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POV of an experienced soldier

Pflugzeit -17-2493

"Oh, blessed Sigmar, grant me the strength to smite your enemies… help me in these dark times to carry your light. Lend me some of your power to defeat my fears and allow me to take part in your war against evil," I prayed in a low voice, close to the holy hammer resting on the pedestal at the center of the camp. The Ghal Maraz itself, the most sacred relic in all the Empire, gleamed under the watchful eyes of a circle of priests and warrior-clerics.

At my side, Lukas also whispered prayers. Both of us were seizing the once-in-a-lifetime chance to kneel before the true Hammer of Sigmar, something no common man could hope to experience. The moment was all the more solemn because our general —the Prince of Marienburg— had been granted the honor of speaking face-to-face with the god of mankind himself. The Grand Theogonist would not stop repeating it: he claimed Sigmar had called upon him directly, though no one truly knew what words had passed between them.

But knowing our lord, he had surely begged for the one thing he always seeks: knowledge of how to destroy the enemies of the Empire. These past months under his command had taught us how skilled he and his veterans were in hunting down monsters. For two entire months we dedicated ourselves to eradicating beastmen in the forests of Reikland, leaving no lair, herd, or spawn alive. The woods were reduced to charred stumps, a few lonely trees, and ashes —but not a trace of those vermin remained.

When we thought at last we would be given rest from soldiering, another marching order came. This time it was no mere expedition or punishment against barbaric Kislevites: our army, one of the largest in the Empire's history, descended through the plains of Averland.

At first rumors of rebellion spread: that some Elector Count had dared defy the Emperor and we were to bend him to his knees by force. But soon we learned the truth: we were not marching against any nobleman, but towards Black Fire Pass. Our mission was to clear the roads that linked the Empire to the southern Border Princes, secure the route, and raise fortresses.

Some compared it to the campaign in Kislev. Yet there we had met little resistance: the Kislevites were terrified by the size of our host and, save for skirmishes, never dared face us in open field. Here, however, we were up against the greenskins —a very different foe. Though we outmatched them in numbers, weapons, and discipline, they lacked fear. They charged again and again, roaring and pounding their drums, no matter the losses. Only when the slaughter became unbearable would they scatter in disorder.

For days we had been accompanying the patrols of the clergy, scouting hills and mountains swarming with orcs. More than once we were forced to open fire, shooting point-blank into the creatures, watching them collapse heavily with their chests pierced by lead. But the rest of the fighting fell to the warriors of Sigmar's cult, who locked themselves in endless, bloody, exhausting duels where we did what little we could —we were good with firearms, but melee was another matter.

At most, we simply thrust our bayonets into orcs when the chance arose, or fired nearly at muzzle's length to take weight off the shoulders of the Sigmarite warriors who held the vanguard. So the days passed, and at first we thought this would be a short campaign: kill a few thousand orcs and return in triumph. After all, it was always said that this region did not hold so many greenskins —or so the merchants who crossed it claimed.

But reality struck soon enough. Out of nowhere, more and more orcs, goblins, and even giants appeared, from gods knew where. The only certainty was that before us lay a massive greenskin encampment, so vast that scouts reported they outnumbered us overwhelmingly. One of those scouts, mounted on a pegasus, nearly didn't return: he told of being pursued by an orc riding a nightmarish flying beast.

In the last few days we stopped watching the mountains. Instead, we took pick and shovel once more, shoulder to shoulder with the dwarfs, digging multiple firing lines. Only narrow slits were left for the muzzles of our muskets, arranged so that we could fire over the heads of the men in the first rank and all unleash volleys together. We also raised mounds of stone and earth, makeshift forts where the artillery was emplaced to dominate the entire pass. When the orcs came charging, they would have to run through the fire of dozens —perhaps hundreds— of cannons. No one knew the exact number: the guns of the Imperial army stood alongside dwarf artillery and newly forged pieces, like multi-barrel cannons.

We worked without rest for days until finally everything was ready. That very night, we were given double rations. It was the unmistakable sign: battle was coming. It had always been the same, even back in Reikland —when a great beastman assault loomed, the officers made sure we filled our bellies early, rather than starve in the middle of a fight with no end in sight.

The priests of Sigmar spent hours chanting prayers, blessing trenches, weapons, and banners. Some soldiers crossed themselves, others prayed in silence, others just stared at the ground in resignation. We only rested when ordered to take our positions. My company was placed in the second trench, well supplied: we had crates of ammunition, packets of powder, and cartridges ready to reload as fast as possible.

Each man loaded his musket and left it primed for the first shot. From our position we could see the infantry of Sigmar's clergy taking their places in the first line, lower down, ready to withstand the first impact of the greenskins. To our right, the Prince of Marienburg had deployed his personal troops. There stood his veterans hardened in a thousand battles, alongside two full regiments of pikemen and musketeers.We watched as hundreds of the prince's riders vanished into the pass, gone for several minutes.

"How many do you think there are?" Lukas asked nervously, watching the pass, where silence ruled like a shroud.

"Who knows," I replied. "Just that there must be many… but we must trust we'll hold."

"Yeah, they must be exaggerating. Sure there are a lot, but I guess from high up on a pegasus they can't really count them well," Lukas said, trying to force a smile.

"They can't be that many… look, the riders are coming back," I pointed, noticing a small rock rolling down the slope. But the movement didn't stop: soon larger ones shifted, until the earth itself began to tremble.

"Ready! Everyone to your posts, muskets primed to fire!" shouted one of our officers, running along the trench as the men in the front lines took their positions. Soldiers adjusted their ear protectors, artillery crews lit their spare fuses, and the cavalry pulled back, forming up on the right flank alongside the forces of the Prince of Marienburg.

Suddenly, small groups of orcs appeared."They're shouting…" I muttered, watching them raise their weapons into the air as they descended a steep hillside. At first it was only a few dozen… until behind them, as if the earth itself had split open, thousands more came pouring down. The cacophony of their cries bounced off the mountains, a roar that grew ever more deafening."Shit!" I blurted, slipping on my ear protection.

In a matter of seconds, the entire pass was covered in greenskins. Left to right, right to left, wherever you looked, orcs were streaming down the hill, packed shoulder to shoulder, filling the valley completely. The vibrations in the ground grew so strong the earth trembled under our feet.

The thunder of cannons erupted across the field as I saw huge shots tearing through the air, slamming into the greenskin ranks, killing hundreds and gouging enormous wounds in their formations —wounds that were quickly filled again. The cannons boomed and boomed, slaughtering the orcs and goblins without pause, piling their corpses into growing mounds.

Soon one artillery position roared louder than the rest: many of the repeater cannons unleashed storms of lead that ripped apart the vanguard of the greenskins in staggering numbers. For several minutes it was only the artillery carrying the slaughter, cutting down the enemy in droves —yet still the tide swelled. They were halfway down the slope already, and there seemed no end to them.

Our officer raised his hand, giving the signal to fire. In the next heartbeat, every line of musketeers opened up at once. Thousands of greenskins fell under that first volley. As we reloaded, massive shapes began to emerge from the horde: trolls and giants striding through their ranks.

Almost every cannon swung toward them, firing with precision. Some collapsed quickly, their chests and faces torn apart by dozens of heavy rounds, but others lumbered on, unstoppable, crashing into the Sigmarite troops. Cannons loaded with grapeshot poured a deadly rain over the orcs, ripping through flesh and bone —and still they pressed forward, heedless of the immense losses.

We fired again. More orcs toppled in heaps, and the mounds of bodies rose high enough to block parts of the pass. At last, the green tide slammed into the Prince of Marienburg's men and the forces of Sigmar's clergy. Spearmen, pikemen, and halberdiers locked themselves in brutal melee with the orcs, who struck with uncontrollable fury. From our trenches, we kept firing into the endless horde pouring down the hillside, though it grew harder and harder not to hit our own allies.

Cannons thundered, muskets spat fire and lead, and whole mountains of bodies formed around us. Grapeshot shredded the greenskins, giants fell to cannon fire. I watched trolls hurl themselves at the clergy's ranks, only to be met by priests who crushed them with their blessed hammers, golden auras blazing through the blood.

I lost count of how many times I had reloaded. Our vanguard was beginning to give ground, forced back slowly by the green tide, pushing closer to our trenches. It made aiming all the harder —shooting without hitting our own men was nearly impossible.

Then the warning we'd been given became real: a massive winged beast soared over the battlefield, ridden by a colossal orc. For a moment we just stared, and the greenskins roared louder at the sight, their fury renewed.

After another volley of musket fire, we realized the flying monster was coming straight at us. Not toward the packed front lines —directly at our trenches and the artillery. Panic spread as many tried to flee its path, clogging the reload crews.

The beast was about to crash down upon us when something dived from the heavens at breakneck speed. A figure struck the monster mid-air, and we saw two enormous creatures tearing at each other as they plummeted. Roars and shrieks shook the battlefield until, as they dropped lower, I recognized our griffon: it was locked in a titanic struggle with the flying beast.

They crashed with a thunderous impact. The griffon managed to steady itself, landing heavily with a beating of wings, while the orc-beast smashed into the ground, its neck torn in half. The massive orc rider staggered to his feet, weapon in hand… only for our lord's griffon to land beside him. Then we saw our general's mighty mace crush the brute's skull, bursting it into a thousand pieces across the blood-soaked earth.

Without pause, he took to the skies again, diving straight into the thick of battle to aid the men.

We quickly regained ground as the vanguard pushed the orcs back. The giants could not reach our lines before being blasted apart, and the greenskins failed to break the Empire's steel formations. Soon they began to falter. Many still charged blindly, but others broke and ran, making it far easier to hold the line.

All our cannons and musket ranks kept firing relentlessly, until at last the greenskins broke completely and fled en masse. It wasn't long before thousands of riders surged in pursuit, led by our lord on his griffon, tearing into the stragglers with claws and beak.

It didn't take long before we all began shouting:

"We've won!" I cried in elation, watching our cavalry run down the fleeing remnants.

The celebration swept across the front. All around us men cheered the great victory, while Sigmarite priests and warriors rushed to evacuate the wounded from the front lines, and even began gathering the dead to grant them their sacred rites.

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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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