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Sigmarzeit-20,2491 IC

Chaos erupted like thunder, the smoke of gunpowder and the metallic roar of cannons covering everything.

"Musket, I need a musket!" shouted one of my men disguised as a railway worker, his face smeared with sweat and soot."Pass me powder bags!" demanded another, as the echoes of explosions shook the beams of the bridge.

Ahead, the scene was pure hell. Twenty organ guns fired in unison from the train, spewing molten shrapnel into the crowd that had so naively gathered to celebrate the construction. The festivity turned into a massacre in mere seconds. The earth was drenched in blood, screams drowned in the thunder of the cannons, and bodies were hurled in every direction like rag dolls.

"Shoot them!" my men roared, aiming at the few wretches who had survived the first volley.

I leapt from the train, landing lightly thanks to the blessed gromril armor I wore, its dawi runes glowing faintly across the surface. A gift from Duran—and one that in that instant made me feel invincible.

At once, the houses near the tracks burst open and out poured more of my so-called "railway workers"—in truth, recruits from Altdorf and Carroburg. Men who had learned quickly to wield muskets and now handed weapons to our soldiers as though they were loaves of bread.

The fools of Marienburg had never suspected that those draining their swamps and laying their rails were no mere laborers, but a hidden levy, ready for war. Their mistake would be their doom.

"Quickly, the bridge!" I commanded, pointing to the structure linking the north and south of the city. "It's the key to controlling Marienburg. Take it before the merchant families' militias react!"

Hundreds surged forward at once, their boots thundering across the planks as makeshift banners were raised to identify themselves amidst the smoke. The rest secured the southern gates, keeping the train's compartments open so reinforcements could pour in unhindered. Discipline imposed itself on the chaos—uniform after uniform spreading through the streets, while hundreds of rifles were loaded and distributed.

With luck, we had also cut down most of the city's mages. Many had been invited to the "celebration" for their political clout, but the opening cannonades had shattered their concentration. Those who tried to retaliate with spells were swept away by storms of shot. I could not afford to leave them alive—a single well-cast spell could ruin everything.

The organ guns were unloaded from the wagons quickly, along with barrels of powder, crates of ammunition, and provisions. Everything was calculated for a short, brutal operation. Time was against us: Marienburg was a golden prize, and soon other factions would move to protect their interests.

If I did not take the city within three days, my masterstroke would turn into political and military suicide.

Winkelmarkt fell with such sudden violence it was hard to believe that minutes earlier it had been a quiet district of merchants and families. Shrapnel tore through windows, walls, and flesh alike, and when the smoke began to clear, it was already our first conquest within Marienburg.

Once my men confirmed they had secured the north side of the bridge—after cutting down the toll collectors—we positioned cannons to hold the assault's spearhead. Meanwhile, the dawi and others moved the empty wagons, preparing the train for immediate departure once more reinforcements arrived.

On the eastern flank, a small detachment secured the streets, while nearly all our force—about three thousand men—swung west. Our target: Oudgeldwijk, the city's main gateway, vital for keeping the railway open for incoming troops. It was also Marienburg's wealthiest district, and thus one of its most heavily guarded.

It didn't take long to meet resistance: patrols of the Black Berets and the private militias of the merchants. Hundreds of guards blocked the way, erecting hasty barricades.

"Bring up the Gatlings!" I ordered. Six of my men heaved the new machines forward: crank-driven cannons, twenty-round paper cartridge feeds, engines of death that spat lead at terrifying speed.

The guards stood firm, convinced their numbers and discipline would hold. What they didn't know was that such discipline meant nothing here.

The cranks began to turn. A hailstorm of bullets spewed from the barrels. The first magazines emptied in seconds. Guards fell in waves, torn apart, bodies shredded, the walls behind them perforated like parchment. Panic consumed their ranks—many fled, others tried in vain to shield themselves.

"Hold the line! No looting yet!" I barked, marching over the field of corpses. The stench of gunpowder, blood, and viscera thickened the air. The wounded cried for help, dragging themselves along, limbless, broken.

With Oudgeldwijk's gates broken and the tracks cleared, nothing could stop the arrival of reinforcements. The guards had sold their lives dearly, but in the end fell beneath the twin pressure of our musketeers and bayonets. The two mages who tried to rally the defense were undone by my gold-transmutation spells; while they wasted focus shielding themselves from their own flesh turning to metal, my men gunned them down. With their deaths, enemy morale collapsed.

The gates creaked open, and the first train rolled out empty—making way for the second convoy. Thousands of fresh soldiers poured in, though poorly armed. The initial shipment had to be split among them to hold the line. Once reorganized, we set the next target: Tempelwijk, the district of temples and Marienburg's spiritual heart.

With nearly seven thousand men, we marched across the bridges leading there. This time, resistance was minimal. The militias and guards, exhausted after two crushing defeats and outnumbered, surrendered en masse. The surprise came from the priests themselves, who stepped forward to halt the fighting. They persuaded the mages and militiamen to lay down their arms—not out of loyalty to us, but to save their cathedrals, dripping with gold and relics.

The priests offered me a sacred oath: no blade would be raised against my forces within the district, so long as I spared their temples from looting. It was a convenient pact; I accepted without hesitation. There were still too many districts left to conquer, and wasting time on a meticulous purge would only slow my advance.

The townsfolk hid in their homes or within the holy precincts, praying for the storm to pass. I was in no hurry to drag them out. Trials and executions would come later, once all Marienburg lay beneath my control. For now, only one thing mattered: advancing, and securing the city's vital districts.

We immediately began the march north, where the garrison guarding the bridge still fought with desperate ferocity. It was there that the last defenders had gathered, clinging to the position with sheer determination. The place was already a slaughterhouse: hundreds of enemy bodies lay under the devastating fire of our organ guns, while a single Gatling still roared from the top of a tower, sweeping with lethal precision every attempted counterattack.

My three hundred men, exhausted and bloodied, had resisted with admirable stubbornness, though at a terrible cost against the thousands trying to drive them out. But the arrival of nearly six thousand reinforcements shifted the fate of the battle at once. Pressure fell heavily on the defenders, forcing them to yield step by step.

The fight turned into a brutal urban war. Every building became a barricade, every street an improvised battlefield. Our musketeers exchanged fire with crossbowmen and archers shooting from balconies and windows, while suicide charges from militias and mercenaries hired by Marienburg's great families slammed into our lines. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and powder; cannon blasts and musket volleys thundered without pause, deafening all.

The battle in Paleisbuurt was the longest and bloodiest. They held with iron will until another of our trains arrived with reinforcements—four thousand more men, tipping the balance decisively. The artillery barrages grew ever more intense until we reached the Stadsraad, the seat of government, where the last defenders had barricaded themselves.

Our cannons thundered with shrapnel, tearing down their defenses and reducing whole walls to rubble. The Gatlings emptied cartridge after cartridge into their positions without rest. At last, a hundred of my best soldiers, led by one of my captains, stormed the building and cleared it room by room until it was fully secured.

The Stadsraad—the political heart of the city—was ours. The streets around it lay devastated, a landscape of ruin and death, but control was firmly in our hands. With victory secured, we stationed garrisons in the districts already taken and received the final troop train: another four thousand men. From that point onward, the next convoys would carry only supplies—unless the enemy dared to sabotage the rails.

With the northern half pacified, our focus turned south, advancing on Kruiersmuur, the most populous working-class district. There we found little resistance: most militias had either concentrated at the city gates or lost their chain of command entirely. Our advance was almost peaceful, limited to silent streets where residents hid in their homes, too afraid to step outside.

The militiamen, faced with our overwhelming numbers, chose either surrender or flight into the outer swamps. Thus we seized the southern district and with it the river forts, securing control over the Reik's waterways.

With more than half of Marienburg under our dominion, I allowed myself a symbolic gesture: I ordered a great banner of the Two-Tailed Comet to be raised atop the Stadsraad, proclaiming to all that the city now belonged to the Empire.

In Guildervelt we met the fiercest resistance since Paleisbuurt. Much of the surviving militia had regrouped there, but their battered morale stood on one foundation alone: the dawi of Marienburg.

Many dwarfs had taken up arms to defend the city, wielding rune-etched axes and hammers forged in workshops I knew all too well. They had joined the defenders, forming a shield wall of iron, their discipline unshakable—compact ranks, immovable as stone, resolved to hold us back to the bitter end.

I could not allow the fight against them to turn into a massacre. The dawi were not my enemies but my natural allies, and to slaughter them in street battle would be a betrayal of the bonds I had labored so hard to forge with their clans.

I strode forward with firm steps, deflecting with my magic the arrows and bolts raining down. Raising my voice so all could hear, I called out:

"Honorable dawi… I am not your enemy. On the contrary, as a son of the Empire, you are my allies. I wish you no harm. This city, ruled by traitors, must return to the rightful dominion of the Empire and of the first bearer of Ghal Maraz. I beg you, proud people of Karaz Ankor—lay down your arms, and no harm will come to you. Every loss you have suffered will be repaid in full, I swear it as dawongi of Clan Grundkaraz of the Grey Mountains."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the clash of shields and the distant roar of battle. The defenders watched in dread, waiting to see if the dwarfs would hold the line. Slowly, the dawi began to lower their weapons. They turned back to their workshops and homes, refusing to spill blood in vain.

Their withdrawal exposed the human defenders. Without their wall of iron, the line began to buckle.

"No artillery here. Muskets only, and take care not to destroy what need not be destroyed," I ordered, holding back heavy fire as we reformed our lines.

The dawi withdrew from Marienburg's war, and the defenders, bereft of their living bulwark, began to falter. Guildervelt was doomed to fall.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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