C.P.D. Harris's Blog, page 30

A Question of Difficulty

I have been watching the new HBO series, Westworld, with great interest. I am not a huge fan of the original book, but I like where the series seems to be headed so far. One of the ideas that they have flirted with in the show is the difficulty that people want with their gaming experiences. So far the show has not delved too deeply into it, but it is an interesting discussion, and worthy of our time.

How challenging should a piece of entertainment be?

This question applies to both gaming and writing. It is not a matter of quality in my mind; often a more accessible book or game is better polished and better made than one that is incredibly difficult or dense. Something too simple can lack any real depth.

The best answer that I can give is that it depends on the target audience of the work. An introductory or broad audience work is less difficult than one that is meant for experts.

What I see out there, however, especially in games and large publishing companies is very different from this view. The tendency not toward challenging the reader/player, but rather to create a work that appeals to as broad a base as possible. The idea behind this view is that a game or book that appeals to more people will sell more, just like any other product. This is largely born out over the short term, but questionable in building a long term audience for a property.

To illustrate my point I am going to talk about two games, Path of Exile and Diablo III. I have reviewed and discussed both at length on this blog, and I like using them because they both have similar pedigree in that they were made with the success of Diablo II in mind.

Diablo III is a commercial juggernaut. It might not be the top of Blizzard’s list, but it certainly rakes in a decent amount of money. It is far more accessible than Diablo II in many ways and is designed to appeal to newcomers and old players alike, but many veteran players found it too simplistic and repetitive and far, far too easy. Despite some glaring design flaws, I do like D3. It is not a difficult game at all, although Blizzard does offer some modes and endgame content that offer more challenge in an attempt to carve out as large a swath of players as possible.

Path of Exile is a more difficult game because it is aimed at a seasoned audience that is looking for a greater challenge. Death in POE is punishing at higher levels, even outside of hardcore modes. More interestingly, players are expected to make informed choices about how they advance their character: in POE it is possible to make characters that are sub-optimal and hard to fix them without substantial effort. The flip side to this is that a veteran can create very powerful characters and even search out unique/unusual builds.

In examining these two games it is obvious that Blizzard has come up with a winning sales strategy, but might have hurt the brand. I feel the same way about some elder scrolls games which lose nuance (I’m looking at you fallout 4 conversation system) as they are simplified for wider audiences. Path of Exile on the other hand has a smaller audience, but they are fanatically supportive of the game and the company that makes it.

Recently, difficulty has made something of a comeback, I think. As people have become more and more familiar with genre fiction and games their appetites have deepened. There will always be a need for introductory works with broad appeal, but those are likely to be dominated by companies with deep pockets. On the other hand a challenging work, if of sufficient quality, can help build loyal fans.

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’s War 3.7

It is Thursday once more and time for some Shadow Wolf. This is my weekly serial, written raw and unplanned.

Here is the first post in this arc.

Here is last week’s post, in case you missed it.

<>

“Can I tell just how pleased I am that you woke me up for this Ragnar?”

“By Skygge, Murith, you would waste away and die from boredom if it weren’t for my company.”

We were at the Burning Hills morgue, examining Rake’s body. I hoped that Murith and I would be able to glean some information about where he died.

Rake’s body was laid out before us. His heart and genitals had been removed from his mouth and laid out beside him.

“Well he definitely struggled,” said Murith.

I nodded. He had scrapes along one knuckled, likely from landing a punch against a hard target.Most Doxies’s knew how to fight and Rake had been a wild one to begin with. There was rope burn along his ankles and wrists.

“So, how does the coward’s feast work?” asked Murith. “They start with the painful stuff, I take it.”

“They do. It is said that a master can keep them alive long enough to see their own beating heart held up before them. Personally, I have a hard time believing anyone feels much after they lose their manhood to the knife. They call it the coward’s feast partly because they scream so much.”

“Your people are so inventive when comes to butchering their enemies.”

“Dreaming up new way of bloodletting helps us pass the time during blizzards. Don’t deny that your ancestors don’t have a way with vengeance as well, Murith; I’ve read the Grudgebearer’s Litanies.”

“My parents were shopkeepers, Ragnar. What else can you see?”

“The weapon that the killer used looks to be exceptionally sharp, I don’t see jagged edges on those cuts. Must have had a steady hand, too.”

“Aye.  other than the wounds, the ropes, and signs of struggle, he only has a few cuts and bruises. No signs of additional torture or working up to the deed with any other assault. It all looks a little too businesslike does it not?”

“You’re thinking a professional then? A nightblade?”

“That would be too obvious, I think.”

“Few people seek out facts that undermine their preconceptions, Murith. Lily could have just hired a skilled assassin and told them to make it look like a Nordan did it. The damage was done to the Union the moment that woman screamed that I did it. I could have the Nine Masters of the Night’s Finger themselves swear that it was their doing and there are those who would still be certain that I was the killer.”

“Your reputation hardly helps. The witness statements are frustratingly chaotic. Some people saw a single figure, some as many as three. The only consistency is a carriage or cart of some sort, which seems obvious.”

“Cart. He lay on his side for some time. I can smell the wood… and something else.”

My stomach rumbled. Murith raised a brow.

“Meat. It was a butcher’s cart.”

“Ah. There is a rather large carving and processing house not too far from The Haven. They would have many such carts. Why don’t we start there?”

“After you, Watch Sergeant.”

<>

Of course it was a trap.

<>

 

 

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’ War 3.6

It is Thursday once more and time for some Shadow Wolf. This is my weekly serial, written raw and unplanned.

Here is the first post in this arc.

Here is last week’s post, in case you missed it.

<>

All eyes turned toward me as the woman, ragged and vulnerable, yet undeniable in her seeming grief called me out.

“It was him! He killed Rake. Look at the body: only a savage would do this!”

Savage being another word for Nordan, of course. It was doubtful that this was just a random act of prejudice either. I was not just any Nordan, I was a well-known enforcer for The Twins, probably the most famous of my people connected to the Doxies’s Union. I would have wagered with old Garm himself that this was the work of Lily Gemarkand or her proxy Diamond Silvermane. The rumour would be spread that I killed Rake because he went against The Twins; that I was innocent of the deed would not matter. By the time that was established distrust would run rampant through The Union and others would break away.

I turned to Vethri. “You both need to go and try to get ahead of this.”

“Fuck that,” said Eiskra. “Rake was my friend.”

“I can handle it, for now,” said Vethri. “What are you going to do?”

“I have friends among the watch here,” I said. “Best turn myself in for questioning.”

<>

“What have you gotten yourself into now, Nordan?”

The speaker was a short haired Dwarven woman, neat and sharp-eyed in spite of the fact that my request for her presence had no doubt robbed her of sleep.

“This one is Union business Murith. Someone wants to turn as many people against The Twins as possible. I asked for you so we can establish my innocence as quickly as possible.”

“Aren’t you worried that our friendship will make that suspect?”

“I’m willing to take advantage of your untarnished reputation rather than rely on a watch officer that I do not know or trust.”

Murith smirked.

“Officially then: you had nothing to do with Rake’s death?”

“I did not. Not only that, but the way that he died is reserved for a truly hated enemy among my people; one who has shown great cowardice as well as evil.”

“Sounds like a grudge killing,” said Murith, referring to the sacred oaths of vengeance of the Dwarves.

“There is some similarity.”

“Do you have an alibi that is not The Twins?”

“I’m not sure. We were at The Union and took our carriage home. People will have seen us at both places. But there wasn’t enough blood at the scene. Rake had to have been killed earlier Murith, so until you can determine his time of death–“

“–Fine, fine. We will go over that later. Who do you think did this, and why?”

“Ultimately it comes back to Lily Gemarkand.”

“I can see why she would want to get back at you, but why would she involve herself with The Twins?”

“This is about breaking the The Union. Lily has some plan that involves her own brothels, or perhaps a Union master under her control. We know that from Sapphire. She bought the Pink Pearl yesterday and sent her ‘representative’, a woman called Diamond Silvermane to announce that they were breaking away at tonight’s meeting.”

“Who would join them?” asked Murith inredulously. “The Union is the best thing ever to happen to prostitutes in Myrrhn. I’ve looked at the statistics, Ragnar; even under a beast like Gentleman Jim, The Union is vastly safer and fairer than street pimps and unaffiliated brothels.”

I laughed. “Not everyone looks at the statistics, Murith. It can be hard to explain the tithe that goes to the guild to someone who is beautiful and successful. That is what Lily and Diamond are counting on.”

“I really hate when you are right, Nordan.”

“I know. So, shall we investigate?”

<>

Teaser Tuesday

This week’s teaser is from Bloodlust: The Great Games, a short story from my Domains of the Chosen series. The story follows a father taking his young daughter to watch a match and highlights the structure of a night’s entertainment at the arena. It introduces characters that appear later in the main series, including Melia, a woman who hates the games. I also delve into sport chants for the first time, which is fun.

I love this cover.

“FIRST ROUND,” Quintus diKrass thundered. The trumpets sounded again and Rose felt herself holding her breath as the monsters entrance opened and four beastmen spilled out from the shadows, snarls sounding from foaming mouths.

Darius noted the scales and the mix of snake-like and crocodile-like features. Beastmen were one of the unfortunate leftovers from the wars that led to the Reckoning, a foul joining of man and beast, driven to crazed bloodlust by wild magic. They were a staple of the arena.

The reptilian Beastmen towered over Fiona, making the powerful Gladiatrix look like a mere slip of a girl. They rushed her, growling and snarling, foamy spittle flying from their jagged maws.  The crowd tensed in anticipation.

For her part Fiona channelled power, readying her magic for a spell if she needed it. Beastmen were hardly a challenge for her.

The first, slim and serpentine, reached Fiona, darting forward to snap at her with a surprisingly long neck. Calmly, the Gladiatrix stepped aside. She caught the light glinting off its scales. Its jaws snapped past her as she brought her axe down on the long neck.

“YES!” shouted Darius as Fiona was awarded the extra points for a decapitation.

Roses eyes widened as the beast’s head fell to the ground, a great gout of blood spilling on the white sand as the body tumbled to a halt. She looked over at her father and saw the joy on his face as the crowd roared all around them. The score ticked up to two, a spectacular kill. She turned back to the match, smiling.

Meanwhile Fiona had moved away from the remaining beastmen. In truth, she did not want to kill them too fast; she wanted to entertain the crowd and warm up for the coming rounds. She dodged slashing claws and gnashing teeth with practised ease, barely breaking a sweat in spite of her heavy weapons and thick armour.

After a minute of this the Gladiatrix lured the largest of the Beastmen, a thick-scaled crocodilean fiend, towards her. Its massive jaws snapped shut above her as she ducked and shifted to the side, her sickle raking across the beast’s belly. Thick scales were no match for the true-steel alloyed edge. A mess of entrails spilled from the beast as she danced away.

 

Review: Path of Exile

This week, after a long hiatus I returned to Path of Exile. My main computer gaming pastime of late, Total War: Warhammer, is still building up to a major and I am content to give it a rest until then.

Path of Exile is a free to play action rpg that has been out for several years. The game that most people would compare it to is Diablo (more like 2 than 3). Regular updates and a strong community keep it fresh.

Path of Exile plays like a typical isometric action RPG. Your character will fight hordes of enemies and nasty bosses for levels and loot. Compared to Diablo 3 the graphics are less impressive, but also less gaudy, and when the action starts much, much easier to follow than the explosion of special effects that define a high level confrontation in Diablo 3. It is much easier to follow what is going on in Path of Exile and the no nonsense approach to graphics means that special touches like an impressive boss or unusual item stand out. I also like that the combat is more tactical, with nods to positioning and ability use and less about dodging ground effects.

Path of Exile is a game that does not hold your hand. It is possible to make characters that are far better than others. The game’s skill web makes the skill trees of Diablo 2 look like shrubs and the skill choices of Diablo 3 seem like preschool.

Each of those tiny nodes is a single skill point. Most are small bonuses, but can radically change your character over time, while some nodes can completely change the style of play. There are also ascendancy classes.

While the sheer variety may seem daunting, it is fairly intuitive once you understand how to read it ad the community are always, always talking about builds. The endless theorycrafting helps promote the game.

Melee (STR/Marauder) is supposedly among the weaker built types, but I have no trouble in single player on the first such character I made.

Not that anyone who likes the game would ever stop at just one character, the possibilities of that skill tree are a great lure.

At first glance the item system in Path of Exile is nothing special. The usual rares and artifacts make their appearances. Slots are in as well, though in Path of Exile this is where you get your active abilities from. In is interesting to note, however, that none of the shops use currency, but rather trade in useful commodities like identify scrolls and orbs that reroll the properties of magic weapons. There is real depth in the item system and it certainly holds the game together.

The dungeons and environments are well designed. My favourite is the labyrinth where you get your ascendancy class; a randomized set of trials with challenging traps and interesting, varying mechanics in the boss fights, all with a tight story about an emperor with no heir trying to find someone worthy.

Speaking of story, the world building in Path of Exile is unlike any of its competitors, steeped with western archetypes and what seems to be some sort of Maori warrior lore and crazy ruined empires than run on blood, gems, and the dreams of gods (and men of infinite ambition). If the story of Diablo is Dante’s Inferno cross with a world war, Path of Exile is more comparable to Vance, Moorcock, and the Malazan series. It is dark and brooding, but teeming with life and ambition. All of that grandness though is brought down to earth by interesting characters and a simple motivation: you have been cast out, exiled and left for dead, but you lived and now it is time for revenge.

Best part is the micro-transactions are not prohibitive at all. No pay to win, or pay to remove obstacles to play here.

Good game.

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’ War 3.5

It is Thursday once more and time for some Shadow Wolf. This is my weekly serial, written raw and unplanned.

Here is the first post in this arc.

Here is last week’s post, in case you missed it.

<>

“A murder?”

Vethri’s brow was furrowed and the scars on her cheeks dipped into a scowl as her lips twisted. It had to be guild related. Eiskra’s hand cupped her mouth and her eyes went wide as she finished reading.

“Who?”

“Rake,” sighed Vethri. “It’s bad, Ragnar.”

Rake was one of the Union’s most famed Cornerboys, Myrrhnese slang for a male prostitute with a primarily male client base. He was stylish and gentlemanly, and as flamboyant and quick-witted as one would expect from his street name.  While he initially opposed The Twins in the early days after Madame Glorianna’s death he became a staunch supporter after meeting with them and listening to their vision for The Union. I wondered if his murder was connected to the chaos at the Union earlier.

<>

We were all quiet on the way to Burning Hill. Carriage was one of the safest ways to traverse the City of Assassins at night, but even so I half expected every shadow fluttering past the shutters or strange noise to herald some attack. I was relieved when the carriage ground to a halt.

For once Eiskra did not protest when I insisted on leaving the protective confines of the carriage compartment first.

Even at night, the acrid air of Burning Hills was unmistakable. We were at The Haven, a bawdyhouse and tavern on a prominent corner on the lower hills. The streets were crowded with watchmen, Doxies, and onlookers. I stepped into the mob, moving toward the the door. I could smell blood and offal already and struggled to remain calm.

Then the crowd parted and I saw Rake, or rather his remains. Eiskra gasped. I stopped short. Rake’s body bore the signs of ritual abuse, a Nordan form of killing called the coward’s feast. His heart and his genitals had been severed and stuffed in his mouth. It was a cruel way to kill practiced mostly by then Nordan and reserved only for the most despicable of enemies.

My mind simply failed to process the scene. Why would one of my countrymen do this to Rake?

“He did this, it was him!” I looked up to see a tearful young woman pointing at me.

And it all fell into place.

<>

Teaser Tuesday

This week’s teaser comes from Blade Breaker (The Shadow Wolf Sagas #1)

They call the place the Spearmarch because the tall pines loom like the pikes of an army alongside the old, well-travelled roads. It was peaceful, deep within the royal Domains and surrounded by the lands of the Great Clans on every side. No one expects an ambush in such a place.

We only had a handful of scouts and outriders. These were overwhelmed instantly. Thus, when the depths of the Spearmarch disgorged a horde of Skraelings fit to overrun an army ten times our size, it stunned me. How could such a thing happen, here in the bosom of our lands? Such was the sense of disbelief that men who would normally throw themselves into danger lost heart. When the enemy charged, shaking the ground under their innumerable boots all seemed lost.

Yet, Siggurd Stormbreaker, the High King of all the North, refused to run. He moved calmly to the front of the army, pushing his way through his protesting Kingsguard, myself the only member of the Shadow Wolf Clan honoured with a position among them in more than a hundred years. His gaze swept the enemy and then he spat dismissively and lifted his sword, Garmsbita, above his head. Invoking the Gods to witness the battle he rallied. His last line, the last words from my king are still clear in my mind.

“Stand with me now brothers and let us show Gods and Ancestors that we are brave and true; Come ruin! Come glory! Come courage and red joy!”

We met them head on, charging into the onrushing horde instead of taking up a defensive position. Thyra was beside me, bright and strong. At first we made great headway. We formed around Siggurd and clove into the screaming, frenzied Skraelings, seemingly unstoppable. Were we not the men and women of the North? Was Siggurd Stormbreaker not the very king who had routed The Devout in his youth?

Bright blades rose and fell, red with blood. The air was thick with the war-shouts of the North and muttered oaths to the Gods of my people. We killed and killed and killed, and although the enemy was all around us, we did not waver.

Then a Murder-Wight, fearsome and fell-handed came upon the High King at the forefront. Dread was the blade it wielded leaving a trail of shadow in the air. It cut down two of the best men among us in a heartbeat and then it was upon the King. They fought and it seemed to me that both armies paused and parted to watch the struggle. The Wight was swift and strong, but the king was hard as iron and battle-wise. A sudden stumble caused my heart to leap, but it was just a ruse. Cunning Old Siggurd caught that terrible sword on Garmsbita and then struck the Wight’s head from its shoulders in a single blow. It was glorious.

For that one moment we felt as if we could do anything. We howled and my voice mingled with that of Thyra screaming next to me. Our weapons were light as air, our armour was unbreakable. Each man that fell was a hero. We pushed on; full of life, all cares forgotten.

Then, just as the enemy seemed sure to break, I caught sight of a shadow behind the High King and then he was gone. There is something broken in my memory of that moment. My mind cannot make sense of the image, and it is as if the identity of the killer was ripped from me. This recollection was no different.

When Siggurd fell, the tip of our spear was blunted. Confusion reigned; and we faltered as word of the king’s death spread like wildfire in dry grass.

The remaining Murder-Wights rallied the Skraelings and drove them forward once more. They pushed into us. We tried to hold, but we could not reform our lines and, as flooding waters will find the holes in a dike, they surged through the gaps. Our formation disintegrated. Men went down, too fast, too many. All those who died were as brothers to me.

We fought in knots, then pairs, then finally alone. For every Skraeling we killed two more took its place. The tide of bodies drew me away from Thyra and my heart fell as a monstrous Wight came upon her, brandishing a smoking red blade in one hand and the heads of my brethren the other. The berserk came upon me then and much of what happened next is lost to me.

Thyra made her name on the field that day. Where most were killed or cursed, she stood her ground and became a legend. The tale of Thyra Hurnsdottir, The Unbroken Spear, of how she and her band of ten guarded the High King’s body from the horde until reinforcements came, is well known. They were they only survivors of the Drajinskyg, the Kingslaying at Spearmarch.

As for me, I remember fighting for what seemed an eternity, consumed by rage and heedless of my wounds. Somewhere along the way, my hand was cut off, but it seemed a small matter then. Then suddenly the berserk ended. The enemy was all around me. A blade blossomed from my chest. My mouth was full of blood. It was impossible to draw breath. Looking back, my eyes met the dead gaze of a Murder-Wight. It tossed me to the ground and the Skraelings closed on me hacking and biting, filling my eyes with red.

I died and rose again, seven days later, dragged out of my grave by wolves, only to be branded a coward and exiled by my clan, despite Thyra’s protests.

A Review

Often, when sales are down, or when a new book does not quite meet expectations, I wonder if I am doing the right thing by continuing to write. I suspect that this is something that almost writers struggle with from time to time. Surely the 20+ hours a week that I spend writing could be put to better use making money for my family. I have children and a wife to think of, and all the adult practicalities of life to bow to. Usually these thoughts are put down with me realizing that I have drunk too much coffee that day, or thinking of the positive reinforcement that I have received from readers, or family.

The thing is, even if practicalities demanded that I stop writing, I am not certain that I could. I have kept writing through some fairly rough (for my life) stuff in the last few years. I am nearing publication of my eighth novel in spite of it all. Its pretty fucking crazy, really. But, I do it because writing is one of the things that I do to feel alive.

It took me a long time to come to this realization.

And that is where Walter White comes into this. If you have never watched Breaking Bad, you should. I came late to the party, finishing the show well after the final season and well-deserved the glory that came along with it. I loved it despite the fact that I do not like outlaw stories, prefer not to watch TV for the most part, and really dislike grim stuff. Breaking Bad rose above all of that, implausibly in my case, and I am glad that my wife prevailed on me to watch it. It is the first TV show that has given me the same feeling, when it ends, that I have when I finish a great book or video game. That is something special.

I cannot offer you any new insight into the show. The acting is amazing from all sides. The characters and the writing are legendary. The descent of Walter White is both gratifying and horrifying, but no matter how you view his morality, it is a satisfying tale. It is cited as one of the best shows of all time for good reason. I have been replaying the last episode and some of the highlights of the show for a week now.

It is a masterwork.

What I can add is what it taught me about myself. I see a little bit of Walter White in me. In the end, he realized that being Heisenberg made him feel alive, and everything else was just an excuse. It was his art, as writing is mine.

Through art we come to know ourselves…

Disclaimer: I do not intend to use my writing for evil…

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’ War 3.4

Ugh, what a night. Turned on my computer to write and I had to wait while the longest update I have ever seen for windows 10 sorted itself out. Felt like I was waiting for a game to load on my old Commodore 64… thanks Microsoft!

Regardless, here is the next installment of the Shadow Wolf Sagas.

You can read the first post in this arc here.

You can read last week’s post here.

<>

Diamond Silvermane left the Doxies’s Union in Chaos. Quorum was called and the The Twins were chosen to lead the Union, but it was done with grim faces and nervous glances. We left long after the meeting was finished, but Eiskra was still fuming and Vethri was not feeling talkative.

The Doxies’s Union was a force to be reckoned with in Myrrhn. They controlled all of the prostitution houses in the city. That unity afforded the Union a measure of control that even the Seven Families, The Nightblades, and even the Merchant Houses could not ignore. The Union, in turn, protected its members from the depredations of vicious street pimps, malicious customers, and helped them retire when they wished it. The members paid a tithe to the Union in return for memberships.

That was what made Diamond Silvermane’s parting quip so poisonous. No one likes paying a tithe, and many of the younger members of the guild, who had never faced the uglier sides of the profession questioned the usefulness of The Union. By saying that they would never have to share with “cut-up, old bitches”, Silvermane was attacking The Twins, but also making an age-old appeal to selfish greed. In the North, she would have been met with anger and derision, but this was Myrrhn, where the common dream was wealth.

“We will have to start sanctions,” said Vethri, breaking the silence of our carriage ride.

“Yes,” said Eiskra. “A pox on them all.”

“It would be better if we approached this with cool heads, dear one,” said Vethri. “We will have to let word circulate, let the customers know what is going on before we start.”

I could tell Eiskra wanted to protest. Her facial scars made her look even more ferocious when angry. She nodded though, seeing the sense of it. Sanctioning meant that anyone frequenting an establishment outside the Union would be refused service at one of the Union houses.

“I’d love to know what Lily Gemarkand thinks she is playing at,” said Eiskra. “You’ve met her Ragnar, what is her endgame here?”

“She might even be doing it out of spite. I thought her interest in the guild died with Sapphire. I–“

The carriage ground to a halt. We were still some distance from home. I was tense, but could not sense anything out of the ordinary, only a courier. After a moment, the driver opened a panel and slid a piece of paper through.

“Message. Urgent apparently.”

I sniffed the paper to be sure, then handed it to Vethri who broke the seal and scanned it rapidly.

“To Burning Hill driver,” she said, handing the paper to Eiskra.

“What is it?”

“There’s been a murder, Ragnar.”

<>

Teaser Tuesday

Tis Tuesday and time for a teaser!

This is part of one of my favourite scenes from the series.

Teven came up to the line of cannons, coming to rest beside Hephus. He saw what was left of Bosh hooked to the bloody banner of the Sixth Cohort. He saw Vintia. He heard the Third, the Second, and the First Cohorts moving into place behind him. He felt their shock at the vista before them. He saw Bosh’s lips moving. After that first moment, however, the emotions of the Legionnaires boiled into iron rage and they snapped into formation, ready and eager.

It would have been easy to lose himself in the grim sight before him, but instead Teven focused on the dawning realization on the faces of the Vvath as Warbound Vintia pulled back and the angry guns of the eighth cohort were revealed.

By the ancestors, it was glorious.

~~~~~~

Vintia had brought them the time to get into to the perfect position. The guns were massed perfectly.

The would fire grapeshot and incendiaries in alternating loads, at short range, against an enemy that was unprepared and closely packed together. It was all academic now, and the equation was very much in favour of the men standing behind the cannons.

All academic, save for one tortured Warbound andthea tiny handful of Legionnaires still holding against the horde that were also within range; the human cost that Hephus would have to carry the weight of for the rest of his life.

“FIRE!” shouted Hephus before the gunners could hesitate. He almost cursing Artillery Master Grannoch for being wounded.

The guns roared, and the day was won in smoke and fire.