No weapon better embodies the martial genius of the Empire of Man than the Great Cannon, the roaring bronze engine that anchors every one of its battle-lines. Cast in the foundries of Nuln and blessed by the priests of Sigmar before ever it is fired, each cannon is a masterwork of the Imperial Gunnery School, its barrel graven with prayers and its carriage built to endure the punishing recoil of war.
When a Great Cannon speaks, the whole battlefield hears it. A ball of solid iron screams from the muzzle in a gout of flame and smoke, ploughing a bloody furrow through whatever stands in its path. Ranks of armoured knights are dashed aside, monsters are felled mid-charge, and the stone walls of enemy strongholds are cracked and breached. The gun-crews who serve these pieces take fierce pride in their trade, laying their shots with a practised eye honed over years of drill and war.
Yet the Great Cannon is a temperamental servant. Black powder is a treacherous thing, and a poorly cast barrel or a damp charge can burst as readily as it fires, slaying the very crew who loaded it. Still, the Elector Counts count no risk too great, for a well-served battery can decide a battle before the foe closes to sword-reach. The dwarfs may sneer that the Empire's guns are crude copies of their own, but on the fields of the Old World, the thunder of Imperial cannon has broken armies that no line of spearmen could hope to hold.
The armoury continues
