Day 33, 6:30 AM
“I wanna rock!”
— Twisted Sister
Viscount Marken’s coffer is a yard-wide hunk of wood. It looks like it came straight out of a baddy’s hoard in Two Piece. One would think it would be easy to bust. I certainly did, but it’s a damn wooden fortress. I smash it a couple of times with Batsy, hardly leaving a mark.
“Bring me an ax,” I say and Herma rushes to fetch me one from someplace.
I eye the bloody thing and its massive padlock.
Wait, I have a brain.
I whack it once and the shiny lock screeches. I hit it again and again until it squeals and finally snaps. The busted lock falls to the ground, and I open the chest.
There’s no squeak, the hinges are well oiled. An odd thought to have when collecting ten-odd pounds of gold.
Unlike cartoon pirate treasures, the gold doesn’t actually shine to illuminate my face, nor do my eyes turn into coins. Instead, I feel my face sag as I’m met with a thick ledger and a bunch of square sacks made of studded leather.
I lift the topmost one and it’s way too light.
Empty. I raise it and pick up another one. Apparently, the sacks are connected with a pair of leather straps, like saddlebags.
This could prove useful for ammo. I take everything, strapping the full sacks like bandoliers loaded with bullion coins rather than grenades and bullets.
Grenades and rifles would’ve been more useful, though. And this chest seems super valuable, with exceptional utility. Unfortunately, it’s massive and heavy. I’m the only one who can carry it, and I’m already loaded with over thirty pounds of gold and silver coinage, which I prefer over a sturdy wooden box.
Predawn light bleeds in through the window, and I ditch the chest; I have bigger fish to fry. Will this even work?
I have no idea. What I do know is that my gut started doing its excited little dance, and nausea-inducing saliva floods my mouth. I clench my teeth and march out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the mansion, where the rebel slaves are waiting.
“You guys,” I glance at Dirty Two and Dirty Three, “bring the body,”
They turn to look behind. Nobody’s there, then they look at each other.
“Yes, you. Hurry up.”
They shuffle forward, their steps light as if they are wearing concrete shoes and gravity is paying them extra attention. Still, one grabs the dead viscount’s arms, the other his legs, and we’re heading out.
“Um, mum, Sir! I brought the ax,” Herma shouts from a toolshed.
“I managed. Follow us.”
The gate guards are gone. Probably ran away when they heard the screams. Whatever the cause of their disappearance, we stroll out into the main square unobstructed and climb the gallows’ scaffold.
“String him up,” I say, and nothing happens. The mill slaves are giving me blank faces, and I take a second to confirm they really don’t understand me.
“Hang him.” I try again, and they get to work.
I guess that idiom doesn’t translate properly.
“Ron, ring it.” I say, standing next to the viscount’s hanging body, and Ron starts ringing the pan-sized bell that’s a part of the platform.
The ring is sharp and clear, drawing a crowd in a matter of minutes. The people’s faces are pale, and they can’t tear their eyes away from the viscount swinging with the morning breeze.
“We have slain the oppressor,” I shout. “He has stolen our money, and humiliated us for ten long years, but now he is nothing but a dead body. This is not the end! They keep stealing our money, our sons and fathers, our dignity, our freedom! And now…”
I feel uncomfortable. A part of me thinks what I’m about to do is the most hilarious thing ever, another is embarrassed, another shocked, but the song was literally written for this. I went through it while skulking around last night, and I hardly had to change any lyrics.
I draw a deep breath and shout.
“We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore!”
A part of me burns with shame while the mad bomber bit is having a ball, letting loose out in the public for the first time. I’m not exactly singing, more shouting my throat ragged, but I am keeping the original beat.
The poverty-stricken townsfolk seem confused, but I know at least some of them must feel this scorching rage.
“We’ve got the right to choose it
There ain’t no way we’ll lose it
This is our life, this is our cause!”
The mill slaves holler and shout while the shocked crowd gapes.
“We’ll fight the powers that be
They kicked our dignity
They stole from us
They stole it all!”
Slowly, the young men in the crowd start nodding and moving their lips, repeating my words. Then the most bitter, most maimed vets do the same things, mulling over what I said.
This will work. Elated, I shout louder.
“We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore!”
I pause a little before, “anymore,” and several youths shout along with me.
“They’re so abusive
Their laws are intrusive
We don’t want that
We want them gone!”
Next comes the part I wasn’t sure about, but I’m already here, and there’s no going back. I point my finger at the crowd.
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“Your lives are trite and jaded!
Hollow, confiscated!
If that’s your best,
your best won’t do!”
I pause, taking a deep breath, and there’s a moment of silence. I’m slightly disappointed nobody picks up the “Woah-oh-oh,” and wonder whether they understood what I was saying.
“We’re right!” I point the finger at the mill slaves.
“Yeah!” They shout, thank god.
“We’re free!”
“Yeah!”
“We’ll fight!”
“Yeah!”
“You’ll see!”
“Yeah!”
“We’re not gonna take it!
No, we ain’t gonna take it!
We’re not gonna take it anymore!”
Young men in the crowd pick it up and shout with me, one of them gagged by his father, another having a fistfight with a one-eyed man.
“We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore!
“We’re right!” I point the finger at the mill slaves.
“Yeah!” The free youths pick up the shout.
“We’re free!”
“Yeah!”
“We’ll fight!”
“Yeah!”
“You’ll see!”
“Yeah!”
The crowd is insane, and they start chanting even without me, repeating the refrain over and over.
“We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore
We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore
We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore
We’re not gonna take it
No, we ain’t gonna take it
We’re not gonna take it anymore!”
[You are a level 3 Anarchist, reincarnated.]
BSD appears, notifying me of my success just in case I was blind.
[You have leveled up.
Select a defining feature within sixty seconds or a random one will be assigned to you.
Direct - Direct attacks performed by bodies you inhabit are faster and more accurate. Your choice affects your personality.
Evasive - Enemy attacks against bodies you inhabit may miss when they should have hit. Your choice affects your personality.]
Direct. I choose immediately. Evasive doesn’t mesh well with the way I am and with how I do things. Right now, I think I should strive for the most brutal and efficient killing, getting wounded, and letting Rage do the job for me. Later, when I learn how to fight, I will still appreciate having straight offense over random defense.
[Anarchist Level 3
To level up, impose justice upon a party legal authorities are ignoring.]
That almost sounds easy. Now, focus on what you are doing.
“The King robs us,” I shout, drowning the chanting of, ‘We’re not gonna take it’.
“And we’ve had enough! He takes thirty percent income tax, and a fifth of everything we buy on top of that! Then he taxes us for what we own! Whatever money we make, he takes two thirds! Once this town had glass windows, now it has planks! But it’s not just the money he takes! He robbed us of our dignity, of our family, and now we will rob him in turn!”
Everyone below twenty-five-years-old in the crowd cheers, while the older people bite their lips.
“I will purchase, legally, with gold, every slave who wishes to leave with me and join the uprising! I will pay a fair price, and I will not touch a single slave if they aren’t willing to leave with me. We, free men, will form an army and fight to avenge our fallen duke Eagleeye! To avenge our fallen friends and family! To bring justice to the traitors who betrayed them all! I welcome all who wish to join us! We shall pay fair war wages of two copper plows a day and provide food for you! We will also purchase any excess food from town stores for a fair price.”
There’s more cheering, and able-bodied youths step forward. I watch mothers and fathers grabbing them, and trying to tackle them, while others wish their children good luck.
“Does that include us?” Filthy Three asks, caked blood still on his hands. I must get all their names, but there was no time now.
“Naturally. If you are more experienced, and willing to take leadership positions, I will increase your pay adequately.” I hope Manuella was right about the prices. Barter didn’t trigger, either because she guessed well, or because I’m not bartering, but guessing labor prices.
Rob grins. He’s the one I added the latter bit for. I can tell there are two more men who are carrying their swords with a different air than the rest. They are either criminals or veterans, maybe both, but for now, I’ll take whatever life throws my way.
There’s a greater disturbance, and I spot Varren the proprietor beating the shit out of a young man, who looks very much like him, minus the pot belly and two decades of brawling experience.
“I will not intrude into anyone’s family business, but you will not prevent slaves from seeking freedom. It is a basic human right to be free. That’s the point of our uprising. To be free.”
Freedom is a magnificent, yet cheap word. Whenever I mention it, I see fervor growing stronger in the eyes of those willing to follow, and shame squeezing tighter the hearts of those who choose not to join our cause.
“What legitimacy do you have to use our dead duke’s name to rally people? What right do you have?” Someone shouts, and I draw a deep breath, buying time to come up with an answer.
“I, Manuella Eagleeye, have every right to use my father’s name when rallying people to avenge him,” Manuella says in a loud, firm voice as she walks over from a side alley.
That’s a risky move to play, too early in the game. Yet, the cat is out of the bag. The king will know. He will know soon. These people have no messenger pigeons because of the extensive forests and abundant predators, so we have some time. A month, hopefully. Worst-case scenario, he immediately sends his troops to crush us. We have to become uncrushable during the two months we have.
I watch Manuella stride towards me, calculating how many we can hit, how greedy we should be, and how quickly we can grow our army.
“Great speech. Catchy,” she says in a quieter voice, and I’m not sure whether she’s serious or teasing me. Then she continues her speech.
“I am Manuella Eagleeye, the heir to the house Eagleeye, your rightful lord and ruler.” She points at the swaying corpse without sparing it a glance. “That man’s rightful lord and ruler.”
“We will raise an army and punish the worms who betrayed my family.” She pauses and looks over her stunned subjects. “All our families. And we will bring them to justice. The punishment for betraying their liege and regicide is death. As for the one behind all of this, I will personally—”
She stops herself in time, but her words were much harsher when we discussed the topic in private.
“Like General Aang said, we will purchase all arms, slaves, and provisions. Slaves who fight with us are free, but you are still soldiers, meaning you have to follow orders, like all other soldiers,” she stresses the word both times. “Right now, time and secrecy work to our advantage. We will move soon and head for Harkgord. Whoever wishes to serve me and fight against the traitorous king, fight for their freedom and family, step forward. The rest of you, bring all slaves here, male and female. Those who wish to leave their masters may join our cause, but they have to be useful. We cannot spare the time and resources on someone who’s nothing more than a mouth to feed.”
I look at her, believing I could have handled that speech better, but it’s good enough. Several veterans go down on one knee, followed by the mill slaves, who are already proactive about joining our army. Then the rest of the crowd follows, and several hundred people are bowing before me. The feeling is strange, but not bad.
Not bad at all.