Warhammer Fantasy:Steel and gunpowder

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Nachexen-Marktag, 5th,2488 IC

"What a waste of good meat…" I muttered in frustration, watching the freshly slaughtered pig being cut up. "Salt must be so expensive… I could easily cure the meat, make hams, but between the time it takes and the cost of salt—or rather, its availability—there just isn't enough to cure everything," I complained, watching them discard such a valuable part.

But this was just one more problem in a long list of difficulties. To maintain my daily soap production, I needed a hundred kilos of animal fat per day. My hunters could only supply a quarter of that. Even though I had granted them free hunting rights across my forests—lush with life thanks to my father's careful stewardship—it still wasn't enough. Deer, boars, and other wild animals were abundant, but they couldn't meet the fat demand.

At most, the peasants sold me some fat when they slaughtered a pig, but by the time they offered it, it was already turning rancid. That gave me around ten kilos a day. I was still missing at least seventy kilos to keep the process stable.

The solution was to buy pigs from local breeders. Each cost eight crowns, and to make up for the missing fat, I had to buy three daily. This cut into my profit margins, but even so, a 50% return by turning fat into soap was still a profitable venture. In the end, I spent 24.5 crowns a day on pigs, but earned 50 in return. Not bad… just not ideal.

What frustrated me the most was that the meat had no use. The local merchants only brought in enough salt for village consumption, and if I bought it all up, I'd deprive the entire village—risking a revolt I had no intention of provoking.

In the end, I resigned myself to donating the pork to the villagers. No one here bought meat, there were no butchers, and everything was for personal consumption. The average income was so low that no one could afford it. So, though it pained me to give it away, I had no better option. The castle servants removed the fat and then chopped the meat into edible portions, which were distributed to the townspeople. At least this way, no one went hungry, and I didn't lose everything in the process.

At first, it was just a rumor whispered among the closer households. But soon, news of free pork spread like wildfire. What began as a small act to ease some of the townsfolk's burdens quickly turned into a massive line of people waiting patiently for my so-called "charity."

To ensure fair distribution and prevent hoarding, I decided to limit the rations to one kilogram per person. This kept things relatively organized, though the line only kept growing. During that wait, I made sure to be there, at the heart of it all, tying my image to generosity. It was a political gesture I disliked, but I understood the necessity of appearing close to the people.

So, with the fake smile of a campaigning politician, I found myself forced to speak gently, pretending I cared about their lives, about their struggles. Every person who approached, every eye that met mine, reminded me what I needed to project: a generous noble, compassionate and willing to sacrifice for his people. It was harder than I expected, but a mask I needed to wear.

Minutes passed and the line only grew. The patience of the people was impressive, and there I stood, smiling, thanking them for their gratitude—though inwardly, I longed for it all to end.

That was when the priestess of Shallya appeared, accompanied by several members of her order. They all walked with radiant smiles, as if their very presence brought the peace and calm they so often preached. I watched them approach with some discomfort.

"The weirdos have arrived," I muttered under my breath, noting their simple yet immaculate robes, like figures plucked straight from a holy painting.

The priestess, in her pristine white gown and crown of Shallya flowers upon her head, walked toward me with firm steps. The others followed closely, each carrying a box.

"My lord," the priestess began, her voice gentle, maternal, yet steady. "We see that you are making a noble act of generosity today. Shallya smiles upon your efforts. It brings us joy to witness someone of your standing offer help so directly to their people."

"Thank you, priestess," I replied, keeping a polite smile while glancing at her followers. "I'm doing what I can. The people need help, and this is just a small gesture."

"A meaningful one, my lord—one that speaks to your compassion," she said, stepping closer. "As you surely know, this act isn't only about helping the poor, but also about connecting with them, building a bond that will grow over time. Our goddess offers the needy her care, and there is no greater beauty than aiding those who suffer."

"And to what do I owe the honor of your presence, priestess, considering the importance of your work?" I asked, maintaining a courteous smile while keeping my gaze fixed on her. The warmth in her face and the serenity in her voice never failed to impress, even amidst the clamor of the crowd.

"Recently, we purchased soap from a great benefactor of the Cult of the White Lady. We thought this would be a perfect opportunity to spread Shallya's blessings to all those in need gathered here," said the priestess, raising her voice so everyone present could hear.

"Please, feel free to do so," I replied, motioning politely toward the line of people patiently waiting for their share of pork, all while smiling. Despite the tension in the air, my voice sounded warm and genuine, trying to keep everything moving smoothly.

The priestess and her group began distributing the soap with near-devotional dedication, speaking to the people about the mercy of Shallya and the meaning of giving to those less fortunate. I couldn't help but think how exhausting it must be to maintain a constant smile, like a mask. Smiling all the time, being the good ruler… it sounded easy in theory, but it was utterly draining.

Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves tore through my thoughts. One of my guards approached at full speed, visibly shaken.

"My lord, greenskins are attacking a trade caravan coming from Marienburg," the guard reported, breathless from the run.

"Well… that's bad," I muttered, frowning as I noticed the murmuring in the crowd growing rapidly. The news had spread like wildfire. No surprise there—orc tribes were always a lurking threat on the frontier.

"Mobilize the local guards, keep the bridge under watch," I ordered quickly, my voice firm and in control. There was no time to waste.

I rose to my feet, finding in this situation the perfect excuse to escape the crowd swarming around the priests of the Shallya weirdos.

"I'm going to oversee the defense post. Let Shallya's folk tend to their people," I said.

I had no idea how many orks were attacking, and as always, it was smartest to prepare for the worst. The key was to get into a defensive position and assess from there. As I watched my guards prepare for battle, I couldn't ignore the uneven quality of their gear. Most wore only chainmail, some had steel breastplates, and others had mismatched armor pieces clearly acquired from various sources. The guards were far from standardized, unlike the Margrave's army, where every piece of equipment matched. Here, improvisation was the rule—and it made me uneasy. My dwarven arquebus was, without a doubt, the best weapon in the garrison.

The good news was that the mobilization of my two hundred men was quick, since they were already patrolling the village, allowing them to reach the bridge in little time. I didn't need to organize the troops—the work had already been done.

If the orks managed to cross the river, they would throw the town into panic, and I couldn't allow that. I needed to move, observe, and decide based on how many orks there were.

We headed toward the bridge, with the cavalry at the front, ready to intercept any attack. The tension grew as we approached the edge of my domain. I had to ensure the orks would go no further.

Finally, after several minutes, we found them. The sound of battle was clear in the distance—a cacophony of screams, clashing metal, and savage roars. The caravan guards clung to the wagons like makeshift walls, holding the line, but their strength was starting to fail. Though they were holding for now, the green brutes were overwhelming them. I saw a group of orks moving back and forth with terrifying ease, fighting with fury, oblivious to our approaching forces.

"Those things are huge…" one of my guards muttered, his face a mix of fear and awe.

"Crossbowmen to the front, halberdiers behind, loose formation," I commanded, my voice ringing with authority. The crossbowmen moved into position, and the first group of forty guards advanced, preparing to fire their bolts at the orcs, who were less than a hundred meters away.

The first volley struck true. At least three orcs dropped immediately, collapsing into the dust. The crossbowmen reloaded quickly.

Then the orcs, finally aware of our presence, turned toward us with fury.

"WAAAAAAGH!" they roared, a brutal war cry.

"Crossbowmen, fall back! Halberdiers, forward!" I shouted, watching as the soldiers advanced and the orcs charged. The crossbowmen retreated, slipping through the gaps in our formation with some disorder but eventually regrouping.

At that moment, the first line of halberdiers planted their feet, forming three tight ranks. A wall of iron and steel stood ready to receive the orcish charge. Their war cries surrounded us, their rage palpable in the tremors their charge left on the ground.

Sweat beaded on my brow as I raised my arquebus. My eyes locked onto the orc leader—a towering green-skinned giant covered in scars, standing out clearly among the others.

I took a breath, aimed, and fired.

The orc leader's head exploded in a red mist of blood and flesh. The blast of my shot was quickly drowned by the roar of the remaining orcs who, upon seeing their leader fall… began to flee.

"Don't let the bastards escape," I snarled, spurring my horse as I finished reloading the arquebus.

The rest of the cavalry followed, charging into the retreating orcs, many of whom were impaled by lances or trampled beneath hooves.

We continued the pursuit until the last of the orcs lay dead. After the fighting ended, I gave the order to gather the bodies and burn them before they could start spreading spores—and to burn the surrounding area, just to be safe.

"These orcs are more cowardly than they look," I said, returning with the rest of my men.

"I think you killed their leader, my lord… and once they saw they were outnumbered, all they could do was run," said one of my riders beside me.

"Good. Let's see who the lucky ones are," I said, looking toward the survivors of the large caravan.

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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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