Bound to The Enemy of My Mate
The Howling Crags were not a battlefield. They were a meat grinder.
The Volgarians had not been idle. They’d learned from their defeat at the capital. No longer just sabers and stubborn fury, they came with industry. Their front lines advanced behind clanking, wheeled shields of iron. Their guns were not the long, elegant rifles of Ardian marksmen, but shorter, brutal things that spat clouds of shrapnel. And from their rear lines, with a terrifying whoomp, came the high-arcing fire—iron spheres launched from catapult-like tubes on carts, packed with gunpowder and scrap that rained down in devastating, indiscriminate bursts. (Think naval mortar bombardments, but on land.)