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POV of Kaspar member of the Bane of Monsters

Vorgeheim-21-30-2492

"No, you damned wazzok! The whole point is that it should fire the same type of cartridge. If you split them in two, you'll cause a mistake in battle," our lord shouted, starting yet another of those arguments that almost always flared up when he spoke with that stubborn dwarf.

"Who are you calling wazzok, manling? It's not my fault your kind panics so quickly. The weapon must have two separate barrels: one for grobi and another for urk. Because if we use the barrel you want, it won't kill the urk," the dwarf retorted, his voice rough and hard as stone, defending his ideas as was his custom.

"Yes it will! We've already tested the caliber and the smokeless powder—it does pierce the urk. I just need this to fire the ammunition I asked for," our lord insisted, raising his voice further, his patience almost spent.

At that moment one of my comrades, Konrad, came walking quickly, carrying two enormous mugs of beer in his hands. He dropped down beside me with a sigh and handed me one.

"The usual?" he asked, taking a long gulp, closing his eyes as if it revived him. "Buah… kicks like a horse."

"Let's see," I said, trying a sip. My throat burned and I smiled. "Ujuju… kicking like a horse is nothing compared to this." Dwarf beer was thick, strong, almost like drinking fire.

"So, why are they fighting now? Yesterday it was about the size of the barrel—what's today's excuse?" Konrad asked, scratching his patchy beard.

"About the type of ammunition the weapon should use," I answered, taking another small sip of that cursed drink. "Damn… the dwarfs really do know how to make good beer."

"Well, better that way. Less time in those dwarf tunnels, because I really don't like always being the first line," Konrad muttered, half weary.

"We're lucky to have runic armor. The greenskins' weapons barely scratch before we blow their chests apart with a single shot," I replied with a shrug.

"Yeah, but being so far from home is the problem… Especially when I asked the paymaster how much my share of the spoils would be when it's divided among us," Konrad said, lowering his voice as if afraid an officer might overhear.

"Oh yeah? And how much is it then? Because I almost never ask—after all, fortune is decided on the battlefield, not in the purse," I answered with genuine interest.

"With the current spoils, each of us gets eighty gold crowns. That's nearly two years' salary. And that's without even looting—everything comes from what the dwarfs paid to have their fortresses liberated. I just want this over soon, to go home and see if I can retire," Konrad said, a spark of hope in his eyes.

"Why though? Don't you like serving? We're the personal guard of the Elector Count of the Westerland. Only serving in the Reiksguard would carry more honor and prestige," I answered, surprised.

"I know… and the pay is good, I earn double the others. But I have five children, and I want to watch them grow. Being the count's vanguard makes me nervous… I don't want to be the next to fall," he answered, staring into his mug as if his future lay inside it.

"It's something we accepted when we swore to Sigmar's cause," I said solemnly.

"I know, but right now all I want is to go home, see my children, buy my wife fine clothes and toys for the little ones. We've been away too long," he said at last, smiling wearily.

And he was right. Serving alongside the dawi was exhausting. The dwarfs here were different from those in our lands: harder, more resentful, quick to take offense over anything. If you looked at them the wrong way, they grew angry; if you didn't look, the same; if you greeted them too cheerfully, they were offended; if you didn't greet them, worse. There was always a reason to grumble.

And we were surrounded by them. Everywhere in camp there were dwarfs. When our lord wasn't arguing with that engineer about cannons and calibers, he was negotiating with others about treaties, spoils, and the gold they would pay to reclaim their Karaks.

It had been like that ever since we left the mountains: banquets, feasts, marriages almost daily. The dwarfs celebrated alongside our lord Albrecht, who seemed more a prince of their folk than a noble of the Empire. He was weaving a network of dwarf alliances: enemy clans reconciled, sealed peace through marriage, signed public pacts.

I saw with my own eyes how, in our camp, dwarf weddings were celebrated: elders with braided beards raising mugs, brides with silver crowns, clans swearing that when a daughter was born of the union, she would wed the first son of another clan. All to bind them into that web of alliances our lord was building.

I didn't know why our lord was so invested in dwarf politics. He was relentless in insisting they should stand on their own feet, but at the same time he had to juggle endlessly to make them set aside their ancient rivalries and cooperate.

And so it went on, with arguments with the engineer flaring up again and the dwarf banquets continuing as usual. At each one, more clans joined the defensive alliance the count was forging, until over a hundred dwarf lords were committed to defend one another as if an attack on one was an attack on all.

But sooner or later came the hard part: tightening armor straps and returning to the tunnels in search of battle.

As I fastened my straps, the count arrived with a new weapon in his hands. "Look, Kaspar, I need you to use this piece now and test these munitions. We must prove their effectiveness in combat, and I can only entrust it to my best men. So take it and use it," he said, handing me a double-barreled firearm.

I took it, heavier than the dwarf blunderbuss I had been using before. The metal still smelled of the forge and the balance felt rough, but solid.

"Now, the system is simple. Release the safety, push the barrels forward, here are the openings, place two charges like this… then close it and done. Pull either of the two triggers—never both at once. The weapon should be enough to tear the greenskins to pieces, and it's easy to reload. See?" explained Count Albrecht calmly as he showed me.

He handed me a belt loaded with cartridges.

"Any risk I should keep in mind, my lord?" I asked with a half-smile.

"It shouldn't blow up in your face, but don't trust it too much. Keep your wits about you and don't take unnecessary risks," he replied while handing out other weapons to the nearest veterans. Behind him, the dwarf engineer followed, scribbling notes as always, grumbling at every detail.

With my armor in place and the new weapon loaded, we pushed into another underground fortress. The mission was the same: reclaim the lost halls and corridors. This time several thousand dwarfs marched with us, burdened with weapons, barrels of powder, and supplies.

For hours we advanced, passing through fortresses already retaken, where the dwarfs were rebuilding workshops and repairing their homes, bringing life back to the mountains. At every stop they handed us supplies for the stores, and in three more fortresses to the south more men and provisions joined us, until we reached the defensive frontier. There, at the stone gates, we saw what was left of a previous incursion: dozens of orc corpses torn apart by cannons and muskets.

We pressed on toward the next occupied fortress. From the tunnels came the echo of greenskin screams bouncing off the stone, but every step of our armored boots smothered them bit by bit.

The battlefield opened into a wide chamber beneath the mountain, large enough to deploy in order. The cannons were placed in the rear, the pikemen lowered their lances, and in front of them the musketeers formed up, steady, waiting for the first wave.

A band of scouts went ahead to provoke the enemy. The echoes of their shots faded in the passages, and it wasn't long before we saw them running back, pursued by dozens of orcs roaring from the depths.

The count gave the order. The muskets thundered as one. The first rank fired and knelt, the second fired over them, and so the sequence continued. Hundreds of orcs and goblins fell, the tunnel thick with the stench of powder. There were fewer than expected, so the cannons barely fired. We pushed forward, stepping over the bodies.

Then came the worst part: clearing the fortress of stragglers. Those were always the most dangerous, for we had to hunt them room by room, fighting in the dark like beasts cornered.

With the new weapons at the front—only five in the whole company—we led the groups. My heart beat fast, the damp air clung to us, and every shadow seemed to move as we advanced.

I heard a creak to my right, from a side chamber. I glanced at a comrade carrying a dwarf blunderbuss; he nodded silently. I crept forward, peering in bit by bit.

Inside, a hulking brute awaited me. A massive orc, with yellowed tusks and burning eyes. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, and the echo of his growls filled the room. He stared at me with red eyes and opened his mouth.

"WAAAAAAAAAGH!!!"

The roar rattled my bones. I pressed the stock of the weapon against my shoulder, sweat running beneath my helmet, and braced myself to fire.

I pulled the trigger. The kick caught me off guard; I nearly lost it, the barrel jolted in my hands before I wrestled it back under control. I searched for the greenskin… but all I saw was his skull blown apart, splattered against the stone wall.

"By holy Sigmar… this weapon is a marvel," I said without meaning to, staring at how the orc's head was practically gone in a single shot.

I stepped back out and the others peered inside, astonished at the remains. I flicked the safety off as I had been taught, removed the spent cartridge, and slid in another. The mechanism locked with a metallic snap, unfamiliar but satisfying.

Far off, more shots echoed through the galleries. We continued room by room, clearing each chamber of the fortress.

A single cartridge was enough to destroy a greenskin's head or chest, and I made full use of it. I kicked one door wide and stormed inside. Two orcs were within, devouring a fresh corpse. They looked up at me, snarling, blood smeared across their mouths.

I gave them no time.

I squeezed the trigger and one exploded through the chest, flung against the wall. The second lunged at me with a roar, but I fired the other barrel: its arm and half its torso disintegrated into meat and bone, dropping like an empty sack at my feet.

We cleansed each level of the fortress, corridor after corridor, chamber after chamber. For nearly two hours we fought through the stragglers who refused to die. The echoes of gunfire and death cries mingled with the thick reek of powder and blood.

At last, when all was silent, the count gave the order: the fortress was clean. The dwarfs poured in behind us with steam machines, hammers, and supplies. They immediately began repairing walls, reinforcing gates, and building new defenses to the south and east.

We, exhausted and spattered with greenskin remains, accompanied the count to inspect the most awaited prize: the spoils. An old dwarf opened a hidden chamber in the rock, and within we found a treasury crammed with gold. He said a third belonged to our lord, another to the common defense funds, and as thanks they gifted us several runic weapons.

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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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