So far all information Manald had got about what they were going to face were Orcs, so the appearance of goblins had come quite a bit as a surprise. However the lycanthrope had soon found himself less worried about the petty, ugly looking fighters and much more about what kind of creature they were riding on: wolves. It had hurt to see those wonderful beasts being abused by these dirty, pesky little things with all of their miserable intentions, but the prospect of having to kill them had done so even more.

Or did he ? For what had been a fraction of a second in reality, but what had felt like a cruel series of moments, Manald had considered not steering his horse into the direction of the harrased caravan. In the heat of battle there would have been plenty of ways to explain his way out into pretty much any direction he wanted, but in the end it would still have been disobedience even if only a harmless one due to the fact that there would have been more then enough cavalry men left to deal with the goblin threat. As he had pushed the best possible speed out of his horse in order to keep up with the others, Manald had considered alternative options.

What he had ended up with was an attempt. The first thing that had come from him and which had hurt the goblins had neither been his mace nor his shield, but his voice. A scream that had made those riding next to him wince in their saddles, one even almost falling off his horse. An outburst of unintelligible gibberish that made no sense to an untrained human ear, but which told a message to any wolf listening: I am the alpha male, the leader of the pack. Obey me.

Unfortunately a battleground being littered with blood at an astonishing rate was anything but ideal terrain for even a wolf to pick up the distinct scent coming of Manald that would have given some proof to his claim. It had seemed to work on the nearest goblin, his mount stopping so abruptly that its rider was jettisoned into a forward direction, only to be crushed beneath the hooves of Manald's horse as he was charging in. He could have transformed, thereby greatly amplifying his strength before repeating the shout, but having done so while there had been fighting all around him would have posed too much of a danger. So the lycanthrope had fought on by conventional means, which in his case meant broken skulls and crushd ribcages with priority given towards the goblins and not the wolves.

By the time he rode into the city at a slow trot his horse was done. Not only looked it as if it was on the verge of collapsing, but one could also clearly see that Manald preferred using his right hand for holding his weapon... It simply was the side covered in the larger amount of spattered blood and other remains one wouldn't want to identify. Both it and its rider were in obvious need for a decent wash. Manald handed over his mount to the very next person he believed could do the job for him, then attended to himself for a proper cleanup before all of the blood would have dried and become one ugly mess of a crust.

While his leaders appeared to be discussing things on their own and several pounds of water were still  clinging to his now tidy fur, Manald took an investigative stroll through the city. Now that the cannons were silent it was a good moment to take a curious look at them himself. They had to be fascinating pieces of craftsmanship, but the wolf also wondered about the toll the siege so far must have taken on their stock of ammunitions. He had enough experience to know that hauling big weaponry over long distance and on short notice like it had happened here was enough of a challenge by itself. Doing so with a large stock of projectiles was another. Hopefully they had thought about the latter as well...

Also, while the Orcs and Goblins didn't have cannons, they still could have fire. A spark finding its way into the stockpile of propellant for these things might blast a hole in the city wall faster than any catapult or ram could do.