Flintlock Musket
The Bingzong Pi Family.
The Pi Family, masters of the Ministry of War, held the central armies in their grip—everything save the Embroidered Uniform Guard and the Imperial Guard—and could even lean on the provincial forces when they wished. But that had never been enough for them. They had raised a private army of their own.
And of that secret force they had sent three hundred men.
Three hundred: too many to call a handful, too few to call an army. The number was deliberately awkward, chosen only to slip past the world’s notice. Yet it was still no force to dismiss. These were not conscripts handed spears and shoved into line. They were household troops the Pi Family had trained in secret, every one of them a martial artist.
The man who led them, Battalion Commander Gu Il-hak, watched the Sichuan Dang party approaching from the distance and muttered under his breath.
“So those are the people of the Dang Family—the overlords of Sichuan.”
“Commander, what should we do?”
Gu Il-hak’s eyes narrowed at his adjutant’s words.
“Watch your tongue. Who am I?”
“Ah—forgive me, ‘Boss.’”
“That’s better.”
He fell silent for a moment, thinking. To leave fewer witnesses they had brought no horses; the dust and noise would have drawn eyes. Every man here was infantry. Still, for a provincial martial clan’s private escort, cavalry would have been overkill anyway.
“We’ll greet them with arrows. Ready the bowmen. The moment they enter range, pour it on them instead of a welcome.”
“Yes, sir!”
The bows of Jing were shorter-ranged than Mongol composite bows, yet they could still cast shafts two hundred to three hundred paces. Effective range sat closer to a hundred or a hundred and fifty, but that hardly mattered. They would not aim straight; they would loft a curtain of arrows into the sky. A man who could pour inner force into a bow might reach farther still, yet archery arts were a minority path in the Central Plains and masters were rare. These soldiers, however, had trained not for personal glory but for the victory of the unit. Every man present could load qi into his shot. With Central Plains bows that ought to have been limited to three hundred paces and an effective hundred and fifty, they could still deliver killing fire from two or even three hundred paces away.
Then, at roughly five hundred paces, the Sichuan Dang party simply stopped.
“They’ve noticed.”
Gu Il-hak gave a thin smile. Only a fool would walk straight into an armed force waiting ahead. He expected them to try talking, or to turn and run. Running would suit him just as well. If they could not take this road they would have to swing wide, and that would keep the Emperor waiting…
A lion’s roar cut through his thoughts from far off, thick with deep inner force.
“We are the Flame Net Unit of the Sichuan Dang Family! Who are you that bar our road?”
That must be the Flame Net captain from the reports. Estimated early Peak. Throws daggers so fast they call him the Torrential Blade.
A warrior’s competitive fire stirred, but Gu Il-hak was a soldier under orders. He crushed it and answered in a loud, rough voice.
“I am the master of this plain! Lay down everything you carry and turn back, and I may leave you your lives!”
Wahahahaha!
His men roared with laughter at the splendid bandit imitation. A proud martial artist would never swallow such an insult. Even if the enemy outnumbered them three to one, if those enemies looked like common brigands no true martial man would retreat.
Sure enough, a shout came back from the Dang side.
“You dogs! You dare block the Dang Family’s path? Clear off at once or none of you will leave this place alive!”
“You are the ones who should kneel! Hand over everything you own, or we will strip your wretched house bare as well!”
To a martial artist, insulting the root—clan, sect, or family—was the one provocation that could never be endured. They would not run now.
Gu Il-hak smiled and prepared to give the signal. Once the enraged Dang men charged, the arrow rain would fall and the real fight would begin.
“All of you—take the anti-poison wine.”
“Yes!”
The Dang Family meant poison and hidden weapons. Their throwing arts had faded, they said; the true terror was the poison. Every man here had been issued costly anti-poison wine. Victory was certain.
Another shout rolled across the field from the Dang lines.
“You dare insult our house? You truly wish to die! Fine. Do not blame our hands for being venomous—you brought this on yourselves!”
“Hmph.”
No more words were needed. Gu Il-hak himself lifted a powerful war bow, nocked an arrow, and drew. The range was still long. Once they came a little closer…
“—What are they doing?”
He had expected them to explode into light-footwork and charge at full speed. Instead the Dang men stood in neat ranks like soldiers, short spears or something like them in their hands, performing some strange drill.
“Poison?”
“Impossible, sir. We’re upwind. Any clumsy attempt would only blow back on them.”
“Then what in the hell is that?”
While Gu Il-hak and his adjutant stared in confusion, a clear command rang out on the Dang side.
“Prepare flintlock muskets for fire.”
At the Flame Net captain’s order the men unslung the flintlock muskets from their backs. From their sleeves they drew paper cartridges, tore them open, poured powder and ball down the muzzles, and tamped a scrap of cloth after. They pulled the ramrods from under the barrels, drove the charge home, then primed the pans from separate powder flasks and snapped the frizzens shut. Loading complete.
“Those who are loaded—raise muskets.”
“Raise muskets!”
Martial artists fought as individuals except when forming sword arrays. The Flame Net Unit had spent long months on drill before such collective movement felt natural. Average load time: five to eight seconds. In the world of martial artists, where dozens of sword strokes could flash in an eye-blink, it was an eternity. But the two sides had not yet closed. The Dang men could afford the long, careful process.
“Front rank, kneeling fire. Second rank, standing fire.”
The loaded musketeers settled into position and took aim.
And then—
“Fire!”
The captain’s command cracked. Both ranks squeezed their triggers. The flints, held back by the sears, sprang forward under spring force the instant the triggers released the locks. They struck the frizzens, showering sparks into the pans. The pan powder flashed, the flash raced into the chambers, and the black powder charges exploded.
The result was a thunder that shook heaven and earth.
Ta-tang!!
Fifty flintlocks spoke as one, belching acrid smoke.
“Ghk?!”
One bowman, still watching the Dang lines with arrow ready, felt a sudden gouging pain in his chest and looked down without thinking. His breast was already darkening with red. He touched the spot and found a hole, blood welling out.
“Grrrrrk…!”
Blood filled his lungs; he drowned on dry land. Clutching his chest, he toppled.
When three or four men dropped at once under that sudden thunder, Gu Il-hak bellowed at his startled troops.
“Do not panic! It’s Dang Family throwing arts!”
The plan had already gone wrong before a real exchange of blows.
They can attack from this range? What now? Order a charge into bow range? But they’ll keep hitting us the whole way…
He hesitated only a moment. The fallen numbered no more than three or four. That small mercy gave him courage.
“Advance two hundred paces! The instant they enter range, bury them in arrows!”
“Waaaaah!!!”
The Pi household troops broke into a run.
On the Dang side a quieter conversation was underway.
“Three hits,” Hwi-yeom observed.
Dang Su-jeong frowned.
“Mmm. Hit rate’s too low at five hundred paces.”
“Well, it’s still outside effective range. And they haven’t found their touch yet.”
The Dang flintlocks were rifled and fitted with sights; they outranged and outshot ordinary pieces by a wide margin. Even so, five hundred paces remained a long way.
“They’ll try to close to bow range. We should give them a few more volleys before that.”
No sooner had Hwi-yeom spoken than the Flame Net captain roared again.
“Fire!”
Ta-tang!!
The second volley reaped far more. Ten running bowmen clutched their chests and went down. Hwi-yeom nodded.
“Ten out of fifty. Not bad for early muskets.”
After the second shot the reload tempo quickened.
Ta-tang!!
At roughly three hundred paces nearly twenty more dropped. Because the enemy came on in a tight mass, fifty balls could not claim fifty separate lives; the front-runners sometimes took several rounds each.
“Still a bit thin on the net.”
“Yeom-ah, we’re about to enter their range.”
“Right. Time to shoot and pull back.”
“Pull back? We’re not closing to finish them?”
“This isn’t an honorable martial duel. This is chastisement.”
Hwi-yeom’s smile turned wicked.
“They’ve already called themselves bandits. Why should we give them a fair frontal fight? Bandits deserve a dishonorable thrashing—toyed with until they die like dogs.”
“Fire!”
Ta-tang!!
Thirty more crumpled. Dang Su-jeong’s brow furrowed.
“Mmm.”
She still carried a martial artist’s instincts, the quiet sense that this kind of fight felt… wrong. She muttered under her breath.
“Still… isn’t it a little too hollow?”
Gu Il-hak was going mad. Sixty men dead before a real clash.
“You… cowardly hidden-weapon rats who know nothing of a warrior’s honor!”
The curse was unworthy of a soldier, yet he swatted aside the lead balls that streaked toward the front ranks.
“Three hundred paces! Loose!”
At last they were in bow range. Men drew their strings—
—and to the Flame Net Unit watching from beyond three hundred paces, that only meant the running targets had become stationary ones, far easier to hit.
Ta-tang!
“Kraaagh!”
“Grrrrrk!”
An entire section of the front rank simply vanished. Fifty more men dropped their half-drawn bows and fell. Compared with the charge, standing still to shoot had turned them into perfect marks for the Dang sharpshooters, men drilled for years in throwing arts. One ball, one life.
Like clothes soaked by a fine drizzle, more than a hundred soldiers were already dead. Half-drawn arrows lofted weakly and stuck in the dirt. Still, roughly two hundred shafts climbed into the sky. When that rain fell on the enemy heads they would scream… wouldn’t they?
Gu Il-hak wore a cruel smile as he glared at the Dang lines—then his mouth fell open. The Dang men, after their final volley, had simply spun about and started running.
“What?!”
While the bowmen, still operating on instinct, nocked and aimed high again (the only way to reach), the two hundred paces Gu’s men had paid for in blood opened once more in a heartbeat.
Rage choked him.
“You! You cowards! And you call yourselves a great orthodox house? Fight like men! Crash into us head-on!”
The man who had planned to open with an arrow storm had no right to the words; they rang hollow even as he shouted them. A mocking laugh floated back from the Dang side.
“Who was waiting with arrows already nocked? True to form for a pack of bandits—stupid and shameless. Why would we ever fight face-to-face with honorless thieves like you?”
Blood surged into Gu Il-hak’s skull. His adjutant cried out in desperation.
“Commander! What do we do?”
Close another two hundred paces?
The thought alone turned his blood to ice. The range difference was roughly two hundred paces. Any attempt to close would meet fire first. Twenty or thirty men would die for nothing each time. He had two hundred left. Keep this up and by the time they closed the numbers would be even—or worse.
A close fight against one corner of the Nine Great Noble Families, specialists in poison and these damned new hidden weapons, while outnumbered? He clenched his teeth.
“Fall back! Retreat! Retreat!”
His poor performance was not stupidity so much as ignorance of the flintlock musket and its power. He had been late to accept reality, and therefore late to order the withdrawal. That delay, however, did not grant him safe passage home.
The moment Gu’s force turned and fled, the Dang men began to chase. Reloading on the run was nearly impossible, but running with already-loaded muskets was easy enough. And no matter how well-trained the private soldiers might be, they could never outrun the elite of the Dang Family, whose names already rang through the martial world.
The gap closed in a flash. At the Flame Net captain’s order the muskets spoke again.
Ta-tang!!
Another cluster of men who had shown their backs crumpled forward. There was no time even to stop and reload. The enemy was in full flight, backs completely exposed. The captain’s voice rang out, vigorous and clear.
“Enough with the muskets! Close in! Use throwing arts!”
The Flame Net Unit slung the flintlocks, flung both arms wide, and the sleeves spat iron rings, caltrops, daggers, short spears, and fine needles. The steel storm scythed through the air and buried itself in fleeing backs. Had they met face-to-face they might not have died so cheaply.
Gu Il-hak roared.
“Disperse! Scatter! Break ranks! Survive any way you—”
Thud.
Blood burst from his mouth instead of words. He stood dazed for a moment, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then looked down at the dagger that had punched clean through his back and now jutted from his chest. His mouth twisted.
“You… son of a…”
A mortal wound through the heart. His body lurched, performed a few grotesque little dances, then the knees buckled and he pitched forward onto his face.
“Aah!! Hey! Why did you kill the important one?! I said keep him alive! Who are you? Name and rank!”
The last sound Gu Il-hak heard in this world was the furious shout of a woman who, somehow, already sounded like trouble.