"Eyes up, be ready. I don't like how close the treeline gets to the road up ahead."

Isaac snapped out of his daze, glanced up at Commander Frederick seated on the wagon, then looked at the wooded area near the path he was pointing at. The older man was correct, past the strip of cracked dirt and scraggly, brown plants the trees crept dangerously closer to the road in the distance.

A flurry of activity as shields and weapons were readied, warriors moving into position. The three wagons picked up their pace while nearly a dozen fur-clad men and women were ushered onto the road so the guards could protect them. The druids were annoyed at being forced to walk on artificial ground but complied, never stopping their low chant.

Isaac's heart raced, he felt a familiar mixture of fear and excitement. The anticipation of battle was almost welcome, despite the dangers, to the monotony of marching and making and breaking camp each day. It was enough of a diversion that Isaac no longer noticed the uncomfortable amount of sweat soaking into the clothing under his mail, drawn out by the unseasonable warmth that was already making the heat of the day unbearable even with summer several months away.

The commander's hunch was proven correct as the convoy reached the part of the road nearest to the trees. A figure emerged from the woods, to Isaac's right, bow in hand, followed by another, and another, until a dozen were assembled. Isaac and his fellow guards readied their rectangular shields in front and above them. Frederick called out commands, ordering one man to keep an eye on the left side of the convoy for an attack from that direction.

On the wagons, six men crouched behind the high wooden walls, two to a wagon, air guns in hand. Mounted on the middle wagon was a single large gun, too heavy for any man to wield, attached to a large metal drum by a thick hose. The weapon was spun around and pointed towards the figures by the treeline, waiting for the order to attack.

The archers by the trees readied arrows, pulled back, and loosed a volley. Isaac, crouched behind his shield, could hear the all-too-familiar hiss of arrows slicing through the air followed by the soft thud of them impacting the ground. Another volley, closer this time but again nearly all fell short of the convoy, a single arrow landing a foot away from the central wagon.

A cry went up from the treeline. Isaac peeked around his shield and saw several dozen figures charging past the archers, who unleashed a third volley over their heads. Yet again most of the missiles fell short, though Isaac could hear the thud of an arrow striking a shield somewhere to his right. A chorus of laughter erupted from the northfolk shieldwall protecting the druids, with one exclaiming "I was beginning to think I didn't even need my shield!"

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Gunners, pick your targets!" Frederick called out, resting the barrel of his own gun on the side of the wagon. "Single shots only, we don't need to waste ammunition on this rabble."

The yelling grew louder as the ambushers approached. Isaac glanced from behind his shield and could see them closer now. They were all thin and dirty, clad in rags, armed with clubs and crude farming implements.

"Loose!" Frederick cried. Isaac heard the familiar, metallic ping as the six air guns each hurled a lead ball the size of a small grape or cherry. One man fell immediately, two others stopped their charge, clutching at wounds in their chest and belly.

"Loose!" Frederick commanded again. Three more men cried out in pain. Two fell writhing to the ground as the third turned and started running back before he stumbled and fell to the ground.

The remaining men were undeterred, continuing their charge. Isaac and the other guards shifted now that the volleys of arrows had ceased. Spears poised, ready to strike any who made it to the wagons.

"Loose!" came the order, more men fell to the sunbaked earth.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Isaac heard. The attackers stopped, turned, and began fleeing back towards the treeline. They ran past their wounded comrades, some crawling, some pulling themselves along the ground, others simply reaching out bloody hands for help.

"One more, just to drive the lesson home, loose!" Frederick yelled. Another handful of men stumbled and fell. Isaac's heart raced. He could remember too vividly when he first encountered these new weapons, wielded by Tarid Empire legionnaires when they invaded the western shores. He remembered the confusion as a few dozen men dropped scores of Isaac's fellow soldiers, each soldier sending twenty volleys in the time it took the Kingdom of Wollema's crossbowmen to send two bolts.

"Looks like the archers are still holding," Frederick called out and gestured to the cannoneer. "Break them up."

The man on the cannon aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger. A loud clang echoed across the parched landscape, an eruption of vapor from the end of the barrel as the compressed air launched an apple-sized iron ball. Almost immediately Isaac could see one of the archers collapse, his companions letting out screams of terror and confusion.

All of the attackers fled into the trees. The sound of wounded and dying men was all that could be heard.

"Should we put them out of their misery?" One of the northfolk guards asked, heaving his axe up on his shoulder.

"No, the cries of the dying are a better deterrent than a silent corpse. Let's get a move on, I want to make it to the next inn by nightfall." Frederick said simply, ordering the convoy to resume its journey.