The discharge of Rotary Shard-Gatlin Alpha-Three was an explosion of nonstop clockwork fury that rattled the concrete foundations of Bastion Alpha.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRR-CLACK-CLACK.
The sound tore through the narrow casemate embrasure like a hurricane tearing through a canvas sail, with an unbroken foot-long spear of orange muzzle flash and a boiling cloud of white gunsmoke.
Inside Casemate Alpha-Three, the violence was physical and immediate.
The heavy cast-iron stone stand, secured to the solid mountain stone with four one-inch steel anchor studs, groaned under the cyclic recoil as ninety flechettes were sped up down the rifled barrels in three seconds.
Master Borin Bronze-Lung leaned his full dwarven weight into the dual spade grips, his knuckles white. His teeth clenched was tight as the shaking traveled through his arms and shook the fillings in his back teeth.
The air in the bunker grew instantly hot and thick with the acrid scent of boiled away lard oil, hot bronze, and sulfur.
From the bottom ejection port beneath the receiver, a pouring clouded eye of spent brass propellant sabots clattered down the sheet-iron chute into an oak collection tub. It rang like a shower of hot copper coins.
