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Ragnar and Bjorn reached the pebble-strewn shoreline just as the massive oak hulls of the Gore-King’s longships ground against the gravel. Bursting from the freezing surf, hundreds of fanatic berserkers poured onto the beach, their rusted axes raised high against the swirling blizzard.
At the mont, the sheer volu of the invading horde seed to swallow the narrow coastline entirely.
Since the heavy field cannons and the majority of the Grenadiers were locked into position on the eastern ridge, Ragnar was entirely dependent on Captain Leif to operate the Gyda’s primary batteries from the bay. If the massive steam-powered dreadnought did not provide imdiate covering fire, the small band of Iron Guards holding the beach would be utterly liquidated!
"Form the iron wall!" Bjorn bellowed over the howling gale. "Lock your shields and brace your footing! We do not yield a single inch of this shore!"
Responding with absolute discipline, the Iron Guards slamd their heavy, blackened steel bucklers together, creating an impenetrable barricade of overlapping tal that imdiately halted the first wave of the berserker charge.
Drawing his hidden blade from the silver shaft of his cane, Ragnar stepped into the center of the formation, expertly parrying a jagged axe before discharging his flintlock pistol directly into the chest of a howling warlord.
"Cycle your levers and fire at will!" Ragnar commanded, tossing his spent pistol aside and drawing a secondary blade from his belt as the terrifying crush of bodies pressed heavily against his n.
"We only need to delay them until the boilers reach maximum pressure! Hold the line, and the forge will deliver our salvation!"
Though the Iron Guard possessed vastly superior steel and the devastating advantage of repeating crossbows, the overwhelming nurical superiority of the Gore-King’s forces began to exact a horrific toll.
Striking with animalistic ferocity, the berserkers threw their own bodies onto the points of the Guards’ spears, using their dead comrades as stepping stones to launch themselves over the shield wall.
The pristine, white snow of the shoreline quickly turned into a churning, slippery mire of crimson mud and shattered bone.
n in blackened armor began to fall, their disciplined ranks buckling under the sheer, suffocating weight of the endless horde. A young contractor to Ragnar’s left took a heavy throwing axe to the throat, collapsing into the freezing surf with a gurgling gasp, while another was dragged screaming into the mass of fur and rusted iron.
Yet, not a single man in the remaining formation broke ranks or attempted to flee, clinging fiercely to the promise of the Gyda’s devastating broadside.
They fought with the desperate, unyielding strength of n who knew that their survival hinged on the roaring furnaces of their flagship.
Cleaving a massive cannibal in twain with a brutal, two-handed downward strike, Bjorn spat a mouthful of blood into the snow, his chest heaving violently beneath his dented breastplate. "They are endless, Ragnar!" the giant warrior panted, ducking a spear thrust before driving his armored fist into his attacker’s face.
"If Leif does not wake those guns soon, we will be entirely bankrupt of breathing n!"
"The steam pressure requires ti to build in this freezing hell!" Ragnar shouted back, driving his cane through the knee of a charging berserker before finishing the man with a swift strike of his blade.
"Hold your ground, Bjorn! Leif is a master of the engines; he will not default on his duty!"
The battle raged on with grinding, rciless intensity, reducing the grand ambitions of the Iron Empire to a primal, desperate struggle for survival in the freezing mud.
Every passing minute felt like an eternity, asured only by the rhythmic clash of steel and the agonizing screams of the dying.
Eventually, a deafening, chanical shriek pierced the howling gale, vibrating through the icy waters of the fjord and shaking the very stones of the beach.
It was the Gyda’s primary steam whistle, a glorious, terrifying sound that signaled the boilers had reached critical pressure and the heavy naval cannons were finally prid for a devastating bombardnt!
Hearing the majestic roar of the ship’s engines, Bjorn exhaled a massive, shuddering breath of relief, leaning heavily on his blood-soaked broadsword while a savage grin spread across his scarred face.
"The Iron Father delivers!" Bjorn laughed, pointing a thick, calloused finger toward the hulking silhouette of the dreadnought resting in the misty bay.
"Look upon your doom, you mud-eating savages! The forge has awakened!"
Even the berserkers paused their relentless assault, their bloodlust montarily overridden by sheer awe and terror as they turned their gaze toward the massive tal beast sitting in the water.
Deep, grinding groans of shifting iron echoed across the bay as the Gyda’s heavily armored turrets began to rotate slowly, the massive, soot-stained barrels sweeping across the horizon to acquire their targets.
Ragnar allowed himself a fleeting smile, adjusting his monocle as he prepared to order his n to hit the dirt before the high-explosive shells decimated the enemy fleet.
However, to the absolute horror of the Iron Father, the grinding gears of the ship’s turrets did not halt when their muzzles aligned with the packed clusters of wooden longships.
The massive barrels kept turning... sweeping past the enemy fleet entirely until their cavernous, black muzzles were aid directly at the shoreline.
They were aid directly at Ragnar and the remnants of his bleeding shield wall.
"What in the nine realms is Leif doing?!" Bjorn whispered. "He has overshot the coordinates! He is targeting our position!"
Snatching a brass spyglass from his coat pocket, Ragnar extended the lenses with trembling hands and pressed it to his eye, peering desperately through the swirling snow and the thick plus of coal smoke billowing from the ship’s stacks.
Standing on the elevated command deck of the Gyda, silhouetted against the roaring orange glow of the ship’s furnaces, was a familiar figure.
The man was not wearing the grease-stained leather apron of Captain Leif, nor did he possess the disciplined, rigid posture of an Iron Empire engineer. Instead, he was draped in a heavy, ornate cloak of white wolf fur, leaning casually against the ship’s brass railing.
Ultimately, as the snow montarily cleared, the spyglass brought the traitor’s face into sharp, agonizing focus.
It was Jarl Hakon. The supposed ally who had cowered in his Great Hall, the man who had claid to fear the Gore-King above all else, was standing on the bridge of Ragnar’s most prized technological marvel.
Catching sight of Ragnar staring at him from the bloody beach, Jarl Hakon raised a hand and waved coldly, a smug sneer plastered across his weathered face as he casually signaled the gunnery crews to prepare to fire.
"He sold us out," Ragnar whispered, lowering the spyglass as the horrifying reality of the betrayal crashed down upon him. The Jarl had not feared the Gore-King; he had struck a cowardly bargain with him, trading the greatest warship in the known world to spare his miserable village from the tax collectors.
"Brace yourselves!" Ragnar roared, his voice cracking with absolute desperation as he threw himself toward the frozen mud, tackling Bjorn down with him just as the massive naval guns sparked with blinding, catastrophic light.
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