Battle of Margel Island (1)
Everyone on Margel Island was bustling about.
Owen consulted with Arwen on various matters.
"Arwen, how's the recovery of the cannons going?"
"Better than expected. We've salvaged pretty much everything except what sank into the sea. A total of thirty-two guns."
"Excellent!"
Owen beamed with delight, but Arwen shook her head.
"There's a problem. We're critically short on gunpowder."
"Ah... damn."
The typhoon had sunk ships loaded with powder crates, sending a huge amount plunging into the ocean.
Even the vessels that had only sustained moderate damage had holes in their sides, spilling cargo everywhere.
The intact ones were those docked in the harbor, but most of their powder had been expended during the initial assault on the island.
Owen's shoulders slumped.
"How many cannons can we actually fire?"
"Maybe seven or eight. And we'd have to make every shot count."
"Hmm... Guess we'll save them for delaying the enemy's bridge."
But that wasn't the only issue.
While inspecting the wall where cannons were being mounted, Owen realized the orc fortifications weren't suited for artillery.
Orkeus, overseeing the site, scratched his head with a troubled look.
"The orcs' walls are too outdated. The merlons are too close together—no room to mount the guns."
Merlons were the jagged protrusions atop the walls for cover.
The orc design worked for crossbows fired between them, but big ship cannons were out of the question.
"We'll have to modify them in a hurry. The orcs have the bridge more than halfway done already."
"On it. Heroicus."
The orcs' antiquated walls posed problems across the board.
The narrow width even risked cannons recoiling off the edge after firing.
In the end, they managed only four guns.
But with the powder shortage, it wasn't a huge loss.
On the eighteenth day since spotting the orcs, Owen ordered the bombardment.
"The enemy's bridge is more than halfway complete. Once it's done, we won't be able to stop it—so we'll harass them as much as we can!"
"Understood!"
Dark elf gunners swarmed the cannons, working feverishly.
Three shots fired in sequence first.
BOOM! BOOM! CRASH! KABOOM!
Deafening explosions erupted, sending sprays of water around the orc bridge.
Orcs in the midst of construction panicked, tumbling off rafts or flinging tools as they fled.
Not one hit, though.
First shots from an unfamiliar position, it seemed.
The dark elf gunners made calculations, and the fourth round finally struck true.
KABOOM!
A thunderous roar as an orc raft shattered, wooden shards flying everywhere.
Acrid smoke filled the air, but cheers exploded from the walls.
"Wooooah!"
"How's that taste?!"
Firing cannons was undeniably exhilarating.
Iron balls hurtling at terrifying speeds left the orcs scrambling in terror.
"Keep firing!"
The barrage continued.
One barrel cracked from overheating and shattered, but spares allowed a quick swap.
"They're pinned down!"
Since the shelling began, the orcs hadn't extended the bridge an inch.
Flooding front rafts were sinking, forcing them to frantically sever ties to the rear.
Chop! Thwack!
Orcs swung axes desperately at the connecting timbers, in a frenzy.
"These orcs are nothing!"
"Yeah! We can win this!"
Allied morale soared.
Drums and horns blared deafeningly.
The orcs, meanwhile, cowered.
"You idiots!"
The great chieftain bellowed in fury.
"Orcs fleeing at cannon fire, dropping tools? Hang the cowards!"
"Great Chieftain! They're our engineers!"
Despite pleas, he strung up several technicians.
Their bodies dangled in the camp center, but no one pointed fingers.
It even drew pity from the warrior orcs.
"We have cannons too! Fire back!"
"Yes, Great Chieftain!"
At his command, orcs at the main base hurried to ready their guns.
But faces were grim.
Even they knew their artillery was abysmal.
Lacking production know-how, orcs imported dark elf guns—obsolete models the elves dumped.
The guns now being set up were light field pieces: one-kilometer range, five-kilo shells.
Enough to reach the distant fortress across the sea, but power was dubious.
Soon, twenty-one light guns from the orc base opened fire.
BOOM! CRASH! KABOOM!
Shells arced over the waves.
Orcs cheered wildly.
Then came the impacts on the walls.
CRASH! CLANG!
Loud noise, little effect.
The sturdy walls chipped slightly, fragments flying.
Some merlons crumbled, but no real damage.
Nearly half the shells missed wildly.
The watching great chieftain tore at his hair.
"You worthless limbs! Keep firing!"
Startled orcs redoubled efforts.
BOOM! CRASH! KABOOM!
Still no results.
Hours later, they barely toppled one exposed house.
RUMBLE!
Dust clouds rose from the distant collapse.
But it was a flimsy orc hovel anyway.
Dismal for the powder expended.
"Pathetic."
Owen scoffed at the orcs' crude guns.
He'd even had a table brought up to sip tea atop the wall amid incoming fire.
Deliberately for show, of course.
Allies had flinched at the initial roar, power be damned.
But with poor accuracy and Owen calmly spectating tea in hand, fear evaporated fast.
Some even jeered at the orcs.
"Intentional, wasn't it?"
Arwen sidled up, sitting beside him at the table, her tone intrigued.
She'd come to respect Owen's prowess lately, cooperating fully.
A far cry from her initial defiance.
Though rejecting her proposal had left some lingering resentment.
"Yes. Boldness is a commander's virtue. But time to return the favor."
"Shell their gun batteries?"
"Exactly."
Limited powder meant focusing fire on bridge construction.
No point wasting on the orc hordes swarming the distant shore.
But now seemed ideal.
Smashing their light guns would crater morale.
"Got it. I'll relay the order."
Arwen lifted her teacup, winking one eye shut.
Owen inwardly admired her graceful poise.
Even among dark elves, she was a renowned beauty—picture-perfect just sitting there.
She soon issued orders to her adjutant, unleashing a fierce barrage.
KABOOM!
Their guns were culverins, shipboard heavies.
Range and shell size incomparable.
Skilled dark elf gunners struck the enemy batteries precisely.
KABOOM!
Earth erupted as light guns flew skyward.
Unwieldy metal masses soaring high—surreal even for light pieces.
"Kwaaaah!"
Shocked orcs scattered in panic.
Only three guns destroyed, but psychological blow immense.
The great chieftain's patience snapped; he rampaged again.
"Haul the rest atop the bridge and fire from there! Close range will work better!"
The orc artillery commander objected.
"Impossible. The bridge is unstable. Recoil could send guns into the sea—or crack the structure from the shock!"
Sound advice, but it only enraged the chieftain more.
"Useless cur!"
CRUNCH!
His pot-lid fist hammered down like a mallet, caving the orc's skull, brains spilling.
The ogre-blooded chieftain's strength was monstrous.
Onlookers trembled in fear.
Tragically, the slain orc was their finest gun expert.
Someone muttered blankly.
"...Who's commanding the guns now?"
Orc fire devolved into utter incompetence thereafter.
Owen now openly dined in plain view.
The orcs seethed with rage.
The defense was a resounding success.
But it finally hit its limit.
Day 23 of the siege.
The feared crisis struck.
Allied powder was exhausted.
"Haa..."
Owen sighed deeply.
Orkeus beside him looked ashamed.
"We scraped together everything short of pulling repair crews... but..."
"No self-recrimination. Firing this long was a miracle."
The shelling had stalled the orc bridge.
But with no morning barrage, orcs seemed baffled.
They didn't resume full work—only a few hammered tentatively, eyeing the walls.
It wouldn't last.
Post-lunch, they'd realize the truth and swarm to rebuild.
In his worry, Owen asked Betshel.
"Elder, any word from His Grace?"
"None. I'm waiting anxiously myself..."
Betshel's face was dour.
His scouts watched the North Sea twenty-four-seven.
No glad tidings yet.
The command meeting hung heavy as storm clouds.
Even poised Arwen drooped her long ears.
Yet Owen clung to hope.
"His Grace won't abandon us. Let's wait longer."
Something must be delaying aid, he figured.
But he never imagined his old nemesis was the cause.
The snag in Surpuk Duke's reinforcements stemmed from Baron Magnus.
Fled from Bris, he'd hunkered in his fief, awaiting orc invasion.
But Owen's exploits in Edel left him desperate and isolated.
His subjugation fell to one of the Four Swords: Count Drun.
Drun, wary of eastern orcs, delegated to his bastard Loton.
Loton fell for Magnus's schemes and suffered a crushing defeat.
Emboldened, Magnus rallied disgruntled nobles against Surpuk Duke, forming an alliance.
Even the emperor, who loathed the duke, backed them covertly.
A massive tumor had formed in the east.
Unaware, Margel Island's defenders burned with anxiety.
Day 41 of the siege.
The orcs finally completed the bridge.
Humans and dark elves, out of powder, could only watch dumbly.
Arrows proved useless.
The fortress hugged the island's North Sea side.
The eastern link to land spanned open space—arrows, let alone cannon-less, meant nothing.
A few dark elf incendiaries reached the bridge end, but orcs doused them with seawater.
No choice but to observe.
Couldn't sortie against tens of thousands.
Even ballistae overshot the bridge, nixing dragon knights.
Grenville, a small breed, risked death from one solid hit.
But the ordeal was just beginning.
As hordes crossed onto Margel Island's shore, a lookout with spyglass shouted.
"Heroicus! Look over there!"
Peering through, Owen saw endless orcs massing from the distant mainland.
He gaped in disbelief.
"Whoa... how many is that?"
Already strained, and now reinforcements matching their numbers.
Owen wondered if reincarnation ended like this.
A great chieftain's horde was leagues beyond a mere tribe's.
With one seaworthy ship left, he pondered evacuating key personnel—then glanced north to the sea.
Storm clouds on the horizon spelled doom.
But he spotted something odd and tilted his head.
"Huh? Was there a rocky isle out there?"
A black crag loomed far off, seemingly drawing nearer.