The captain has taken his advice, though not enthusiastically. Torm couldn't blame him, as he had spoken under duress and had only thought of the plan that would give them the best chance of winning without capitulating. And so now they would live or die based on Torm's idea. Ultimately it was the Captain's decision to make, but if this failed and Torm somehow lived, he might actually think Bianca some sort of seeress and take away all blame of her hating him. He would hate himself right enough. A stone's throw behind the commander, the men and women of Palona on the palisade walls whispered worriedly, casting glances at the Silver Swords or out into the darkness as they made their 'rounds' with the torches. Some of them shook like wet dogs, it was a wonder they could hold the blazing instruments aloft. But if this saved their town from the butchery and depravity of a sacking, they would do it, if only for their children's sake. 

Torm stood at the head of an unruly mass of knights in full plate, armed with heavy weapons of steel and iron. Sir Draufkrieg himself held a sturdy poleaxe in one hand, its spiked butt piercing into the earth. Helms and accents from all nationalities and fiefdoms had gathered together to form a conglomerate of warriors before him, ready to spearhead into the enemy or die in the attempt. It was juxtaposed by a score of grim, battle-hardened dwarves armed with surcoats over finely wrought mail, each armored like the last. Eleven of them sported dwarf forged axes and shields of iron, and the remaining nine held smoothbore, muzzle-loading donderbus rifles. The Captain had taken what he could spare from the sappers and ordered them to help in the initial charge to kill two birds with one proverbial stone. The dwarves could see in the dark, and their presence would deter Grimgi's boys from getting overzealous. While it wasn't unknown for a dwarf to kill another in mercenary work, kinslaying was a grave crime in dwarvish society, and even when it was lawful they felt their gods would disapprove. Now the had nearly a hundred in the vanguard, with Aeon given orders to sweep in from behind as soon as Torm and his men had broken through. 

"No enemy movements sir!" A voice called from a rise at the wall, one of the few men they kept stationed as their patrol. Clad in a kettle helm and a brigandine, he stood there with a dwarf sharpshooter, resting a long rifle on a fashioned hole in the curtain wall, keeping an eye on the battle line. Torm drew in a deep breath, as it was just about time. He turned to the men, clearing his throat to hush their restless murmuring. Out of the crowd stepped a burly dwarf named Gunir. An ex-soldier of a dwarfish citadel Torm couldn't recall the name of, he usually worked as security detail for the sappers or one of its chief diggers. He was clad in a suit of lamellar, overlapping plates of steel, riveted together atop a thick coat to add padding. He bore the typical squat, brazen helm of the dwarves, with cheek and nose guard. Gunir found a place beside Torm, as the knight addressed the men. 

"Knights of the Silver Sword! Tonight we break the enemy before they can even begin to assault us!" The men gave roars and laughs of approval. It was good the enemy wasn't close enough to hear. Silence was key very soon. "When we step over this wall, you will move with me. We will walk and be as silent as our honored dead until the horns sound. If you see a dwarf, do not attack him. Ignore them unless they truly wish you dead. Our goal is beyond their earthworks. Tonight, we drive them out of these plains with their tails between their legs!" 

"We cannot hope to kill them all, sir!" Called sir Ector of Lanebridge in his hounskull helm. Torm recognized him immediately for the shield he bore, a rarity among fully armored cavaliers in this day and age.

"We don't need to. I know every man and dwarf here will kill three of the enemy, or more. But our goal is to break their center, ruin their camp, and split the siege down the middle." Torm responded. "That, we can do. And we will. Now who is with me!?" 

"We'll slay the bastards!"

"Keep yer heads about ye. Rifledwarfs in the back, and the other lads stay astride the manlings." Gunri said to his boys, and he patted the horn at his hip. A horn every axe-wielding dwarf held at their belt. "No unit tactics, too few of us. We're going with the buddy system, at least until we make it to the camp. Pick a group of manlings and keep them in yer sights. Ye know the tune to sing, so do it when I give the signal." 

"Aye! Aye." The bearded folk responded, nodding. A few of them grinned or gripped their weapons tightly in anticipation. They might be sappers, but every dwarf male was taught how to soldier unless they were born in a human settlement. The stout folk had a martial tradition past human memory. 

Suddenly a loud cranking was heard, the gathered throng turning to the gate as it began to swing open. Two Palona men pulled at the wheel mechanism as the five dwarf sappers left began to push the arbalest out, the fifth one gently cradling the barrel of phosphorus that was pivotal to the plot. Torm had seen this sort of munition fail before. All it needed was to be exposed to air and it would combust like a steam engine rupturing. Any chink in the barrel or sudden, unexpected nick might make it go sky high and potentially destroy their only artillery piece. As they moved, the patrols walked in practiced unison, coincidentally moving away from a small portion of the palisade, leaving room for Torm and the dwarves to approach it and get over, stepping on the pre-planted crates and hauling themselves above and past the palisade. Every curse was met with a whisper of silence, every grumble was smacked out of their mouths. 

As Torm landed in the dirt and turned to help his fellows over, there below the wall in the gloom of the night, he wondered if the scouts were doing well. Bianca was savvy, but she was a firecracker. The knights and the infantry can drive the enemy off, but if the scouts didn't hit them at their weakest, the plan might go from victory to absolutely nothing. Jon Hangman reached over and Torm took his arm to help haul him across, the man-at-arms holding his curious eastern sword in his off-hand and using his elbow to help shove his weight up and around. The dwarves hit the ground the hardest, but they kept as quiet as they could and made only the barest grunts. Only one dwarf tripped, bouncing off the earth, but his fellows silenced his groans. Once all of them were over, they waited a minute, still as statues. 

"Anything?" Torm breathed quietly to the dwarf at his side. It wasn't Gunir, but it didn't matter. A gruff cadence replied with. "Nay, no' a sound."

With that, Torm moved forward. Small commands from the dwarves were issued, and in an uneven wave, the contingent waded through no-mans-land, their armor making soft bumps and scraping noises, and though Torm knew it was just his nerves, it sounded like right clangor to his ears. He himself nearly fell first into a hole, quickly using the poleaxe like a walking stick to keep himself from pitching face first into it. He felt sweat beading on his chest and back, but taking solace in the fact the plan hadn't yet ended in disaster. The merciful lady would watch over them, this had to work. 

"My bloody leg!" Someone cried. Torm's breath caught, and the next yell was muffled by unseen hands in the dark. He tried to squint, looking at the silhouette of the uneven ground to see the cause of it, but all he could ascertain were vague shapes moving. He glanced back at the well lit palisade walls, the patrols marching their torches this way and that, save for the gate. He needed to keep moving, the Knight Lieutenant stepping past the pothole and keeping his poleaxe before him, bumping the earth with it like a blind man. 

"Oi! Who's that!" 

"Enemies! Fuckin' attackers!" 

The voices came from up ahead, and a few spans to the left a dwarf spoke in his native tongue to them. Damn, they still had another ten yards! Torm began to run in a trot, pulling every man he came across to join him. Now that they neared the earthworks, they could see the gleam of dwarvish eyes in the soft moonlight and the embers on their cigars. A few gunshots rang out from the ditches, flashes in the dark, but more shouts came in dwarvish by Torm, pleading and calling for what was no doubt a reassurance. A clamor of voices began to rise from the trench at the front, but it was drowned out by a sudden, powerful hornblow that shook every eardrum within two hundred yards. A mere second later it was joined by nearly a dozen more horns of similar quality. 

"KIG'VOREN!" Torm heard Gunir cry in the din, a common dwarvish warcry that roughly translated to 'hew their necks.' Torm was no expert, but the Captain had every commander learn certain dwarvish calls so there was no confusion when battle began. 

"Death and glory!" Torm roared, hefting his poleaxe into the air like a beacon as night suddenly turned to day. Above the battle line, an explosion of hot white illuminated the battlefield like a miniature sun. Torm could see the trench just in front of him and the cannon barrel he was looking straight into. The knight ducked and rolled, but the next thought he recalled was he saw no dwarf at its station and he felt the fool. Streams of fiery brilliance cascaded like missiles of flames into the front of the camp, piercing tents and scattering on the ground like burning sand. He saw Priest Queen patrols, close and with their spears leveled, suddenly turned and look in shock and horror at their own pavillions. The curs had no doubt heard some of their cursing and had been told to investigate, no doubt the commander having thought Grimri's boys having run into a few Silver Sword scouts or deserters. Torm smiled grimly, knowing they wouldn't expect a full scale attack until it had already come. 

And it had. 

Dwarf rifles fired across the trenches, cutting down three of the twelve or so spearmen and sending the others in a panic. Torm could see the camp clearly now, and all the shapes of the men that had tried to have a go at his knights. He vaulted over the trench, his men following suit. Heavy footfalls and crunched earth audible in their ears as they clambered past Grimri's battery line to start running, charging through the last stretch of ground before they hit the enemy camp with fury and bloodlust.