The sounds of battle echoed through the valley of Black Fire Pass, amplified as if in a cathedral, and fell onto the ringing ears of the 7th Nuln Great-Cannon Regiment. It had been a year and a half since Joheim Burgenston had been sent to fight under the army of Middenland and in that time he had seen terrors the likes of which he could not describe. His mind did not wander to such things, however, instead it settled on the rutted wheel of his cannon that lay stuck in the red clay of the ravine. The day had started with unforeseen rain, which was unusual to the season and the valley, leaving the procedures of the day somewhat stunted. Boris Toddbringer had been ordered to the pass by the prince-emperor himself as an incursion of goblins had been reported by the southlanders of Akendorf. The cannons had been placed well in the morning, but by mid-afternoon the order came to give chase to the retreating greenskins, leaving the 7th to slog their cannons through the muddied clay. Joheim's packer dug fiercely before the cannon hoping to clear its wheel as Joheim himself pushed with great might at its tail. The 7th had no horses as they were commandeered by the 9th to move their larger guns, leaving the Nulnites to act as beasts of burden. Joheim clenched his pipe hard between his teeth and shoved with all his strength, only for the cannon to not budge an inch. The din of war continued ringing just out of sight over the ridge as the captain barked at the men fruitlessly. The men strained and grunted with Joheim gritting his teeth so hard his pipe snapped in his mouth until finally their cannons moved up the hill. When they reached the top the men of the 7th surveyed the ensuing chaos and spotted three lines of wooden structures sitting still atop an opposing hill.
The captain produced his spyglass and after a brief moment proclaimed that they were crude catapults. Goblins, it seemed, were somewhat enterprising creatures and having cobbled together enough practical knowledge they had cobbled together their own ramshackle artillery. Joheim paid it no mind, as he figured they wouldn't function at all and if they did their range would not be near great enough to reach the 7th's position. The men deftly carried out their duties, aiming and firing with unmatched speed and precision. They worked in clock-like unison with the captain giving orders as if he was driving a team of oxen. The battle was splayed out below them with the usual fanfare of Middenlanders crying out with fervor and fear in equal measure, as if singing in a gruesome choir. The thunderous voice of the cannons was the missing instrument of the bloody concerto that had missed its queue and came into the song late, but now their tremendous power shook the ground below and reminded all of their awesome thunder. The rhythm returned to Joheim as he danced the stiff waltz of the artilleryman. Lines of goblins and orcs split open as the iron-wrought singer cried out with triumphant glory, hurling its leaded vengeance at the enemies of mankind. Joheim was lost in the swing now and the heat of the day and din of battle melted away with the breeze. A hot wind blew over him as he loaded another shot and turned the gun. Suddenly, the moment was shattered as a terrible crash sounded somewhere on the ridge. He snapped out of his blackpowder induced stupor and peered up into the sun to see a hail of painted stones falling right onto his position.
The 7th scattered as the terrible rain came pouring down upon their heads, sending clay and dust splattering across the ridge. Joheim ran wildly away from the cannon as if it were the true target of the rocks and he was merely in the crossfire, he turned and saw his fellow artillerists running as well before the spotter was crushed neatly under a red-painted rock, his blood splattering onto Joheim's uniform. A grinning face had been drawn in white on the stone and it leered at the Nulnite with a macabre glee as the puddle of blood beneath it soaked into the orange clay. The captain was furious, smacking the retreating men with the butt of his sword and chastising their cowardice. As if the captain had uttered some magic incantation the men recalled that they were brave warriors like the footmen who fought below and hopped back to their guns to return volley. The catapults were not as elegant as the Nuln cannons that the 7th operated and took longer to aim and reload, but the price of perfection came in numbers as the greenskin artillery outnumbered the 7th nine to four. The waltz resumed, this time with a frantic tempo, as the smiling stones poured down onto the brave men of Nuln. This time however the slight did not go unanswered, and a hail of imperial cannonballs rained back onto the shanty wooden lobbers.
The stunty greenskins scattered as their towers fell to pieces, but quickly ran to drop more rocks onto the stern cannoneers. Joheim loaded and prayed to Sigmar that his hand would guide the shot before watching the packer beside him flatten under the momentum of a boulder. He didn't waste a moment and ran to pack the gun himself, he could mourn later, for now the only thing that mattered was that the gun continued its performance. The blast came early while the young engineer was still leaned before the entrance of the cannon leaving his face covered in soot and his mustache singed at the ends. Still, he ran to roll in another ball of lead before again ramming back the ball, he did not glance to see how many goblins were left standing as he knew it would only put an unproductive fear into his heart. Another crash and his fuseman was gone, his body smashed and mangled into the dust. Joheim rammed the gun then leapt to its tail to light the fuse, his mind racing to find the other backup crewmen to help man the sixteen-pounder, but their number had been reduced too greatly. The captain himself was aiming a gun beside him and a young spotter was rolling the shot just as he once had. He snapped back to the dance, turning the gun to the teetering towers that the greenskins dared compared to his Nuln-forged beauty, he lit the fuse and leaped to the front of the gun already holding another round with no regard for covering his ears, why would he want to miss his gun's big solo after all? The shot rang out and before the smoke had even cleared, he was packing in more powder. Like a crazed lunatic Joheim worked with the might of ten men firing his cannon as if it were an extension of his own body, he had made the dance his own and he finally understood the serene look of determination that he saw on Toddbringer's face that first day when he saw the gruesome truth. Now he was that grim reality, he was the one gone mad on the whiff of blackpowder and the roar of the cannon, no better than a gore-drunk beastman as he awaited the boom of his gun to rain down death and justice upon the scum. He heard a foreign sound that broke into the rhythm of his performance and before he could react his leg was crushed under a red-painted stone from the sky. The leering grin stared into him as he felt the blood rush from his now twisted limb. With a delirious might he pushed the rock off his leg and stood uncertain on his one good appendage. He hobbled still to his cannon to load one more round and as he lit the fuse for the final time, he saw the world go dark around him to the sound of his cannon crying out its grand finale. Then silence.