Muscles Unnecessary: Fingers Suffice (2)
Full-scale drill training began on a late winter morning when a biting cold wind whipped across the barren wasteland still dusted with snow. At least it was winter, so not a single soldier was absent, allowing them to focus entirely. There was no time to waste otherwise. Winter meant no farming. Once the weather warmed and spring arrived, these men would scatter back to the fields, gripping their plows again. To the domain's people, a sack of flour for the fall harvest mattered more than the territory's survival.
And winter was perfect for training. Standing still under the north wind that stabbed like knives was torture in itself.
"Young master, they'll all freeze to death like that!"
"Ella, the army's real flavor comes from rolling in the cold. Back home, they called this winter warfare training."
Ella stomped her feet beside me, shouting, but I answered indifferently.
"Sure, it was insane to crawl into bone-chilling cold on purpose, but damn if it didn't work."
Truth be told, I'd thought the same during my own service. Why the hell are we suffering out here when we've got nice barracks? Has the whole Defense Ministry lost their minds? But now that I was a lord, I got it. Cold was the best drill sergeant. Stand still and you'd freeze solid, so the soldiers would desperately mimic even the harshest maneuvers just to survive.
"You call it insane, but then why make the domain folk do it?!"
"Because it's too precious to keep to myself. And look—it's so cold no one's breaking formation. Gotta move to live."
This weird catharsis of passing on my suffering(?) to others. Life really did come full circle.
Ignoring Ella's glare, I drew long lines in lime powder across the pitiful open dirt patch in front of the castle—barely worthy of being called a parade ground. It was harsh for soldiers who had to roll on frozen ground, but with me standing there in the wind myself, no one would complain.
"Alone, you can't beat a knight. You can't even block an orc's claw. But if 60 men stand on this line and move like one living creature, it's a different story."
At my command, the 60 soldiers shuffled hesitantly onto the line. Just days ago, they'd been serfs wielding hoes and axes. They didn't need fancy swordplay or magic. Just how to align shoulders and lines, and how to move like machines to the commander's orders.
"Boris! Base!"
At my shout, Boris raised his hand in a daze.
"Base!"
"Good. Even spacing left and right from base! Front-back interval one meter!"
The lime line wasn't just a guide—it was the lifeline line infantry guarded with their lives. As the soldiers fumbled, stepping on toes and bumping shoulders, I bellowed mercilessly.
"Your neighbor's shoulder lines up with yours! The moment the line breaks, you're just 60 scrambling rats!"
In the knife-edge wind, simple maneuvers like "left face" and "right face" repeated hundreds of times. At first chaotic footsteps gradually merged into a single heavy thud. Thud, thud. Rough leather boots pounding the frozen earth rang rhythmically across the ground.
Individual serf movements vanished; 60 legs bent and extended in perfect unison, like one massive body.
"About face!"
At my order, 60 bodies spun as one, coats whipping with a sharp whoosh. Even Jack's quick eyes and Theo's limping leg looked like fixed parts on the line now.
No need for personal bravery. Just trust the shoulder next to you, follow the back in front, and react on reflex to the commander's call. That was the look I wanted.
Like that, we drilled all day, and the next, spinning them through maneuvers on the parade ground a few times. They managed decently enough, so I judged it good and issued new orders.
"From now on, I'm splitting you into two platoons."
Time for the core of line infantry tactics: the line battle.
"Boris, Jack. Front and center!"
The two men shuffled forward to the platform. I alternated glances between Boris's thick shoulders and Jack's sharp eyes before speaking.
"Boris, you're 1st Platoon leader. Yours is the company's solid wall. Jack, you're 2nd Platoon. Yours will be the spear punching enemy gaps later."
Boris and Jack saluted in bewilderment.
"Uh, milord... what do we do?"
Boris rumbled, so I pointed to the wooden stick in Jack's hand.
"One thing: mesh like gears."
I raised my voice so all 60 could hear.
"1st Platoon, 2nd Platoon—make ready!"
At my command, soldiers snapped sticks up to aim. No real guns issued yet, but tension hung over the ground.
"Jack, answer: after 1st fires, does 2nd pull triggers right away?"
"Of course? Gotta pour it on nonstop or they advance..."
"Wrong."
I stepped down and pointed at Jack's mock musket.
"If 60 fire at once or blaze away unloaded, you're wooden stumps for the next 20 seconds. What then?"
Jack pondered; I turned to Boris.
"Boris, when 1st fires, 2nd aims but holds. Why?"
"Uh... to scare 'em?"
"Right. Enemy cavalry laughs and charges, but slams into 2nd's black muzzles."
I met each soldier's eyes.
"2nd holds fire—no exceptions—until 1st finishes reloading. Only when 1st aims reloaded does 2nd fire."
Reaching the line's end, I circled back.
"This way, the company always has a loaded platoon covering exceptions. A loaded barrel's scariest unfired."
Then Theo, the ex-tailor in the corner—skinny frame on spindly legs—raised a hand timidly.
"Milord... what if enemies ignore the aim and charge anyway? While 1st's still reloading?"
I clapped his shoulder.
"Good question, Theo. That's the exception. If those lunatics ignore our firepower and close before we're set, order and loading be damned."
Theo nodded.
"Loaded platoon fires instantly to hold the line. We fill gaps to keep blades from our ranks. Got it?!"
"Yes, sir!"
Relentless day-night repetition followed.
"Company, make ready!"
Platoon leaders echoed.
"1st Platoon—fire! Reload now!"
"2nd Platoon—aim! Don't lose their eyes!"
As 1st mimed slamming ramrods, 2nd stared coldly through sights at imaginary foes. Sweat beaded brows, arms burned—but Boris bellowed.
"1st Platoon—loaded!"
Jack slashed his stick forward.
"2nd—fire!"
Only on Boris's signal did Jack's order ring. Gears meshing with eerie rhythm dominated the ground. Mechanical patience: 2nd fired only after 1st loaded.
Line infantry's tactics weren't personal valor, but organizational ruthlessness. 30 fire, 30 cover. Then swap. Unbroken, Volf Count's knights—even cavalry—wouldn't reach the walls before becoming lead fodder.
Grodi watched arms crossed, chuckling from the forge door, coke furnace heat singeing his mustache.
"Hey, human partner. Look at their faces. Not men anymore—real gears."
"Gotta become monsters to kill monster knights, right?"
I grinned, bellowing again.
"Focus! Enemy charging! 1st—fire!"
In Eisengrad's dust, 60 serfs reborn as parts in the lord's grand machine. Here, anyone could be a cog, anyone could kill a knight. All that remained: swap wooden sticks for Grody's real muskets.
A week later, the decisive day dawned.
Screeech—thud.
Grodi's forge—now Eisengrad's 1st Armory—its heavy door swung open. Grody emerged sweating, cart piled mountain-high with oil-paper-wrapped steel lumps.
"Here—my blood, sweat, and your devilish nagging: masterpieces."
He panted, dropping the cart. Hands filthy with grease and soot, but eyes gleamed with artisan pride.
"Barrels checked, locks perfect. Zero defects. Misfire? I'll shave my beard."
I grabbed a musket, inspected; another. Click, tick, clack—flawless, no play, pure Grody.
"Good work, partner. Keep the beard—I'll pay in booze."
Clapped his shoulder, eyed the parade ground. 60 soldiers stood rigid. On the platform, murmurs died; tension rose. No trace of last week's rabble—forged in freezing blood and sweat.
"Company—attention! Muskets issuing now. Forward when called."