Troopers along the top of the valley provided a thick covering fire for their comrades sweeping forward below. As always, the Gilmorn gathered his stalwarts together in a tall fortresslike outcrop of rock. They still had their ordinary pistols and fired ruthlessly at the advancing troopers. Concealment made it hard for anyone to return fire with any accuracy. Argian hurried forward to assist the troopers closing in on the outcrop.

Edeard arrived at the head of the valley and dismounted. He refused to rush forward even though it was what everyone was expecting. His farsight observed troopers rounding up the bandits who had surrendered and isolating the few who still resisted. Then it was just the Gilmorn and his cadre left offering resistance. Dinlay and Larose moved the militiamen forward cautiously; men wriggled on their bellies along small clefts in the land and dashed between convenient boulders. Within ten minutes, the Gilmorn was completely surrounded.

As Edeard made his way along the stony floor of the valley, he passed groups of smiling troopers hauling their captives along. Several were men from the tribes that lived in the wildlands: beyond Rulan’s boundaries. They were just as he’d encountered them all those years ago on the caravan back from Witham: ringlet hair and bare chests caked in dark mud that was flaking off. They glanced at the Waterwalker with sullen expressions, their minds tightly shielded. In all the clashes over the last few years, Edeard had never seen one of them wielding a rapid-fire gun; those weapons were possessed by the Gilmorn’s people alone. He halted one of the tribesmen escorted by five wary troopers, a man he guessed to be in his late fifties though with none of a city dweller’s laxness about him; he had pale gray eyes that glared out of a face that displayed all the anger and defiance his mind refused to show.

“Why?” Edeard asked simply. “Why did you join them?”

“They are strong. We benefit.”

“How? How do you benefit?”

The older tribesman gave Edeard a superior snort. He gestured around the grasslands. “You are gone. Even now you will never return. This land will be ours.”

“All right, I can see that. I can even understand how the killing and destruction becomes a perverted addiction for some of you. But why these lands? There are lands unclaimed to the west. Land with forests and herds to hunt. No one even knows how much land. Why ours? You don’t farm. You don’t live in stone houses.”

“Because you have it,” the tribesman said simply.

Edeard stared at him, knowing he’d never get a better answer. Nor a more honest one, he thought. He was looking for complexity and purpose where there was none. It was the Gilmorn and his kind, the remnants of Owain’s ruthless One Nation followers, who had intent. The tribesmen were simply useful innocents who’d been duped into an allegiance they had never fully comprehended.

He dismissed the escort with a curt wave of his hand, and the tribesman was dragged off to the jail pens that were being established up on the grasslands.

“We should get down there,” Marcol said eagerly. The young man’s farsight was sweeping over the fortress outcrop, exposing the concealed bandits with ease.

Edeard did his best not to grin. Marcol’s psychic abilities had developed considerably since the day of banishment, almost as much as his sense of duty. He was a devoted constable and utterly loyal to the Grand Council, yet there was still some of the old Sampalok street boy in there. He was spoiling to join the fight.

“Let the militias have their moment of glory,” Edeard said quietly. “This has been a hard campaign. They deserve to be the ones ending it all.” That was true enough. For eight months the forces of city and countryside had been allied, chasing the Gilmorn and his remaining supporters across the provinces farther and farther to the west until finally there was nowhere left to run.

“Politics,” Felax said with a disgusted grunt.

“You’re learning,” Edeard said. “Besides, you two have nothing to prove, not after Overton Falls. I heard the daughters of those caravan families made their appreciation clear enough.”

The two young constables looked at each other and shared a knowing smirk.

Down by the outcrop, Larose’s longtalk was delivering a sharp ultimatum to the Gilmorn. They were outnumbered fifty to one and completely surrounded. They had no food. Their ammunition was almost gone. There was no help coming.

Edeard wasn’t convinced that was quite the right thing to point out to a merciless fanatic like the Gilmorn, though in truth, they’d never reached this point of the assault before, so he didn’t know what would work.

They carried on down the valley, passing several dead fastfoxes and ge-wolves. Edeard tried not to grimace at the brutally torn flesh of the animals. Argian was sitting on a moss-covered boulder where the valley opened out, quietly munching on a red apple. Several squads of militia were milling around, also wanting in on the finale. Their corporals and sergeants were having a hard time keeping them in line. Everyone quieted down as Edeard appeared.

“Will he surrender?” Edeard asked.

Argian shrugged and bit down hard. “He has nothing to lose. Who knows what he’s thinking?”

“I see. Well, fortunately, we can wait. For as long as it takes.”

“Ah,” Marcol exclaimed. “They’re arguing.”

Argian gave the young constable a searching stare, then turned his attention to the outcrop. There was indeed an argument spilling out from the jagged rocks, a loud one, full of anger. Two men were confronting the Gilmorn, telling him they were walking out to surrender to the militia. Edeard’s farsight showed him the men turning away. The Gilmorn lifted his pistol and brought it up to point at the back of one man’s head. Edeard’s third hand slipped out and twisted the firing pin, bending it slightly out of alignment. The Gilmorn pulled the trigger. There was a metallic click. The bullet didn’t fire.

Marcol cleared his throat in a very pointed fashion.

Another argument broke out, even more heated than the first. Fists were swung. Third hands attempted to heartsqueeze. Men started wrestling.

Larose gave the order to combine shields and move in.

Two minutes later it was all over.

There were militiamen perched on top of the rocky pinnacles, cheering wildly and waving beer bottles above their heads. Whole regiments were spilling over the site of the last fight, singing and embracing their comrades. Edeard couldn’t help but smile as he walked among them, taking the occasional swig from a proffered bottle, shaking hands, hugging older friends exuberantly. They were glad to see the Waterwalker, who had led the campaign, but they were prouder that they’d won the final battle themselves.

Colonel Larose had established his camp on the far side of the fortress outcrop. Carts were drawn up in a large circle; long rows of tents were laid out, ready to be put up. A big open-sided canvas marquee had already been raised, with the cooks preparing a meal inside. Smoke from the cooking fires was starting to saturate the still air. At the center of the camp, the field headquarters tent was a drab khaki, guarded by alert senior troopers and a pack of ge-hounds. Orderlies and runners were skipping in and out. Eleven regimental flags fluttered weakly on top of their poles outside, representing the finest of city and country.

The guards saluted Edeard as he went inside. Larose was sitting behind the wooden trestle table that served as his desk while a flock of adjutants hovered around with requests and queries. His drab green field uniform jacket was open to the waist, revealing a stained gray shirt. Senior officers were clustered at a long bench with all the administrative paraphernalia necessary to move and orchestrate such a large body of men. Even though it had been only a couple of hours since victory, orders and reports had begun to pile up. Larose stood and embraced Edeard warmly.