“No, Liska!” Ruzha shrieked, her voice raspy. But Liska was already moving. Her legs churned, propelling her into the muddy square, directly between the crumbling stone well and a row of overturned market stalls. The air immediately tore with the shriek of bullets. The Inquisitor, momentarily caught off guard by her sprint, corrected his aim, swinging the rotary weapon back towards her. Mud erupted in violent geysers around Liska’s boots. Splinters flew from a wooden stall as a hail of lead ripped through it, just inches from her ear. She zig-zagged, boots sliding in the muck, air tearing into her throat. “Courier! Brass King’s wife!” the officer roared, his voice thick with triumph. He emptied half a belt into the rutted mud Liska had just occupied, convinced he had her. The lead tore into the soil, churning it into a cratered mess. Ruzha didn't hesitate. Seeing Liska draw the machine gun’s attention, the old woman grabbed Daris by the collar of his tattered coat. Her grip was surprisingly strong, fueled by a sudden, fierce urgency. “Move, you oaf!” she hissed, yanking him towards the stone well. Daris, momentarily stunned by Liska’s reckless dash, stumbled, his wounded leg dragging a fresh trail through the mud. Ruzha shoved him behind the low stone wall of the well, throwing herself down beside him just as another burst of fire peppered the bricks above their heads. Liska threw herself behind a toppled vegetable cart, gasping for breath, the stench of gunpowder acrid in her nostrils. She risked a glance back. Daris, partially obscured by the well, met her gaze. His gaze, usually so flat and unreadable, blazed with raw fury. He saw her, saw the risk she’d taken, the deliberate defiance of death. Tendons tightened along his neck. This wasn't a calculation; this was a man watching the only person who mattered throw herself into oblivion for him. He would not allow it. Daris reached inside his coat, his movements swift and economical despite his injury. His hand closed around a small, brass-cased device. A detonator. His thumb found the trigger button, pressing down with a grim finality. A guttural rumble shook the paving stones. Not from the rotary barrel, but from beneath it. A series of thunderous blasts erupted across the village square. Daris’s entire stock of turnip carts, innocently parked around the plaza, vanished in a series of orange-and-black fireballs. They weren't just turnip carts. They were mobile arsenals, packed to the brim with the Brass King’s contraband black powder, destined for distant rebel cells and hunted smugglers. The shockwave slammed into Liska, throwing her bodily against the vegetable cart. Her ears rang, her teeth rattled. Debris rained down: chunks of wood, shards of metal, and the sickening thud of something heavy landing nearby. The stench of burned powder choked the air, mingling with the sweet, earthy smell of roasted turnips. The blasts were deafening, a concussive roar that swallowed the shrieks of the enforcers and the rattle of their weapon. When the initial concussions subsided, a thick, acrid cloud of smoke and dust billowed across the square, obscuring everything. The officer’s makeshift barricade, a hastily assembled wall of scrap metal and sandbags, was gone, reduced to twisted shrapnel. The multi-barrel gun lay buried under a mound of smoking debris, its iron frame bent at an impossible angle. Scattered across the mud were the tattered bodies of State Enforcers, their uniforms shredded, their weapons lying useless beside them. Liska coughed, pushing herself up from behind the splintered cart. Her head throbbed, but her eyes scanned the chaos, searching. The smoke began to thin, revealing the extent of the devastation. It was a wasteland. No more rotary gun. No more overwhelming force. Daris, she thought, the madman. Then a shape emerged from the swirling grey, a silhouette that solidified into a figure. Bleeding from a dozen cuts, his uniform torn, his face smeared with soot and rage, the Inquisitor stumbled through the wreckage. He was alive. And he was furious. His eyes locked onto Liska. Before she could react, before she could raise the revolver clutched in her hand, the Inquisitor closed the distance. He lunged forward with a sudden, feral rush. His arm snaked around her, yanking her back against his chest. A cold, hard cylinder pressed against her temple. His pistol. “Brass King!” the Inquisitor’s voice ripped through the lingering smoke, hoarse but laced with triumphant malice. “Drop your weapons! Or watch your wife die!”

The Turnip Cart Artillery