.
During setup he had chosen the birch himself as the firing marker. It stood near the edge of the kill zone and was impossible to mistake.
"Once the the vanguard is well through it, we fire."
He brought the Sceotan to his shoulder and waited.
The mercenary force advanced fast.
Their captain was near the front, though not at the absolute lead. A careless officer would have put himself at the tip of the formation. This one knew better.
The captain shouted something ahead.
The lead ranks widened slightly, spreading from a compressed column into a broader front as they approached the kill zone. Professional instinct. The man clearly did not know what he was walking into, but he understood the danger of bunching troops inside unfamiliar terrain.
The vanguard of the formation passed the large birch tree.
Varo fired.
His squad fired with him.
Across the track, Brek's squad discharged at the same instant, and the road exploded with the overlapping crack of twenty rifles firing from opposing sides.
The vanguard ranks ran straight into both volleys.
A man on the left side of the formation took a shot through the chest.
He dropped immediately.
The soldier beside him took a hit through the back of his right shoulder. The exit wound tore open the front of his coat.
He spun once and collapsed face-first onto the track.
Two men near the center took hits from opposite sides in the same second.
One sat down hard in the middle of the road, both hands pressed against his stomach, staring at the blood coating his fingers as though trying to understand what had happened.
The other pitched forward without even trying to break the fall.
On the right side of the mercenary force, a crossbowman had just started bringing up his weapon when a round from smashed through both the stock and his forearm.
Wood burst apart.
His arm folded in a direction arms were not meant to bend.
His scream carried across the forest.
The survivors of the first volley scattered toward both sides.
Then several of them stopped almost immediately.
Understanding hit them nearly as fast as the rifle fire.
Both sides were occupied.
There was no safe direction.
Three men halted before entering the brush. One made it into the undergrowth before he realized the shape of the ambush.
A soldier two positions down from Varo dealt with the contact without needing orders, the saber cutting cleanly though the man's chest.
From the confusion on the track, the captain's voice cut through the noise.
"Both sides!"
His control held despite the chaos. "Fire's comin' from both sides o' the track! Off the open ground! On me, north trees. Not that patch, you idiots, the stretch behind us!"
He had understood the trap quickly.
The surviving response force reorganized roughly twenty meters behind the kill zone where the north trees remained clear. At the captain's direction, crossbowmen moved forward.
"I count two nests, one each side! Ten, maybe fifteen a side!" One mercenary shouted.
The captain took in the estimate. The road. The dead in the kill zone. The occupied forest on both sides.
"We hit both at once."
Not a suggestion. A decision already made. "Else we're pinned here while the bastards bleed us dry from cover."
He gave them barely a heartbeat.
"Move, damn you!"
The response force split immediately and charged both sides at once.
Varo began reloading while he watched the distance close.
Powder first.
Then patch and ball.
The ramrod slid down the Sceotan's grooves with the same resistance as always. The weapon did not care about urgency. Its loading cycle stayed constant no matter how badly a man needed the next shot.
He seated the ball, pulled the rod free, primed the pan, and locked the frizzen into place.
The group charging their position had already crossed half the distance from their reorganization point.
Varo checked along his squad's line.
Four still reloading.
Six finished.
"With me."
Six rifles rose against the hostile force.
When the charge closed into effective range, near enough that a shot fired flat would still carry through clustered bodies with force enough to matter.
Varo fired.
Five rifles discharged with him.
The remaining four shots followed in staggered sequence as reloads completed. The last two came almost five seconds later.
Not a true volley, but close enough to keep pressure on them.
A man running at full speed does not stop the instant a rifle shot enters his torso. Momentum carries the body through another stride before pain or shock fully catches up.
One soldier at the front of the charge took a shot through the right lung and still managed two more strides before his body failed.
His momentum carried him sideways into the man directly behind him.
Both crashed to the ground.
Another took a shot through the thigh.
His leg collapsed mid-stride and he drove face-first into the autumn earth, sliding several feet before stopping.
He tried to force himself upright again.
The leg refused to answer.
The front of the assault broke apart under the second volley.
Survivors remained, though fewer now.
They had still closed to within their position.
Varo slung the Sceotan across his back.
One pistol came into his right hand.
The saber followed into his left.
Alongside him, ten soldiers made the transition almost together.
Across the track, Brek's second volley had fired seconds earlier. The rhythm differed from their exchange, altered slightly by range and target movement, but the volley remained close enough that both enemy assault groups were still under pressure.
The distance between them had dropped and was still shrinking.
Varo looked across his squad.
Pistols ready.
Men steady.
Ammunition limited.
Two pistol shots each.
More than enough.
