As Brelan's order to evacuate spread, the force began to leave, moving out in small groups or singly. They took their own wounded, but by necessity left their dead.

Stryke, Haskeer and Coilla watched them go. Dallog, the Wolverines' eldest member, and one of the newest, joined them.

"We bloodied their nose good 'n' proper," he remarked.

Stryke nodded. "We did, Corporal."

Haskeer shot Dallog a hard look and said nothing.

"The tyros are shaping up well," Coilla offered by way of compensation.

"Seem to be," Dallog replied. "I'm heading off with some of them now."

"Don't let us keep you," Haskeer muttered.

Dallog stared at him for a second, then turned and left.

"See you back at HQ!" Coilla called after him.

"Go easy on him, Haskeer," Stryke said. "I know he's not Alfray but — "

"Yeah, he's not Alfray. More's the pity."

Stryke would have had something further to say to his sergeant, and in harsher terms, had Brelan not returned.

"Most have gone. You get going too. Hide your weapons, and remember the curfew starts soon, so don't linger." He jogged away.

Their target had been well chosen. Being comparatively small, the garrison was a mite easier to overcome than some of its better manned counterparts would have been. And its location, just beyond the outskirts of Taress city, meant it was conveniently isolated. Not that they could afford to ignore caution. There were likely to be patrols in the area, and reinforcements could be quickly summoned.

Outside the fort's broken gates the last of the raiders were scattering. Donning various disguises, they left in wagons, on horses and, mostly, by foot. The majority would head for Taress, taking different routes, and melt into the capital's labyrinthine back streets.