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Another volley rings out across the battlefield as you hear it's many shots. But where once was clinking, now, there is effect. Now, the giants are thrown on their backs as pellets of lead burst through their armor, pierce through their flesh. Blood sprays so richly that even from here you see it contrast in the afternoon sun. These giants, whom but mere moments ago had looked as though impervious monsters, now fall to the ground by the dozens. Another volley rings out much the same, and those who had yet remained soon find it their turn to fall, collapsing with a great thud over the corpses of their victims. Your men give them no quarter - they fall upon their bodies, many of which still breathe, like ravens upon the dead. Where openings were left by bullets, they are quick to pierce with knives and polearms. Where their visors stood, the Rodeleros plunge their swords! They hack at them, strike at them, tear apart the giants until not a single one is left alive. And then, only then, when the last giant is felled, those brave few who had survived the onslaught scream - not in fear or pain, but glory! They scream out for their victory, with so sonorous a roar that all across the battlefield, beyond the firing and the steel, are able to hear! In that day, the Banda Grisa had fought the giants, and they had won!
Yet as great as your victory had been, you had not yet won the battle, and neither had the enemy stopped. The giants, upon the hill, fired yet another hail of arrows; though with the cloud of smoke, they managed to only further mangle the bodies that had remained in the northernmost trenches. In the bridge, your men continued to be pushed, further and further off! Your pike company at the forefront almost destroyed to a man, from what little you could see through the smoke miasma, it would not be long until you had been pushed entirely off the bridge..
Exactly as you had hoped.
