The lull following the breach defense didn’t bring peace. It brought the whistling, high-flight path thrum of incoming heavy bio-artillery.
From the outer salt marshes, two miles beyond the shattered curtain wall, the surviving Siege-Crag Tortoises had re-entrenched in the deep mud. Using their high-pressure high-pressure chest chambers, the beasts fired a retaliatory volley of turning to stone spore-shells into the heart of Sector 7.
The projectiles tore through the leaden cloud layer with a sound like tearing canvas. Three shells blew up high in the air above the Lower Plaza, bursting into shimmering, emerald clouds of petro-spores. Meanwhile, a fourth, solid hardened boulder struck the stone railing of the Artisan Guildhall terrace directly above the triage bay.
An ear-splitting crash shattered the morning air. Massive chunks of dressed granite, jagged iron balusters, and thousands of razor-sharp stone shards rained down upon the crowded razor-sharp tents in a lethal shower.
“Incoming! Get down!” Toby screamed, throwing himself across a wooden crate of sterile linen bandages.
Arthur Vance didn’t dive for cover. The first blast wave rattled the glass carboys on the chemical table. Then, his body moved with the gut, self-running economy of a veteran battlefield trauma surgeon.
“Titus! Overhead shelter!” Arthur roared through the neural link.
