The expedition had drawn close to the ruins of the outpost when the trouble began.

  A sudden shout echoed from the front of the caravan—followed by the sharp twang of bowstrings and the snarling growls of mounted riders. Orcish wolf-riders burst from the tree line, loosing a volley of crude javelins and arrows before pulling back, vanishing into the shadows of the forest as quickly as they’d come.

  The Ranger captain wasted no time, barking the order to give chase—but something in my gut twisted, a memory stirring from the lessons of my youth. A tactic I’d seen before.

  I rose from my seat, waving urgently to Sgt. Ironheart as he moved to follow the captain’s orders. “Hold!” I called out. “It’s a trick! The real attack is coming!”

  The words hung heavy in the air—and in that heartbeat of silence, the mood shifted. Around me, the scouts and laborers paused, gripping their weapons tighter as the unease rippled through the ranks.

  Tink was already atop the wagon, cocking her crossbow, a bag of grenades slung at her hip. The other gnomes, nimble and quick, scrambled onto their own wagons, readying their gear. Dwarves snapped to formation without hesitation, shields locking together as walls of iron and grit. Marksmen with long-guns and crossbows climbed up beside me, steady hands and sharper eyes trained on the treeline.

  My dire wolves, Nyx and Fang, bristled at my side, teeth bared, low growls vibrating deep in their chests.

  Sgt. Ironheart’s voice cut through the mounting tension. “Scouts, to cover! Shields up, lads—brace!”

  And then we heard it.

  The roar of a war horn, raw and savage, followed by the thunderous cry:

  “RAAAGHHH!!!”

  The orcs came screaming from the undergrowth—warriors clad in patchwork furs and hammered chainmail, their dire wolf mounts snarling beneath them. War axes and scimitars glinted in the dying light as they surged forward, eyes wild with bloodlust.

  The first line of orcs fell beneath a volley of lead and steel—gunshots cracked like thunder, bolts hummed through the air. Dire wolves yelped and collapsed mid-leap, bodies tumbling beneath the weight of their slain riders.

  Sgt. Ironheart’s voice boomed over the din of battle:

  “Khazgorim daz!”

  The dwarves standing shoulder-to-shoulder raised their pistols as one.

  “DAZ!” they answered in a thunderous chorus.

  “Karnak az Engrin!”

  The dwarves took careful aim, eyes cold, pistols trained on the charging enemy.

  “Thergel-ath!”

  “Khaz-karag!”

  The pistols roared, spitting flame and smoke. The front rank of orcs staggered and fell, caught in the deadly hail.

  “Skornar!” Ironheart bellowed.

  The dwarves holstered their pistols and tightened their shield wall, bracing for the inevitable impact.

  The enemy smashed against the dwarven line, howling, hacking, striking at the shields with reckless fury—but the wall held. Shields locked, boots planted firm into the earth. Orcish blades clanged off iron and steel as the dwarves stood resolute.

  Overhead, the first of the gnomish grenades flew—Tink and her engineers lobbing their deadly payloads into the clustered ranks of orcs.

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  BTOOOM! BTOOOM! BTOOOM!

  Explosions rocked the field, dirt and blood showering the battlefield as the raiders reeled from the blasts. Screams filled the air, panic rippling through the enemy ranks.

  Ironheart raised his voice again, sharp and commanding:

  “Mor’kaz Thrum!”

  The builders stepped forward—hauling strange, short-barreled guns with wide flared muzzles, like iron flowers bristling with menace.

  “Kaz’Mor!” the call came.

  At once, the shield wall dropped to one knee—and the builders fired.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  The blasts tore through the orcish lines, shredding bodies, blasting limbs from torsos. The lead wave of raiders simply disintegrated under the devastating volley.

  I stood rooted in place, staring at the raw power of these weapons. The carnage was absolute.

  Just as the raiders reeled from the last brutal blast of the builders’ thunder pipes, a hush seemed to fall over the battlefield—a calm before the next storm.

  Through the thinning smoke, the Ranger Captain strode forward, calm and deliberate, his polished breastplate catching the fading light. At his side, a line of Greybeards moved in step—old veterans of a dozen campaigns, their faces marked by the scars of battle and their braided beards streaked with silver. These were not fresh recruits or common soldiers. These were the Iron Oath-bearers, the oldest of the Rangers, sworn to stand where the fight was thickest.

  Without a word, they formed a line between the shield wall and the remnants of the orcish charge. Each moved with the slow, methodical precision of men who had done this a hundred times before. There was no panic in their eyes—only the steady burn of experience.

  In their hands were weapons unlike anything I’d ever seen: heavy, flared-barreled guns mounted atop axe hafts—the stock shaped not for bracing against the shoulder, but for cleaving bone. The Thunder Axes. Brutal instruments made for line-breakers, to blast and hack in the same breath.

  The Ranger Captain lifted two fingers—the silent command.

  In perfect unison, the Greybeards raised their guns.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  The volley roared like the gods' own fury, drowning out the screams of the dying. The front rank of orcs was torn to shreds, bodies flung backward by the sheer force of the blast.

  But the Greybeards did not pause to admire their handiwork.

  With a single practiced motion, they flipped their weapons, gripping the smoking barrels tight, presenting the heavy axe heads forward. Their boots planted, stances wide, they stood like stone, waiting.

  Waiting for the charge.

  Waiting to meet it, steel for steel, powder for blood.

  It was then, with the dwarven lines set like iron walls and the Greybeards standing ready, that Sgt. Ironheart raised his axe high and roared:

  “Drek’thul!”

  The dwarves rose as one, shields high, axes gleaming— the dwarves charging as one, their battle cry rolling like thunder through the valley.

  The orcs broke.

  Panicked cries and snarls filled the air as the raiders turned tail, only to find their retreat cut off by the returning rangers who had been chasing the decoy force.

  The ambush collapsed. In moments, the battlefield was ours.

  As the last cries faded and the smoke drifted low across the clearing, I took a moment to catch my breath. My pulse still hammered in my veins, the heat of battle not yet gone from my blood. Nearby, one of the builders leaned on his strange, short-barreled weapon—the thing still smoking from its last thunderous blast.

  Curiosity got the better of me.

  “Excuse me, friend,” I called out, wiping sweat and blood from my brow. “That gun of yours… I’ve never seen its like. What exactly is it?”

  The dwarf turned, flashing a broad, knowing grin beneath his soot-streaked beard.

  “Ah, so you’ve an eye for craftsmanship,” he rumbled, resting the weapon across his shoulder. “Donderbuis, we call it. Thunder pipe, in your tongue. A close-range beast—turns the enemy to paste before they ever touch the line.”

  He gave the barrel an affectionate thump. “Doesn’t shoot far, mind you—but up close? Nothing better. Fires a spread of shot, eight or nine bits of lead in a blast. Our hold militia favor them—and the cavalry, well, they carry the smaller Dragons for work on horseback.”

  My ears perked at the mention. “Dragons? You mean there’s a smaller-sized version?”

  “Aye.” The dwarf nodded, his grin widening. “Dragons, we call ’em. Short-barreled for cavalry. Light enough to fire from horseback—what your human dragoons use these days. Smaller bite, but still nasty as hell.”

  I scratched my chin, weighing his words. “Impressive. Think I might be able to get my hands on one?”

  The dwarf chuckled, clapping a solid hand onto my shoulder. “I’ll have a word with Ironheart. After what you did today, lad—you’ve more than earned one.”

  My gaze drifted toward the line of Greybeards nearby, their Donderbuis-Axes still resting across their shoulders. I gestured toward them.

  “And those? What about those brutes?”

  The dwarf followed my gaze, his grin turning a shade prouder.

  “Ah, the Thunder Axes. Favorite toy of the Greybeards,” he said, his voice carrying a note of respect. “Gun and blade, all in one. Close enough to make the gods flinch.”

  As the bodies were cleared and the wounded tended, my thoughts drifted to the days ahead. The fight for the outpost was far from over—and this had only been the first taste of what awaited us in these wild lands.

  But I stood with my comrades, steady and sure, ready to meet whatever the frontier had waiting for us.

  Donderbuis- which is a combination of donder, meaning "thunder", and buis, meaning "pipe". The blunderbuss is a firearm with a short, large caliber barrel which is flared at the muzzle and frequently throughout the entire bore, and used with shot and other projectiles of relevant quantity or caliber. The blunderbuss is commonly considered to be an early predecessor of the modern shotgun, with similar military and defensive use.

  Dragon- A blunderbuss in handgun form, and it is from this that the term dragoon evolved. A dragon is a shortened version of blunderbuss, a firearm with a short, large caliber barrel which is flared at the muzzle and frequently throughout the entire bore. Dragons were typically issued to dragoon cavalry, who needed a lightweight, easily handled firearm while mounted.

  Thunder Axe- a custom made Donderbuis (blunderbuss) with an Axe head under the stock.