Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

As he handed the weapon back a commotion started. Runners came to let them know that the Eastern Force had arrived. The reinforcement commanders joined them and the runners were kept busy as they sorted things out, positioning troops for the attack. They appeared to have the forces to crush the Baasgarta now, and hopefully penetrate the city stopping whatever insane ritual the Dreamer was engaged in. Engvyr glanced at the battlemages, who looked increasingly worried as the night wore on. That, he thought, is not comforting.

The newly arrived troops had some time to rest but not much. The assault began with torches flaring to life all along the lines. A commotion could be heard spreading through the Baasgarta lines as they realized what was in the wind.

The dwarves advanced by ranks, maintaining their standard rate of fire of a volley every two seconds. The goblins responded with their light repeating crossbows. While their breastplates were proof against these the dwarves were still vulnerable to hits in the arms, legs or face. Heavy crossbows were shooting as well, and these would pierce the dwarven armor, but they had a slow rate of fire. The dwarves pressed forward despite taking heavy casualties, driving the Baasgarta back.

The southern goblins’ rapid fire guns quickly proved their worth when the fighting moved into the trenches, as did the dwarven infantry's short cut-and-thrust swords. The close-quarters fighting was murderous. Casualties streamed back from the front, aided or carried by the dwarves’ medics but they made steady progress, especially when they could bring their guns into play.

The sounds of the battle were punctuated by the firing of the engineers’ siege engines, like giant crossbows, sending either long, iron-shod wooden bolts or round cast-iron balls whirring over the heads of the combatants to smash into the city's walls. Never meant to withstand a siege, the walls were already crumbling under the impacts.

Engvyr estimated that despite the heavy casualties they would reach the walls by dawn, but he was wrong. At first light everything went abruptly, completely and literally to hell.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“People say 'if it's stupid and it works it's not stupid,' and I think there's something to that. But if it's crazy and it works it's still crazy.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Portions of the Baasgarta city had begun to burn. Projectiles from the siege engines had upset or scattered fires, and even with stone buildings there are plenty of things that can ignite. Engvyr felt bad about the thousands of Braell trapped within, but if the siege wasn't broken quickly their lives were forfeit regardless. For now the fires helped to light the battlefield as the dwarves and their allies relentlessly drove the Baasgarta back against their own shattered walls.

Suddenly the light dimmed and there was a basso rumble that reminded Engvyr uncomfortably of the mine collapse that he had been caught in as a boy. For a moment he thought the Baasgarta battlemages must be suppressing the fires until he looked up and saw them burning as tall and bright as ever. He realized the darkness was in his own perception.

The battlemages cried out in alarm. He saw several of them crouch or cower defensively and then it hit. A soundless, lightless explosion that knocked everyone flat but somehow did not disturb anything physical.

His vision went white as a shriek of agony, grief and triumph tore through his mind, clawing away at the edges of his sanity. Pain exploded through his head. It felt as if someone had sank a red-hot cleaver into the middle of his skull. Images and sensations flooded through his brain, distorted and incomprehensible. He nearly went mad as he tried to cope with the input of inhuman senses that had no name. In the end it was the pain that was his salvation, the one overwhelmingly human feeling in the maelstrom. It gave him something to focus on. His flailing hand landed on the action of his rifle and he gripped it frantically, another anchor against the flood of insanity washing over him.

The force of the flow subsided, but he was still awash in the alien perceptions. He forced his eyes open, and the input of the familiar sense of sight overwhelmed the madness. His head throbbed and his vision was gray at the edges but he could function. Rolling over, he gritted his teeth against the agony as he forced himself to his knees and looked around. Several others were also rising and he braced himself with the rifle, using it as a walking stick to lever himself to his feet.