The rhythmic clash of melodies between the dwarves and the goblins rang throughout the night, each side expressing their resolve through their unique music. As the songs of war echoed around the valley, the two forces continued their preparations for the coming battle. Despite the tension in the air, the melody managed to create an almost surreal calm.

  In the heart of the fort, the enchanters gathered. Their conversation was muted compared to the melodies outside, but there was an undercurrent of excitement. Enchanter Erevan led the discussion, walking between the rows of enchanters as he outlined their role in the upcoming battle.

  "Our duty is to fortify the walls with enchantments, and to provide support during the battle," he said, waving a hand over a table filled with scrolls and crystals. "We must also be prepared to fight, should the goblins breach the walls."

  The enchanters nodded, their expressions grave. The responsibility of their roles was not lost on them, but they were confident in their ability to uphold their duties. Erevan's words only strengthened their determination.

  As the enchanters split into smaller groups to discuss their strategies, Leandra found herself examining the rings given to her by Garrok. The rings were heavy and cool, marked with a strange glyph-like pattern she had never seen before. She rolled them between her fingers, allowing herself a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship before slipping them on.

  The moment she did, she could feel a magical connection with them. A spark ignited between the rings as they came into contact, making her eyes widen in surprise. She snapped the rings together again, watching as the spark turned into a small flame. A smile spread across her face as she realized the practicality of the gift. These rings could help her in battle.

  With her spirits raised, Leandra moved to join the other enchanters. Their duties were heavy, but the defenders of the fort were prepared to give their all to defend it, to face the enemy and emerge victorious.

  Meanwhile, in the fort’s smithy, Garrok, Tink, and the other smiths were hard at work, preparing the last of the weapons and ammunition for the defenders. The sound of hammering echoed throughout the workshop, punctuated by the rhythmic beat of the war songs outside. Sparks flew as Garrok brought his hammer down on a piece of metal, the glow from the forge painting his face in a warm light.

  Despite the impending battle, there was a sense of calm focus among the defenders. They took turns to sing along with the music, their voices joining the symphony of defiance that filled the valley. The music, combined with the steady rhythm of their work, created a harmonious atmosphere that was both comforting and empowering.

  Outside the fort, the goblins watched as the dwarves continued their musical defiance. The Kapudan Pasha stood silently, observing the fort with a calculating gaze. He seemed unperturbed by the display, his mind focused on the battle to come. He had dealt with defiant enemies before, but he had to admit that the dwarves were unlike any he had encountered. Their music and their spirit were admirable, but he was not deterred. The goblins were prepared, and with the dawn, the real battle would begin.

  As the first rays of the morning sun began to illuminate the valley, the dwarves and the goblins stood ready. The music had ceased, replaced by an anticipatory silence. The calm before the storm. The defenders of the fort were prepared, their weapons ready, their enchantments cast, their spirit unyielding.

  The battle was about to begin.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  From the ramparts, Captain Torvald Firebeard surveyed the goblin formation below. His eyes narrowed as the goblins began rolling forward several bronze 3-pounder siege guns. “It seems they’ll be sending the big guns first,” he muttered.

  Sgt. Ironheart, peering through a scope, grunted. “Aye, those would be the saka guns we’ve heard about.” He pointed to a block of heavily armored soldiers forming behind the artillery. “And those bastards behind them—they’re Hobs.”

  Firebeard’s jaw clenched. He raised his spyglass and saw them clearly: Hobgoblins—broad-shouldered and standing nearly as tall as a man, dressed in polished chainmail and wielding thick, stubby firearms that looked more like clubs than guns.

  “Filthy spawn,” he growled under his breath. “Let the bastards get close.”

  As the goblin crews began preparing the 3-pounders, the artillery captain’s barked commands echoed across the field:

  “N?bet Eyle!” (Be ready!)

  “Doldur!” (Load!)

  “Dolduruldu!” (Loaded!)

  “Ni?an Al!” (Take aim!)

  Inside the fort, enchanters braced with hands pressed against the runed stone walls.

  “Ate?!” (Fire!)

  The enemy cannons barked. Bronze balls screamed through the air—and bounced harmlessly off the fortified walls, their impact deflected by layered dwarven masonry and fresh enchantments.

  Frustration etched itself across the Pasha’s face. “Advance the Hobs! Fire the saka!” he commanded.

  The hobgoblins surged forward and took formation. Rows of kneeling and standing soldiers raised their fearsome guns and let loose a coordinated volley. Unlike the siege balls, many of these struck the parapets, sending bursts of dust and debris across the walls. A few rounds soared overhead, shattering rooftops and sending splinters flying. The enchantments held—but only just. A few enchanters collapsed from magical exhaustion as the barrage continued.

  For over an hour, the goblins cycled volleys—alternating between the 3-pounders and the saka gunners.

  The Pasha’s scouts reported no counterfire. “They’re not firing back,” he mused aloud. “Move the hafif top closer—but keep them just out of tüfenk range.”

  Sgt. Ironheart grinned as the 3-pounders crept forward, now within long rifle range. “They think we can’t reach ‘em,” he said. “They don’t know about the Thundravirs.”

  Captain Firebeard nodded slowly. “Have the rangers aim for the front lines. The siege guns target the rear. And the twelve-pounders…” He paused, “Keep them hidden. They’re for later. I want that to be our surprise.”

  Ironheart’s eyes lit up with approval. “Aye, sir. Let’s give them a greeting they won’t forget.”

  As the hobgoblins advanced in support of the repositioned cannons, Firebeard gave the signal:

  “Khazgorim daz!” (Dwarves ready.)

  Gunports opened along the gun towers. Long-barreled rifles peeked from the crenellations. Garrok, now beside the siege crews, nodded grimly.

  “Thergel-ath!” (Give fire.)

  The thunder of dwarven firepower exploded across the walls. The front ranks of the hobgoblins disintegrated under the hail of rifle and cannon shot. Limbs and armor scattered. Some rounds ricocheted from shield to skull. Behind them, the 6-pounder rounds tore through the second and third ranks like scythes.

  Several cannonballs struck the goblins’ own artillery line, smashing wheels and crews alike. The battlefield turned chaotic.

  “NOW! UNLEASH THE GUARD!” Firebeard shouted.

  The gates burst open.

  Black-armored dwarves of the Mountain Guard poured out, their fury unchecked. Among them were spear-bearing Knurlafn, their faces grim with purpose. They surged around hidden fladdermines and trap markers, charging straight into the broken hobgoblin formation.

  The melee was brutal and brief. For each fallen dwarf, a dozen hobgoblins died. Laborers followed behind, dragging away captured saka and 3-pounder guns. What couldn’t be moved was smashed beyond repair.

  The moment the last hobgoblin fell, the dwarves withdrew, bloodied but triumphant.

  Inside the goblin camp, the Kapudan Pasha’s gaze remained stony. But his silence hid a roiling storm of rage.

  “A minor setback,” he said. “Tomorrow, we continue.”

  He turned to a Janissary captain. “Bring the remaining hafif top forward. The disposables will lead the next wave.”

  Then, his voice lowered.

  “And for each surviving artillery crew,” he added coldly, “one man will be beaten to death by his comrades. Publicly.”

  He strode away.

  “And bring my slaves,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ve stress to relieve.”