Enlightened Empire

From atop Rupilo’s hill, the dull thump of drums drenched the air in the familiar sounds of Medalan battle. As ordered by the rhythm of the drums, Rupilo’s archers marched towards the foot of Corco’s mountain.

Although the old Medalan troops and Corco’s more modern pike and shot army were about to clash in a major engagement for the first time, the king wasn’t all that worried. Halfway down the hill, his new troops had taken position in four rows. Just like they had been taught during their training, they went down on their knees in the snow, placed their muskets on their thighs and began the loading process. Meanwhile, the skirmishers of the central army at the foot of the hill showed far less coordination.

The almost one hundred men were loosely organized in groups of twelve. As far as Corco knew, the standard size of Medalan army units was chosen in ridiculous fashion, based on nothing but ancient numerology. Since twelve was considered an auspicious number, twelve warriors would always beat thirteen, at least as far as the ancestors were concerned.

Even those individual groups of twelve didn’t show much internal cohesion. After all, warriors were no soldiers in the strictest sense, they were a societal class. As such, there were great differences in the speed and quality of their cultivation, as well as in their personal training. Since every warrior had his own path to improvement – dependent on how well they were received by their master and his family – they would also be bestowed with different amounts of ’blessings’ from their benevolent lords. They were not allowed any private property, so everything they owned would be alms. Thus, they all wore slightly different equipment and all had slightly different levels of skill. With such a great difference between them, it was no wonder that they rarely trained together in formation.

Even worse, since full-on wars were the exception and stargazing brawls the rule, most Medalan battles were fought between small elite teams and often amounted to several simultaneous one-on-one duels. There was simply no need for these elites to ever learn how to march in a neat formation. This was even more pronounced for the skirmisher units at the foot of the hill.

The archery-focused warriors would fight like the ocean waves, at least that was what his old teachers had taught Corco. In Medala, the main purpose of archers was to weave in and out of range and harass the enemy front lines to lower morale or force an unfavorable charge. As such, the skirmishers consisted of small, mobile teams, more focused on evasiveness than on projectile density, something they would actually need against an organized group of ranged foes. Their equipment was even less suitable for this engagement than their formation. Since their main purpose was to harass traditional Medalan infantry lines, their arrows were much heavier than those of a regular army.

After all, these weapons were designed to punch through the heavy armor of the core infantry. Traditionally, these weapons made the archers terrors on the battlefield, cultivators who spent decades perfecting their craft and whose speed, range and power made them untouchable by anyone else. This time however, their greatest strength had become their bane.

Since the arrows were so heavy, they would have shorter range than one would expect from a bow. They would especially struggle to shoot uphill, further reducing their range. On the other hand, the gentle slope of the current terrain was perfect for the new muskets. Corco was quite confident that his new flintlocks would out-range the highly specialized Medalan bows.

In fact, Rupilo’s tactics made sense in theory. After all, he would have seen the effects of a proper musket from his Bornish allies and would be well aware of the range of these weapons. Even with all the disadvantages heaped on top of one another, those bows would still fire their arrows farther than any of the muskets on Rupilo’s side could.

Unfortunately for the army of the central kingdom, Corco’s new muskets were the first batches produced in Saniya and had received significant upgrades. In this case, the biggest advantage was the new rifling that had been stamped into the inside of the barrels. Although the rifling was shallow and repeated use would quickly wear it out because of the front-loading nature of the weapons, the rotation added to the balls still improved both on accuracy and effective range by margins Rupilo couldn’t even imagine.

As a result, the first volley of gunfire blasted its cracking sound across the battlefield long before the skirmishers were in position. Though their loose formation saved them from greater damage by the focused attack of Corco’s line, the archers were still visibly shaken. Faced with an unknown threat, even the experienced warriors paused their slow, steady march for a moment. Up until now, they had thought themselves at a safe distance, but now men beside them sank into the snow screaming. Still, the well-trained warriors were only deterred for a moment and soon pressed on.

From the foot of the hill, Corco’s new army must have looked like a group of beggars to the noble soldiers. Those new musketeers only carried simple, practical armor on their backs, fitting for the commoners they were. If only the archers could get into range, their higher rate of fire and better armor would get them a crucial advantage.

Yet once again, the warriors were sorely mistaken. Instead of using loose powder like the old-timey matchlocks of the Arcavians, these new muskets were loaded with powder granules, much more compact with a much stabler ignition. Even better, the entire charge – together with the lead ball – was encased in a paper cartridge. Both innovations significantly reduced not only the amount of powder needed per shot, they also cut down the reload time by more than half. At the same time, the new weapons had also been built as flintlocks, a massive step up from the matchlocks Borna still seemed to be using. The flintlock mechanism reduce the reload times even further, while it also allowed for much tighter formations.

A matchlock would be ignited manually, with a lute off to the side of the weapon. As a result, the gunman would need sufficient space to operate to his right, where he would carry a flame to ignite his lute. However, since the lute was no longer necessary for a flintlock, there was no more need for open flames or complex procedures, so the soldiers could stand much closer together. The result would be a veritable storm of bullets haling down onto their unsuspecting enemies.

Just as expected, under the heavy fire, losses among the enemy’s elite skirmishers piled up. Accuracy at this distance was abysmal, but with so many projectiles being fired, enough still found their target; the damage began to add up. Somehow, pushed on by the battle drums in their backs and the war cries from among their midst, the archers managed to push past the foot of the hill and finally entered range.

Still, they only managed to fire a few token shots in return. They did no more than necessary to pretend they had followed orders, before they helped up their injured companions and rushed back, beyond the devastating power and range of the new era of warfare. Corco understood them, really. Why would they risk their lives under the command of some cowardly lord who wasn’t even their own master? Why die pointlessly when their true master should have asked them to first preserve their own lives. After all, the lords in Pacha’s alliance were here to make a profit and get onto the eventual winner’s good side. They hadn’t come to lose valuable men, and neither had those noble warriors come to throw away their lives of luxury in some pointless battle on a freezing winter morning.

Thus ended the first major engagement of the war. Only a handful of one-sided exchanges and the elite warriors of Rupilo had been beaten back. For the commander, it might have been an annoying setback, but there still hadn’t been any damage done to the core of King Pacha’s army. For Corco however, this victory looked like a chance. Without a second thought, the king grabbed hold of the megaphone by his side and stepped up, next to the simple commoner soldiers who had just won the first engagement for him. One by one, they silenced their relieved shouts of victory as they understood who had come before them. With large eyes, these simple soldiers stared at their king, who deigned to walk among them.

"Fellow men of Saniya!" the king shouted in an address to his new troops. "All your lives you’ve looked down! Craftsmen looked down on their handiwork, dockworkers looked down on the cargo of others, farmers looked down on their fields, always afraid that those high up would take your lives on a whim! They are the very same who now stand opposite you!"

He paused for a moment before he addressed the leaderless warriors of the southern lords. "Warriors of the south! All your lives you’ve walked in fear and anguish, always oppressed by those in the north who claim that we are equal, the very same who now stand atop that hill!"

While he pointed his hand at their enemy, Corco caught his breath as he let the first part of his speech sink in. Although the king’s clothes were made with high-quality material, they appeared simple and practical. His upper arms were left without sleeves, to show his tattooed arms, his southern heritage.

"Now that they are so close to you, are you afraid to face them? Why, are they too strong? Too experienced? Those great warriors of the north who beat your fathers and your masters thirty years ago! Is their armor too firm, are their weapons too sharp, as their splendor shines in the sun? Have they convinced you that they are beyond your grasp, have you given up?" His hand lowered, and instead of the shiny enemy army, he pointed at the mess of white and red that was left behind by the archers at the foot of the hill.

"Yet look at them now, as they flee before our combined power. Hear the thunder of the musket, and hear the screams of your enemy! Smell the gunpowder in the air, and the blood! What do their old ideas of battle have in front of us, in front of progress? Isn’t it time to throw off the yoke they have put over us for centuries? It is time to fight back, to push back, time to show them that we are not afraid, not lesser than them. So I ask you to look up. Raise your head and see above your station, and face these warriors with me, as equals. Let’s show them what a real southern man is made of!"

Roaring shouts of agreement entered his ear. First they came from his own men who had been instructed by Tamaya, but soon everyone atop their hill was infected.

"March ahead, southern warriors, march and fight for your lives, for your place in the world, for all our futures, and be remembered as heroes by your descendants, who will live free of oppression!"

As the impassioned speech ended, more thunderous shouts followed, enough to drown out the drums of their opposites. At this point, even the king had lost all control over his men as they raised their weapons and screamed away their fears. After Corco had rushed back to his initial position, his formation had already started to move. Corco had wanted to pump them up so they would bravely face the enemy soldiers and not screw up when the chips were down, but this sort of enthusiasm wasn’t part of his plan. Before he had even given orders for a proper plan of attack, the troops had already, to the man, begun to march down the hill.

*Did I hit a nerve? Maybe the speech wasn’t actually my greatest idea.*

"Call them back," the flustered king ordered. However, even Tama’s repeated attempts at giving orders didn’t make the mob stop.

Overenthusiastic as they were and supported by gravity on their way down, some of them even began a charge. Within seconds, the king’s precious formation was threatening to lose all function. Luckily, there was still the snow. The most excited of men were soon stuck up to their calves in the thick white blanket, enough to slow their advances and cool their heads. Just in time, the more experienced warriors on the flanks and the unaffected mercenaries in the center managed to calm the overenthusiastic commoners, and soon the troop leaders remembered the roles they had been taught for half a year.

With a huge sigh of relief, Corco watched his men respond to the orders and take proper position at the foot of their hill. Somehow, the enemy had failed to capitalize to their horrible mishap. If they had charged as well and turned the battle into a brawl, this could have been the end of his glorious campaign. Now however, the southerners were reigned in again and the crisis was averted. Still, even though the initial excitement was gone, there was an invisible tension in the air, ready to burst again at any moment. His men trembled, in anticipation or fear, ready to face what they must. Soon enough, Corco’s men had moved in on the hill occupied by Pacha’s army.

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