Ask any common footman on duty who general Dokron is, and by the mere august and reverend status of that name, he straightens his posture and salutes at its utterance. Ask a noble however, and he turns to you- confusion on his face and slight irritation in his eyes- and asks you back: “which one?”
Whether Dao Rong struck out a lucky guess or glimpses of a prophetic power, formerly only his by name, began coming back to him by way of those rattling silvers- it cannot be denied that he was correct. Before the master at arms came bearing the devastating news of General Dok’s falling in battle to the command tent, Dao mumbled out the phrase: “There is only one Dok who remains now…” Cryptic in nature, it aroused nothing but suspicion in the ears of the Lords Bo and Koen. But Dok’s son realized all too well what the seer meant when he said only one remains now.
“What say you, soothsayer?” Koen interrogated. The old veteran approached him threateningly, “Only one Dok is known to us here, and he fell in battle…” he roared. “If the seer insists there is one left, have him point him out to us!” Bo once again suggested in a mocking tone. He would have his smug grin deformed into an open jaw when Dao Rong lifted his boney finger and pointed at the late General Dok’s son. Koen and Bo turned their heads towards him.
“You inherited it?” Koen asked the young man in awe. “Did you finally take the mantle of your father?” the marshal jumped in glee. The young man said nothing. He mulled over it momentarily, reclining upon the general’s chair before jolting up. He walked towards them as he a neatly folded parchment from his tunic, which he kept pressed against his breastplate.
“The king’s insignia…” Bo whispered upon seeing the document. “He finally got it after all…”
He marched out of the tent and stood high atop a flat rock, ordering his lieutenant to rally up the men before him as he unfolded the parchment and read out its contents. As the entirety of his small band assembled before him in near perfect imperial formation, he read aloud these words:
By sovereign decree, Gantor III, King of the Calagari commands-
-That the title of Grand General ‘Dokron’ be passed from its current holder- Edrodoge, the 5th Dokron, Dohrj- to the title’s heir apparent: his son of legitimate birth and of same sanguine line, Albarjan, to be known then upon his father’s death as the 6th Dokron, Altan.
Hereupon, Gantor IIIdemand this be done
After reading from the document, Dokron Altan looked onwards to the congregation of fighting men and village folk at his feet. For the first time, he spoke before a band of men that were no longer his comrades. Dokron spoke to a band of men that were, from the moment that royal decree was read out, to be subordinate to him and obey his every command from then on. Dok spoke, for the first time, as general.
“It was by my father’s death that provided the condition in which I assume command over all of you from now on…” he said. “And so, it shall be by my father’s death that I shall pronounce my first command:” he scanned the crowd before him, shot a glare at the two lords besides him, and lastly to Dao Rong before shifting his gaze back towards his men.
“By sunrise tomorrow, we shall avenge Dokron Dohrj!”
~~~
As the men cheered and settled from their joyous tumult, congratulating their newly anointed general, a change in the wind occurred. No one but Dao Rong and Bo seemed to notice, as the two men- both of whom were devoted to the study and culture of the stars- noticed the twinkling of Dismas, the star of fate. Interpreting Dismas was like trying to read your name amidst tangled vines: either this star foretold great fortune, tragedy, or uncertainty. Whatever the case, by the time you do interpret the rogue star, the event it foretold had already happened. Dao and Bo where naturally uneasy and kept vigilant while everyone else rejoiced.
“Do you see it as well?” Bo whispered to Dao. “let’s see if you know what ‘it’ I am referring to…”
“Dismas?” Dao whispered.
“Dismas...” Bo affirmed. He began gesturing to his staff to look lively. He went around camp, informing Koen and the others to stay alert. Meanwhile, the wind changed again, but oddly enough its breeze could not be felt. The tall grass that platted the valley did not wave, nor did loose leaves from the golden autumn trees take flight. But a rustling of nearby leaves could be heard: if not the wind, then what?
Dao Rong, looking to escape, realized he was out of the cage that limited him and found no bindings on either his hands or legs. He was slightly rested after passing out and found that he could, to an extent, feel his legs once more. He went to the command table to retrieve his rattling silvers and planned a swift exit. His desire to escape was compounded when by light of torch fire did the colors of his captors’ armor and emblems of their shields reveal them to be soldiers of the Kingdom of Calgary. He had found himself deep in enemy territory, and once his usefulness as a seer is depleted, they were either going to arrest or execute him. He hurriedly gathered his silvers, only to drop a couple on the way out. As they struck the ground, images once again flashed within Dao’s mind-
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The glittering eye of Dismas, the creaking of a thick bridle- behind it lay, the eye of a treacherous mortal. And once again, the image of General Dok’s bloodied helmet. Phasing in and out of his mind’s eye, images of the helmet bloodied and the helmet clean. Dao retrieved the last of his silvers and ran towards the crowd. His decision making was poor, but he acted swiftly. He tackled General Dok and threw him unto the ground. Along with him, Dao followed and fell upon him.
“He’s attacking the general!” one of the soldiers accused. He ran up to them and stood where Dok stood. His body stiffened up as he keeled over and died, revealing a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back. The crowd panicked until their disarray was broken by a howling:
“Attention!” the marshal Koen hollered. He had the good sense to gaze upon Dao as he got up and pointed to a loose thicket of juniper. There, a figure could be made out from the darkness as it tried to flee. “After him!” the marshal commanded.
The men pursued the figure into the darkness. An assassin, most likely under the employ of whatever forces conspired against them at that time. Letting him go would betray their position, dooming them all. Fortunately for them, the men had slipped out of their field armor for the night and were not held down by their weight. They caught up to the assailant and apprehended him, dragging him back to the tent where he was to be questioned. If Koen had the final say in this, he’d have the man killed and his head mounted upon the royal standard. Bo suggested he be interrogated, then killed. In an odd display of decisiveness, Dok chose the latter. The assassin was struck on the knees with a club and his head pulled back to face the seated general:
“The capital…” he asked, with not an ounce of hurriedness or angst in his voice. “…is she loyal to the king still?” Dokron Altan shared his father’s suspicion of a mutinous plan to overtake the throne when whispers of the king’s crusade made rounds within his court. Rumors were spread of several nobles and an advisor convincing the king to lead the charge against Valdens himself in the first place, and in his absence, take advantage of the situation.
“Gantor’s nation is lost…” the assassin cackled. The man was clearly mad, and whoever tasked him with this task knew so. “…and you all fell for it too!” he began to crack up. “The last of the king’s elite escorting themselves out of the capitol to defend some silly hamlet,” he mocked. “leaving the capitol defenseless and ripe for the picking…” before he could continue with his banter, the general’s saber flew to pierce the ground before him. He rose from his chair to retrieve his blade and pointed at the mongrel cur.
“I give you a choice, you half-inch milksop,” he said, pressing the edge of his saber into his neck. “You tell me the name of the nobles who dare defile His Majesty’s throne, and I release you...” Dok spelt his terms. “remain silent, and I’ll have you dragged behind the calvary until either the truth or your brains come out.”
“…or we can have the seer read his thoughts…” Koen suggested, drawing everyone’s attention to Dao Rong, just as he was about to sneak out of the tent. He was retrieved by one of Dok’s men and thrown in front of the spy.
“He’s a fortune-teller, not the psychic!” Bo scolded. “He can’t read minds…” unsure of this statement, he turned to the sniveling Dao Rong and with a raised eyebrow and asked: “…can you?”
“I’ll need…” he fumbled. “I’ll need his right, his right …eye” he said. Not a beat of a bird’s wing passed before Dok drove his saber into the assassin’s skull, missing his eye by the width on ant’s arm. He turned his saber and carved out the eye, dropping it into his hand in mint condition.
“What else will you need, seer?” Dok asked, tossing the still warm ball to him. Dao Rong nearly dropped it but managed to secure it within his cupped hands.
“Water!” he said. “a bowl of water!” he commanded. A metal wash pan was brought to him. In the clear water, he dropped the eye. A weird incantation was later said by Dao Rong, and the water began to turn from clear to milky white. Within the white foam, a dull vision began to appear- like the shadowy silhouettes amidst thick fog. Dao stuck his finger into the bleeding eye socket of the assassin and as a drop of blood entered the liquid, the water began to clear, and a perfect copy of his memory began playing on the surface of the water.
As clear as day, a picture played- of the nation dearest’s fall. Before the vision of the assassin- his knees and shoes- as if he was bowing down. As he ended his curtsy, he looked up and saw, the visage of the one who sought the crown. As clear as day, a picture played- the face of a traitor found.
“What’re you looking at?” Koen shot daggers at Bo, who turned to stare at him the moment the traitorous noble’s identity was revealed in Dao Rong’s bowl.
“Thought I saw some resemblance…” Bo suggested. Koen lunged forwards, hand to saber, ready to gut the magistrate before Dok placed his hand before him to de-escalate the situation.
“Now, magistrate Bo-” he cautioned. “many things may run in or blood, but treachery and or loyalty isn’t one of them…” he firmly scolded.
“Who is this man…” Dao Rong asked, looking deep into the bowl to memorize each feature of his face. He felt as if this was one thing he would loath to forget. Before he could look on any longer though, Dok’s hand destroyed the reflection as it reached into the water to retrieve the eyeball. He gave it to Dao Rong: “this isn’t mine” he mumbled. Before he could protest any more, Dok buried his saber into the bleeding eye socket of the would-be assassin to finish him off.
“Consider this…” Dok said, tearing off Dao Rong’s patch and replacing his missing eye with that of the assassin’s, “a token of my appreciation…”
~~~
Fire ran through the horizon beyond the hills as the sun greeted the restless men of General Dokron Altan with its flaming ire. The men, despite being thoroughly sleep deprived, found new vigor and liveliness at the installment of their new general. He was a man they knew before, a man they fought with, and a man they respected greatly. If they were to accomplish the task of avenging their former commander which they so revered, they knew they had no one else to look up to other than his own son. The night before, provisions for the mission ahead were made and neither commonfolk nor soldier had a moment’s rest.
The one fortunate circumstance that befell them amidst all this was the fact that the village had just completed their harvest. The townsfolk grew wheat, barley, and peas. They also raised pigs, cattle, and geese. Dokron pulled out of his own purse and- with the help of not-so-voluntary contributions from his own men- purchased up nearly half the grain stored in the village barn, three pigs, five geese, and nearly triple the amount’s worth in wood and other materials. The kingdom was lost, but that did not mean they were…