The dense forest, typically a haven of serenity, erupted into violent commotion. From its shadowed confines, a caravan of covered wagons burst forth at breakneck speed, wheels rattling and hooves drumming a frantic rhythm against the earth. Close behind them, goblin scouts—sent earlier to investigate the disturbance—gave fierce pursuit, their guttural cries mingling with the rising thrum of the forest.

  Beneath the wagons’ canvas covers, rifle barrels jutted out like fangs. Each crack of gunfire brought down a scout or their mount, transforming the chase into a deadly gauntlet. Yet the closer the wagons drew to the goblin encampment, the more their targets shifted. What had been a scene of morning routine—cooking fires, idle chatter, the clink of armor—erupted into chaos as well-aimed shots felled unsuspecting goblins where they stood.

  "DURMAK! DURMAK!!!" (STOP! STOP!!!) The Kapudan Pasha's commanding voice sliced through the mayhem. "Onlar? takip etmeyin!” (Do not chase them!)

  But his command fell on deaf ears. Greed, hotter than fear, overpowered discipline. Dozens of corsairs, seduced by visions of plunder, surged forward in pursuit—drawn like moths to the flame of the baited wagons.

  Inside the fort, behind sturdy wooden walls, Captain Torvald Firebeard watched the unfolding scene through a spyglass. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

  “They’ve taken the bait,” he murmured. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

  At his signal, a wave of readiness rippled through the defenders. Horns sounded. Orders flew from officer to squad. Soldiers snapped to attention along the battlements, fingers tightening on spear shafts and rifle triggers. Redoubts and sandbag positions, meticulously prepared for this moment, swarmed with activity. Enchanters deepened their chants, weaving protective spells into the air like an unseen net. Gun crews stood poised, loading powder and shot into the fort’s waiting siege guns.

  Nearby, Leandra perched astride Aether, her regal Pegasus. She took a long, steadying breath, the wind tousling her hair, the weight of coming violence settling on her shoulders. With her bow in hand and the bombs Garrok had crafted resting at her side, she waited—an angel of retribution poised on silver wings.

  The first wave of goblins reached the open fields between the camp and the fortress walls. In that moment, the trap was sprung.

  A storm of firepower roared from the ramparts. Thundravirs, rifled long guns, and wall-mounted cannons unleashed a brutal barrage, cutting down the front ranks in an instant. The goblins who pressed on stumbled blindly into the hidden landmines laid beneath the misty earth—each detonation tearing bodies and soil alike into the air in gruesome bursts of flame and smoke.

  In the midst of the slaughter, the next phase of the plan clicked into place. One wagon, lurching across the drawbridge, “broke down” spectacularly as planned—its wheel splintering beneath its load, the heavy frame skewing sideways to block the gate and prevent the raising of the drawbridge.

  The riders, having played their part, threw themselves from the stalled wagon and sprinted for the sanctuary of the fort.

  Spotting the jammed gate, the goblin mob surged forward, sensing opportunity where there was only doom.

  From his vantage, the Pasha lowered his looking glass, a crooked smile curling across his lips. "Hamdolsun. ?ans?m yüzüme gülüyor." (Praise be. Fortune smiles upon me.)

  With an eager, hungry gleam in his eye, he raised his hand and gave the order, his voice laced with glee:

  "Sald?r?! Sald?r?! Kap?lara sald?r?n!!!"

  (Attack! Attack! Charge the gates!)

  X---X

  Within the fort's towering Gun Towers, the 6-pounders stood ready — monstrous cannons, masterpieces of dwarven engineering, their barrels dark and patient as they awaited the signal. When the order came, they answered with thunder. The first salvo roared out, sending explosive shells into the advancing goblin ranks. Bodies were hurled skyward in grotesque arcs, war cries cut short by the concussive force.

  Hidden landmines, veiled beneath the morning mist, added to the carnage. One after another, the charges erupted beneath the charging goblins’ feet, blasting limbs and earth alike into the air. The fort’s wall guns followed, barking in disciplined rhythm. Their heavy rounds burst on impact, shredding clustered goblins with lethal shrapnel.

  The abandoned wagons had done their work well. The goblins, frantic and greedy, swarmed the wreckage, only to be funneled into a killing ground before the fort’s gates. Many fell into the moats, impaled on cruel stakes, while those who reached the breach were met by an unrelenting hail of gunfire and crossbow bolts from the walls above.

  Inside the fort, every defense had been set with grim care. Earthen redoubts and towering sandbag walls narrowed the field, channeling the attackers into perfect lines of fire. Behind these barricades, the Mountain Guard held their ground. Their blackened armor glinted in the early sun, spears braced and ready, their disciplined ranks standing unyielding against the coming storm.

  X---X

  Then came the low rumble of the 12-pounders rolling into position.

  The ground seemed to hold its breath. Captain Firebeard raised his fist, then dropped it with a shout: “BARAZ KHAZAD!” ("Unleash the fury!")

  The blast that followed was apocalyptic.

  The great 12-pounders roared, their devastating shots tearing through entire ranks of the horde. Shield walls crumpled. Hobgoblins were eviscerated where they stood, the sheer force of the blasts ripping gaps into the packed goblin advance. Smoke billowed, dirt and blood churned into the air. From his distant vantage, the Kapudan Pasha’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing as he witnessed the slaughter unfold.

  X---X

  On the flanks, the elven archers began their silent work. Cloaked in mist and illusion, their forms shimmered like ghosts between the trees. Magic bent the light around them, hiding their positions even as they loosed arrow after arrow into the enemy ranks.

  Their arrows fell like silent rain — swift, merciless, precise. Each shaft struck true, slipping between armor plates, felling goblin after goblin with surgical precision. The goblins, unable to see their tormentors, howled in frustration and fear. Their battle cry of "Talan ve Ya?ma!" (Pillage and Plunder!) began to falter, their momentum staggered as the unseen fangs of the elves bit deep into their ranks.

  X---X

  The first wave of the goblins finally reached the obstacles, but the worst was yet to come.

  Sgt. Ironheart raised his voice over the growing din, his command booming across the lines:

  “D?rinzil Azgar!” (Mountain Guard!)

  “Khazgorim daz!” (Dwarves Ready!) came the resounding reply.

  “Karnak az Engrin!” (Point the Spears!)

  With precision born of centuries of warfare, the shield bearers knelt behind the sandbags, bracing their heavy shields, each line prepared to take the place of the one before it as exhaustion claimed them. Behind them, the Knurlafn spearmaidens leveled their long spears over the shoulders of the shield wall, forming a deadly hedge of steel awaiting the charge.

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  Behind the spear wall, the defenders stood ready: rangers with rifles, Mountain Guard Thundraveers cradling their Thundravir guns, Wheelbarrow gun crews at their posts, gnome engineers cocking their repeater crossbows, camp followers and laborers gripping Thunder pipes and grenades. At the center, Garrok and Tink stood side by side, sharing a brief, fierce kiss before they took their positions, custom rifles steady in their hands.

  Sgt. Ironheart's final order rang out like a hammer on anvil:

  “Azgar vurnim!” (Unleash Hell!)

  And Hell was unleashed.

  A rolling wave of gunfire, crossbow bolts, grenades, and cannon blasts tore into the goblin front lines. The repeating twang of the gnomish crossbows wove between the sharper cracks of rifles and the deep booms of the Thundravirs. The Wheelbarrow guns thundered, their shots shredding flesh and splintering bone, while grenades arced overhead, erupting amid the clustered ranks of the enemy.

  Amidst this symphony of destruction, Garrok and Tink fired shot after shot, their weapons singing death into the horde. The goblins rushed forward, blind with fervor — but found only death waiting for them.

  A hailstorm of death fell upon the horde. The goblins surged forward with blind fervor — but met only steel, powder, and ruin.

  Yet the goblins were not so easily broken. In spite of the slaughter, they pressed on with suicidal determination, their sheer numbers piling high the wall of their own dead. Inch by blood-soaked inch, they clawed closer to the redoubt.

  From his vantage atop the defenses, Sgt. Ironheart’s brow furrowed, concern creasing his weathered face. Striding toward Captain Firebeard, he raised his voice above the cacophony of battle.

  “Captain!” he bellowed. “The horde draws near—and our ammunition runs low! We need time to resupply. We must act now!”

  Firebeard’s expression hardened, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. He gave a grim nod. “Sound the horns. Prepare the next phase.”

  The clarion call echoed through the fortress, sharp and clear. Along the ramparts, defenders began a controlled withdrawal, shifting their lines, abandoning outer positions to bolster the redoubt. From the skies, Leandra wheeled Aether eastward, her silhouette briefly framed against the rising sun like some avenging spirit.

  Below, the goblins roared louder, mistaking the maneuver for weakness. Their frenzy redoubled. Their cries of victory filled the air, drowning out the dying groans of their fallen.

  Far behind the lines, the Pasha’s face broke into a broad grin as he watched the defenders retreat. “Pack my things,” he commanded, dreaming already of the spoils to come. “Tonight, we dine in the Fort.”

  With renewed fury, the goblins crashed against the spear wall. The Knurlafn spearmaidens met them head-on, thrusting with brutal precision. Goblins impaled themselves on the first rank of spears, only to be skewered again by the second and third. Some fell with multiple shafts driven through their bodies, snarling even as they died.

  But numbers alone can be a siege weapon. For every goblin that fell, two more pressed forward, their weight and madness grinding down the line. Those who reached the sandbags clawed and scrabbled their way over, only to meet the crushing blows of the shield bearers, who smashed skulls and drove blades into exposed flesh.

  Yet despite every effort, the pressure mounted. The line wavered.

  Unseen by the horde, deep beneath the field, the miners moved quickly through the dark. They lit the fuses on the shaped charges — gnome-crafted demolitions designed to direct their explosive fury forward, straight into the killing ground before the gates. The backblast might collapse the tunnels behind them, but the miners were already racing back, collapsing the shafts in their wake, securing the fort’s stability even as the clock ticked down.

  Above ground, the goblins clawed ever closer, their eyes alight with madness, their twisted minds fixed on the Knurlafn beyond the shield wall. The scent of blood and the sight of the spearmaidens only fed their frenzy.

  Captain Firebeard’s eyes widened as he saw the pressure threatening to break the line. “PLUG THAT GAP!” he roared, voice like thunder above the din. “We need more time!”

  Garrok didn’t hesitate. A sharp whistle cut through the air, calling his dire wolves to his side, their hackles raised, teeth bared.

  “Hold this,” he grunted, shoving his rifle into Tink’s arms.

  “What in the hells do you think you’re doing, you big lug?!” Tink snapped, her voice breaking between fury and fear.

  Garrok flashed her a crooked grin. “Buying time. Don’t wait on me.”

  Without another word, he vaulted over the sandbags, double-barrel and hatchet in hand, wolves leaping after him.

  “You’re insane!” Tink shouted after him — but he was already in the thick of it.

  Garrok landed hard, crushing a goblin beneath his boots. His double-barrel roared twice — BOOM! BOOM! — dropping several more. Spinning the weapon in his hands, he clubbed the next goblin square in the skull before dodging a blade-thrust and hacking down with his hatchet, severing the attacker’s arm.

  A whirlwind of violence, Garrok carved a bloody path through the enemy ranks, his wolves tearing down any goblins who dared flank him. Back at the redoubt, Tink cursed furiously, racking her rifle and firing shot after shot, desperately trying to cover him.

  “Of all the thick-skulled, reckless—” she hissed, slamming another round into the chamber. “When I get my hands on you, I swear I’ll—”

  Twhap!

  Her rifle clicked dry.

  “Oh, not now!” she groaned, fumbling for her tools, cursing under her breath as she worked to clear the jam. Watching Garrok and the wolves slowly being overwhelmed, she shot a hand toward the breach, shouting:

  “Someone get down there and help him!”

  Several nearby dwarves, seeing her frantic gesture, leapt into action. Dropping their long guns, they drew pistols and axes and vaulted over the barricades, charging into the fight.

  Tink’s hands flew to her head. "I didn’t mean like that, you bearded idiots!" she hissed, but the dwarves were already swinging steel beside Garrok, pistols cracking, blades flashing.

  Garrok grunted approval as the reinforcements joined him, reloading his double-barrel with calm efficiency amid the chaos. Might have to start charging for lessons, he mused grimly. The Garrok School of Idiotic Bravery.

  Together, Garrok, his wolves, and the bold dwarves pushed back the tide, stemming the goblin surge — if only for a little while longer.

  The gap held for now.

  X---X

  The detonation was apocalyptic.

  The ground convulsed as the shaped charges erupted, funneling their destructive force outward with terrifying precision. The concussive blast sent goblins skyward like rag dolls, limbs flailing, screams ripped from their throats before they were silenced by the shockwave. Even the stoutest defenders staggered, many forced to their knees beneath the violent tremor.

  A choking haze rolled across the field, thick with smoke and dust, painting the world in shades of ashen gray. Vision blurred. Ears rang. The air itself seemed to shudder.

  Beyond the crater, the goblin camp reeled. Tremors knocked warriors off their feet, toppling tents, shattering carts. Shards of debris rained down across the encampment, sowing confusion and panic in equal measure.

  From within the protective knot of his bodyguards, the Kapudan Pasha emerged, his face flushed with excitement. Surveying the devastation through his brass spyglass, he mistook the crater's carnage for catastrophe within the fort’s walls.

  “Their powder magazines must have gone up!” he declared, triumphant. His grin widened, predatory. “To the fort! Seize it while they’re broken! Victory is ours! Talan ve Ya?ma!!!” (Pillage and Plunder!)

  His cry echoed through the ranks, igniting the bloodlust of his warriors.

  X---X

  The smoke still hung low as the defenders scrambled behind their walls, tending the wounded, reloading weapons, and fortifying their positions. But outside the fortress, the goblin horde wasted no time.

  Regiments reformed with ruthless efficiency. War drums resumed their steady, pulsing rhythm—the heartbeat of the advancing army. They gathered at the ready, their lines swelling with reinforcements: expendables in the vanguard, followed by the grim hobgoblins and the disciplined Janizary.

  At the rear, the Pasha remained astride his warhorse, surrounded by his elite guard. He barked orders sharply, sending his reserves forward. Trumpets blared the signal for the final assault.

  Ahead of the line, the expendables sprinted, screaming their war cries with manic fervor, their wild pace setting the charge. Behind them, the hobgoblins marched in lockstep, iron discipline in their stride, and close on their heels came the Janizary—veterans hardened by countless campaigns.

  Their chant filled the air like a curse:

  “Talan ve Ya?ma! Talan ve Ya?ma! Talan ve Ya?ma!”

  (Pillage and Plunder!)

  Their voices rose as one, the chant hammering forward, a tide of hatred and hunger. Many eyes among them gleamed with vicious anticipation. They knew there were women among the defenders. They ran not only to conquer—but to take.

  But in their blind rush, they did not see the true danger ahead.

  Through the thick haze, the crater yawned before them—a vast, jagged maw carved into the earth by dwarven cunning. Entire ranks sprinted directly into the abyss, falling by the dozens, the weight of the oncoming horde forcing more bodies into the pit in a chaotic, screaming pile.

  The cries of “Talan ve Ya?ma” wavered, stumbled, then broke entirely as confusion swept through the front ranks.

  X---X

  Behind the redoubts, the defenders waited—primed and ready.

  And when the goblins tumbled into the trap, the dwarves unleashed their fury.

  The thunder of gunfire roared from the battlements. Crossbow bolts hissed down in deadly streams, finding soft targets in the mass of tangled bodies. Grenades arced into the pit, the sharp crack of their blasts ripping through flesh and bone. The siege guns and wheelbarrow guns opened up at near point-blank range, their concussive fire shaking the earth beneath them.

  Wave after wave of destruction hammered the goblin ranks. Still, more came on—those in the rear, unaware of the slaughter ahead, driven by the pounding drums and the call of the Pasha’s horns.

  They saw only the haze. They heard only the call to plunder. They could not yet grasp that they were marching into a grave.

  The defenders held the line. The trap had been sprung.

  And death was waiting.

  Siege of Drogheda during the Cromwellian Conquest of Ireland. During the Siege of Drogheda in 1649, one of the key defensive tactics employed by the Royalist defenders was to create a redoubt (a small defensive fortification) behind a gap in the walls to lure the attacking Parliamentary forces, commanded by Oliver Cromwell, into a strategically advantageous position known as a "killing field." This tactic is known as a "false breach" or a "trap." Behind the gap in the walls, the defenders constructed a well-fortified redoubt. This redoubt was positioned in such a way that it was hidden from the view of the enemy commanders outside the walls.

  Battle of the Crater during the American Civil War. The Battle of the Crater was a particularly unique and tragic episode during the American Civil War, fought on July 30, 1864, as a part of the Siege of Petersburg in Virginia. Union forces, under the command of General Ambrose Burnside, were trying to break Confederate lines at Petersburg. An idea was proposed by Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pleasants of the 48th Pennsylvania Infantry, many of whom were coal miners, to dig a tunnel under the Confederate line and detonate a massive charge of gunpowder. On the morning of July 30, after weeks of digging, the mine was detonated. The explosion was immense, creating a crater about 170 feet long, 60 to 80 feet wide, and 30 feet deep. It instantly killed around 250-350 Confederate soldiers. Instead of moving around the crater, many of the Union soldiers, in their excitement and disorientation, rushed directly into it. The crater's sides were steep and muddy, and as more soldiers poured in, it became increasingly difficult for them to climb out and continue their assault on the Confederate lines. The Confederates quickly recovered from the initial shock of the explosion. As they rallied, they began to fire down into the crowded crater from its rim, turning it into what some described as a "giant shooting gallery." Union soldiers, were trapped in the crater, making easy targets for Confederate musket and artillery fire. Many of the Union soldiers who tried to retreat or advance were gunned down.