Western Banks of the River Trebleca
Frederick's eyes widened as he saw Donixote stumble backwards; the crazed Estalians may not have noticed the fate of their general, but he did. His blood boiled in his veins, and he lept from the ship onto the shore, his sword and sheild drawn as a furious, rage filled scream emptied from his lungs as he raced up to hack down the assassin. His men rushed after him, grapeshot ripping through the hapless ones that were in the front, but many of the cannons would not get a second shot. Frederick felt the sting of lead in his body, somewhere, but he could not focus. Everything was hazy, the enemies just blurry figures to be hacked down as he made his way to the bridge. He screamed and roared as he struck down soldier after soldier, his men clambering up the mud with grim determination to overtake the embankments. Dawnstrider infantry was landing, and the swordsmen and dismounted knights were rushing to hack down the gunners before they could reload and fire a second volley, the spearmen on the bridge currently holding their position (they had suffered some of the worst casualties during the siege, and were to be held in reserve until the battle desperately needed them). Frederick cut down another soldier, and heard something whiz over his head, the tinny sound of metal clattering upon the ground just a few yards in front of him. He heard Brim's voice shout over the thunder and the pouring rain: "Fire in the hole!" Frederick blinked and hit the dirt, the explosion a few moments later ripping apart one of the cannons and opening a precious hole in their defenses. The soldiers of the Black Company rushed to plug the gap, and Frederick lept to his feet, roaring at his soldiers. "To me, lads! Take no prisoners, only trophies!"
Brim ducked down behind the turret, and heard the blast. He grinned to himself, and Erberk eyed him. "What, by the fires of the forge, was that lad!?"
"Pigeon bomb, I think they called them in Nuln."
"Ye don't have pigeons!"
"I know, they're unreliable creatures. I thought it was more accurate to hurl it myself, even if the range is limited." The dwarves nodded, and Hogjaw thumped a reloaded pistol into Brim's chest.
"Ye'd make a fine engineer, lad. I mean, once ye got a few centuries under yer belt like a proper dwarf." Hogjaw smirked. They returned to their shooting, intent on holding to the last on the steely ship.
Frederick pressed as hard as he could, but it was slow going indeed. Suddenly, over the pouring rain and rage of battle he heard screaming, insane gibbering screaming. He looked over his shoulder and saw Averrob standing on the bridge past the spearmen, gesticulating between gulps of whiskey, his wretched little goblin pet hopping up and down excitedly as fire wreathed around the mage's hand. He thrust his fist at the enemy, and a ball of glowing orange rolled off his fingers, coalescing into a laughing, bearded head that flew at an angle across the bridge, veering to the left and smashing into another earthen embankment and the men defending it. Averrob took another drink, and began waving his arms again. Maybe the drunken loon was worth the pain of living with him after all.