Fredric rushed across the no-mans land the crackle and pop of muskets balls buzz past his head. He was a barely a few feet away from the trench line and all the horrors it entailed. Using what remained of his stamina he jumped the remaining distance, rolling into a covered corner. In a few moments the rest of his company would be rushing up the fortified hill just as he had or at least the few that still lived. 

Readying His rifle he peaked the corner or his pillbox and spotted his first target. His musket kicked against his shoulder as he fired. The Blue and yellow uniform of the northman bleed red as the musket ball lodged into his stomach. The northman had barely fallen before Fredric rushed to close the gap between the second soldier that held the trench. The second man was larger and held a much larger build. If his musket still held a round the fight would have been over in minutes. Sadly, however a musket only held one. 

Fredric rushed in rifle held at the ready. As he had hoped the other man didn't have time to react and bring up his rifle. In such close quarters no amount of armor would save a man from the force of a rifle. A foot and a half of steel punched through cloth and flesh spraying blood as it went. A guttural growl sounded in his ears as the dying breath of the man escaped his body.

"Peace my friend. I am sorry."

He laid the dead man down and muttered a prayer. All around him the sounds of the combat sounded as his company stormed the trenches. Over a hundred grenadiers had began to take up position around him.

"Fredric! Get your Scaly ass in position!. We go on the whistle."

A curt nod was the only reply he gave. Captain Sael was a rarity amongst the elvish. Where most were tall and slender he was short(Although still tall by human standards) and wide. Also unlike most of his kin he had the respect and admiration of the human and other subject species within the army. 

The dreaded whistle sounded. With mindless abandon he charged.

A cannonball blew a hand sized hole through the soldier nearest to him. The shower of gore, guts, and blood; did nothing to stop or slow him. He was a grenadier, a member of the daunted 181st regiment and a member of the Iral Igin Mosoul. The Favored sons. Or and he preferred "The stolen sons."

The trenches they had already taken were but the outer redoubts that acted as outer defenses for the larger fortress. The name greater holdfast was almost inaudible due to the rough guttural sounds of the northmen language so the men had taken to calling it "Sarins Tets". To call them so out loud would be all but asking for a whipping.

Sarin was the elvish queen whose hurt pride at some insult or another had ordered their army to attack the Northern Kingdom of Octrun. 

Clearing his head of non vital information he gripped his rifle tight and rushed forward.

His heart thumped in his chest so fast and hard he heard it in his head. The Right Tet was smaller and shorter than the left which made his run slightly easier. 

Clang clang clang

Clang clang clang

The bells rang across the battlefield as the fort suddenly became a haze of activity. Any of the garrison not already awake would be rushing to equip themselves and man positions. It would be a bloody battle.