Lothar's bearded face splits into a grin as the beasts charge forth and the other guards leap (mostly metaphorically) into action. "North," he mumbles around his pipe.
He raises the gun he has been carrying in his lap, takes careful aim at the horned shadow on the right of the carts- the instant the thing steps into the mottled sunlight the Drakwald grudgingly allows, he fires. The crack is loud, an unmistakably human sound after the roaring of the lead-creature's command...