The ringing in Deacon's ears was the only sound that persisted, a high, thin whine that was the sonic signature of his victory. It was a sound he knew he would carry for the rest of his life, a constant, unwanted reminder of the Thunder Claps. Below the command tower, the North Road was a nightmare of shattered timber, pulverized stone, and the grotesque remains of Goblins and Wargs—the raw, undeniable evidence of the weapon's force. The air tasted acrid, metallic, and heavy with the pervasive scent of sulfur.
Deacon, Lord Cassian, did not allow himself a moment of relief. He descended the tower quickly, his mind already running the triage report and the critical need for evidence containment. He found Elara waiting at the base, her face pale with shock but her body rigid with duty.
"Elara, listen closely," Deacon commanded, his voice hoarse. "Send runners throughout the city. Order a twenty-four-hour curfew. No one is to leave their homes. The militia is to maintain a perimeter thirty yards back from the North Gate breach. No civilian is to approach the wreckage, under penalty of imprisonment. We need time to contain the 'plague.'"
He needed the curfew to secure the blast site, clean up any evidence of modern, uniform construction (like the clay molds or residual pitch fuses), and allow his engineer, Miller, a window to inspect the structural damage.
The scene at the North Gate was chaotic. Staff Sergeant Rodriguez (Renna) was directing her exhausted Trios, maintaining a defensive line against the possibility of the Goblins regrouping. The cost of the shock tactic was immediately visible: the militia, though alive, were not functional. Many were clutching their heads, bleeding from their ears and noses, suffering from severe barotrauma and shock.
"Report, Renna," Deacon said, stepping over the carcass of a Warg.
Rodriguez's voice was a barely audible rasp. "Sir, they broke. Completely. Minimal militia losses in terms of spears—three dead, six severely wounded by flying stone debris. But we have massive concussion casualties. They can't hear. They can't see straight. They can't hold the line against a stiff breeze, let alone a second assault."
Deacon moved past her to inspect the breach itself. The Thunder Clap had done more than just destroy the gate; it had punched a catastrophic seven-foot hole in the wall structure itself. The force had pulverized the brittle stone. It was a tactical success that had created a massive structural failure. .
"The gate is lost. Completely," Deacon stated. "We need a hasty defense. Pull every spare sandbag. Drag the Warg carcasses—use them as a barrier against small arms fire and tunneling. Miller will supervise. We need a three-foot-high earth and body revêtement inside the breach before the Goblins come back tonight."
He then addressed Commander Harl, who was mechanically organizing the retrieval of the dead. "Commander, you will report to Dr. Kelly immediately. You will tell him the casualties are primarily concussion and internal trauma—no need to mention the exact cause. You will direct every available runner to transport the wounded to his dispensary. Go. You are the only officer capable of managing that logistics pipeline." Deacon was intentionally burying the Major in essential work, neutralizing his strategic dissent by activating his S-5 role to maximum capacity.
Deacon then rode to Dr. Kelly's dispensary. The small stone building was already overwhelmed, smelling of blood, vomit, and antiseptic herbs. Major Kiley (Dr. Kelly), his aristocratic tunic discarded for a blood-soaked linen shirt, was operating with the cold, terrible efficiency of a man who had trained for mass casualties. He moved swiftly, utilizing modern triage techniques—stopping massive bleeds first, tagging the wounded, and ignoring the unsalvageable.
"Don't tell me, Hayes," Kiley muttered, his voice strained and low, as he rapidly stitched a deep laceration on a guardsman's arm. "I assume the casualty count is proportionate to the absurdity of the plan. You won with a bomb, Sergeant, not tactics. I have men with perforated eardrums and internal hemorrhaging—injuries caused by overpressure! You nearly killed your own men for a spectacle!"
"We won, Major. The city is safe," Deacon countered, his voice flat.
Kiley stopped his work, his face white with controlled fury. "Where are the remaining charges, Hayes? I need them secured and analyzed. If one of those things detonates accidentally in a wet alleyway, we lose the entire city and every life I'm trying to save! You risked everything!"
"The remaining charges are secured, Major. Staff Sergeant Blake is already containing the inventory. Your operational status is S-5 Triage Chief. You are to save lives, Major. We need every man able to walk to defend the second assault. Now, you need Tate."
Deacon knew he couldn't leave the blast site to chance. "Staff Sergeant Tate (Balthasar) is reporting to you now. He will be your runner and your forensic analyst. You need to send him back to the North Gate to gather samples of the blast debris. His cover is 'collecting remnants of the plague-bearing Wargs for study.' He will also be checking the structural integrity of the gatehouse for residual chemical traces. Use him to clean up the evidence."
Kiley's rage met his discipline; he recognized the immediate need for evidence control. "Fine. But tell Tate to report the chemical analysis back to me before he tells you. I want to know what you unleashed, Hayes."
Deacon nodded, accepting the Major's temporary control over the S-2 asset's intelligence stream.
As he left the dispensary, Deacon was intercepted by the Steward, Gerold, who was pale with shock but filled with a new kind of terror.
"My Lord, the wall! You let the wall break! The North Gate is shattered! The expense of rebuilding—it will bankrupt us! But the people are saying… they are saying the boom came from inside the wall! That you used fire magic! They say the Lord is a Siege Worm who broke the city to save it! They are demanding answers!"
The term "Siege Worm" was the absolute worst possible accusation—a traitor who deliberately weakened the city's defenses. Deacon realized the success of the Thunder Clap had created a political crisis more dangerous than the Goblins themselves. He had to maintain the illusion of magical defense while cleaning up the modern evidence.
"Steward, you will contact the priest, Father Marius," Deacon ordered, his voice suddenly sharp with political calculation. "You will tell him the thunder came from a Holy Relic—a piece of the true God's thunderstone placed in the gate by my ancestors. It requires a massive, immediate payment to the Church for a new consecration ritual to appease the gods for using such a potent relic."
"A payment, My Lord?" Gerold asked, bewildered.
"Yes. Use the tax exemption funds promised to the Widow Elms." Deacon was seizing the funds he had previously promised to the likely spy, simultaneously placating the Church and neutralizing the Widow's leverage. "Tell Marius the tax exemption is nullified by the emergency. Tell him the relic cost the Castellan his family's fortune, but saved the city. Go now, and do not question the wisdom of the gods."
Deacon watched the Steward flee. He had managed the immediate political narrative and cut off a potential internal threat, but the Major was furious, the militia was deafened, and the structural integrity of Oakhaven was severely compromised. The Goblins might return, and Oakhaven was currently held together by nothing more than mud, faith, and the will of its besieged Castellan. The fight against the Goblins was over, but the war against the medieval world had just begun.