Chapter 444: Chapter 66 Introduction to Statistics_2
“Senior, the issue is not about how accurately you hit, but how to fire as many lead bullets as possible in the shortest amount of ti. The more you shoot, the better. The faster you shoot, the stronger the suppression. The Herders were even pinned down next to the cheval de frise, not daring to raise their heads. Though the efficiency is reduced, the actual combat results have increased.”
“Musketeers earn half more than spearman because they are technical troops,” Mason said regretfully. “If you keep training like this, all your musketeers will only know how to fire randomly in one direction, and not a single accurate shooter will be found!”
Winters blinked, a smile appearing on his face, “The accuracy of matchlock guns is limited anyway.”
“So, you just shoot blindly? Shoot randomly? If you can’t shoot accurately, you should be shooting more carefully! Shoot slowly!”
“Senior, don’t be angry,” Winters said, putting an arm around Mason’s shoulder and whispering in his ear, “Regarding accurate musketeers, I have a new idea.”
“What idea?” Mason asked with a stern face, looking sideways at his junior.
...
Winters drew his double-barreled rifled revolver, presenting it horizontally to his senior, “This.”
“This?” Mason’s eyelid twitched as he took the rifled gun, “What do you an?”
“For those who can’t shoot accurately, let them volley fire. For those who can, I want to make them even more accurate!” Winters said with spirited eyes, his gaze intense, “Volley fire, precision shooting, I want it all.”
This ti, it was Mason’s turn to be at a loss for words.
A sudden shout ca from beneath the watchtower, “Lord Montaigne!”
Winters looked out to see the colonel’s ssenger below the wooden tower, “What’s the matter?”
“The savages want to negotiate.” The ssenger gasped for breath, “Lady Jeska wants you and Lord Bard to go.”
“If they want to talk, let’s talk,” Winters said as he slid the gun back into its holster, “I’m going to see what devilish idea the savages have.”
Winters rode Warhorse, and Bard rode his bone-penetrating palomino, both leaping onto their horses.
The two magnificent horses, one gold and one silver, moved in unison and coordination, appearing not like they were on a blood-soaked battlefield, but as if in a parade of formal dance steps.
The Paratu People on the fortress couldn’t help but cheer.
The red-faced Herder wasn’t at the negotiation this ti, just the Translator.
Seeing who had co, Winters didn’t feel like talking.
Without waiting for the other to speak, he frowned and said coldly, “If you don’t want to talk, forget it.”
With that, Winters spurred his horse to leave, and Bard turned his Warhorse without another word.
“Talk! Talk! Of course, we want to talk!” The Translator beca flustered, pleading desperately, “Lord, what do you an by this?”
“Talk?!” Winters roared like thunder, “What are you? You dare to talk with us? Get lost! Bring soone with the credentials. That monkey-butt face! Make him co!”
The Translator said awkwardly, “That one, the fire-starter… He is my master, the blood of the Golden, the grandson of the Swift Deer, the son of the Bowless, the great chief of the Terdon Tribe, the war leader and divvied-flesh man.”
Winters laughed out loud, “That monkey-butt face, the fire-starter? Why doesn’t he co?”
“You have cannons, my master doesn’t wish to risk his life,” the Translator replied cautiously.
The negotiation site was only three to four hundred ters away from the fortress, within the effective range of the artillery.
“Audacious!” Winters said angrily, “You doubt our integrity?! Then there’s nothing more to discuss.”
Having spoken, he raised his horsewhip again.
“Please don’t leave, my lord, please hear out,” the Translator said with a wry smile. “There really is no trust between the Paratu People and the Herders. There have been many instances where they claid they wanted to negotiate but then lashed out and killed people.”
The history of feuds between the Paratu and the various Herder tribes was an area that touched upon Winters’ blind spot in knowledge.
Winters remained unmoved, thundering with rage, “Look at you, a Paratu, actually selling your life to the Herders!”
The Translator, his temples graying, fought back tears, “My lord, I had no choice. Thirty-one years ago, I was captured by the previous chieftain, ‘Bowless,’ to be a slave. Since then, I’ve been wandering the wilderness, unable to return ho.”
“Unable to return ho? Then I’ll give you an opportunity,” Bard suddenly interjected. “Co with , I’ll take you back to the fortress. Once inside, the barbarians won’t be able to harm you. After the battle is over, you can go ho on your own, how about that?”
The old Translator hesitated for a long while, then said timidly and shakily, “My lord, there’s no one left of my family in Paratu. I have taken a wife and had children in the Terdun Tribe, I…”
“No more nonsense!” Bard said coldly, his eyes flashing with a chilly light, “Are you coming or not?”
The Translator’s face went pale, and he shook his head slightly.
“What did the Barbarian Chief send you to talk about?” Bard, usually the epito of refinent, rarely showed a killing intent, “Speak directly!”
“My lord, the Fire-kindler,” stamred the Translator, licking his lips, as cold sweat beaded on his forehead, “wishes to engage your commander in an ancient ritual, a Mak’gora—a duel to the death. If my lord wins, you must hand over the sacrificial golden figure. If your commander wins, the Terdun Tribe will withdraw their troops and no longer participate in this war.”
Even with all kinds of expectations, the enemy’s proposal still left Winters and Bard speechless, exchanging glances, unsure what to say.
“Your Excellency can trust in the Mak’gora,” the Translator continued. “Both your army and ours will certainly respect it. Historically, there have been thirty-six Mak’goras between the Herders and Paratu People, and regardless of who lost or won, both sides have honored their commitnts.”
“War is a matter of vital importance to the state!” Bard’s brows were tightly furrowed as he rebuked in a deep voice, “How can you decide the critical matters of warfare with a duel? What madness has possessed your flat-ass-faced chieftain?”
“But…” the Translator swallowed, “Ned Smith of your forces killed Queye Kahn in a Mak’gora ceremony…”
Hearing the na of the old Marshal in such an unexpected place, Winters suddenly perked up.
“There’s such a thing?” he asked with interest, “How co I’ve never read about it in the annals of war? Tell about it. What are the constraints of this Mak’gora? Mounted combat? On foot?”
The Translator wiped the sweat from his brow and said, “The parties can decide for themselves. It can be on foot or mounted, and generally, there is no restriction on weapons…”
“Then is it okay to use guns?” Winters’ eyes widened.
Before the Translator could respond, Bard hastily interrupted his exuberant friend.
Bard extended his hand to seize Winters’ reins and said to the Translator, “Wait here, I’ll go back and tell our commander.”
“Don’t go! I haven’t finished asking yet!” Winters shouted as he was dragged away, getting farther and farther from the old Translator but still calling out persistently, “Hey! Translator, is it okay to use guns? To use…”
Upon returning to the Bridgehead Fortress, the two were surrounded by other officers.
“What did the Herders want to say?” Colonel Jeska asked.
“The Herders have gone mad!” Winters was overjoyed, “They truly have no solution for this fortress! They have beco so desperate that they wish to try anything.”
Bard frowned and said, “If that Translator wasn’t lying, the one leading their forces is the great chieftain of the Terdun Tribe—the Fire-kindler. That’s not good news. And it seems they are very confident; that Translator even refused to defect to us.”
“They even brought the sacrificial golden figure! How could it not be the Barbarian Chief personally entering the fray?” scoffed Jeska with a snort, “Anything else?”
“Hahaha!” Winters laughed until he had tears in his eyes, “They want to challenge you to single combat!”
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