Pandemonium erupted as the Hollow Ones fell into the midst of the embattled units.

  Adarin heard screams—then, rapidly, screams of terror mixed into the war cries. The cohesion of units on both sides broke as the sacks of leaky skin hugged, strangled, and pummeled soldiers. On both sides confusion mixed with horror.

  Yet the attack had only lasted thirty seconds and he could feel his men itching to open fire. But Adarin held his manipulator up in the air.

  “Not yet time. Not yet time,” he murmured to himself.

  Rapidly, the Hollow Ones were torn apart. Men gagged as the sickly gas spread out into a low, toxic cloud. The battle had nearly come to a stop. More and more Hollow Ones ruptured, and Adarin could only imagine the vile stench of magically rotted meat.

  Ordered formations had turned into meat grinders, as panicked warriors struck out in all directions with their weapons. Pikemen dropped their pikes. A musketeer unit suddenly opened fire—hitting their own in a desperate attempt to fend off charging Hollow Ones.

  Officers and a mage wearing a silver mask screamed—though their actions were barely more coherent than the berserk war cries of the orcs.

  He flicked his vision—spectroscopic overlay flashing. The gas wasn’t dissipating. It was a solid, choking cloud. Adarin spoke loudly and clearly, no longer caring for stealth. His manipulator plummeted to the ground.

  “Fire.”

  The cannons roared.

  Fragile projectiles covered in burning tar, quicklime, and oil shot toward the gas cloud—at least, on the daring hope that it was explosive.

  The incendiaries fragmented mid-flight, spreading into a horizontal hail of embers.

  Adarin felt the heat of the cannons wash over him. The moment the cannons had jerked and rolled back on their wheels, the cannoneers were already loading canister shot. But Devon screamed: “No, no! It isn’t working!”

  Rüdiger had assured Adarin that the gas was flammable. But only in a few places did small explosions erupt—where Hollow Ones were hit directly. The rest of the army was simply showered in eerie embers, and the morning hours lit up in fire.

  Men screamed as incendiary fluid clung and burned. To a bystander it might look like victory—Adarin knew it was failure. Fuck! We need more than chaos!

  “Load the quicklime instead! QUICKLIME!”, Devon screamed.

  Canister shot was dropped. Different projectiles were selected from the pile—long cylinders of bronze. Oddly, they were ignited before being pushed down the barrels.

  Adarin stopped caring. “Fire as soon as ready!”

  He studied the enemy army. Twenty seconds had passed since the initial bombardment.

  The Order’s musketeers were taking position, kneeling behind a line of black skeletons, readying to advance and protect the cannons. Adarin knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  The orcs rallied first—driving a wedge into the reeling human formation, right through the gap left by shattered cannonballs and ruptured Hollow Ones. The charge slaughtered a unit of musketeers before pikemen were rushed in from reserve and stuffed the gap.

  Then part of the orcs turned—and a bellowed war cry rose along the lines.

  A third of the army charged toward the Order’s detachment.

  Three hundred orcs. Three hundred meters.

  Gisela went off first—goblin and kobold cackling maniacally as it spewed flames, the cannon and its ghostly mule guardian absorbing the recoil energy somehow and flashing three times in rapid succession.

  While its projectiles launched forward on pillars of flame, the other cannons fired their bronze cylinders too.

  The orcish charge faltered for a second as the soundwave hit.

  And then—the first cylinder from Gisela hit its mark, straight into the charging formation.Adarin had to replay the memory later to even understand what had happened.

  The thigh-sized canister struck the burning wooden stick at its tip, impaling an orc. The orc fell back on his ass, dropping his weapons and clawing in confusion at the heavy object protruding from his chest. Without warning, it detonated.

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  A white cloud spread out in a ten-meter radius. The other cannons created a dozen more clouds just like it, and the cannoneers were already reloading.

  The dust had an immediate effect.

  Weapons slipped from blistered hands as screams tore through the white haze.

  Adarin saw a white-powdered orc stumble from the inner edge of the cloud. Blood poured from his mouth. His eyes were red pits—blind. His skin smoked. His flesh seemed to melt like wax under a flame.

  “Canister ready!” Devon proclaimed.

  Adarin responded to the commander with a single word. “Fire!”

  The enemy was a mere two hundred meters from them. The dust was settling. Another wave was coming in.

  Adarin connected to Liora—the reinforcements.

  Three minutes away. Might as well be an hour.

  The cannons fired again. Another wave of white dust—but this time, mixed with sharpened stone fragments—shot over the field of white-powdered, coughing, dying greenskins, and tore into the next line of their formation.

  The orcs roared and tried to attack, but they couldn’t push through the barrier of dying and wounded.

  Another ten seconds passed.

  Again, the quicklime shot was loaded—but suddenly, a wind picked up.

  Mages were already raising a barrier.

  Adarin scanned the cannons. Five were already loaded—Gisela among them.

  “Devon—” he hissed, a note of panic in his voice. He pointed toward the ritual circle of the enemy mages, clearly visible above the ruins of the gates. “Can you hit that?”

  The goblin didn’t answer. Instead, he furiously muttered numbers under his breath and adjusted Gisela’s position.

  Runes glowed. Magic crackled over the cannon with a sharp ozone tang. A blue shimmer began to spread out in the distance.

  Adarin knew they had maybe five seconds before the protective spell would fully counter their bombardment.

  Three seconds passed. His mind raced at a million miles an hour.

  He had already ordered the zombie commanders into a sprint—they were flanking, but still ninety seconds out.

  Suddenly, Gisela unleashed a flashing explosion.

  Three beams of fire shot out, and the bronze canisters flew in a perfect arc over the field of slaughter. Adarin experienced it as if time had slowed.

  The beauty of the orange fire. The sharp tang of powder smoke. The misty haze beginning to form in front of the cannons. The field of white-powdered dead men. The torn-apart rear of the orcish lines. Orcs pushing forward. Orcs still clashing with humans. Humans—Marholdians and Seaguardians alike—cheering, thinking reinforcements had arrived.

  Yeah, a distant part of Adarin’s mind smirked. We’ll see to your happiness later.

  The projectiles hit.

  Apparently, the mages had understood what was coming. Maybe they’d even recognized the attackers as the renegade order.

  Adarin saw smug smiles on their faces—

  And then the ritual vanished in a detonation of white dust.

  Only distant coughs and screams remained. The growing shimmer died instantly. Adarin ran the math in his head.

  Over a hundred enemies had been caught in the blast.

  He turned toward Gavin. “How many of those do we have?”

  “Those were our last ones.” The goblin spun and screamed orders down the line. “Canister, now!”

  But the time of unopposed bombardment has come to an end. Orcs and humans alike had come to the same conclusion: the artillery had to die, or they would.

  The enemy lines began to form up as the cannoniers reloaded.

  Gisela had stopped the ritual of the mages—but now, the orcish shamans suddenly came to their senses, shaking off the initial shock of the assault. Shimmering wards blossomed above the orc lines, catching projectiles mid-air and burning them to sparks.

  The canister shot still reaped a bloody harvest, but the orcs pushed forward regardless.

  “At 200 meters—musketeers, get ready!”

  The musketeers fired from behind the skeleton line. A fifth of the charging line dropped—then the smoke cleared, and they were already fumbling for powder.

  Black skeletons. The cannons. A hundred meters.

  The charge was coming.

  “How long?” Adarin hissed. No one answered.

  Seventy meters.

  The cannoneers were reloading furiously.

  Devon barked, eyes wild. “Double load canister—now!”

  The mania had totally overtaken him—his black eyes glittering as the cannoneers shoved a second load into each cannon.

  Adarin was about to order them to fire—

  But Devon screamed, “Hold! HOLD for my command!”

  What is he—? Adarin’s thoughts spiraled for a moment, until he realized.

  Maximum impact. Minimum distance.

  Yes. That was what we need.

  Do or die.

  He did not order the necromancer to bring the black skeletons forward. He let the orcs come.

  Fifty meters. Forty meters. Thirty meters.

  The musketeers would be reloaded in ten more seconds. Too long.

  Fifteen meters.

  Devon jumped. “Fire!”

  Thunder tore the world apart.

  A wave of burning dust and splinters slammed into the onrushing tide of green flesh.

  Two tides collided—

  And Adarin could no longer tell what their fate would be.

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