Even Gods Must Fall - Christian Warren Freed Page 0,109

by a score of voices ranged along the lines. Dwarves tensed with anticipation. Breaths were short, ragged. The moment had at last arrived.

“FIRE!”

Thunder erupted as the mighty Dwarven cannon batteries unleashed their fury. Flames belched from the cannon mouths. Projectiles screamed across the sky and struck with such vehemence the Goblin lines threatened to break. Bodies were obliterated. Earthworks were tossed into the air like rubble. The ground became drenched with blood. Cries of agony spread among the defenders.

There would be no respite for the Goblins, however, as Dwarves diligently reloaded and took aim again. Acting with drilled precision, the cannon crews were reloaded and ready to fire within less than a minute. Battery commanders again issued the command to fire. Death spit at the Goblins. Acrid smoke clung to the air, sealing the cannons within a miasmic cloud. A few Dwarves coughed but soldiered on. War drums beat a fearsome tune for the Dwarves reviled in killing their most hated foe.

The barrage continued for close to an hour. Elevation was adjusted to provide extra distance with each salvo once Dwarven spotters confirmed the front lines were all but devastated. Successive explosions had tossed debris and bodies well in front of the trenches. Hundreds of Goblins died in that first hour, less than hoped for but enough to bolster the spirits of the allied army.

Thord watched his cannon batteries execute his will with a grin. Killing Goblins was honorable and this day would see his legacy cemented for generations to come. His fingers flexed on his axe handle. Rage filled his veins. The Dwarf Lord was more than ready to lead the charge into glorious battle, but that was the old way. Gunpowder changed the way his clans went to war. So many of the enemy was dead, broken before his musketeers stepped off the line.

Despite their technological advances, Thord found the use of projectile weapons dishonorable. He was a Dwarf and expected to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Anything less was unworthy, until now. The vast amount of enemy soldiers awaiting them demanded the vehemence of his cannons. Promise held Thord to task. He knew that no Goblin would ever again willingly face his people in battle.

“General Brug, sound the advance. The time has come to show our Goblin kin the full truth of our wrath,” he ordered.

The black-bearded Brug snarled in reply. Fetishes decorated his plaited beard. War paint darkened his face. A hooked axe blade stuck up over his right shoulder. A pair of pistols were holstered around his waist and the long musket in his hands whispered danger.

“Today we will have vengeance for our brothers lost on the banks of the river,” Brug announced for all those close enough to hear.

Dwarves cheered, the memory of the brutal yet short battle along the banks of the Thorn River when the army of Drimmen Delf first began to march west still close to their hearts. One hundred Dwarves and several Elves had given their lives to slow the Goblin advance. Today that sacrifice would be repaid in kind. Thord slapped Brug on the shoulder and nodded, adding his own bellowing voice to the thunder spreading across his army. Brug turned to take his place among the musket battalions.

According to the battle plan the Dwarf musketeers would advance and engage the enemy with a devastating wall of fire. Krek’s Minotaurs would follow. In theory the lines would break and Bahr’s team would be able to enter Arlevon Gale. Thord and Brug both knew that no true battle plan survived first contact. He hadn’t gotten an accurate count of enemy casualties since the bombardment began, a troubling fact but not one capable of halting the attack. Even as he watched his ranks form Thord knew that his Wolfsreik counterparts were already engaging the Goblins with catapult and scorpion fire. Confused by the dual assaults, the Goblins were ripe to fall.

The Dwarf Lord couldn’t help but feel unnecessary, however. The days when kings were expected to lead their armies into battle were drawing to a close. This was the hour for generals and heroes to emerge. He could do no more than stand by and watch. Frustration boiled across his face as he watched Brug point towards the trumpeter. A single horn announced the charge.

Brug primed his musket and stepped off, marching in step with a thousand other Dwarves in four ranks. Standard firing procedures called for the first rank to kneel and both the first and second ranks to fire simultaneously.