Her little force moved through the yard, bearing down on the gun, Boyle’s joined the advance. Without stopping, Bethany raised her carbine and killed a Bexarian who had sprung from behind the carriage. Her men moved to its right and Boyle’s to its left, encircling it. They found the last two Bexarians there, one reached for a revolver and was shot, the other put up his hands.

“Are there any more of you?” Boyle demanded, his carbine pointed at the man’s chest.

The Bexarian looked unsure, then shook his head. A thudding of boots in snow proved him a liar. At the far end of the encampment two Bexarians rushed for the doors of a sagging boathouse. Bethany shot one, the other ran even faster and managed to jam a key into a massive padlock hung on a chain across the house’s doors, turning it as he fell to the snow, shot in the stomach by one of Boyle’s men. Boyle himself looked down at the captured Bexarian with a grimace and beat him about the head with the butt of his carbine until he slumped limply against a carriage wheel.

The chain on the boathouse doors strained, then broke. Both doors were flung open. Two orcs emerged from the darkness. They advanced like an ore train, loping through the swirling snow.

“Do they see us?” a sailor asked breathlessly.

“They probably smell us, either way, we’re really for it now,” Boyle replied.

Bethany moved the breech end of the gun carriage, grasping one of the wooden handles meant for pulling it along on its wheels, “we’ve got to turn this around, aim it at them.”

Boyle’s face flashed with resolve and he pushed Bethany out of the way, directing his men to lift the carriage, “pardon, but this must be done quickly.”

The organ gun was spun until its barrels faced the orcs. Boyle hauled back on the crank, then stopped dead, looking all around the weapon.

“Where’s the trigger?”

As he searched, cursing, the leading orc snorted and broke into a sprint. Boyle fired at last when it was but two arshins away. Its belly was raked by the bullets and it doubled over, a vast hand landing in the snow to stop it from falling flat entirely. With a roar it rose, aiming its shoulders at the organ gun, and sprinted once more, leaving a steaming river of blood behind it. The gaggle of sailors around the organ gun scattered like a bomb burst, Boyle was the last to leave, running the crank and firing a final time. At so short a range the barrels on the far ends of the gun missed entirely, few bullets found the target, one striking the creature’s neck. It slowed, reaching one hand at the gushing wound, but continued its progress. The orc battered against the gun carriage, splintering the wheels and casting the gun itself from its mount into the snow, its magazine vomiting cartridges as it was ripped free.

The orc shook off the debris that had gathered on its shoulders and rose, laying its whiteless eyes on the sailors, clinging to cover a few arshins from the gun, “fire! Keep it back!” Boyle insisted. A discordant volley of fire erupted from over and around the cover but did not halt the orc - Bethany saw many of the shots had missed, they kicked up snow far behind the creature.

The sound of tearing paper rippled down the lines of sailors, at least half of them now had empty magazines and were desperately opening their cartridge packets.

“Not now! Fall back!” Bethany ordered. A few did so, but more either did not hear it or were too stricken with fear to obey. Cartridges spilled from the packets or were dropped from freezing hands, thumping against the snow. The orc took a great stride toward a pair of sailors cowering behind a rainwater cistern, turned about it, and knelt. It lifted a screaming sailor by one arm and flung him several arshins. He knocked against a hut, his head leaving a bloody splotch where it impacted the wood. The orc followed the man’s flight, then looked down and found his rifle, picking it up with two fingers. Bearing the rifle it loped over to the groaning sailor, aimed the butt of the rifle toward his chest, and brought it down. Bethany heard several ribs crack. The orc raised the rifle again, battering the man’s chest rhythmically, as if it were churning butter, until it was caved in entirely. This done it turned the rifle around, pointing it muzzle first as if it meant to fire. It jammed the muzzle into the sailor’s mouth and pulled back, levering his jaw open until it snapped.

Boyle burst from cover, he had managed to reload his carbine and fired three quick shots at the upper quarter of the orc, aiming for its head but missing. The orc spun around, enraged, and made for him at top speed. Bethany intercepted Boyle, pushing him back. He toppled, landing in the snow just behind her.

“Stay there,” she whispered.

“No! If it must kill one of us let it...” Boyle began to protest before he was interrupted by the ringing of Bethany’s rapier against the orc’s stolen rifle, which it was again wielding as a club. The impact shot down the length of her sword and her wrist howled with pain but her grip would not relax, let alone release. She parried another strike by the creature, trying to get behind its back. It was stooped, its wounds, especially the one to the neck, preventing it from standing tall. A few sailors took hurried shots at it, fearful of hitting Bethany but certain she would be killed without their help. They proved a valuable distraction, as the orc’s mitts were busy reaching for its fresh wounds Bethany pierced it just above the knee with her rapier, drawing it out quickly and dashing behind the abomination as it fell. She climbed onto it, her feet landing on the small of its back. As she moved to thrust her rapier through the bottom of its skull it roared and shot upright. She managed to get the blade in place and the orc shuddered, dying. It fell forward, Bethany pinned to it by her rapier. She freed the sword and rolled in time to see the second orc, making the same roar, thundering toward her.

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A wide beam of light appeared just above her, settling on the second orc’s chest. Bethany, lying on her back, turned her head to see the source: Fletch. She had come much nearer inshore and was using her signal lamp, the shutter held open, as a searchlight. Her deck gun flashed orange and yellow, spitting a shell down the path cut by the light. The shell smacked into the creature’s chest and it fell.

“Get back!” a sailor cried, “get back!”

Bethany stood and reached out a hand to Boyle. Before he could grasp it the shell exploded, enveloping them both in blood, bone, and flame.

For a moment Bethany was deaf and blind. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, cleaning away the orc’s blood, and was then only deaf. Another shell passed just over her, striking a party of Bexarians that must have been waiting and hoping the orcs would solve things for them, and were at last advancing.

The searchlight landed on Bethany and the sailors then scanned the reaches of the encampment. Bethany began to hear bells ringing in her ears and finally snippets of shouting. A figure appeared on the cliff’s edge then picked its way down, followed by several others.

“Farley!” Boyle boomed, louder than usual for the damage to his ears. The men from the cliffs rushed toward them. Farley, at their head, nodded curtly and looked about.

“Heavens, what a mess,” he observed, his boot falling on a chunk of orc bone.

“Get a count of the dead, get the wounded to the boats, then every able man must come with me, inland.”

“Inland?” Boyle demanded, “there’s nothing there but that tower.”

“There’s an earthworks beneath it, when I was on the cliff I saw stovepipes rising from the ground near it. Whatever is there is likely the true prize.”

“An earthworks? In ground this frozen?” Boyle protested.

“Likely they piled mud from the bay and stones to build them, they did not dig down.”

“All the same, for what purpose?”

“The benefit of the airship, one assumes. If you want to know for certain then come along,” Farley urged.

No wounded were returned to Fletch, though there were plenty of men who might have gone, they stayed behind, bandaging themselves with strips of cloth torn from shirts. A few had to give up their long guns, their arms or shoulders too battered to wield them. Taking up swords or pistols from dead Bexarians, they fell in behind Farley. While the wounded tended each other the rest gathered up the dead, laying them on the beach, careful to put them above the line of high tide. Bethany had lifted one dead sailor but only made it halfway to the water before buckling under his limp weight. Boyle rushed to her and took over, carting the man, who was missing the top of his head, the rest of the way.

Bethany returned to Farley and the rest, taking the marine officer aside.

“Where were you?” she demanded, trying but failing to whisper.

“On the cliffs, I thought that was plain enough.”

“That isn’t what I mean, I suspect you know that. We got cut to ribbons down here, amateurs, while you and your men, the only professionals we have, were off doing what?”

“Scouting, for the most part, you’ll recall we took a few shots, silenced that blasted gun for a while. Otherwise the action down here was too confused, half of our own and most of the Bexarians were not in uniform and you all drew so close.”

“Why did you not come down here?”

“Why would we? Your force was doing quite well.”

Bethany frowned and swept a hand across the corpses on the beach, “quite well?”

“Yes, I expected to lose half at least of the primary landing party, for you to be stalled outright at some point, but you all kept a good pace. I will grant that when you know, are leading, the men involved there is no such thing as an acceptable loss, but at the map table there must be, or nothing is ever accomplished. You all fought like lions, Boyle is quite the leader in a pinch, it is a shame he is too old, or I would suggest he commission as an officer.”

Before Bethany could reply Boyle approached and saluted, “the dead have been put aside, we are ready.”

“Very good,” Farley acknowledged.

Much of the encampment was burning as they left it behind, several buildings already reduced to piles of charred boards atop their scant foundations. The armory at last exploded, practically disappearing and knocking the flaming structures beside it over. The freezing air was heavy with gunsmoke and scent of burning wood, flesh, and straw. It lingered in the bowl formed by cliffs, creating a haze almost as thick as the blowing snow.

Farley led them to within a few arshins of the front of the earthworks then took an abrupt right. The fortification was a rough mound with slits set into it for firing or ventilation, a few of them glowed with lamplight but most were dark. On the far side, largely hidden by the tower at a distance, were two great smokestacks. Neither were producing any exhaust, but countless others, much shorter and likely for stoves, did. They advanced in silence, Farley harshly shushing any man who fidgeted with his equipment, let alone spoke. Halfway around the mound they came upon an iron door standing partly open. Light dribbled from it, cutting a pale yellow line through the snow and haze.

“Right,” Farley whispered, “we saw a firing party come out of here and move to meet you during the landings. They were either lazy or foolish for they forgot to dog this door.”

The officer had given his Voynich rifle to a marine but not before wrapping it in a blanket bound tightly with twine as protection against the elements, or, heaven forbid, an impact should the marine fall. He now wielded his usual shotgun, with his service revolver in its holster, and an automatic pistol, taken off a Bexarian officer, jammed in his belt.

“All of you keep back,” he whispered, indicating Bethany, Boyle, and the sailors. His marines clung to him like the body of a snake, following him to the cracked door. Farley pressed against it with his boot, the better to keep both hands on his shotgun, until it had just enough pressure to swing open of its own accord. Bethany winced as he disappeared into the structure but heard no firing. The marine at the end of the tail waved them forward.

The interior of the earthworks was warm but too damp to be comfortable. Lanterns hung on nails burned every few arshins. The walls and floor they lit consisted of dirt shored up haphazardly with boards. Icy water, from the snow melting above, ran in continuous, thin streams from the ceiling and pooled on the ground such that every other step fell into mud. The fittings - pipes, vents, hatches - looked to be from an old warship. Perhaps they had scrapped one and used its leftovers to build this place. They came to a junction where three corridors met, the ends of none in sight.

“How large is this thing? Were you able to figure that in your ‘scouting’?” Bethany inquired.

“I would estimate that the mound is a verst in diameter, but the interior may well be much smaller,” Farley answered, peevishly.

A light appeared halfway down one of the corridors, by its swinging it was clearly in someone’s hand. A marine caught sight of it first and spun, prompting the entire mass to move with a great shudder of slings and boots.

“You there! Stop!” Farley bellowed.

The man with the lantern did stop, for a moment, then turned to run away, shouting something in Bexarian.

A marine raised his carbine, “hold fire,” Farley interceded, “like as not he’s running right for the center of this hole, or at least its garrison, we’d do well to follow.”