A few hours later, the convoy of shadows came to a halt deep in enemy territory.
Derek crouched at the treeline with his men spread out behind him, all of them cloaked in the dark, watching the camp below.
Tents clustered around a dying central fire. A handful of guards loitered near the entrance, slack-shouldered and bored, passing something between them that was probably not water.
Derek's eyes moved over the whole of it, slowly, marking every tent, every gap, every shadow that could hide a blade.
Listen well, he said into the wide mind-link, his voice cold and clear in every skull. We move in four units. Declan, you take the eastern flank, push them toward the centre. Bruce, your men hold the western treeline; nothing gets out on your side, not a wolf, not a rabbit. Marcus, your unit circles to the rear and cuts off the escape route along the stream. My unit takes the front gate.
