"Moldark! Moldark!" Leopold rushed through the commotion, calling out for his head of garrison. "You there, Hart is it? Where the Devil is Moldark? Faster, son!"
"I don't know, captain!"
Leopold was already away. The dragons, runts as they were, were attempting to swarm the rigging and, although gunpowder cracked from all around him, he could tell they were damned close.
As if to prove this point, one of the beasts managed to descent from above, and perch, mouth open, on top of the captain's quarters. Almost immediately, before the first crackles of flames were released, its eye exploded into blood. Smoke issued from its lungs, and it fell with a slump onto the wood. Leopold pocketed the smoking pistol into its holster with a mutter of "First rate device, first rate", before turning around, his voice raging. "To the cannons! To the ruddy cannons! And you, Stalworth, go to Fenlock, tell him double-speed, tell him he can grab all the men he wants!"
Leopold hid behind a wall, refilling the gunpowder-chamber as quickly as he could. The shrieks of retreating and charging dragons filled his ears. Where had they come from? No, think afterwards, fight first, that was the rule for battles, for a man usually inclined to think. Peering around the side, he could tell the situation was growing ever desperate. There was only one thing for it. He kicked away from the wall, and sped as quickly as his bent-legs could carry him to the captain's quarters, at least having the decency of leaving the door unlocked.
He sighed, and sat down. No longer in the battle, he was no longer tied to his own rule. He thought. It did not take him long.