[center][img]http://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/san-marcos-spanish-armada.jpg?itok=jx0Aqkyd[/img]

[h2]To Wage a War - Part 3[/h2][/center]

"They are coming!" The scream echoed down the stone staircase of the watchtower to bring an instant silence to the men who sat clustered around the small table, cards clutched in their hands, a pile of assorted coins before them on the table. 

"Who is coming?" Demanded the officer of the day, his voice carrying back up the stairwell. His question was met with silence. The officer swore and stood, it was not uncommon for the garrison commander to do early morning inspections but they could hide the cards before he got there. "This had better be good." He muttered as he threw the cards down. 

As if in reply to his words the alarm bell began to ring. Not the general tolling of a practice alarm but the frantic ringing of a someone who believes their lives depend on it. In an instant the cards were forgotten as men scrambled for weapons and armour, hurling themselves up the stairs as quickly as they could go. 

The officer was first up the stairs, his sword clutched in one hand, helmet in the other. He burst onto the rampart and looked to see the sentry virtually hanging off the alarm bell as he pulled its cord for all he was worth. The mans terrified gaze was fixed over the wall and in the direction of the sea. Two steps took him to the edge of the stone and one look took his breath away. 

The morning sun had risen just above the horizon and was nearly blinding to look at but against the brightness he could see ships. Thousands of ships. For a moment all he could was stand with his mouth hanging open. Where had it come from? Who were they? 

"The Electorate." Breathed one of the guardsman who had joined him on the battlements. Other alarms were ringing now all down the wall. The guardsman pointed towards the centre of the fleet and it took the officer a moment to pick out the ship he was indicating but when he saw it, there could be not doubt. A mass of tall white canvas stood out above the mass of ships, great red crosses painted onto them. There was no mistaking a Grand Caravel of the Electorate when you saw one. And it wasn't just one. There were hundreds.

A sound like thunder rolled across the water and smoke blossomed from several smaller ships that they recognized as Ogre bombships, really little more than a huge mortar with Ogres pulling the oars. 

"Incoming!" Screamed a voice and men scattered for cover as the first shells trundled overhead to explode in the streets of the city beyond the citadel. It was a ranging shot. There was a pause and then the next salvo slammed into the citadel and the dying began. Men screamed as the shells exploded, shredding flesh and armour like nothing. Other weapons, most likely purchased from Goblins, hurled smaller shells that smoked furiously and pumped out a purplish gas that could kill a man in minutes. 

It had only been ten minutes since the enemy fleet had been seen and already the citadel was a blazing inferno, anything that wasn't stone had been engulfed in flame. The Grand Caravels, their massive shapes presenting themselves as they turned, added their huge broadsides to the bombardment. Culverins were dismounted from their seats, catapults smashed into kindling. 

War had come to the Fenea Kingdom.