A cry of alarm went up on the other side of the wall, and muskets barked, spitting smoke and lead and sulphur. A howl turned into a scream and cut off abruptly—David wished he could see more. DeVale had the same idea: he was ordering his men to set up their ladders again and scale the old wall, to take it from the defenders.

David pressed his lips together. He really, really wanted to grab a ladder and be in that first rush. But Rust and Ragna were staying behind, too, as was deVale, who was yelling at his men to move faster from the safety of his cover. David couldn’t bring himself to shout at the werewolves. They already did everything they could—and it wasn’t like they could resist Rust’s orders, anyway.

Bernadette squirrelled up a ladder, surprisingly quick for someone her age. Three bayonets stabbed her as she reached the top, almost at the same time, but she threw herself over the parapet. David inhaled sharply and was relieved when she came up again. The traitors on the other hand screamed when they suddenly found themselves face to face with an angry she-wolf the size of a small horse.

Two more settled ones backed up the elder werewolf. The human soldiers barely hesitated to make good of their chance, forming a musket line. The first volley went off, and rather than reloading in their exposed position, the men passed their muskets down to receive loaded ones from their comrades. Within seconds, they fired again.

It didn’t look like they were facing much resistance, so David picked the closest ladders to scurry upwards and get a better overview.

Boris, Calder, and Neville were fighting back to back on the alley beyond the wall, a whirlwind of claws and cursed teeth. Blood caked Calder’s fur together, but David thought the wound underneath was already closed—the elder must have transformed in the middle of the fight.

David swung the crossbow off his back, to give them what support he could. Given their lack of riflemen, he was the closest thing Loegrion had to a sharpshooter. While to his right and left, the muskets barked, he kept a lookout for more red robes amongst the defenders that were pushing in from all directions to try and close the breach.

Out of the houses they came, from the castle on top of the cliff, and up the road to the harbour garrison. Civilians, many of them. Mostly men, but some women, too.

A whole city, fighting against them to allow the Valoisian fleet to land.

The next sorcerer wasn’t even a priest. Just an unassuming figure wearing a fine doublet. His wide, flailing movements caught David’s attention. Sparks flew, but the magician didn’t have any more of a clear shot than David did in the rush of people.

Or maybe he didn’t need one. A torrent of flame rained down from the heavens on David. He didn’t even have time to scream—but the sheath at his side did. It was a sound like a metal fork being run over an earthenware platter and he almost threw himself off the wall before he realised what it was.

The stream of fire diverted around him, grounding itself right in the silver.

The defenders around the sorcerer ducked their heads low in surprise, giving him the opening he had been waiting for. Ignoring the flames screaming around him, David pulled up the crossbow and shot the bastard through the neck.

He was glad, so very glad that his first bolt struck home. The stream of fire cut off at once. Instead, he smelled a terribly familiar stench. The sorcerer’s body never even hit the ground—the Rot-creature rose before he had fully collapsed.

The werewolves retreated right away; they were the only ones who could. Leaden stillness dragged David’s arms down, even with Bernadette no ten yards away. Muskets cluttered to the ground; David was half-way aware that he had dropped his crossbow, too.

Behind him, Ragna and Rust—did nothing. The battalion of werewolves just stood there, most of them behind the wall. The Rot-creature grew taller and taller. David could barely look at the distorted figure, his eyes watering when he tried. And he was far better off than the defectors, who were collapsing in place.

The Rot-monster made no attempt to cross the wall or attack the werewolves. Instead, it turned towards the castle up on the crest of the cliff, going right through the buildings in its way. Probably to avoid the sea’s sanctification of the lower ground.

The werewolves attacked before the humans gathered their wits. David was just shaking himself out of his stupor when his troops were already flooding through the breach as fast as the narrow gap allowed, forming tight lines with the wall in their back.

By the time a barrage of magic and cannon fire stopped the Rot-creature’s advance, the first rank of werewolf soldiers had finished reloading. They rose up, and fired into the confused gaggle of defenders, just struggling to get back to their feet.

Rust’s eyes glowed bright as the bullets hit home at nearly point blank range. The blood went everywhere. The screaming echoed in David’s ears.

As the first rank kneeled to reload, the second rank fired, and then the third. Just as they had practised at Fort Brunich. By the time the first row rose again, the defenders were flying—if they still could move—for the houses of the historic centre behind them.

The werewolves shot them in the back without hesitation.

Finally, David found his feet enough to get down from the wall.

“Sir? Are you all right, Sir?” Alvin yelled over the din of the battle raging, bringing up the horses.

David glanced down at his side, pulling the sabre a few inches out of its sheath. The blade seemed fine, but the sheath had suffered visibly. Some of the silver had flaked off, tarnished, the power spent.

Not fully exhausted, luckily.

“I’m fine,” he yelled back.

“That’s one hell of an enchantment!” Alvin commented as he held his gelding while David got into the saddle.

David nodded. He waited for Alvin to mount up himself, then rode ahead and through the breach in the inner wall.

The houses of the mediaeval city centre were still intact, each one likely packed full of guns and defenders. The streets were narrow, and often blocked, forming a deadly maze. Behind every curtain, a real sharpshooter might be waiting. A meat grinder, basically, designed to make each yard as costly for an attacker as possible.

Which was why General Clermont had drafted so many werewolves in the first place.

“Ready?” David asked.

“We’re ready, Sir,” Rust confirmed.

David took a deep breath and nodded. “All right. Show them why werewolves are feared around the country.”

They were forming squads already, each one led by a settled werewolf. Bayonets fixed, and pistols ready. No swords.

Time to tear down the doors and break through some walls. They couldn’t take the harbour garrison with an army in their back.

David couldn’t follow them. He just sat on his horse, behind a line of deVale’s human soldiers, feeling stupid and useless, watching the werewolves walk into the traps prepared for human soldiers, driven by the will of the two elders at his side. Ragna’s teeth were bared as the sound of gunfire and screams echoed out of a valley, and even in her human body, she growled, deep and low in her throat.

The screams turned to a howl, followed by more screaming and the breaking of wood. David had never been close enough, when a mad werewolf sacked a village or small town, to watch, and he didn’t exactly appreciate his front-row seat right now. He didn’t look away, though. At least nominally, these men and women were under his command. The least he owed them was his attention.

Deep thunder, like some kind explosion, echoed through the sudden quiet, and this time, no howl, no snarl or bark followed. Only a soft curse from Rust.

“I take it that wasn’t good,” deVale commented from the side.

“Most likely fire, Sir,” Rust replied. “Probably some kind of incendiary bomb.”

He didn’t say anything more, but it still sent goosebumps down David’s back. Probably just a case of the defenders using everything they had, right? There was no way they were prepared for the werewolves, was there?

“I suggest we move back behind the wall, Lord Feleke,” deVale said. “We are rather exposed here.”

David frowned. “How will we see what’s going on?”

“We’ll have to trust your lieutenants.”

David didn’t like that. He climbed the wall instead, staying low behind the parapet, his crossbow at the ready. DeVale followed him, ordering his men to come with them, spread out as far as they could without getting into the range of the cannons from the castle to the north or the garrison to the south, ready to give support to the werewolves should they be forced out of the alleys.

DeVale was sending messages back to General Clermont, which culminated in the soldiers having to abandon several parts of the Old Wall and David having to move. Clermont’s miners planted charges right at the base, to widen the existing breach and create new ones.

David hoped that they wouldn’t need them to escape—or to attack again at a later time—but he could appreciate Clermont’s caution.

The heat was rising as he waited, watching the werewolves go house to house. He hated that deVale got to watch with him, and so many soldiers.

“So that’s what we’re entrusting our lives to,” the Count commented when Calder came smashing right through a wall of one of the half-timbered, historic buildings. “And you fight that?”

Calder shook himself out, blood dripping off his muzzle as he was spitting out broken teeth and turning human in the same motion. For a second, he was a furless, terribly contorted creature, with two obvious bullet wounds in his flank, then a naked human man. Less than a minute later, the wolf was back.

“There’s a reason most hunts happen on full moon,” David said. “And silver evens the playing field. Get enough of it into them, and they can’t transform to heal up.”

Not that it would take more than one bolt for most of his troops, young as they were. Hells, half of them couldn’t even turn at will.

He wished he could help them, that he could bear the fighting with them. But he was supposed to be their officer. The man with the plan, not the man at the frontline. His wounds wouldn’t heal within a single transformation.

Boris dragged one of the unsettled youngsters out of one of the many side streets by the scruffy fur in their neck, into the open where Ragna could see. The unsettled she-wolf was bleeding all over: something had cut open her whole flank, from neck to tail. Not a shallow cut, either—her ribs shone through in places. She was throwing her head, fighting against Boris, or maybe just mad with pain.

Ragna’s eyes glowed bright, and the motion took on a new quality, less frantic now, more strained. Slowly, the injured giant wolf turned into a woman, healthy and hale, if stark naked, crouched on the ground.

While David still waited for her to turn back into her wolf-shape, another unsettled wolf in a similar state was dragged over, and then they came in from all sides. David could taste the magic in the air as Ragna and Rust tried to help them transform.

It didn’t work on all of them.

At first, David thought it was the number of unsettled werewolves who needed help, but no—the defenders had at least some silver. It might just be some weaponized family heirlooms. Or maybe they had a bigger problem.

David took a deep breath, then climbed down to Rust. He hated himself a little for the order, but there was really only one thing to do in this situation. “Make sure the unsettled ones take point,” he told the elder. “Don’t risk the settled ones if you can help it.”

Rust grunted, but didn’t argue, even though the settled ones generally had a better chance of surviving a heavy injury. Nobody needed to drag them back, after all.

David pressed his lips together, watching grimly as the number of silver and fire injured werewolves grew. He couldn’t send back the unsettled ones without an escort for security, but was there any point in sending at least his older werewolves back? Would the army surgeons even treat them? At least take out the silver?