Warhammer Fantasy:Steel and gunpowder

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NachexenPfugzeit-31,2489 IC

POV of Musketeer

"¡¡¡Musketeers!!!", shouted the baron with a voice so powerful it reverberated across the field.

We immediately reacted as we had in training. We moved ahead of the halberdiers and spread out in three clearly defined lines, careful not to obstruct the pikemen's progress, who continued their slow and steady march.

I aimed my musket at those damned Bretonnians, who were approaching in a tight formation, packed like sheep on their way to slaughter. I put the ear protector in my left ear and waited for the order.

"¡¡¡Fire!!!", the baron's voice thundered again.

I squeezed the trigger. The mechanism clicked and the powder exploded with a brutal jolt. Dozens of detonations followed mine.

I crouched instinctively and began preparing the next round. I cleaned the barrel, tore off the paper from the powder cartridge, and as I hurried, a second volley thundered above our heads. As I was about to load the ammunition, the third shot rang out. I stood up and finished reloading, ready to fire again... but then I saw something strange.

From behind their lines, the Bretonnian peasant archers released a rain of arrows. I instinctively raised my arms to shield myself, but I only felt soft taps on my armor. Confused, I looked around... and understood.

The arrows had no tips. They were just splintered sticks.

"How miserable must those Bretonnian dogs be to not even have arrowheads!?" someone shouted behind me.

"Bet they melted them down to pay their feudal taxes!" shouted another, followed by general laughter.

The entire line burst into laughter, mocking those poorly armed peasant levies.

"¡¡¡Fire!!!", the baron shouted again, relentless.

I aimed again. The Bretonnian men-at-arms tried to close ranks and advance. I squeezed the trigger once more. The bullets whistled, hitting directly against the enemy formation. Dozens fell like broken scarecrows, wrapped in screams and blood.

We reloaded. Fired. Again and again. Wave after wave. Each shot of lead ripped life from their ranks. Another rain of arrows fell upon us, and once again, they were just harmless sticks. They hit, yes, but barely hurt.

We fired four more volleys before the Bretonnians, desperate, charged.

We saw them coming, furious, shouting, stumbling between dead bodies and bloodied mud.

"¡¡¡Musketeers, retreat!!!", the baron commanded authoritatively.

We obeyed immediately. We fell back in an orderly fashion between the lines, yielding the front to the halberdiers. We withdrew to the flanks, staying alert... waiting for the next opportunity to bleed the enemy dry.

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POV of Pikeman

"Ready... ready... ready!" the baron shouted, his voice booming through the ranks as we adjusted our pikes.

The Bretonnian men-at-arms came charging. They wanted to reach us before the musketeers could fire again. But we were already prepared.

I pressed the back end of my pike against the ground, tilting it forward, aiming straight at the chest of the wave of steel and muscle rushing towards us. The ground trembled beneath their steps.

Some stopped just before impact… but not all. Several impaled themselves on the tips of our pikes, pierced in the weak spots of their armor. One fell, screaming with his throat pierced. Another writhed with a pike lodged in his thigh.

They were desperate, trying to force their way through our lines, but the pikes were many, and the gaps were few. They tried to cut the shafts with their swords, pushed with their shields, kicked like rats trapped... but the formation held.

"Push... push... push!" the baron ordered, and we all obeyed.

With the creaking of wood and metal, the entire line began to advance, shoulder to shoulder, pushing the Bretonnians back. But their own comrades behind them kept pushing them forward, trapping them between our pikes and their own ranks.

The result was bloody chaos: crushed men, others impaled, screams muffled by blood. Many died without even being able to swing their swords.

From the left wing, we heard again the dry roar of muskets. Our comrades were flanking the enemy. Each shot tore through flesh and steel, pushing them even closer to the brink of collapse.

Another rain of Bretonnian arrows fell upon us. Again, just sticks with feathers. They hit, bounced off, even made us laugh as we pushed death onto our enemies.

We still had no casualties. Not a single one. But the Bretonnians... the Bretonnians fell like wheat before the scythe. Still, they pushed with fury. For a moment, it seemed like they might break our line.

And then, the baron himself and his bodyguards sprang into action.

The baron sliced through a man-at-arms with a single stroke of his sword. His imperial steel cut through effortlessly. By his side, the GreatSwords charged like hungry wolves, dismembering the Bretonnians who had managed to get too close. The Bretonnian discipline crumbled. Their formation collapsed.

Under the pressure of our pikes, the incessant fire of the musketeers, and the carnage unleashed by the baron's personal guard, the men-at-arms of Monfort began to retreat. Then they fled.

We had won.

"NINETY DEGREE TURN! CAVALRY ON OUR RIGHT!" the baron shouted.

We turned immediately, trained for this, and saw it.

A wave of Bretonnian knights charged at us like a storm of lances and neighing horses.

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POV of Halberdier

Seeing a large group of Bretonnian cavalry charging towards us, the pikemen began to open the formation, widening the square to receive the charge. Without wasting time, all the nearby soldiers ran to seek protection within the pike wall.

Quickly, several lines reorganized, forming a perfect square with pikes pointing in all directions.

The knights charged with strength, lances lowered, but before they could reach impact, the musketeers on the left wing advanced from the formation. As the riders lowered their lances... they were met with a rain of lead.

Dozens of horses fell. Some collapsed immediately, others stumbled over the bodies of the first ones, causing total chaos in the midst of the charge. Riders were sent flying through the air, the thunder of hooves mixed with the crunching of bones and the screams of the wounded.

The musketeers showed no mercy. Seeing that the charge had broken, they fired again. The bullets cut down the knights who tried to get up, struck shields, and pierced armor. Each shot claimed another life.

But the Bretonnian rear didn't stop. The riders who hadn't been hit began a new charge. This time, the musketeers were reloading, with no time to stop them. The Bretonnians lowered their lances and charged directly at us, while the musketeers reentered the square.

Except their horses didn't follow them.

Many beasts, gripped by fear, refused to charge against our pikes. They stopped dead in their tracks, reared up on two legs, throwing their riders off. The few that obeyed... ended up impaled, throwing their masters like broken dolls against our ranks. There, we immediately surrounded them, taking them down with ten or fifteen pikemen before they could raise their swords.

The remaining knights began to circle around us, searching for a weak point, trying to break the formation or cut our pikes. But it was useless. From every angle, the pikes prevented them from advancing. And from the center of the square, the musketeers, who had already reloaded, fired with precision at anyone who took too long with their attempts.

We literally had hundreds of knights circling us like frustrated wolves. But the baron had prepared us for this. He had trained us to exhaustion to maintain this formation, and now everything made sense. We were killing knights as if they were mere peasants.

Finally, the Bretonnians' will broke. Seeing that they had lost much of their number without making a single breakthrough, they began to retreat. Then, we exited the square in an orderly manner, and with the halberdiers, we combined forces to capture every knight who was still breathing. We disarmed them and dragged them to the center of the formation, where they were guarded as prisoners.

Our front was intact. Tired, but firm. We regrouped and began to retreat, while a small detachment took the prisoners to the camp and left in search of more ammunition and powder.

But upon reaching the center of the front, the scene was different.

There, things hadn't gone as cleanly. Several of our own knights lay dead, their armor broken, the banners knocked down. The Bretonnian charge here had been brutal.

Then we saw what was coming: a large contingent of peasants, men-at-arms, and knights advanced towards us. At the head was a woman riding a horse with a horn, dressed in radiant white. By her side rode a massive knight with the Grail heraldry.

We stopped. But then the woman brought her hand to her neck. She staggered.

Both we and the Bretonnians watched, not understanding what was happening. But their faces... the faces of the Bretonnians... reflected pure horror.

The woman kept bringing her hands to her throat, gasping. Then she fell from her mount and began writhing on the ground, soiling her white dress, seized by convulsions. Several men ran to help her, kneeling at her side, shouting words at her in their language.

The Grail knight dismounted from his steed to assist her, desperate.

"Come on, come on, come on! Push them, they're distracted!!" shouted the baron, his voice like a whip that tore us from our astonishment.

The musketeers began to move, the pikemen too. We advanced quickly, reorganizing the ranks, ready to take advantage of the enemy's confusion.

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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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