The dawn was a mix of red and orange hues, the sky a silent canvas awash with the ominous colors of impending war. Birds that usually celebrated the arrival of the new day remained ominously silent, their instincts alert to the brewing storm.

  Captain Torvald Firebeard, stationed atop the watchtower, saw them first—a massive horde of goblins, armed with imposing siege guns, advancing like a malevolent tide over the land. Their previous attack had been but a foretaste of the onslaught now imminent.

  He blew into the horn, its mournful cry echoing throughout the fort. "To your positions!" he bellowed.

  His command galvanized the fort into a whirlwind of activity. Soldiers rushed to fortify the walls, smiths and engineers hastily loaded the newly repaired and modified siege weapons, and enchanters began chanting, invoking the fort’s protective enchantments.

  Leandra and Erevan took their positions together, readying themselves to unleash their potent spells. Their combined magical prowess would prove crucial in repelling the assault. As they prepared, Leandra noticed Erevan’s distant gaze fixed on the horizon.

  "You've seen something like this before, haven't you?" she asked softly.

  Erevan’s expression darkened. "Aye. The siege of Stonehold." His voice was low, touched by grim memory. "But Stonehold had no guns then. No siege cannons, no rifles. Only stone walls, steel blades, and stubborn hearts. We held the line for months, hammer and shield against wave after wave. And now… here we stand again, but with powder and shot at our side."

  He looked at the reinforced walls, at the rune lines glowing faintly beneath their hands. "These guns, these runes—they are our strength. But never forget, it is the will of those who hold the line that decides the battle. Not the steel alone."

  Leandra nodded solemnly, feeling the weight of his words settle over her like a mantle.

  The first salvo from the goblin 3-pounders thundered across the battlefield, sending shockwaves reverberating through the fort. However, the walls, strengthened with fresh enchantments and the resolve of the defenders, held firm against the onslaught.

  Engvyr, Garrok, and Tink had done their work exceptionally well. The few three-pounders they had managed to repair and modify in time retaliated with a furious barrage, causing devastation within the goblin ranks. Witnessing the lethal effectiveness of their efforts, they hurriedly returned to their work, modifying the remaining salvaged 3-pounders and the saka guns.

  X---X

  From his vantage point atop the fort’s walls, Captain Torvald Firebeard watched as a chilling spectacle unfolded before him. The Kapudan Pasha, an ominous silhouette against the distant horizon, sat atop his mount, calmly pointing and issuing orders.

  Suddenly, the goblin 3-pounders ceased their relentless assault. Instead, a throng of ragged figures was forced forward from the rear of the goblin lines. Torvald's keen dwarven vision discerned the terrified faces of captured slaves—dwarves, humans, and elves—their despair mirrored by the disposable goblins accompanying them. Each of them was burdened with large bundles of dry grass and reeds.

  The realization of the goblins' heinous strategy hit Torvald like a punch to the gut. His blood boiled in his veins, his grip on the rampart's edge tightened until his knuckles turned white. The goblins were using the captives to fill the moat, disregarding their lives as mere expendable resources.

  An outraged murmur spread among the defenders as the horror of what they were witnessing set in. Guns were lowered, siege weapons fell silent, and even the rhythmic chant of the enchanters faltered. The use of slaves as sacrificial lambs was a deplorable tactic that repulsed every defender on the walls.

  Torvald’s voice echoed like a thunderclap over the stunned silence. "Hold your fire!" he commanded. His orders hung heavy in the air, filled with shared disgust and reluctant obedience.

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  The goblin’s tactics were cunning and inhumane; forcing slaves and prisoners to fill the moat was but a stroke of malevolence in their twisted strategy. But as the mass of shackled innocents neared the fort, an unforeseen layer of the defense revealed itself, forgotten in the heat of the initial confrontation.

  A series of deafening explosions punctuated the tense silence. Plumes of dirt and smoke erupted from the ground, taking with them any unfortunate soul who happened to be on top. Screams of terror rippled through the air as prisoners and goblins alike met a grisly end. The gnome-crafted landmines were claiming their due.

  The defenders atop the wall exchanged horrified glances. The intention behind the landmines had been to hinder the goblin forces, but the goblins' ruthless strategy of using slaves and prisoners as cannon fodder had turned the fort's defenses against the innocent.

  Goblin commanders, upon realizing the new threat, began pushing more prisoners forward, using them as shields against the hidden threat. Their cruel laughter echoed across the battlefield, mingling with the screams of terror from the poor souls who were forced into the deadly minefield.

  As the unfortunate slaves reached the moat, they began to unload their burdens, the dry grass and reeds falling into the depths, slowly but steadily filling it. More terrified prisoners were shoved forward by the goblins, their cruel laughter carrying across the battlefield like a mockery of the sanctity of life.

  Torvald watched as the captives worked under the looming threat of goblin weapons, their every move reflecting sheer fear and despair. A bitter taste welled up in his mouth. This wasn't warfare; it was a planned massacre.

  Finally, when the moat began to noticeably fill, he gave the order he had prayed he wouldn’t have to. His voice was filled with a cocktail of regret and raw fury. "Fire."

  The previously quiet battlefield was shattered by the deafening roar of guns. As the smoke cleared, the sight of the fallen weighed heavily on everyone’s hearts. It was a painful victory, but a necessary one.

  Grim determination etched on his face, Torvald turned back to the battlefield. "Ready yourselves," he said, his voice reverberating across the ramparts. "This battle is far from over."

  X---X

  The grim echoes of the volley faded into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling flames consuming the reeds and the soft groans of the dying below. The defenders stood along the parapets, many gripping their weapons so tightly their knuckles blanched. A few lowered their heads, silently mourning the price of their defense.

  But there was no time for grief.

  The Kapudan Pasha remained atop his black charger, expressionless, as if the horror below meant nothing. With a slow, deliberate wave of his hand, the next phase of the assault began. More siege crews scrambled to bring up additional three-pounders, pushing them closer, while lines of disposable goblins surged forward, carrying additional bundles of reeds to continue the grim work.

  "Reload!" Captain Firebeard's voice cracked through the haze of smoke and sorrow, snapping his troops back to purpose. The dwarven gunners worked swiftly, ramming powder and shot into the waiting barrels, their motions fueled by rage.

  But Torvald’s sharp eye remained on the enemy’s lines, watching as the goblins prepared to repeat the atrocity.

  “Sgt. Ironheart, keep the six-pounders ready,” he ordered. “But hold the twelve-pounders back. I want the Pasha to remain ignorant of our best bite. Those guns stay silent until I give the word.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Ironheart nodded grimly. “We’ll save that thunder for when it’s needed most.”

  Above the din of the field, the chant of the enchanters rose again. Erevan, his face lined with weariness but eyes burning with grim purpose, worked beside Leandra as they reinforced the battered rune lines along the walls. Leandra, still flushed from the earlier exertion, snapped Garrok's spark-rings together, igniting another flare that fed into their spellwork.

  “They’re bringing more reeds,” she hissed, fury plain in her voice.

  “They’ll burn all the same,” Erevan answered. “We’ll see to it.”

  Down in the moat, the terrified captives hesitated, many trembling as they dropped their burdens. Some tried to pull back, but the cruel lashes of goblin taskmasters forced them forward. More screams. More desperate sobs.

  Torvald’s jaw clenched as his gaze fell upon the pitiful scene. “Not this time,” he growled.

  “Enchanters, on my mark!” he roared, and Leandra and Erevan responded, their hands weaving fire through the air.

  “Now.”

  A wave of flame roared from the ramparts, leaping down into the half-filled moat where the bundles of dry grass had accumulated. The fire took greedily, racing across the moat like a living beast. The shrieks of the goblin taskmasters turned to howls of panic as the flames claimed both slave and slaver alike.

  The goblin lines broke, their disposable troops scattering in panic as the inferno devoured the killing field they had so callously created.

  But there would be no respite. In the confusion, the fort's defenders unleashed another barrage, raining death on the scrambling goblins. Lead and iron sang through the smoke-choked air, striking down goblins as they fled, burning and screaming.

  The flames reflected in Torvald’s eyes as he watched the field become a charnel pit of ash and blood. The weight of the choice sat heavy upon his chest, but his voice remained steady.

  "Ready the walls. This was only the first wave."

  The goblins might have sent slaves and disposables ahead—but the true fight had yet to begin.