Ten flintlock rifles rested on a table at the center of the barracks ground. Nearly two hundred soldiers stood around them with no explanation yet given, and that alone kept the ranks quiet.

The senior squads were slightly afar with their arms at their sides, watching without speaking. Closer to the table, the twenty-one company captains formed a tighter ring. Godric stood at the edge of their group where he could observe both the captains and the squads without fully joining either side.

The rifles were longer than the pistols by enough that nobody needed to measure it. Two captains near the front had already noticed their purpose and exchanged brief looks, but neither commented.

The soldiers waited instead. That was standard when unfamiliar equipment appeared without information attached to it. Nobody wanted to speak before they understood what kind of reaction was expected.

Harr stood near the left side of the captains. His stance looked relaxed, though Godric noticed the difference in his hands immediately. The off-hand hung slightly looser than the right, adjusted just enough to compensate for an old injury.

Beorn picked up the nearest rifle and held it flat against the morning sky so everyone could see the full length of the weapon. The barrel alone extended well past any pistol in service.

"This is the Sceotan. First production batch."

He angled the muzzle toward the nearest captain and pointed at the bore opening. "Inside the barrel are spiral grooves. When the iron ball travels through them, the grooves force it to spin, and that increases the weapon accuracy."

He raised the rifle to his shoulder, showing the firing posture soldiers would need to learn.

"Besides the obvious, that’s the only real difference between this and the pistol."

He continued with clear enough for everyone to hear, "Yet that alone makes its effective range reliable at one hundred yards."

The silence afterward lasted several seconds. The captains were already pondering what that meant for formation distance and wall defense.

Finally, a captain in the second rank spoke.

"How’s the reload speed?"

Beorn said immediately. "Considerably slower, by the fact it is more difficult to force the iron ball into the grooves than a smooth barrel. Compared to the pistol, the minimum reload goes up by at least ten seconds."

He lowered the rifle again, careful to keep the weapon horizontal.

"Naturally, this means the pistol is still better for close range."

He tapped the rifle stock once for emphasis. "So the military doctrine will change. Any proper engagement is to start with a volley at long range. Whenever the enemy reaches thirty feet from the formation, the ranks swap to pistols, and then steel after both are empty. The concept is simple, different weapons for different distances."

A target waited at the far end of the barracks ground. A painted timber board with a chest-high circle marked across it, one hundred yards out.

Beorn loaded the rifle where everyone could watch the process.

Powder first.

Then patch and ball.

The ramrod met visible resistance as he forced the shot down into the grooves. Then the pan was primed.

He brought the rifle to his shoulder, aligned the sights, and fired.

The noise was sharper, flatter than what the soldiers knew from the pistols. More of the sound stayed trapped in the barrel before breaking free.

Smoke burst from the muzzle and pan together, then drifted forward across the morning air.

A hole appeared near the center of the painted circle.

Voices immediately broke from the observation line on the right.

"Damn, he actually hit it."

"A hundred yards, mm. I’m calling that the far iron."

"What, that’s horrible. It’s the long snap," another soldier suggested.

"Yard-killer."

"The Sceotan sounds like sneezing."

A short burst of laughter escaped somewhere in the line. The kind soldiers tried to suppress once they realized officers were still present.

Godric stepped forward beside Beorn and studied the distant target. At that range, he thought, attackers trying to cross open ground toward a wall would lose men before they even realized what killed them.

"If they can hit like that consistently," he said, "it will change the whole concept of warfare."

He left the implication there.

The captains rotated through the firing position one after another. There weren’t enough rifles for individual testing, so two or three men shared each weapon before passing it down the line.

The observation squads watched closely now. Godric recognized the expression immediately, of soldiers matching themselves against everyone currently holding the rifle.

He took the first turn.

Loading the weapon confirmed what Beorn had said. The grooves resisted the ball hard enough that careless force would ruin speed entirely.

Godric adjusted pressure midway through the ram, seated the shot, and raised the rifle.

His round struck near the outer border of the painted circle.

Not perfect. Still lethal.

He stepped back and rotated the rifle once through his hands, testing the balance.

"Heavier than it looks." he commented.

The next captains cycled through. Some hit near center. Some clipped the outer borders. One missed the paint entirely and struck bare timber beside it.

The reload speed varied even more. A few captains adapted quickly, others fought the resistance in the barrel every step of the way.

Comments continued from the observation line as the squads studied the process.

"That looks like a pain in the ass to reload."

"Yard-killer," one soldier repeated, sounding more certain now.

"Long snap."

"The Sceotan’s fine. I’m not calling it long anything, we already call the pistol the short one."

"We absolutely do not call it that."

"I do."

The argument gained momentum for many seconds before Harr stepped into the firing position. His reputation silenced the squad ranks almost immediately.

Harr planted his feet and brought the rifle up with simplicity. His off-hand supported the forestock with the heel of the palm instead of a full grip.

Beorn noticed the adjustment at once. Harr hadn’t planned it consciously, his body had simply learned new mechanics after the injury.

He fired once.

Clean hit inside the circle.

Then he reloaded again. Not fast, carefully, prioritizing consistency over speed.

He fired the second shot.

Another hit inside the paint.

Harr stepped back without comment, apparently satisfied that the weapon behaved predictably.

Col moved into position next. His first shot struck cleanly.

During the reload, though, he slowed halfway through seating the ball. Instead of firing again, he lowered the rifle and looked toward Beorn.

"When it comes to reloading, does it become more difficult after repeated shots?" Col asked.

Godric noticed several captains glance over immediately.

Beorn nodded in approval and answered. "It does, after twenty shots you’ll feel it clearly in the ramrod. The barrels need cleaning between engagements."

Col nodded once. He set the rifle back on the table without taking the second shot. He’d already learned what he came to test.

By the time the final captain finished, the observation squads had shifted almost entirely into debating terminology.

From somewhere near the back right line,

"Long snap is two words."

"So is yard-killer."

"Yard-killer becomes one word if you say it fast enough." 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

"How the, that’s not how language works."

"The far iron," a third soldier declared with complete confidence.

Beorn rested his rifle back on the table.

"How many rifles are currently available?" One captain asked.

"A few dozen." Beorn said. "Not enough for full company deployment yet. Training comes first."

"And the transition from pistol and steel to these rifles? It will take time to train the men."

Beorn looked over to reply to another captain, "Whichever company shows the best result in training will have priority. We will equip the rest of the regiment as production permits."

Meanwhile, the observation squads finally received dismissal. The formation loosened immediately, soldiers drifting apart in the relaxed way that came when duty shifted toward food, rest, or routine work.

Near the back of the line, one soldier spoke to his companion with the certainty of someone making a final decision.

"Yard-killer."

He was ignored.

Apparently the weapon name would be an ongoing debate for a while further.

Beorn looked toward Godric, then across the captains still gathered around the table turning rifles through their hands and testing the unfamiliar balance.

"Meet me in the command center." he said. "Half an hour."