William drew his formation to a halt with a single barked command. He eyed the enemy’s camp across the frozen space before him. His men were cold from the hour long march they’d taken, but the heat emanating from the lumbering forge demons had thus far prevented any major frostbite casualties. Not that the cultists were the type to be put out by such things. A sleepless night and a march across an icy waste was nothing compared to the prospect of spilling blood for their master. Gustav had done a good job preparing them.

“Is this close enough?” William asked nodding at the encampment. Thrace, the senior most spring mortar gunner squinted at the shadows. His dishwater eyes scanned across the hilltop and the forest behind it, then lifted to the starts in thought.

“It’s a distance for sure, Domnus,” the man said with a shrug. “There’s only a light wind on tonight but it’s hitting that forest and driving towards us.”

William nodded. He could smell the smoke from the enemy’s campfires all the way across the plain. “I’d prefer to keep our distance for the moment, Thrace. We’re only here as a harrying force to keep the enemy tired and chasing shadows all night until Kharas gets here in three hours or so. If your teams can’t get the range here I need to know now.”

Though William’s words didn’t waver from the same conversational tone that he’d been using, Thrace flinched. The thought of failure was repugnant.

“We’ll make the shots, Domnus. Though me might need a volley or two at this range to get our arcs right.”

William grunted. “You’ll have one volley, and only with half of your mortars.” He turned to another man opposite Thrace. “Bel, call up the forge demons and stagger them with the mortar teams at the front. Make sure the demons stay at the fore. We want their iron hide taking any of the shots that get sent our way.” Bel and Thrace nodded and moved to carry out his orders, their bellowing voices cutting through the crisp midnight air.

Across from them a mass of writhing black bodies was forming up on the downslope of the enemy’s camp. It moved slowly together as it advanced, a necessity in the moonlight. Another force of horses poured down another slope, looking to either get around to the flank of William’s smaller band or either to get behind them. William sneered at them.

“I should have roused the Siegebreaker,” he mused as he watched the cavalry make their way down the slopes. A single horse running at night was folly. Especially across the uneven tundra surrounding them. It was too easy for a rider to miss a thin pocket of frost and to lose a horse to a snapped leg. But a while mass of riders pouring across the dark at once seemed suicidal. Either the enemy commander was green or else their scouts had some other trick up their sleeve. He sincerely hoped that it was the former and that his midnight advance had spooked them. That was, after all, his intent.

“Hound masters,” he roared as he gestured to the flank that the riders would be coming from. “Form the hounds up on that edge but keep them in tight. Bearers, light your censers. But stay behind the demons. I don’t want their scouts getting a good count of how few we are.”

“The mortars have paired off, Domnus,” Thrace called. “How should we proceed?”

“Count off half your teams in alternating groups,” William answered. “I want group one to fire into the advancing line. Tighten their formation up and slow their advance. I want the second group to prepare their load for firing but to hold off until after the first rank has loosed.”

“Demon master,” he called out. “Have your demons focus on the mortar javelins and light them up. Once they have fully lit up I want them arced over the enemy and into their tents. Let’s see how these fools fight while their camp is on fire.”

William drew his massive dragon bone cleaver and watched as his orders were relayed down the line. Behind him the scent of the censer bearer’s drugged incense started to flow and the cultists began their apocalyptic chanting.

“It begins,” he thought at the first fifty mortars cracked, sending their massive javelin bolts hurtling across the field.