The northern killing field was filled with the groans of dying beasts and the howling of the sub-zero gale.
Deprived of their chieftain’s commands and scared by the destruction of their mammoth vanguard, the leftover sixty Frost-Giants and four hundred Frost-Trolls stood frozen in the snow two hundred yards out, numbed between ancient fear and barbarian pride.
Before issuing the final command, Giles Croft walked along the curved gallery connecting Bastion Alpha to the central keep.
Beside him, Lady Millicent Croft walked with her leather-bound tally-book tucked beneath her arm, checking ammunition chits in the pale winter light.
“Report on town reserves, Millicent,” Giles requested, his voice calm and unrushed.
“Total flechettes expended across all four morning engagements: five thousand two hundred rounds,” Millicent reported. He tapped the ledger page with her silver pencil.
“We have forty-four thousand eight hundred stamped rounds leftover in the central magazine.
The tramway lines have delivered two hundred fresh spiral drums to the eight castle walls.
