The fourth volley came down just as the previous three had. Rifle shots dropped into the valley from two directions at once, tearing through the camp floor from both sides and turning it into a kill zone the mercenaries could not answer.
Men near the fire had already gone down during the earlier volleys, some sprawled in the dirt with blood soaking into their clothes while others lay twisted beside overturned crates and split cookpots. Blood stained the ground around the camp center and the crossbow posts along the uphill perimeter. Nothing returned fire from below now.
During the first two exchanges the crossbowmen had tried shooting uphill, but their bolts had fallen twenty or thirty yards short of either ridge. By the third volley they had understood the situation and stopped wasting shots. The fourth volley killed whatever hope they still had left.
