The night was restless. Both Paul and Cassoway had been busy. Cassoway, much to Paul’s surprise, was able to make very large, albeit shallow pit falls. He even managed to cover them with a thin layer of stone that would hold at least a few elves before collapsing.

  Gibkin gathered what was left of the smiths and they took up what was left of the guns and gunpower. Paul noted that the weapon stores had been pilfered. Most likely the Detemri.

  Paul didn’t blame them, not really. If you were a noble and your only marketable skill was being related to someone who once owned a castle, you’d probably want to hoard as many thunder-makers as you could carry. It just meant they were down to whatever odds and ends had been left behind.

  They found a pile of boom sticks, enough powder to make maybe a couple dozen desperate shots with the cannons and guns alike.

  They had arranged the cannons behind the pit falls so that the halting line could be fired upon. Thankfully they probably would not have to cover every gate. At most three by Paul’s guess. From his vantage on the wall he would soon know if he was right.

  Just before the army came a horde of chariots. Atop them were spikes and on those spikes were impaled the bodies of fallen soldiers. At the head of the horde rode a lone elf on a horse. He had a long spear that he carried aloft. On its spike was the head of Elric. Many elves shouted and leered at the elf who held the head of the late steward. Some took ill advised shots at him. Paul tightened the grip on his rifle and took aim.

  He fired. A miss. He began reloading and the rider wheeled about on his horse. But not before Paul could take another shot.

  The second try he got him. The elf rolled over off the horse dropping the spear. What little relief it gave was soon squashed as he looked beyond the horde of chariots.

  From the walls, the world looked strangely peaceful. The river was black glass, barely touched by dawn. The fields outside the city were churned to hell, scarred by the last day’s bloodbath, but that didn’t stop the Hushites. They came in perfect lines, banners high, moving as if nothing in this world could stop them. Maybe nothing could.

  He leaned over the battlements. Below he saw the elves, manning their stations. The plan was in motion, the trap was set. Now all they had to do was let the enemy inside the gates. what a backwards thing to do, but it just might be their only hope.

  Long lines formed up outside the city walls. Many ladders and different other siege engines had been brought forward now that the cannons on the walls could no longer be fully manned.

  The enemy brought a battering ram to the gate, but before they could draw it back the gate was opened. This of course gave the legions outside pause. Then the fire. A great billowing of smoke and thunder erupted from inside the gates. Large balls of iron tore through the front lines, the second, the third.

  Elves scattered and sought cover. On the walls Paul gave the signal. Around twenty elves armed with boomsticks fired into the now crowding enemy. Their smaller ammunition was no less lethal or brutal. Paul took aim with his own rifle. This would be its first shot, it had better not be its last. With his luck recently it very well might be.

  He fired. the shot struck true and shattered the shield of the soldier below him. He ducked back down and reloaded. Below he saw the cannons reloading for a second, and final volley. This would be saved, as he still had twenty or so shots left for the rifle. They needed to make sure every flash of powder was used as best it could be. Paul ducked as a return volley of arrows hissed overhead, pinging hard off the stones. A few of the elves flinched, but none broke. He peered over the parapet just long enough to see the Hushite line reeling under the first blast from the cannons.

  The Hushites were shocked, but not for long. The officers barked their orders, waves of red-cloaked men surging forward, stumbling a little now, but still coming. Paul saw the battering ram abandoned where it lay, its bearers scattered or dead. The ones who survived pressed in, trying to scale the gatehouse with ladders. He spotted a pair of them make it up, only to be blown away by a boomstick at point-blank range.

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  The noise was unreal. Smoke and powder filled the gap in the wall, making it a nightmare to see or breathe. Paul squinted through the haze. His eyes stung and the breath in his lungs was thick with powder. He worked the rifle, hands steady despite the sweat, and lined up another shot. Below, the Hushites had gone mad. Officers shouted, pushing their men forward, but it was chaos. Bodies were already crumpling in the mud near the gate.

  Paul reloaded as fast as he could. Powder, ball, tamp. He risked a look down the wall.

  The pit traps are holding for now, the first line has made it about half way across. any moment it should fall.

  It did, the second and third line that had made it in were too much weight. Over the din of many elves yelling and screaming you could hear the cracking of stone. There was a loud crash followed by a horrible wailing as elves were impaled, crushed, or both. Paul felt a twinge of guilt and regret. It was unfortunate to have to go to these lengths. He squashed that feeling down, and took aim once more.

  Bang!

  He struck the elf farthest up on the ladder closest to him. He fell and took some of his comrades down with him as he did. Below was a massacre. Immediately after the pit collapsed the second volley came. It tore them asunder once more and this time it was enough. They were driven back and away from the wall more than half of them had been slaughtered. There was a moment where nobody moved. Paul’s ears were still ringing from the cannon, and the air over the pit was a muddy soup of smoke and screaming. He ducked below the edge of the parapet, his hands shaking as he rammed another ball down the barrel. There was blood on his clothes, though whether it was his or the enemy’s, he couldn’t say.

  They were not fully broken, no they had only decided not to use the gate. They attempted to scale the walls. Ladder upon ladder was leaned against it and the defenders scrambled to push them down or to take aim at the poor bastards below.

  It was as Paul lined up another shot that he realized something. Armor, these ones had more armor and they moved differently than the first waves. He took a second to glance at the bodies below. They were clad in cloth with wooden shields and a spear. They were the fodder.

  Paul's spine was ice. A cold sweat soaked him. Only now the true army had come. They had expected resistance, of course they had. Now the enemy was scaling the walls in too great of a number. He heard the call for retreat off the walls. They didn't have the elves to hold them any longer.

  The defenders quickly made their way down and gathered with the rest of the elves. Dropping caltrops all the way down. They made themselves ready and began to crowd the stairs with many spears. Paul retrieved his own long pole of a weapon. The familiar grip made the fluttering of his heart soften, only a little.

  The armored elves came rampaging down the stairs. A litany of screams rang out as the first down found the sharp stars. A few came crumbling down and were swiftly skewered on spear or sword before they could rise. The next wave came down and had trouble scrambling over the bodies. Soon the exit from the walls was clogged with bleeding and broken bodies.

  They spilled out and the muddy earth was churned under foot as the defenders ran to the other exits to block them much the same.

  Paul found himself bracing his spear along the front line of the newest doorway. A Hushite came screaming out of the exit and ran himself through on Paul's weapon. He felt the sudden shock as the now dead elf dragged his spear down into the ground as the elf fell.

  He tried to pull free as more and more of the armored elves poured out. But now they were on even ground, and the choke was behind them. Without these advantages it became horrifyingly clear who was the better at even combat. Baragrudian elves were cut down all around Paul as he struggled to free his weapon.

  One of the screaming Hushites charged him, yelling in his strange guttural tongue. Paul had only a moment, he used the shaft of the spear to block the first blow of the elves sword.

  The spear was cleaved in two and Paul stumbled back reaching for his sword. He thought better of this, and instead pulled his rifle free from its strap. The elf brought his sword high, its curved blade caught the sun and for but a moment it appeared to be engulfed in fire.

  Paul fired. The shot pierced the chest piece of the elf and collapsed in an instant. Sprawling over Paul. He had to push the dead body off of himself. He nearly vomited once more, but could not. If not because his life depended on it, then because there was nothing in him to expel.

  He climbed to his feet. It was utter chaos. Wanihndrê and soldiers alike screamed and yelled as they were put to the sword. The Hushites pushed forward and began to form themselves up near the exits. Making neat battle lines. Even Paul could tell these elves were trained and hardened warriors.

  He looked around himself. He saw Gibkin and the smiths packing a cannon with loose iron and other odds and ends. Grapeshot. That would have been helpful. He pushed the intrusive thoughts aside. This was no time.

  The cannon was wheeled about, and aimed almost directly at Paul. They couldn't see him. He was covered in gore and mud so he looked unrecognizable.

  Then he heard Gibkin.

  “Fire!”

  A loud booming. Paul dropped himself to the ground and laid as flat as he could. He heard the shrapnel whizzing overhead and for a moment thought perhaps this is the end. Then he opened his eyes. His face was covered in the bloody mud. He rose once more and began to run towards the elves as they reloaded.

  Gibkin saw him now.

  The elves finished reloading just as Paul made it to them.

  “Lads and I had a bright idea eh? Hah! These damned Hushites won't kill me! Fire!” Cried Gibkin.

  The cannon roared. Paul looked around. They had emptied their own gunpowder for the boomsticks into the cannon for these last two precious shots. Paul watched the devastation that the cannon wrought upon the enemy. Many of the Hushites' lines were blown away or simply dropped where they had stood. But it was not enough. The retreat was called, they would fall back to castle Barrus.