The battlefield, cloaked in a dense haze, became a stage for slaughter. Sight and sound were twisted by the smoke, turning the field into a treacherous arena where the goblin horde, driven by blind ferocity, charged headlong into a trap they could neither see nor escape.
One after another, the goblins surged forward, unable to halt their momentum. Their war cries curdled into screams of terror as they plunged into the yawning abyss — the defenders’ hidden grave for the unwary.
From the walls above, the defenders unleashed a merciless hail of bolts and bullets, watching the slaughter below with grim resolve. The deadly song of projectiles filled the air, each shot striking true, each volley merciless.
Behind the redoubts, artillery crews manned the massive siege guns and wheelbarrow guns with steely focus. With thunderous booms, these weapons spat their fury into the heart of the crater. The ground trembled beneath the cataclysmic blasts, explosions ripping through the trapped goblins in violent, echoing waves.
It was annihilation, methodical and unrelenting. From their vantage, the defenders executed their grim task with ruthless precision. The goblins, ensnared by their own reckless charge, were ground beneath the storm of death from above.
Amidst the tumult, Captain Firebeard's voice cut through the chaos with sharp authority.
"Signal the tower, now!" he barked, eyes locked on the enemy.
A nearby ranger, steady despite the pulse of battle, retrieved a hand mirror and angled it toward the sun. With practiced precision, he flashed a series of signals toward the distant gun tower.
Atop the tower, a Gnomish engineer caught the flickering light. His eyes widened with recognition. "That's it! The signal!" he shouted, excitement rising in his voice. "Ready the signal rocket!"
The team moved with urgency. With a hiss and a whoosh, the rocket shot into the sky, leaving a bright trail against the smoky canvas above. At its peak, the rocket burst in a brilliant red flare, casting a crimson glow across the battlefield — a beacon of vengeance, a promise of what was yet to come.
The red burst flared above the battlefield, a fiery star against the smoke-dark sky. The explosion served as a herald of the next phase, igniting hearts and tightening grips across the fortress.
X---X
In the skies above, Leandra, astride her majestic Pegasus, soared with purpose. Her sharp eyes scanned the chaos below. Ominous siege towers bristling with weaponry loomed in the distance — her targets.
Her fingers danced over the rings Garrok had crafted for her, now aglow with fierce energy. They amplified her spell, a gift and a weapon both. With a snap of her fingers, the rings sparked to life, and she angled into a steep descent, becoming a streak of red flame, a comet of wrath.
Wind howled past her. The Pegasus’ wings cut the air with precision as they dove, the energy swirling around Leandra intensifying into a vortex of red and orange.
At the precise moment, she struck. With a flick of her fingers, the rings ignited the spell she’d held in her grasp. A massive orb of pulsing, crackling power erupted from her hands, streaking toward the siege towers with lethal accuracy.
The impact was cataclysmic. The first tower disintegrated in a roar of fire, the blast wave rolling outward to consume the neighboring towers in an expanding inferno. Chunks of metal and wood rained down, hurled skyward by the sheer force of the blast.
Leandra pulled up hard, Pegasus wings beating fiercely as they climbed into the smoky heavens. Behind them, the siege towers lay as burning husks, their threat obliterated.
A mushroom cloud of smoke and fire climbed skyward, marking the moment. Below, the defenders roared with renewed fury, hearts lifted by the display of power. Among the goblins, confusion and terror spread like wildfire.
Circling high above, Leandra watched the battlefield, ready to strike again.
X---X
In the immediate aftermath of the signal rocket’s burst, a palpable shift rippled through both the defenders and the attackers. For the defenders, the flare was more than just a signal — it was a spark of hope, a call to steel themselves for the killing yet to come. For the goblins, it was a jarring interruption, a momentary crack in their savage momentum.
Outside the fort, the horde, briefly stunned by the sudden flare, struggled to rally their ferocity. But their reckless charge into the smoke-filled crater had cost them dearly. What had once been an overwhelming swarm was now reduced to scattered, bloodied clusters, disoriented amid the haze and the heaped bodies of their dead.
Inside the fort, Captain Firebeard lowered his spyglass, jaw clenched tight. His voice rang out like the strike of a hammer on steel.
“Prepare for the counteroffensive. This is our moment to break them.”
As the goblins stumbled from the crater, dazed and reeling, they met a new horror. From the shadows along the walls and behind the redoubts, the defenders' hidden reserves stepped into the light — rifles raised, crossbows strung, powder horns ready. The first volley struck like a scythe through wheat. Gunfire cracked and crossbow strings hissed as shot and bolt tore through the broken goblin ranks, cutting them down before they could recover their footing.
Atop the battlements, Garrok and Tink stood shoulder to shoulder, rifles steady, each shot precise, deliberate, measured. Goblin after goblin fell beneath their marksmanship, each pull of the trigger a sentence carried out.
Amid the chaos, a team of dwarven gunsmiths, led by a gnome with a sharp eye and grease-smudged hands, maneuvered forward a massive object beneath a heavy tarpaulin. With a dramatic flourish, they yanked the cover away — unveiling the dark fruit of desperate ingenuity.
It was the “Organ Siege Gun,” a monstrous contraption of iron and timber, its frame repurposed from a sturdy wagon, its bristling tiers of Saka gun barrels arranged like the pipes of a cathedral organ. But its music was death.
Each barrel was packed with grape shot — a scattering of heavy lead balls meant not for precision, but for slaughter. It was built for one purpose: to break massed charges, to turn men and monsters alike into ruin.
As the beat of goblin war drums echoed again through the haze, signaling another surge, Captain Firebeard’s voice boomed across the line:
“Stand firm! This is where we break them!”
The goblins, bolstered by fresh waves of reinforcements, screamed their battle cries and surged forward once more, a tide of flesh and iron pouring toward the walls.
The defenders held their ground as the Organ Siege Gun was wheeled into position at the heart of the line. The gnome engineer, eyes wide and feverish beneath soot-streaked brows, manned the firing mechanism, his hands trembling with a mix of excitement and grim anticipation.
With a manic grin, he yanked the lever.
KRAKALAM!!!
The Organ Siege Gun answered with a rolling crescendo of thunder — barrel after barrel firing in rapid, overlapping succession. The deafening roar drowned out even the goblins' howls. Grape shot swept into the onrushing horde, shredding bodies, splintering shields, and cutting wide, bloody swaths through their ranks.
The effect was immediate and merciless. Goblins dropped by the dozens, then the hundreds, their bodies piling atop one another as the iron storm hammered them down.
When at last the smoke began to clear, the killing ground before the fort was no longer a battlefield — it was a charnel pit of mangled corpses and churned earth. Where once the horde had surged with savage might, there now lay only ruin and silence.
Behind the Organ Siege Gun, the defenders raised a ragged cheer. Not for victory — not yet — but for the chance to fight on. For the grim satisfaction of having held the line, of turning back the tide.
X---X
In the dense woods, a calculated distance from the fort, Hetman Yaroslav Petrovich surveyed his assembled forces with a critical eye. Weeks of relentless guerilla warfare against the goblin supply lines had honed his cavalry into a hardened, dangerous force. Every raid had not only bled the enemy’s logistics but had also armed and supplied his own men — wagons captured, slaves liberated, and, most importantly, guns secured.
Petrovich understood well the power of those guns. Unlike bows or swords, these converted Tüfenk flintlocks — crude but serviceable — were weapons that even the untrained could wield with deadly effect after only brief instruction. The freed slaves, many of them carpenters and laborers, had quickly learned the grim craft of loading, aiming, and firing. Fueled by rage and the hunger for revenge, they had become militia.
There was no time to drill them in the intricacies of cavalry maneuvers or infantry ranks. But here, ingenuity replaced tradition. Under the skilled hands of the rescued carpenters, the captured wagons had been transformed into rolling fortresses — reinforced with extra timber and iron plating, pocked with firing slits for the gunners. Atop many of these wagons, captured 3-pounder cannons were mounted, their barrels ready to belch fire and lead.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
The result was a Tabor — a wagon fort — a time-tested defensive formation from the steppe wars of old, now reborn on this bloodied field.
As the sun crept higher, casting long fingers of light through the forest canopy, Petrovich's trap stood ready. The wagon fort bristled with guns, the militia steady at their posts, eyes burning with a mix of fear and resolve. They knew their role: to hold the line, to bleed the horde, to buy time.
Atop his steed, Petrovich raised his sword, its blade gleaming in the morning light. His gaze turned toward the distant fort, where smoke plumes and the low rumble of battle filled the air.
“All we need is the signal,” he muttered, gripping the hilt tightly. “Then we strike.”
Tension coiled among the ranks like a drawn bowstring. Warriors seasoned and green alike held their breath, united by purpose — to break the goblin siege, to claim freedom, to take vengeance.
X---X
The signal rocket burst overhead, casting its crimson light across the horizon.
"Вот сигнал!" (Vot signal!) ("That’s the signal!") Petrovich roared, wheeling his horse to face his men. "Сейчас наше время, товарищи, вперёд!" (Seichas nashe vremya, tovarishchi, vperyod!) ("Now is our time, comrades — forward!")
The ground trembled beneath the sudden thunder of hooves and the groan of wagon wheels. Petrovich’s cavalry burst from the treeline, their banners snapping, sabers raised. The goblins, caught mid-regroup, spun in confusion as the unexpected onslaught smashed into their flanks.
Amid the chaos, a second explosion rocked the rear of the goblin camp, sowing panic and disorder among their ranks. Smoke and fire churned skyward, blinding their commanders and scrambling their lines.
Riding at the head of his force, Petrovich brandished his sword high, his voice booming across the field.
"Вперёд!" (Vperyod!) ("CHARGE!")
"Ура!" (Ura!) the cavalry answered as one, their battle cry rising over the din. Dragoons, Reiters, Hussars — all drove into the goblin ranks like a hammer striking iron, scattering the disoriented foe before them.
But it was no reckless charge. As planned, Petrovich gave a sharp blast of his whistle and raised his arm. "Отступайте!" (Otsupayte!) ("Fall back!")
The cavalry began a disciplined retreat, wheeling away from the melee, drawing the goblins after them — right into the jaws of the waiting trap.
As the horsemen galloped behind the defensive line of wagons, the Tabor shifted into place, its arc of reinforced wood and iron forming an unbroken wall between the goblins and their quarry.
The pursuing goblins, blood-drunk and rabid, surged forward — only to find themselves standing in the killing field.
Petrovich gave the signal, and the gunners raised their weapons.
"Открыть огонь!" (Otkryt' ogon'!) ("OPEN FIRE!")
The wagon fort erupted with gunfire.
The air split with the sharp cracks of the Tüfenk flintlocks and the thunder of the 3-pounders. Smoke rolled out from the firing slits, muzzle flashes painting the barricades in staccato bursts of orange light. Bullets and grapeshot hissed through the air, tearing into the tightly packed goblins, dropping them by the dozens.
Caught in the open, their charge spent, the goblins faltered. Those who turned to flee found themselves caught between the wagon guns and the cavalry, who wheeled back for another charge, cutting down stragglers like wheat before the scythe.
What had begun as a savage rush now dissolved into chaos — goblins scrambling for cover where there was none, their cries of rage turning to shrieks of panic.
Petrovich raised his sword again, standing tall in the saddle.
"Press them! No quarter!"
The guns of the Tabor kept firing, methodical and merciless, as the defenders seized their moment.
The tide of the battle had shifted.
The horde was breaking.
X---X
The battlefield, already a maelstrom of chaos, was about to witness its decisive turn.
High above, Leandra hovered astride her Pegasus, catching her breath from the exertion of her spell. Her sharp eyes swept the ground below. Then, with a snap of her fingers, a bright flash of light cascaded downward — the signal.
Captain Firebeard, spotting the flare, felt a savage grin curl beneath his beard — a rare expression of both anticipation and grim satisfaction. Raising his warhorn, he blew a mighty blast that echoed across the battlefield, a sound as deep and resonant as a mountain’s roar.
“Thrainok ugrat!” he bellowed.
(“Hammer and Anvil!”)
For a moment, there was silence — as though the entire battlefield itself had paused, holding its breath.
Then the cry rose like thunder.
“Thrainok ugrat!!!”
The defenders echoed the call as one voice, a chorus of iron resolve. Weapons were raised. Teeth were clenched. Hearts steadied.
From hidden tunnels around the fort, doors burst open with the rumble of sliding stone and shattering earth. The defenders surged out, roaring as they charged — fresh troops wielding steel and black powder, their faces hardened by weeks of siege but alight with purpose.
From the flanks, the Elves emerged as if conjured from the smoke itself. Their arrows spent, they now unsheathed gleaming sabers, their blades singing as they joined the charge with deadly grace. Silent and swift, they moved with lethal precision, anger honed into focus.
At the Wagon Fort, Hetman Yaroslav Petrovich raised his sword high. His cavalry, now regrouped and eager, stood ready behind the protective wall of wagons.
“Молот и наковальня!”
(“Molot i nakovalnya!”)
(“Hammer and Anvil!”)
The cry echoed from his riders — Dragoons, Reiters, and Hussars — before they surged forward, hooves pounding the earth as they galloped into the fray once more.
Caught between the hammer of Petrovich’s cavalry and the anvil of the fort’s sallying force, the goblin horde staggered under the weight of the onslaught. Their siege towers lay in smoldering ruin. Their formations, once terrifying in their mass, now crumbled into frantic knots of resistance.
The goblins fought desperately, snarling, hacking, biting — but the tide had turned.
The hammer and anvil struck.
The horde was breaking.
X---X
In the heart of the shattered goblin camp, yet another front burst open — not from the defenders, but from within.
The slaves, long shackled under the cruel yoke of goblin masters, seized the moment. Years of humiliation, suffering, and rage boiled over into action.
Armed with whatever they could grasp — broom handles, shovels, wood axes, kitchen knives, even sharpened cooking spits — they turned their chains into weapons. Their cries rose in a chorus of defiance, haunting and raw.
It was not the charge of soldiers. It was the howl of the oppressed.
The goblins, caught off-guard and reeling from the hammer and anvil assault, were too slow to react. The slaves knew the camp’s pathways and blind spots, knew where the guards were likely to falter. They struck with the precision of experience, overwhelming isolated sentries, liberating their fellows as they pressed the attack.
Each freed prisoner swelled their ranks, each fallen goblin handed them a stolen blade.
What began as a siege was now an uprising. The balance of power inside the goblin camp shattered completely.
The goblins, pinned between the defenders’ assault, the hammering cavalry, and now the rising tide of slave rebellion, were cut off from hope. Confusion spread like fire through their ranks — a chaos not just of blades and bullets, but of fear.
The fight had transformed. No longer was it a battle between two armies.
It had become a reckoning.
X---X
In the smoldering aftermath of battle, with the goblin camp in ruins and the air thick with smoke and ash, Garrok and Tink, astride their towering Direwolves, led the fort’s sallying force through the wreckage of the enemy lines. Alongside them rode Hetman Petrovich and his cavalry, the two forces now united with a singular purpose:
Find the Kapudan Pasha.
The wrecked camp was a maze of broken siege engines, shattered tents, and tangled bodies. Through the haze, the cries of the victors echoed:
“Find the Kapudan Pasha!”
“Search the tents! He can’t have gone far!”
The calls rang out sharp and insistent, driven by adrenaline, vengeance, and the need for closure.
Amidst the frantic search, Tink’s sharp eyes caught motion through the drifting smoke. A lone rider, armored in the Pasha’s ornate gear, galloped hard through the wreckage — the same striking armor, the same well-known black steed.
“There!” she shouted, pointing. “Garrok, there he is!”
All heads snapped toward the figure. Sword raised high, the rider charged directly toward them, as if daring fate itself.
“I don’t believe it…” Petrovich muttered, his voice tight with suspicion.
But Garrok had already leveled his rifle, steady as stone. Tink followed suit, her finger tightening on the trigger. Around them, Petrovich’s Dragoons drew their pistols, each weapon trained on the galloping figure.
“FIRE!” Petrovich roared.
A thunderous volley cracked through the haze.
Lead tore through the air, striking both rider and mount. With a final strangled cry, the steed collapsed, its rider crumpling beneath it in a plume of dust and smoke.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then one of the Dragoons shouted, “We got him! We killed the Pasha!”
But Garrok didn’t lower his weapon.
Slowly, grimly, he dismounted. Striding through the dust, he approached the fallen body, eyes narrowing as he kicked the limp form onto its back.
The truth hit like a hammer.
The face beneath the helmet was not the Pasha’s.
It was a goblin slave — a scribe — the intricate face tattoo of servitude plain to see beneath the blood and dirt.
Garrok’s jaw clenched. “It’s not him,” he growled.
Petrovich, hearing the words, spat on the ground. His expression soured into bitter fury. “Damn you, Kapudan Pasha,” he hissed. “Coward’s trick.”
The weight of frustration settled over the victors like a second shroud. The battle had been won, but their quarry — the architect of this siege — had slipped through their fingers.
X---X
As the convoy of wagons and mounted guards sped away from the smoldering ruins of the goblin camp, weaving through dense forest toward the distant coast, the Kapudan Pasha sat ensconced within the opulent confines of his gilded carriage. Though safe for the moment, his mind churned—a storm of thoughts and calculations.
Fortune had spared him, though only just.
When the siege towers had erupted in flame—an unexpected catastrophe that shattered his forces—he had been overseeing the packing of his treasures. But instinct and ruthlessness had served him well. Without hesitation, he ordered one of his scribes to don his armor and mount his steed, sending the poor wretch galloping into the teeth of the enemy as a decoy.
It had bought him the precious moments he needed to slip away.
Now, as the landscape blurred past his carriage windows, the weight of his losses pressed down upon him. His great horde—once a sea of steel and bodies—lay broken, scattered to the winds or butchered where they stood. But the Pasha's eyes did not dwell long on defeat. In the remnants, he still saw the seeds of his spite. His surviving warriors would scatter, blend into the shadows, and bide their time. They would not vanish—they would fester, slowly rebuilding their numbers, a plague on his enemies for years to come.
And he was still the Kapudan Pasha.
Admiral of the seas.
Master of the fleet.
His ships awaited him beyond the horizon. The coastal towns and trade routes would feel the bite of his vengeance soon enough. Piracy. Raiding. Slave-taking. These were arts he knew well, and they would be his tools of recovery.
But even as he plotted revenge, other dangers loomed. Political storms awaited him at home. His rivals would surely pounce upon the news of his defeat, eager to carve apart his standing and claim what scraps they could. Yet he smiled at the thought. There were ways to silence rivals. Ways to remind the courts and khanates that the Pasha, even bloodied, was still dangerous.
And he had sent enough spoils home to buy forgiveness—enough slaves to line pockets and enough captured maidens to replenish his horde in time.
The Pasha’s gaze drifted across the carriage interior to where his most valuable prizes sat shackled and silent—the human and elven slaves he had personally selected. Their bellies already showed the early swell of pregnancy, the faint curve of futures forced upon them.
A slow, satisfied smile crept across his face.
“Attend to me, slaves,” he commanded, his voice smooth with authority, heavy with anticipation. “The journey ahead will be long.”
Outside, the convoy pressed onward toward the coast, the guards tense, their eyes scanning the trees for any sign of pursuit. But within the carriage, the Pasha leaned back, already weaving new plans. His mind spun with fresh schemes, new paths to power. He had suffered a setback, true—but the game was far from over.
The coastal realms would soon learn that the Kapudan Pasha was not defeated.
And through the heirs growing in the wombs of his captives, his legacy—dark and enduring—was only just beginning.
Organ Gun- An organ gun, also known as a ribauldequin or ribault, is a type of medieval and early modern artillery piece that was used in European warfare. It was a multi-barreled firearm or cannon, somewhat resembling a primitive machine gun, and it played a role in early gunpowder warfare. The defining feature of an organ gun is its multiple barrels. It typically had a row of several gun barrels mounted together in a rectangular or circular frame. The number of barrels could vary, but they were often arranged in parallel rows. Organ guns were primarily designed as anti-personnel weapons. They were used to deliver a barrage of small projectiles, such as musket balls, bolts, or arrows, in a single volley. This made them effective against infantry formations. Due to their short barrels and limited range, organ guns were most effective at close range, where their multiple barrels could maximize their impact on enemy infantry.
Tabor (Wagon Fort)- A "tabor," in the context of medieval and early modern military tactics, refers to a type of mobile fortification or wagon fort. A tabor, often spelled as "tabora," "taborok," or "tabor wagon," was a defensive formation used by armies for protection during encampments and on the move. A tabor consisted of a circular or semi-circular formation of wagons or carts, typically arranged in a defensive ring. The wagons were often positioned with their sides facing outward to create a protective barrier. The primary purpose of a tabor was to provide protection to an army while it was on the move, especially during marches or when camping in potentially hostile territory. The wagon fort offered a degree of protection against surprise attacks. A tabor was a versatile defensive structure. It could be used to protect an army's rear, flanks, or even its front, depending on the situation. This adaptability allowed armies to secure their camps more effectively. Within the circular wagon formation, there were usually openings or gaps left for the army to enter and exit. These openings were guarded and could be fortified with additional defenses, such as earthworks or trenches. In addition to the wagons themselves, tabor defenses might include trenches, palisades, and other fortifications constructed in front of or between the wagons. These measures enhanced the defensive capabilities of the tabor. Wagon forts like the tabor were also used defensively during sieges. They could be set up as temporary fortifications to protect a besieging force from sorties by the defenders or to secure supply lines. Wagons forts, including the tabor, were used by various European armies during the late medieval and early modern periods. They provided an effective means of protecting an army in the field, especially when mobility and flexibility were essential.
