Act Three: Rebel Lords

The humors of the men in camp that day were mixed: no one knew what to think, no one knew what to feel. For some, they were elated to see someone formerly of their ranks rise to that high of a station. Others however felt homesick- as homesick as soldiers can get- and even more so now, with the news of their homeland having been lost to traitors. But wallowing over the lost and scattered was useless. They had to act now. For they were no longer lords and denizens of their own kingdom, but effectively foreigners and outcasts in kingdom that was once theirs. They were rebel men, under rebel lords.

Bo was given the task to arrange a relay network of spies and Koen, the task to arrange the troops into squadrons and hunting parties. By the fourth hour of that morning, the scouts reported their location to Bo and the General Dok:

“We found the ambusher’s camp…” one of the spies reported. “they’re about five leagues west of our position and they seemed to have settled for the night there…”

“What of their movements?” Dok inquired.

“We suspect temporary.” Another one of the spies chimed it “They won’t be there for long. Once they’ve finished resupplying from the local spring, they’ll make their way back to the capitol…” the room went silent for a while. Dao Rong, consumed by his meditation, could not help but overhear.

“Did they see us retreat? If not, they’ll go directly to the capitol.” Bo said.

“How do you figure that?” Dok asked.

“It was a skirmish- not a very disciplined attack and many of their own men fell back as well.” He went on. “There is a possibility they think they might have eliminated us all, in which case its mission accomplished for them, and they’ll leave by at best…” Bo looked on to the spy to furnish him with information and finish his sentence.

“…at best by tomorrow’s light…” the spy responded.

“…at best by tomorrow’s light!” Bo repeated. “If, however, they know some of us had survived, they won’t be leaving; they’ll be hunting us down….”

“And we mustn’t let them escape!” marshal Koen burst into the tent. “Let this not be another case of us being hunted, rather we shall do the hunting!” he pronounced. “They blind sighted us with an ambush that nearly decimated our numbers, it is only right and fair we return the favor…”

“I agree with the marshal, but we have neither the manpower nor the weaponry to sustain an all-out assault- this is what we must do…” As the two of them argued once more, Dao Rong- resolved and at peace to a possible fate of being executed in a foreign land- did not want his last days to be spent amidst irritating bickering. He opened his eyes and spoke out, with soft but stern tone:

“Shouldn’t the general decide a course of action?” Dao Rong boldly suggested. The two lords piped down and looked at him, only to divert their gazes to general Dok, whose hand had been over his eyes for a good moment. The two lords took a seat and looked towards him for a decision:

“Both of you are right…” he said after a long pause: “we must fight but have neither men nor weaponry. We shall then fight and make the weaponry!” he suggested. The two lords looked at each other dumbfounded. Dao Rong was just happy his little cage was silent once more.

“Lord-Marshal, are you familiar with the angler formation?” Dok asked him.

“Viable, yes…” he responded. “…and I know what you’re planning, but we’ll need a narrow pass facing or leading to their camp for it to even work. Do the spies say anything of that?” he looked to Bo.

“We’ll make it work!” the general said, rising from his chair and exiting the tent, gesturing all to follow him out. As Dao Rong began to sink back into meditation once more, he heard his enclosure open as a hard, gauntleted hand grabbed him by the arm and out of the cage.

“you’re coming with us…” Dok commanded.

The general gave his spies a new mission: they were to scout out a narrow pass somewhere near the camp wherein an angler formation offensive could be launched. Another spy was tasked with coasting the countryside for resources. Both came back within the hour to report two things: a pass has been found north of the ambushers’ camp not half a league away. Along with that, a rich field of hazel coppices were found less than a mile away from their camp.

“What the hell are they planning?” Dao Rong thought to himself as he was led out. To think they’d do their planning in the actual command tent, but no the general huddled up his two advisers and after a moment of chattering, the two went on their separate directions. Bo marched towards the village center where the majority of the town’s folk loitered around anxiously. He turned Dao Rong’s head towards them and gestured him to follow:

“If you’re going to be following us around, seer, you’re going to have to at least learn to be useful...” he said. “The general has tasked me to find the village elder; we have to gather all of the metalware and cutlery here, and have the woodsmen procure as many hazel poles as there are healthy men in this village…” Bo explained with no great detail. Despite this, Dao Rong was able to piece together the clues.

“The general is trying to raise a militia!” he said. Bo looked over to him, his eyebrow raised. “The metalware and cutlery are to make the heads of the polearms, and the hazel poles are for their shafts!” Bo was impressed, he took out his fan and tapped the side of head.

“Smart boy you are…” he said. “Now how sure can I be that you didn’t just read my mind there?”

“We can’t… read minds.” He went back to stuttering. “It was just a good guess, I guess….” He looked up and asked. “Why do we need to find the elder though? Can’t we just go straight to the blacksmith?”

“That is where your good guessing ends, dear psychic…” Bo cooed. “See if we- mere strangers to them- simply barged into their shop and demand this and that to be done, we wouldn’t come off very convincing now, would we?” he explained. “At best we’ll be ignored, and at worst, we’d have to dodge a flying forge hammer…” Bo went on. “…we need a coin to bargain with, and that coin is the village elders. Convince them, and you convince everyone else here, including the blacksmiths.” he went on. “The trick, dear seer, is to have people think it was their idea all along…”

“Is that them over there?” Dao Rong observed. “That must be them: scraggly old beards, odd jewelry, and fine clothing- that one’s even got a staff!” he told Bo. Dao eyed towards the stone courtyard of the village church, where a group of elders sat on wooden chairs surrounded by their daughters and grandchildren.

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“Good eye, sot…” Bo said as he took the elders in approaching them. “Venerable elders of a village, or at least I assume you all to be!” Bo the rhetor, spoke to flatter.

“Aye…” one of them confirmed, leaving a trail of pipe smoke seeping from his mouth.

“I am Magistrate Bohrjia of His Majesty’s Publican Office,” he introduced himself. “and this is my secretary, Dao.” He moved his hand to Dao, making up a title for him on the way.

“Tell us, magistrate,” an eldress among them spoke up. “What is to become of our village? Will our people have to leave their homes?”

“Nay!” Bo responded. “…rather we seek to fortify your village and conscript your men!”

“No!” one of the daughters refused. “You cannot take our husbands away to fight! I cannot let you!” she said, nearly tackling the magistrate before she was caught and restrained by her husband.

“You!” Bo addressed the man. “Do you love your family?” he questioned sternly, as if trying him for a crime

“Yes, truly!” the man responded.

“Do you love your parents? Your community? Your country?” Bo roared.

“Yes!” he responded desperately. “Truly, yes to all!”

“Then what kind of flimsy alloy may that alleged ‘love’ of yours be made of if you do not love them all enough to fight for them?” Bo cruelly interpolated, circling the man like a vulture. “Your nation is in the throes of war, and if you do not stand before the invaders, you will leave your family, your parents, your community, your kingdom exposed! And then you will have nothing left…”

“Magistrate!” a man in his fifties stood up. Probably the ‘youngest’ of the elders. He approached Bo. “You’ve made your point,” he said, gesturing the couple to return to their home. “What is it that the crown requires of us?” he said. Dao Rong’s eyes widened. He saw what Bo did there.

“Firstly, I shall require your name, elder…”

“Tolomje,” he responded. “I am Eyesymjavyn Tolomje. And if you shall come her barking orders, you might as well bark at me…”

“How many men in this village do you opine are fit for combat?” Bo asked, his expression unchanging.

“Fifty-three, I myself included.” Tolomje answered.

“Have your men cut down and process fifty-three quality hazel poles and have the blacksmiths fit each one with a polearm head…”

“We haven’t the metal for that!” he argued.

“That is where we get creative…” Bo said, grabbing a metal cup from one of the elders’ hands and a taking knife from the table. He turned the cup upside down and placed the end of the knife on its bottom. He looked to Tolomje, who’s eyes widened in realization of the plan. “Have all the metalware and cutlery confiscated and brought to your blacksmith:” Bop commanded. “knives for glaives, sickles and scythes for bills, forks for tridents, and anything sharp enough to kill…”

They had left them to accomplish the task and demanded the blacksmiths work overtime to get it done. Cups were welded to utensils, and when the cups ran out, they began folding metal plates into cones. When the plates ran out, they simply stuck the utensil on the pole and securedthe end with leather strap. The task of welding blade to socket, and then socket to pole was simple enough, but it was a tiring task that bore heavily on the body. For this, the blacksmiths- in which there were three of them in the village, were exempt from military service. As for payment, when Tolomje confronted Bo about it, the magistrate calmly yet frighteningly reminded the elder:

“Upon who’s land do the pillars of your houses and shops stick out from if not the king’s? Upon who’s land does your wheat and barley grow, from which your cows and pigs graze from?” Bo drew closer to Tolojome, his unnaturally tall stature lording over the stout elder, swallowing Tolomje’s shadow in his. “All this is free by privilege of you- and everyone here- being a subject of Gantor III. If in this time of desperate need, payment cannot be forgone, a tax will be imposed on the profits you make for this.” A subtle threat was made. “And as the magistrate of the King’s publican office, I will not hesitate to impose a tax that will bite off more than you intend to make…” Before Bo could finish his sentence, he was thrown to the ground by a heavy leather satchel that struck him like a meteor.

It was full of money. He looked around for whoever threw it. He saw Koen a few feet away, laughing as he looked at his old friend recover from the blunt force. “…acquisition of arms is the field marshal’s responsibility, magistrate!” he cackled some more. Frustrated, he gave the money to Tolomje and the threats were called off.

“You’re a cruel man, magistrate” Dao told Bo as they walked away and towards the command tent to report to General Dao.

“Mercy doesn’t get things done, Dao…” Bo proclaimed. “Look how unmercifully Lord Koen pot-shotted me with his change purse…” he said, pressing his handkerchief against the side Koen hit.

“General Dok showed mercy…” Dao rebutted. “…when he decided to put me under his service instead of killing me.” He looked at his hands.

“That wasn’t mercy…” Bo confessed. “…he kept you around for utility. I’ve seen Albarjan at his worst, and you’re lucky you weren’t there to witness it…”

“Albarjan is General Dok… right?” Dao Rong asked.

“Yes,” Bo told him as they sat at a felled log by the tent, awaiting Dok and Koen to arrive. “…but if you wish he extend his leniency to you here, you call him Dok to his face.”

“that’s his title, right? Dok?” Dao Rong asked. “…sounds significant, what does it mean?” he inquired.

“It means immortal…” Koen chimed in, emerging from behind them as if set to ambush.

“Where’s the general?” Bo asked, unfazed by Koen’s prank- hardened by the countless times he’s pulled this before.

“He’s drilling the men.” He answered. “…he remembers how hard I drilled him when he was but a mere footman and now that he has his own men under his command, he’s dragging him through hot coals the same way I did. The same way his father did.” He reminisced. He turned to Dao Rong, gesturing him to scooch over for more space on the log. “…to us, he and his father are the same person- as with his grandfather, his great-grandfather, all the way back to the first ‘Dok’- all these people are one in the same, they just come back different…” he went on.

“How do you figure that?” Dao Rong inquired.

“The dynasty we serve is new, but our history as a people is a long one…” Bo explained. “According to our ancient Unger faith, the Godking- Unryu- came down to be the first Kha-Llagari king. He gave up his immortality temporarily to rule and guide amidst mortals. During a cataclysmic war that saw the earth open and swallow empires whole, Unryu gave a portion of his immortality to his personal guard and sent them to ride forth and protect his mortal kingdom. Dok, all other Dok’s before him, are said to be descendants of the immortal guard…” Bo narrated.

“And now, Albarajan Dok Altan fulfills his sacred duty:” Koen chimed in once more. “sent away from the capital, he rode forth to the hinterlands- to this dustbin of a village- to do as his immortal guard ancestors did all those many eons ago: protecting Unryu’s mortal realm…”

“Unryu seems like a better deity than Aurora…” a doubting Dao Rong blurted.

“Eughh, I forgot you were a pagan…” Bo skootched aside, away from Dao, feigning bigotry as he always does. “Anyway, any word on the offensive Koenjuhg?”

“Those weaselly marauders remain in their camp, but they won’t be there for long: the poor fools barricaded themselves in front of an impassible mountainside, wherein the only entrance- and therefore exit- is the narrow pass we intend to ambush them in” Koen replied, chewing on a pig knuckle with one hand, while drawing on the ground with another: “the plan now is to thin the herd: lure out as much of the enemy into the narrow pass, slaughter them in ambush, before rushing in with the main militia…” he spoke through a mouthful of pig cartilage. Bo snatched the knuckle from him.

“However fine the quality of tactic may be, marshal…” Bo interjected, taking a bite out of the knuckle he had swiped from him. “...all that will be amount to nothing if we do not have quality warriors- which I doubt this quite little village has plenty of. We need to separate the sheep from the goats…” Bo suggested.

“Sheep from goats? Ah!” Koen recognized the metaphor. “I’ll need about a dozen sheep to lure out the enemy and all of the goats to make up the offensive contingent…” he said. But then it dawned on him as he turned his head to Bo. “How do we find out who is sheep, and who is goat?” Bo looked back at him and tapped the side of his head with the pork knuckle.

They got up and went over to the training grounds. There, farm boys and ranch hands turned conscripts- of sufficient strength and build but of low stamina- panted like hounds. Bo threw a smug glare at Koen before he threw his pork knuckle at the seated men. Around thirteen of them jumped towards the knuckle as it landed on the dirt before them, fighting over it like dogs. The others maintained their discipline.

“That’s how...”