After a night of fierce fighting, the corridors near each gun position on the western side were now littered with bodies, both Venetian and Tanilian.
If the Venetians hadn't taken the unused gunpowder back to camp every day, last night's losses would have been even more severe.
When daylight came, the Venetians began cleaning up the battlefield and gathering the bodies of their comrades.
Winters and Taylor, having hastily tended to their wounds, immediately returned to the West-Four gun array.
A ghastly wound adorned the brow of Winters, held together by black stitches. If the injury had been two inches lower, Winters certainly would have lost his right eye.
Taylor's sword wound was at the top of his head; he had to shave his hair completely off to sew it up.
However, they were the fortunate ones, for they were still alive.
Buba lay before them, his body already stiff. His eyes, already dilated, stared emptily at the sky, his mouth was wide open as if he were still shouting.
