Chapter Eighteen: The Siege

The army of a million beastmen brilliantly demonstrated the truth that there is strength in numbers. In less than a day, dozens of makeshift siege ladders had already been constructed. Then, the impatient Emperor Brutehammer gave a single command, and the assault began in earnest.

Gazing at the uneven ranks of the human garrison atop the city walls, Brutehammer didn't even bother with probing attacks or sacrificial pawns. While goblin cannon fodder pushed the siege ladders forward, the main battle tribes surged directly behind. With more than a hundred thousand elite warriors among the million-strong host, there was more than enough to overwhelm the humans by sheer force.

Though the walls of Sancta Talon lacked a moat, as the city was no longer on the frontier, its defenses were still those of Madrid’s colonial capital—plenty of war machines, especially sloped embrasures that allowed the many cannons on the ramparts to form deadly crossfires.

The beastman army attacked all four walls at once. At the forefront were goblin auxiliaries pushing ladders and battering rams, followed closely by columns of strong orcs. Each wall faced wave after wave of more than ten thousand attackers, with the bleak sound of horns and the beastmen’s roars blending together. The overwhelming numbers struck terror into the human defenders, like a natural disaster descending upon them.

“Use the cannons to smash those ladders! The gates are already sealed with giant stones—without gunpowder, the beastmen could batter at them for half a year and never break through,” Amasia commanded. Her orders, relayed swiftly by couriers, set every gun on the walls into immediate action. Over a hundred cannons, large and small, roared from the four directions.

In an instant, the thunderous barrage of the artillery drowned out the shouts of the beastmen. Scorching iron shot, hurled by the power of gunpowder, tore through ladders and goblins alike, reducing them to splinters and scattered limbs.

“The human firepower is terrifying,” Brutehammer muttered, drawing a deep breath to steady himself.

Yet, for all their might, the cannons were but a pebble tossed into a crimson tide. The beastmen pressed on toward the walls undaunted. But their ladders were limited; when they finally reached the base of the walls, only a handful had survived the barrage. The goblins who had fulfilled their grim task were too decimated to mount an assault themselves.

Now the strong orc regiments advanced. “Load grapeshot—blast the strong orcs!” Ordered by their commanders, the defenders unleashed a hail of deadly shot at close range. Grapeshot was far more lethal than solid shot; each thunderous volley carved gaping fans of death through the orc ranks. Boulders, rolling logs, and powder charges followed, along with disciplined musket volleys. The orc assault wavered.

Explosions and gunfire erupted everywhere. Blood and severed limbs littered the ground. The sudden fall of so many comrades left the elite orcs stunned. The militia, under the direction of the regular troops, seized the opportunity. Muskets fired in relentless succession, and orc after orc fell, howling in agony. When the last ladder toppled, the strong orcs finally despaired and, battered by lethal crossfire, retreated in ruin.

Brutehammer and his generals were shaken to the core. For the first time, they had launched a full-scale assault on a human city bristling with so many cannons, only to have their understanding of artillery’s killing power shattered anew.

“With such feroci