Chapter 15: The Siege of Fire and Steel

Chapter 15: The Siege of Fire and Steel

POV: Darot

With a bloodthirsty roar that echoed across the battlefield, I led my warband in a full-throated charge, my voice a primal bellow that cut through the cacophony of war. My warriors surged forward, their chants and howls merging into a singular, unrelenting tide of fury. Their weapons gleamed in the dying light, thirsting for the slaughter ahead.

Yet, as we neared the looming fortifications, I beheld the defenders upon the walls—rats scurrying behind their ramparts, scrambling to assemble their vile weapons of cowardice. A heavy weapon emplacement was being mounted atop the bastion, its barrel swiveling towards us like the maw of some metallic beast.

"Meat Shields! Forward!" I bellowed, my voice carrying over the storm of boots and snarls.

Immediately, the vanguard of my force pulled back, giving way to the towering forms of the **Meat Shields**—fifty warriors clad in heavy, battle-scarred armor plating, every inch of their bodies encased in steel. Their breath came heavy, their footfalls like the pounding of war drums as they advanced, wielding serrated machetes in each hand. Their sheer mass soaked up the panic that rippled through the enemy ranks.

"Open fire!" came the cry from the ramparts.

The enemy let loose a storm of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off the thick plates of the **Meat Shields**, a symphony of steel striking steel. My warriors moved with unwavering purpose, using the hulking figures as mobile cover as they advanced ever closer to the bastion.

"Throne take me—what in the hell are those things?! They should only be using crude melee weapons! Why won't they fall?!" One of the enemy rats cried out, his voice a high-pitched whimper of disbelief.

I sneered, reveling in their fear.

*Their coward's tools are nothing before my war constructs...*

But then—laughter. A deep, guttural, mocking roar of amusement.

My blood ran hot as I turned my gaze toward the ramparts.

A figure loomed above us, a monstrous brute of a man with a grotesque grin plastered across his scarred face. He wielded a cannon the size of a man, its barrel still smoking from a fresh kill. A moment later, I saw the carnage he had wrought—one of my **Meat Shields** reduced to crimson mist, limbs and entrails splattered across the battlefield.

"HA! Is that it?! Indestructible men? HAH! Don't make me laugh! I'll break every last one of you!" the brute bellowed, his voice thick with madness and glee.

My hands clenched into fists, rage surging through me like fire through dry brush.

"**Wolves!**" I roared. "**Disrupt that pig's movements! Tear him apart! Bring bombs! The walls must crumble!**"

A hundred and fifty warriors broke from our lines, their movements fluid and precise. The **Wolves**—a warband of deadly huntresses, their forms slender yet lethal, bodies adorned with throwing knives strapped to every limb. Their masks concealed their features, save for the eerie red glow of their eyes, which shone with unholy zeal.

They moved like whispers in the wind, spreading out, weaving through gunfire, hurling a rain of blades with supernatural accuracy.

---

POV: Third Person

Panic erupted among the defenders. The gun-rats upon the walls lost their discipline, their shots going wild as the **Wolves** became blurs of death. Every time a soldier raised his head to fire, a knife found its mark, sinking deep into flesh, severing tendons, piercing eyes. Blood dripped down the parapets, the once-orderly defenders now writhing in pain, their final breaths escaping in gurgled whimpers.

But the madness of war cared little for precision.

The turret crews, even as their bodies were riddled with blades, refused to yield. Their fingers remained locked on their triggers, laughter spilling from their lips as blood poured from their wounds. They fired with reckless abandon, their death throes accompanied by the rattling chug of their beloved weapons.

Below, the **Wolves** danced through the storm of bullets, but even they were not untouchable. One stray shot, one moment's hesitation, and a warrior was shredded—once-graceful bodies reduced to little more than ragged flesh and splintered bone.

From behind the ramparts, the brute—**Pete**—growled, his grotesque form riddled with knives, yet still standing, still grinning through bloodied teeth.

"Tsk! Where the fuck do they keep finding all these crazy bitches?" he snarled, wrenching a blade from his arm before tossing it aside.

But as the siege raged on, a new sound split the battlefield—a deep, guttural growl of frustration. Pete's amusement shattered as he noticed Darot's expression of unyielding fury.

Veins bulged along his thick arms as he gripped his cannon, his muscles straining as he hauled the monstrous weapon into position. His eyes, bloodshot with fury, locked onto the advancing horde.

"I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!" he roared.

With an earth-shaking force, he **punched his cannon through the wall itself**, shattering stone and mortar, forming a crude gunport through which he aimed directly at the field below.

A mechanical click. A deep breath.

Then—

**BOOM.**

The battlefield turned to fire and death. The first cannonball struck true, exploding mid-air amidst the charging **Wolves**, sending limbs and viscera flying in all directions. The projectile did not stop—it **tore through the ranks of the advancing warband, obliterating both Meat Shields and the men cowering behind them**.

Laughter. Maddened, blood-soaked laughter.

"DIE! DIE! DIE!" Pete howled, reloading with practiced efficiency, loosing another shot, then another.

Each blast was a symphony of destruction, bodies consumed in infernal eruptions of shrapnel and bone. The once-disciplined march of Darot's warriors devolved into a frantic scramble, dodging the relentless artillery while still pressing forward with unwavering bloodlust.

The siege descended into absolute carnage.

The walls trembled, bodies piled high, blood soaked the soil black, and amidst it all— **in the darkness beyond the fire and smoke—something else stirred.**

For in the shadows lurked the **true hunters** of this war.

And their time was soon at hand.