Quinlan watched from above the cloud line as dozens of bombards discharged in rolling sequence, each impact blooming white-gold against the shell. The barrier warped inward at each contact point, ripples chasing ripples, the lattice struggling to redistribute before the next round landed.
The dwarves were going all out.
Even from up here, the chanting reached him. That deep, guttural drone that vibrated through the air and settled into his bones.
He'd heard it at the previous sieges, but never this loud. Never with this many voices. They were singing the funeral hymn. The one they only broke out when they meant to leave nothing standing.
Quinlan tried very hard to remain loyal to his elven lovers, who would collectively disown him if he expressed even a shred of admiration for dwarven culture.
But he had to admit.
Those shorties were damn cool sometimes.
