Warhammer Fantasy:Steel and gunpowder

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Nachgeheim 21th ,2488 IC

"...Looks like it's still dead," I said, peeking my head over the edge of the tunnel. I looked at the massive spider, completely charred, along with the entire great chamber that had burned in flames the day before. Nothing remained but ashes. The fire had consumed everything.

My men nodded and began spreading out through the area, inspecting the surroundings where spiders had once swarmed. They found many scorched remains of smaller specimens—shattered bones and carapaces burned to dust.

"My lord!" one of the soldiers shouted. "These aren't spider remains," he said, pointing to a blackened pile among the ruins.

I approached cautiously. The man held his musket high, aiming at any potential threat hidden among the debris.

"Dwarven remains..." I muttered as I examined the bones. "The bone structure is more compact… much denser than human. And look at these teeth—quite worn down. Though the fire may have affected part of the jaw, this dwarf was definitely food for the spiders… Who knows how long ago."

We found many more dwarven corpses scattered throughout the chamber. Some skeletons were intact, others dismembered or crushed. All of them were charred. It was evident that this hall had once been a key area of the fortress, and that many of its last defenders had died here.

I ordered a detailed inspection of the chamber. I didn't sense any threats in the area at the moment—my affinity would've warned me—but it was still wise to act cautiously. Since we had cleared all the tunnels behind us, this section was ideal to establish a temporary camp.

With nearly all my men operating in the mines, having a secure fallback point would be crucial.

We quickly set up the tents. The second entrance to the chamber was walled off with rocks and reinforced wood, just in case. After several hours of work, we had a decent underground camp. Small, austere, but functional. From there, we could operate in the lower levels without exposing ourselves too much.

Once the position was secured, we turned our focus to the enormous black stone gates that sealed the main entrance to the fortress. With the help of several men, wedges, and iron bars, we finally forced them open after much effort.

What appeared was a long tunnel, much wider than any other in the mines. To our surprise, it was well lit.

Crystals embedded in the walls gave off a faint golden glow, constant and stable. Likely some dwarven rune... though I couldn't feel the usual runic sensation of proper dwarven craft.

"With this, the men won't have to carry torches all the time," I commented.

I ordered the advance.

As we marched through the massive tunnel, I immediately felt an anomalous concentration: many metal tips, knives, spears, and arrows all gathered in a single spot. I stopped in my tracks. That amount of weaponry could only mean one thing.

We found the entrance moments later. The doors were large and heavy, but not sealed—just closed. I gave a hand signal and positioned all my musketeers at the front.

"Push!" I ordered.

The doors creaked with a metallic groan as they opened. As soon as we cracked them open a few inches, the interior came into view. A large group of goblins was gathered around a big bonfire. They were cooking something in a filthy pot, shrieking, arguing, spitting at each other.

They saw us.

They froze like rabbits caught in a lantern beam.

"Fire!" I shouted without hesitation.

The thunderous sound of several dozen muskets firing at once shook the underground chambers like a caged storm. A thick cloud of smoke rose immediately, accompanied by agonized screams.

The goblins' bodies fell in pieces. Some rolled on the ground clutching their guts or severed arms, others just collapsed, unmoving, with half their skulls blown off or their torsos pierced by deformed lead slugs.

There was no mercy.

The rest of my men surged forward like an unstoppable wave. The surviving goblins tried to resist, wielding rusted knives and bent spears, but the shock of the initial volley had left them stunned. They fought poorly, disorganized, and what remained of their line crashed against our tightly packed pike formation.

We skewered them like cattle.

Some tried to retreat, but didn't get far—the second volley caught them in the back, shattering their legs, piercing their spines.

"Reload! More incoming!" I shouted, seeing my men immediately begin the drill.

Paper cartridges came out from their belts. Each soldier bit his open, poured the powder into the barrel, then the ball, and with trained precision began ramming the charge with the rod. In seconds, the barrels were aligned again, all aimed at the only door leading to the next chamber.

A tide of goblins burst through the entrance like a wave of bodies crammed into a tunnel too narrow. They pushed each other, screaming, their eyes filled with fury or fear. But there was no time for them to form a line.

A fresh volley thundered instantly. My musketeers fired in unison.

The goblin vanguard was obliterated.

The lead balls ripped through several ranks at once, killing dozens of creatures packed so tightly it was impossible to miss. Many dropped without even knowing what hit them, others screamed in agony, watching their guts spill across the floor.

"March! Push forward!" I shouted without wasting a moment.

The pikemen responded precisely. The phalanx fully formed, flanks secured by the walls, pikes pointed forward. They began advancing, step by step, like a killing machine.

The goblins, armed with little more than bent knives and crude hunting spears, couldn't reach our ranks. Their weapons were too short, their arms too small. All they could do was scream and push from behind, forcing those in front to meet death head-on.

One by one, they were impaled.

The pikes pierced throats, torsos, and faces. Some goblins were stuck on the steel blades and lifted like rag dolls before falling to the ground. Others, wounded, collapsed at my men's feet.

And that's where it ended.

Without stopping, my soldiers stepped over them. Skulls cracked, throats collapsed under the weight of boots and armor. The phalanx didn't stop for anything. It was a wall of flesh, steel, and willpower, slowly advancing over a mountain of crushed corpses.

The screams didn't stop. But they were no longer battle cries. They were cries of desperation.

The goblins were beginning to realize they weren't fighting armed peasants. They were facing an army trained to exterminate.

The goblins in the front tried to retreat, but it was useless.

Their own companions in the rear pushed them forward, forcing them to crash into our pikes. They screamed, they begged, but they had no choice—they were impaled one after another. The constant pressure from their backlines turned them into sacrificial meat, trapped between their comrades and a wall of steel.

Our phalanx advanced without pause. Slow, steady, unstoppable.

We only stopped to let the musketeers move forward between the ranks. In seconds, they formed a line at the front, took aim, and fired.

The muzzle flashes lit up the corridor.

The thunder of the shots bounced off the stone walls, and chaos overtook the goblin lines. Some tried to climb the walls to escape; others slipped in the blood of their own. That's when the order rang out again:

"Advance!"

And the phalanx moved forward once more, pushing with shields and pikes like a hammer that never stopped.

The tunnel became a slaughterhouse.

Goblin blood soaked the walls. Thick pools gathered in the cracks of the floor, staining the stone a dark red. The screams grew weaker, drowned by the weight of bodies and the pounding of our boots.

We kept fighting until the dry, hollow sound of the last shot was heard. We had run out of gunpowder. Each man had spent the fifteen cartridges he carried. No more fire—only steel.

I made the decision to fall back.

Despite the massacre we were causing, it was foolish to continue without ammunition in a wide tunnel where our formation could break.

The goblins, seeing us retreat, regained some courage. They shouted, howled, throwing themselves harder, thinking we were falling back out of fear. But all they achieved was to impale themselves more easily. They hurled themselves like desperate beasts onto our pikes, pushed by those behind them who didn't understand what was happening up front.

We began to give ground in an orderly manner. When we reached the point where we had entered, I had the reserve companies form a second line. We left precise gaps to allow rotation and I gave the order: the frontline men were to fall back step by step, replaced by fresh troops.

"If we retreat now without order, they'll overwhelm us. This corridor is too wide and we don't have the numbers to form up here. Push them back!" I shouted, pointing with my sword. "Have the musketeers return to camp and bring more powder!"

And so they did.

The renewed vanguard advanced in unison, pushing with pikes at the greenskins who no longer knew whether they were attacking or being dragged to their deaths.

The tunnels had become rivers of blood. Goblin corpses piled on top of one another, turned into an unrecognizable mass of crushed flesh. Some were reduced to pulp under the weight of both armies. Others crawled without legs, only to be trampled by their own or pierced by our pikes without hesitation.

For what felt like an eternity, we toyed with them: we pulled back to lure them, then pushed forward again. We forced them to fight among the corpses of their dead, among broken bodies and thick puddles that soaked their ankles.

Finally, after a long and exhausting battle, the goblins broke formation and fled in a panic, screaming like cornered rats. They left thousands of bodies behind, forming mountains of broken flesh along the corridor. Blood flowed between the stones like a thick stream.

I watched the scene in silence and wiped the filthy goblin blood from my sword with a blackened rag. I had reaped many lives in those hours. I remembered them crawling on the ground, trying to dodge the pikes, only to be trampled or run through without mercy.

I ordered my men to pile the bodies outside the fortress. I didn't want that rot obstructing our path when we returned. It was also a way to keep the area clean… at least, as clean as possible after such a massacre.

With the path clear and the men at the limit of their strength, we returned to the camp. No one spoke. Only the sound of tired footsteps, swords being sheathed, the scrape of dirty armor. I let them rest. They had earned it.

I, however, didn't sleep.

I spent most of what I assume was the day awake. It was hard to keep track of time without sunlight. Down here, everything was the same: darkness, humidity, and the distant echo of dripping stones. But the lack of a sky didn't stop me from feeling what moved through the stone.

Thousands of small metallic presences were still alive inside the goblin fortress. I felt knives, arrows, nails… all moving from one place to another as if they were part of a swarm. I tensed when a large concentration began moving in our direction, but it pulled back before reaching us. Just patrols, perhaps, or planned skirmishes they didn't dare carry out.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

But it wasn't normal rest.

For the first time, I allowed my winds of magic to remain active even while I slept. I didn't fully hide within my mind. I felt what happened around me: distant footsteps, bodies rising to urinate, to keep watch, to quietly eat something. I felt the metal of weapons, the weight of armor, the movements inside the fortress. It was like a lucid dream, but with every nerve on alert.

Maybe it was the concentration of Chamon.

We were inside a mine—the ore, all of it amplified my affinity. I felt my arcane talent like never before.

Maybe I'll try casting a spell tomorrow.

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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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