chapter 8: training

The humid air hung heavy around the training grounds, a dusty field just beyond the newly fortified section of Criss's expanding holdings. Commander Valerius, a grizzled veteran handpicked for his ruthlessness and unwavering loyalty, surveyed the assembled men. They were a motley crew, former guards, opportunistic mercenaries, and a few strong-bodied locals coerced into service. None had ever seen a weapon like the sleek, black Glock 17s now clutched awkwardly in their hands.

"Form ranks!" Valerius's voice boomed, cutting through the murmur of nervous energy. He'd drilled them relentlessly on basic discipline, instilling a rudimentary understanding of marching in step and forming a somewhat straight line. It was a far cry from the disciplined legions of old tales, but it was a start.

He paced before them, his own pistol holstered but his hand never far from the grip. "Today," he announced, his gaze sweeping over their faces, "you will learn to unleash the thunder. This… instrument… is not a sword. It does not require a swing, a parry. It requires precision, and it requires coordination."

Valerius gestured towards a series of crudely fashioned wooden targets erected at the far end of the field. "We will form two lines. The first line will kneel. The second line will stand directly behind them. On my command, the first line will raise their weapons and aim."

Confusion rippled through the ranks. Kneeling in battle was unheard of. Swordsmen needed to be mobile. But the fear of Valerius, and the unsettling power of the pistols they held, kept them compliant. After several clumsy attempts, a semblance of two lines formed, the men in the front row kneeling unsteadily.

"Second line," Valerius continued, his voice patient but firm, "you will position yourselves so that your weapon can clear the shoulders of the men before you. You will also aim."

This was more challenging. The standing men jostled for position, trying to find a clear line of sight without hitting their kneeling comrades. Valerius barked corrections, his patience wearing thin. Finally, a wobbly formation took shape.

"Now," Valerius said, drawing his own pistol, the click of it chambering a round silencing the remaining fidgets. "On the count of three. One… Two…" He paused, letting the tension build. "THREE!"

The first rank, after another moment of hesitation, raised their pistols, pointing them somewhat towards the targets. The second rank followed suit. Aiming was a foreign concept.

They were used to pointing and swinging. These weapons demanded a steady hand and focused eye.

"FIRE!" Valerius roared.

A ragged volley erupted. Some men flinched violently as the pistols bucked in their hands. Others squeezed the triggers hesitantly. A series of sharp cracks echoed across the field, followed by the thud of lead against wood.

Smoke drifted from the muzzles, carrying the now familiar scent of burnt powder. The results were…mixed. Some shots went wild, kicking up dust or flying harmlessly overhead.

Others peppered the ground in front of the targets. A few, however, had struck wood, leaving splintered holes.

Valerius surveyed the chaos with a critical eye. "Again!" he commanded. "First rank, remember your stance! Second rank, find your gaps! Aim… FIRE!"

The second volley was marginally better. The men were starting to get a feel for the weight and recoil of the pistols.

The coordinated firing, however crude, was beginning to show a potential that individual swordsmanship could never match. Two ranks unleashing a concentrated burst of projectiles, even if not perfectly aimed, had the potential to overwhelm any charging enemy.

The training continued for hours. Valerius drilled them relentlessly on the two-line formation, the commands, the aiming (however rudimentary), and the synchronized firing. He emphasized speed in reloading, though with only one spare magazine per man for now, it was a slow and fumbling process.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the training field, the men were exhausted but a little more proficient. They were still far from a disciplined firing line, but the seeds of a new kind of warfare had been sown. Criss's vision of a future dominated by gunpowder was slowly, painstakingly, becoming a reality, one shaky volley at a time. The whispers of his thunder weapons would soon be accompanied by the roar of coordinated fire.

"Alright, you curs! Training's done for the day!" Valerius shouted, his voice hoarse from hours of barking orders. "But you're not dismissed yet! Every last cartridge on this field is gold to Lord Criss. Collect every single one! Search the dust, scour the grass. If I find even one spent casing after you've left, you'll be running drills until sunrise!"

The men, groaning but understanding the order was absolute, immediately began to stoop and search the ground. The spent brass casings, warm from recent firing, were small and easily lost in the dirt. It was a tedious task, a stark reminder that every shot fired represented a valuable, meticulously crafted component of Criss's burgeoning arsenal. They scoured the ground diligently, knowing that their lord's ambition, and their own well-being, depended on the careful management of every precious bullet.

Suddenly, a more refined figure appeared at the edge of the training grounds, his silk tunic and polished boots a stark contrast to the dust-covered soldiers. It was Criss himself, his eyes, sharp and calculating, sweeping over the scene. Valerius immediately snapped to attention.

"Commander," Criss said, his voice surprisingly soft, yet carrying an undeniable authority. "A satisfactory display of progress. Though, the aim could still use… refinement." He stepped onto the field, his gaze falling upon the men grumbling as they hunted for casings.

Criss then did something unexpected. He knelt, his expensive fabric brushing the dirt, and began to carefully scan the ground himself. His fingers, usually reserved for handling ledgers and blueprints, delicately picked up a gleaming brass casing from beside a tuft of dry grass. He held it up, letting the last rays of sunlight catch its polished surface.

"Every one of these, men," Criss stated, his voice now carrying across the field, "is not merely brass. It is the promise of victory. It is the fuel for our future. Waste not, want not.

Every retrieved casing means one less piece of gold spent, one more step towards our dominion."

He continued to meticulously search, moving slowly across a small section of the field, his presence both a motivator and an implicit warning. The soldiers, initially surprised, now worked with renewed vigor, driven by the unexpected example of their powerful lord. If Criss himself deemed these spent cartridges worthy of his attention, then they certainly were.

The shared, if tedious, task subtly reinforced the importance of every detail in Criss's grand design.