Leadbelchers are what happens when an ogor picks up a cannon and refuses to accept that it belongs on wheels. They stuff their looted barrels with shot, scrap, nails, cutlery and anything else that fits, then unload the lot in deafening, smoke-shrouded volleys that can shred a regiment before any charge lands. And when the powder runs dry, the gun does not stop being useful — several hundred pounds of iron makes a magnificent club.
The guns themselves are prized possessions, named, polished and argued with, and a Leadbelcher's standing in the tribe rises with the loudness of his piece. Most are half-deaf and entirely content about it. They love the smoke, the thunder, and above all the moment just after the volley — that ringing quiet in which everything worth shooting has already fallen down.
Order of battle
