Location: The Castle Smithy, Kiyosu.
Current Date/Time: Mid-Afternoon. Late summer, 1559.
The air inside the kajiya, the castle smithy, tasted of crushed pine charcoal, bitter sulfur, and hot iron. Ash instantly coated the back of Soma’s throat, turning his saliva thick and gritty.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Hammers struck red-hot steel. The impacts vibrated through the dirt floor and up through Soma’s straw sandals, drowning out the quiet silk of the inner keep they had just left behind.
Oda Nobunaga strode ahead through the yellow-gray smog. Stripped to a sleeveless leather jerkin, his bare shoulders caught the orange firelight, exposing the jagged, white blade scars crossing his chest and arms.
Soma forced himself to keep pace. His knees throbbed from hauling timber at the Southern Gate. He locked his joints, fighting to keep his legs from buckling in the uneven dirt.
Trapped heat beneath the thatched roof soaked his borrowed hemp robe in seconds. Dark mud walls closed off the rear of the smithy, while the open sides let blistering smoke bleed out into the courtyard. Sweat stung Soma's eyes, cutting tracks through the black soot on his cheeks. The rough fabric ground against his scoured shoulder blades. He swallowed the pain, scanning the room. His eyes mapped the iron kanatoko anvils wedged into stout wooden stumps, the scattered chisels, and the overlapping, hurried movements of the apprentices.
They stopped at a timber workbench scarred by hot metal. Several teppo matchlock arquebuses rested in the charcoal dust. They lay dismantled, dark wooden stocks separated from dense iron barrels.
Whoosh. Squeak.
To their left, two soot-stained apprentices threw their weight onto the push-pull handles of a giant fuigo box bellows. Air screamed into the doko, the central clay forge, pushing the coals to a blinding, white-hot glare.
"These are the seeds of a new world, Ghost," Nobunaga said, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the roar of the fire.
The Warlord reached into the dust and picked up a fully assembled musket. His calloused hand closed around the dark walnut stock. He hoisted the weapon, turning it over so the firelight caught the brass fittings.
"The foreign traders call them thunder-sticks," Nobunaga murmured. "They claim a starving peasant holding one of these can slaughter a mounted samurai in full iron armor from a hundred paces. An absurd thought. A lifetime of martial discipline ended by a finger’s twitch from a man who has never held a real blade."
Nobunaga suddenly swung the iron barrel around. He aimed the hollow muzzle directly at the center of Soma’s chest.
The dense wood and cold iron hovered barely three inches from Soma’s sternum. Nobunaga stared down the length of the barrel. The harsh orange glow of the forge embers reflected tiny, dancing fires in his dilated pupils. He held his stance wide, a heavy, immovable anchor in the churning smoke.
"I do not know the spirit of this iron," Nobunaga said, his voice a low scrape. "I see a slow, clumsy tool. My men must pour the black powder from a horn, ram the lead down the throat, and prime the pan, all while enemy cavalry charges them down in the mud. One shot. Then they stand naked to the spear for a hundred heartbeats. And the aim is a joke. My smiths forge them one by one, yet they hit nothing but the clouds and the dirt. You chirp about rules, weights, and lines. Tell me, Ghost. Can your eyes find the invisible lines hidden in this iron, or is your cleverness only good for moving dead wood?"
Soma stared into the dark void of the barrel. His pulse hammered hard against his ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm against the steady clang of the hammers. The sheer heat radiating off the forged iron and Nobunaga’s broad frame made the hair on his arms stand up. He forced his gaze away from the muzzle. He looked at the crude iron pins holding the trigger lever, then shifted his eyes to the cluttered bench.
Lopsided leather powder flasks, brass measuring cups of varying depths, and a scattered pile of asymmetrical lead balls covered the scarred wood. Some bullets were roughly round. Others had jagged, raised seams and flat edges from poorly matched casting molds.
"Your smiths are looking at the wrong part of the fire, Lord Nobunaga," Soma rasped, his throat dry.
He reached out. His fingers, smooth and pale against the scarred wood, pushed against the solid iron barrel.
Clatter.
Soma guided the muzzle downward until the walnut stock thumped against the edge of the workbench.
"They treat every single gun like a masterwork sword," Soma said. He tapped a soot-stained finger against the brass lockplate. "They think each weapon requires a soul. But a weapon like this is just a hammer. You do not treat a hammer like a tea ceremony. You treat it as a repeated strike."
He pointed to the brass serpentine, the curved arm designed to hold the burning match cord. The pivot screw sat loosely in a hand-filed, lopsided hole.
"The weapon can kill," Soma said. "But your sequence is a mess. You are treating every shot like a separate piece of art. If you want a wall of lead to break a cavalry charge, you must remove the artist's hand."
An elderly master smith stepped out from the shadows of the rear mud wall. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, coated in shining black dust. He wiped his hands on a split-leather apron and stepped up to the bench, his eyes hot with insulted pride.
"We beat the iron as the ancestors taught us, Stranger," the master smith grunted. He bowed briefly to Nobunaga, but turned a hard, unyielding stare on Soma. "Every barrel is bored to match the grain of the steel. We test each one with three full charges of powder. To forge without that deep care invites the iron to burst in the soldier’s face and tear off his jaw."
"I am not questioning your skill," Soma said. He placed both hands flat on the charcoal-dusted wood of the bench and leaned his weight forward, shifting the agonizing tension off his burning knees. "I am questioning your eyes. Look at these lead balls."
Soma snatched two lead spheres from a wooden tray. He held them up between his thumb and forefinger, letting the amber light of the forge wash over them.
Clack.
He tapped the solid lead together.
"This one is thicker by the width of a fingernail," Soma said. "The mold has a worn seam. When a soldier rams this larger ball down a barrel bored slightly too narrow, it will bite into the iron. He will have to pound it down with a mallet while a spearman runs screaming at him. This smaller one will roll loosely down a wider barrel. When the powder catches fire, the hot gas will just bleed out around the sides of the lead instead of pushing it forward. The bullet will tumble wildly into the grass."
The master smith’s jaw tightened. He stared at the two pieces of lead. He looked down at the wooden tray, his mouth clamped shut in a hard, stubborn line.
"You demand we make every piece of iron the same," the master smith rumbled. He looked to Nobunaga. "Does this not butcher the heart of the weapon? A blade forged by a master has a spirit. It cuts because it knows the hand that grips the hilt. You ask my men to forge dead iron."
"In a siege, cold speed beats a miracle every time," Soma said, ignoring the sharp ache in his shoulders. "A sword with a spirit is meant for a one-on-one duel. You do not want a duel, Lord Nobunaga. You want a wall of lead. If a soldier drops his gun in the mud, he shouldn't pray to it. He should pick up any other gun off the ground, load a pre-measured charge, and pull the trigger. Identical pieces. Cold speed. That is how you win the field."
Nobunaga stared at Soma. The ambient roar of the bellows and the striking hammers seemed to fade against the heavy weight of the Warlord’s stare. He studied Soma’s face, taking in the soot, the dripping sweat, and the lack of hesitation in his eyes.
"Cold speed," Nobunaga repeated softly. A slow, jagged smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Clack. Clack.
Nobunaga tapped his closed iron fan lightly against Soma’s chest, right over his racing heart.
"You are a terrifying creature, Ghost," Nobunaga murmured. "You hide the cold, calculating cruelty of a demon beneath the soft skin of a courtesan. I must own this speed of yours before you teach it to my enemies."
Soma held his ground against the pressure of the blunt iron fan. "The math does not care about spirits, My Lord. Let the smiths follow the line. The iron will obey."
Nobunaga took a single step forward. His broad chest nearly brushed Soma’s shoulder. Intense heat radiated from his oiled skin, pushing back against the hot drafts bleeding from the hearths.
"Iron is not river water," Nobunaga said, his voice dropping to a gravelly threat. "It does not just flow into a single shape without a master to beat it into submission. How do you force a hundred proud smiths to beat the steel to the exact same thickness?"
"You do not rely on their eyes," Soma said, turning to face the Warlord fully. "You forge traps for the metal. Hard iron gauges. Every single screw, every single pin must pass perfectly through the hole in the gauge before it leaves this bench. If a piece does not slide through perfectly, you throw it back into the fire to be beaten again. Every teppo that leaves this smithy must have the exact same throat, identical down to the width of a single human hair."
Soma snatched a piece of burnt charcoal from the floor. He snapped it in half, stepped up to the bench, and drew three thick, parallel lines in the gray dust coating the wood.
Scritch.
"You must also change the hands of your soldiers," Soma said, pointing to the lines. "Right now, they scoop powder from a horn. They pour it down the muzzle. They fumble for a ball, wrap it in paper, and shove it down with a stick. Five different, clumsy motions. Each one changes depending on how badly the man is shaking in terror."
"How do you cure the terror in a peasant’s hands?" Nobunaga demanded.
"You remove his need to think," Soma said, looking straight into Nobunaga’s golden eyes. "You measure the powder here, in the safety of the keep. You roll the exact amount of powder needed for one shot into a small paper tube. You drop the lead ball at the end of the tube and seal it with grease. When the soldier is standing in the mud, he does not touch a powder horn. He bites the top off the paper tube, spits it out, pours the powder down the barrel, and shoves the paper and the ball down together as one solid piece."
Thwip.
Soma mimicked the efficient motion with his hands, snapping his fingers on the final downward thrust.
"Bite. Pour. Ram," Soma said. "Three motions instead of five. Every shot carries the exact same fire. Every ball perfectly plugs the barrel. The soldier does not guess. He repeats."
The crackle of the wood fire and the hiss of hot iron plunged into the stone mizubune quenching basins filled the stifling silence. The master smith stared at the charcoal drawing on the workbench. He wiped a trembling hand across his mouth, leaving a fresh, dark streak of soot.
Nobunaga reached out. His thick fingers bypassed the gun on the table and closed around the back of Soma’s neck.
The rough, sweat-wet calluses of the Warlord’s thumb dug brutally into the hollow at the base of Soma’s skull. Soma instantly locked his spine. He clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists against his thighs. The sudden, overwhelming physical dominance sparked a rush of heat in his chest, sending his pulse hammering wildly into Nobunaga’s iron grip. The unyielding, rigid cotton of his loincloth bit fiercely into his hips as he forced himself to stand still under the crushing pressure.
"You want to strip the soul from the iron," Nobunaga whispered. His hot breath smelled of bitter green tea and wet metal. His grip tightened, his thumb pressing directly over the rapid pulse in Soma’s throat. "You want to turn my warriors into mindless, wooden arms that only know how to bite paper and pull levers. You look at my army as a water-wheel made of meat and pins. Tell me, Ghost. Will you take this forge and make my iron obey your lines?"
Soma felt the heat of the forge pressing in, closing off the exits. If he accepted the forge, he became a full-time manufacturer of death, chained to the blinding heat and the soot. He needed distance.
"No, Lord Nobunaga," Soma said. His voice came out hard and flat. He held Nobunaga’s unblinking stare without pulling away from the agonizing grip on his neck. "I will not run your forge."
The master smith gasped softly. By the doorway, the samurai guards shifted in the dirt, their hands dropping instantly to the wrapped hilts of their swords.
Nobunaga’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His fingers clamped harder, digging deep into the rigid cords of muscle and bone in Soma's neck.
"You refuse me?" Nobunaga asked softly. "You stand in my mud, wearing clothes, eating my fish, and you deny me the hands to fix the very tools you claim are broken?"
"I am not an expert in designing weapons, My Lord," Soma said, forcing his breathing to remain slow and even despite the pain. "I am design structures. If you assign me to your blacksmith and bind me to this blistering bench to carve gauges and roll paper tubes, you will never able to see what I can do. Your castle, has lots of improvement to be done. You may have your weapons but once the walls fall, your fortress will be overrun by your enemies."
Soma swallowed hard against Nobunaga's thumb.
"I gave you the sequence. Master Munetada has the labor and the skill to execute it. Let the craftsmen create it. My hands belong to the structures."
Nobunaga stared at Soma for one long heartbeat. The suffocating, sulfurous heat of the forge pressed in on them from all sides. Nobunaga’s thumb slowly traced the rigid, unyielding muscle of Soma’s neck, feeling the absolute stubbornness vibrating beneath the pale skin.
A slow, jagged grin broke across Nobunaga’s face. He released his grip and let his hand drop.
"A machine of flesh and lead," Nobunaga mused, turning his head toward the master smith. "Munetada."
"Yes, My Lord," the master smith croaked, bowing until his forehead nearly touched the black dirt.
"You heard the Ghost," Nobunaga commanded, pointing his iron-ribbed fan at the charcoal drawings on the wood. "He carved the invisible lines into your mind. He will not pump your fuigo or roll your paper. But you and your smiths will forge identical barrels. You will carve the hard iron traps. You will beat the iron until it matches his line. If a craftsman dare grumble about the soul of the metal, or if a single barrel bursts because your hands were lazy, your heads will answer to my blade."
"We will obey, Lord Nobunaga," Munetada said, his voice shaking. He kept his head bowed, his eyes darting nervously toward Soma.
Nobunaga turned back to Soma. His broad shoulders blocked the light of the hearth, casting Soma in deep shadow.
"You gave them the key to your wall of lead, Ghost," Nobunaga said softly. "But paper is fragile. Lead is soft. If we go to the field and these paper tubes turn to useless mush in the rain, or if your identical barrels burst because your clever lines were flawed, I will not throw you back into the river. I will have Munetada forge your black box down for horseshoes, and I will use your pale bones to stir the charcoal."
"The numbers do not lie," Soma said, holding his ground. "Let the smiths do the work. We will see soon the outcome."
"We shall see," Nobunaga said.
Clack.
He snapped his iron fan shut with the sound of a breaking bone. He turned his broad back to the forge and walked toward the exit, his leather boots kicking up small clouds of black dust as he moved smoothly through the falling sparks.
"Follow me, Ghost," Nobunaga commanded over his shoulder. "Get the teppo. Let's see if your math works with that weapon."
Soma took a deep, shuddering breath. His chest rose against the wet, stiff hemp of his robe. He looked down at the charcoal lines on the bench, then wiped the black dust from his hands onto his thighs, ignoring the rough sting of the fabric.
He turned and forced his burning legs to follow the Warlord out of the smoke and back into the baking, humid air of the courtyard.