The classic slaughter by volley fire began.
The Minisians had entered musket range. The flintlock musketeers on their own side fired furiously, rows of muskets as dense as branches in a forest spewing thick powder smoke toward the enemy.
The deafening volleys echoed across the battlefield like the drums of death.
The artillery commander, now temporarily doubling as a rank-and-file line infantryman—a Little Minion—stood at the very front with a flintlock in his hands. He watched the charging Minisians fall in waves, like wheat reaped by an invisible scythe.
"First rank! Fire!"
At the officer's command, the first rank of musketeers pulled their triggers together. The instant white smoke billowed out, blood burst from the chest of a Minisian officer fifty paces away, holding a broken sword. He staggered forward another two steps before crashing into the mud.
The Minisian riflemen were firing too. A line of smoke erupted from the opposite side, sending lead bullets hurtling toward them. The Little Minion could hear all sorts of sounds coming from the riflemen to his left and right as they were hit.
Some pitched forward without a sound. Others fell backward onto the ground, only to shakily get back up a little later, reach inside their cotton armor, and pull out something flattened into a sliver of lead.
Even though every musketeer wore cotton armor, roughly a third of the foremost rank still fell under enemy fire.
The medics waiting behind them hurried forward, grabbed fallen men by their collars, and dragged them back with all their strength, whether they were dead or alive.
"Second rank, advance!"
The Little Minion watched the trembling rookie beside him step forward to fill a gap. The boy's lips were pale, and he dropped his lead bullet twice while loading.
"Don't be afraid."
The Little