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************************* CHAPTER FIVE
‘Marc and Torvald,’ the old veteran tapster ordered with rather disturbing calm, ‘take a pair of muskets upstairs to the front loft window and keep the front approach swept clear. Target their leaders and any obvious Blackguards officers first. Make every shot count! Brody and Erin, grab another pair of guns and go with them with extra shot and powder and keep the sharpshooters reloaded! They’ll charge the door first and if that fails they’ll then decide to burn us out. That would be bad, so don’t let that happen! Eduard and Mercer, do the same and cover the rear door! Molly and Brecka go with them to reload for them as well. You others, stand ready to guard the doorway when it is breeched. If they break through it’ll get ugly and messy in here fast!’ The old veteran had been in more than one tight place before and he continued to coolly issue out additional orders to the remaining guards.
The guardsmen and women hastened to their assignments, with most of the rest left downstairs not given any other specific orders took this time to load and prepare for firing all of the remaining collection of assorted battered and mostly obsolete pistols. Another trio of vigiles went to assist Koch in covering the back door, which seemed to possess a sturdier frame and had an iron bar to block it as well.
Upstairs, I could already hear the sounds of regular gunfire, as the best vigiles marksmen focused upon their targets while their assistants reloaded the muskets as swiftly as possible. From the early sound of things and the growing cries of pain and clouds of spent gunpowder, the guardsmen were already having the best of the contest in its early stages.
Now with the sounds of a heavy pole or hunk of timber being used as a battering ram against the weaker front door, I could tell that the old doorframe was unlikely to survive this assault for very long. This problem was not unexpected and the retired vigiles tapster was making his own final preparations.
‘When I give the word, unloose the bar!’ The old retired sergeant muttered, pounding down the barrel of the weapon with a thick ramrod to force an extra large dose of powder and shot into a rather oversized blunderbuss along with a thumb sized chunk of cotton wadding to hold everything into place. The weapon was an obvious antique, a large heavy arquebus design I’d never seen before, but the old veteran handled the old firearm with familiar skill and not a small amount of obvious affection.
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