"Are you absolutely sure this, Bjorn?" Hakon asked, "That bronze whore is far too heavy. They cannot possibly shoot a solid granite boulder from two miles away."

"They aren’t trying to shoot it at us," Bjorn said quietly, lowering the spyglass. "Truthfully, they are doing what we just did, but in another way."

Gurvand frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it," Bjorn muttered, "We reduced the weight of our shells and used maximum powder to shoot a flat, fast trajectory. But they have a solid piece of a mountain. They cannot shoot it flat... the heavy weight would just drag it straight into the mud halfway here. So, they are raising the angle."

"...they are going to use the maximum amount of black powder that bronze barrel can take without melting. They will blast that granite boulder incredibly high into the clouds. And then... they are just going to let gravity do the rest. The rock won’t hit the front of our walls... it will drop straight down onto the top of our heads."

Bjorn looked out at the distant enemy camp. His eyes narrowed in respect, mixed with a heavy dose of dread.

This was completely wrong... this wasn’t how the Frankish Empire operated.

For decades, the southern armies had been commanded by fat, arrogant noblemen who bought their titles with gold and bloodlines.

They were men who charged blindly into shield walls because they believed God favored their expensive armor.

But the man down there in that camp... the commander ordering the engineers to change the firing angle?

That was a brilliant, highly adaptable tactician.

"Who the hell is commanding their vanguard?" Bjorn whispered to himself, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

"Does it matter?" Hakon grumbled.

"It matters, Hakon," Bjorn stated firmly. "Maybe the Frankish Empire changed their laws. Maybe after King Ragnar humiliated them in the last war, Emperor Louis finally realized that putting stupid, rich lords in charge of armies is a death sentence. Maybe they are actually choosing the right people now... men with real brains instead of just fancy titles."

If the enemy was waking up and adapting, the rivers of blood were going to run much deeper than anyone anticipated.

"Lord Bjorn!" Leif suddenly shouted, pointing a finger out toward the fields. "They are moving the powder kegs! The engineers are stepping back!"

Bjorn looked down the length of the southern wall... over a thousand men were stationed up here.

The elite Breton musket men, his own Viking riflemen, and the brave castle militia operating the three hundred steel cannons.

They were packed shoulder to shoulder, ready to defend Calais with their lives.

If that boulder hit this packed wall, it would crush hundreds of men into red paste in a single second.

"Gurvand." Bjorn roared.

"Yes, Commander!" the Breton general snapped to attention.

"Order a partial evacuation of the southern wall right now." Bjorn commanded. "I want every single infantryman, every rifleman, and every musket man off this stone. Move them down to the lower courtyard and tell them to hug the inner walls."

Hakon’s eyes went wide. "Evacuate?"

"If that boulder lands on this wall, there won’t be a wall left to defend." Bjorn yelled back, "I am not going to let a thousand good men get crushed to death just to protect some stones. Move the men, now."

"What about the cannons, Lord Bjorn?" Leif asked frantically, looking at his steel weapons. "We cannot just leave the guns."

"Leave the cannons, Leif!" Bjorn ordered harshly.

General Gurvand turned and sprinted down the line,

"Fall back! Everyone off the southern wall!"

"Grab your weapons and move to the courtyard!"

"Run, you bastards, run!"

The Breton soldiers and the Viking riflemen didn’t argue... thousands of heavily armed men turned and began sprinting toward the staircases.

"Keep moving! Don’t push!" Hakon roared, standing near the top of the main stairs.

Bjorn stood his ground near the central watchtower, he watched the distant Frankish camp through his spyglass.

The bronze bombard was fully angled toward the heavens... a tiny, bright orange speck of fire was moving slowly toward the rear touchhole. A Frankish engineer holding a burning torch.

"Come on, move faster." Bjorn muttered.

"We are mostly clear, Lord Bjorn." Gurvand shouted from the courtyard below. "Only the artillery crews are left!"

"Leif! Get your boys off the wall!" Bjorn screamed.

The artillery engineers abandoned their posts, sprinting for the stairs.

Bjorn was the last man on the upper battlements.

The tiny speck of fire touched the back of the bronze barrel.

A blinding flash of light erupted from the fields, so bright that it washed out the rising sun.

A fraction of a second later, the sound hit them.

A gigantic cloud of black smoke swallowed the Frankish camp.

Through the spyglass, Bjorn saw the cart underneath the bombard shatter into a thousand pieces from the recoil... but the weapon had done exactly what it was designed to do.

"Incoming!" Bjorn roared at the top of his lungs, turning and diving down the first flight of stairs.

He hit the steps hard, rolling his shoulders and covering the back of his head with his arms.

High above them, cutting through the morning clouds with a whistling sound, was the projectile.

The boulder was black from the gunpowder explosion, trailing a thin line of gray smoke as it reached the peak of its high arc.

Down in the courtyard, Hakon, Gurvand, and thousands of soldiers looked up at the sky.

"Gods save us..." Odo, the young Frankish assistant, whispered.

The shadow of the falling boulder expanded over the courtyard, blocking out the sun.

Bjorn squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the steps, lost in thought.

----

Through the spyglass, Bjorn saw the cart underneath the bombard shatter into a thousand pieces from the recoil... but the weapon had done exactly what it was designed to do.

"Incoming!" Bjorn roared at the top of his lungs, turning and diving down the first flight of stairs.

He hit the steps hard, rolling his shoulders and covering the back of his head with his arms.