Savage Divinity

The tolling bell warned of approaching Defiled invaders, but Bulat was already ready and waiting on the battlements with the full strength of District Twenty-Three’s militia behind him.

The sun shone overhead as they watched the approaching clouds of dust, and Bulat hoped that the stubborn families who ignored the warnings to gather in the district were at least smart enough to hide in their homes. The plan was simple enough, for warnings to go out whenever the Defiled broke through the Western Wall, as this left the commoners anywhere between an hour to thirty minutes to get to relative safety inside the districts, but some people were just plain daft and valued cold possessions over living relatives. As if staying behind to guard their homes would keep the Defiled from robbing, raping, and pillaging to their black hearts’ content, but there was nothing Bulat could do for them now except pray.

“Ready crossbows!”

Though he only took a moment to make sure his bolt was secured in place, Bulat cursed beneath his breath when he raised his eyes again and saw just how much ground the Defiled had covered. Mounted atop garos, gajashias, ursadons, and all manner of other horrific beasts, these Enemy outriders were here for blood and closing fast. They were still off in the distance and moving in loose formation, but while he had word that the Imperial Army was hot on their heels and ready to contain this outbreak, Bulat and the good people of the district were on their own for now. A shame this wasn’t the Bekhai district, where even their commoners were well-versed in the use of spear and longbow, or one of the other three districts under Bulat’s mayorship which he was familiar with, because he had a hand in their training and knew their militias could hold their own. Alas, this was a district further south in what the higher-ups had taken to calling the ‘contested zone’. Not contested by the Defiled, but by North and Central, as neither side wanted to take sole responsibility for guarding these ‘outlying’ districts which sat smack dab in the middle of both Citadels.

The soldier in Bulat understood why. Though the bossman’s people designed the districts as walled settlements to be defended, the Imperial Army could hardly spare enough soldiers to guard every last one. The army barely had enough bodies to man the entire Western Wall, and some might argue they didn’t even have that, seeing how the Defiled were able to find weak points to overrun with nothing but sheer speed and power. While the army could respond quickly enough to retake the walls from Defiled control, the Enemy wasn’t interested in holding their ground, not when so many easy targets lay within an hour’s ride of the Wall, with the promise of more bloodshed and slaughter further east.

Even if there were enough bodies to go around, the districts lacked the requisite supplies and infrastructure to support the number of soldiers needed to man the walls, which was why the bossman had planned on building independent garrison camps all along the border as well. Those were still under construction, having taken a backseat to rebuilding the vital harbour in SuiHua which had been burned to a crisp by Huanhuzi’s raiding fleet. The new harbour was a technological marvel made of reinforced concrete just like the district walls, but it’s sturdiness made little difference now that the harbour was under blockade again by the same half-badger bastard, whose pirate fleet sailed in and out of the Azure Sea without a care for all the fishy beasties lurking within their dark and unwelcoming depths. This meant most ships were too busy chasing pirates or escorting supplies to ferry soldiers up and down the Western Wall, which in itself was a risky proposition seeing how the river doubled as a moat and left transport ships vulnerable to attack by land.

A good thing the Defiled weren’t here in full force then, with only a raiding party a few hundred strong, but even with some eight-thousand militia at his back, twenty four soldiers under his command, and four strong, sturdy walls to defend, Bulat did not like his odds. The catapults were worthless here, as this small number of riders could avoid anything he lobbed at them, so the fate of this District lay solely on spear and crossbow, as well as the terrified commoners wielding them.

“Hold!” he snapped, seeing so many of his militia already aiming down their sights. Idiots one and all, with weak, commoner arms that struggled to lift their heavy crossbows even on the best of days, yet still they were dumb enough to hold them high before the Enemy came into range. “If I see one bolt fly before I give the word, I’ll toss ye over the side and send ye out to fuckin’ fetch it back.” The threat earned him a few nervous chuckles, but Bulat’s glare promised them that he damn well meant what he said, and the nervous laughs gave way to focused clarity. Remembering their training, a few sheepish stand-outs lowered their weapons and the rest followed suit, as they had yet to receive their orders to aim.

An order he should give right about now. “First Rank, Steady!”

The front row raised their weapons and picked their targets, and as the Enemy cavalry passed the marker, Bulat bellowed, “First Rank! Loose!” Five hundred crossbows hissed in fury as they released their deadly payloads, but the Enemy was not so naive as to rush headlong into the storm. Scattering across the fields, they split off in multiple directions to surround and converge upon the district, causing far too many of those bolts to sink into empty ground, but if the Enemy could adapt their tactics, Bulat could as well. “Second Rank, steady!”

Thanks to Bulat’s gruelling drills, the second rank was already in place, but it still took precious seconds more than it should have before they were fully ready. “Loose!”

Another five-hundred bolts flew out to greet the Enemy, and this time, a good portion of them even connected, but Bulat had no time to appreciate the view. Instead, he snarled and snapped at his people until they remembered their training while reloading his crossbow. The third rank moved faster than the second, with some even giving their slower second rank comrades a helping hand, dragging them back from the front if they were too slow to move themselves. For good reason too, because by now, the Enemy was so close even their commoner eyes could make out the Defiled grins stretched across ugly Defiled faces, and nothing moves a man like fear and purpose. The training helped, but it was mostly fear and desperation driving them now, and while they might have cut and run if they were out on a battlefield, these men and women of the Empire had their homes and families behind them, two things they could not so easily abandon.

The bossman was brilliant and generous, but he could also be a real bastard sometimes. He sold these commoners a dream of land-ownership and prosperity so that they’d bring their children along to inherit their wealth. Now, these dumb schmucks had no choice but to fight, and fight they would, because to do otherwise would be to see all their dreams and loved ones go up in fire and smoke.

“Third Rank, steady and loose!” The bolts were off even as the words left his lips, but there was no time to check their handiwork. The first rank was still reloading their crossbows, cranking away at their levers with the utmost effort to slowly draw the strings back. Bulat could load his crossbow with one hand if need be, but these commoners were not blessed with Martial strength, and as such could only rely on gears and levers to make up for what the Heavens denied them. Were these the militia Bulat had personally trained, he had no doubt the first and second ranks would already be ready and waiting, but as Ma liked to say, if wishes were fishes then no one would ever go hungry again.

There were less powerful variants of the crossbows for commoners to use, but those were only good for hunting small game. You needed a lot more power to stand any chance of killing a Defiled tribesman, and even more to kill the mounts they rode upon, so the bossman made sure the militia were equipped for the task. Even then, the cunning Enemy had let their ursadon riders head in first, the lumbering, bearish creatures leading the charge and all but ignoring the shower of bolts which glanced off their thick skulls or got stuck in their blubbery hides. A few were down and out thanks to some well-placed or lucky shots, but there were still far too many Defiled riders converging on the walls for Bulat’s tastes.

“All ranks, wait for your targets and loose at will!”

Some militia were faster loaders than others, so the first Defiled tribesman to draw close to the wall was greeted by seven crossbow bolts to the chest, and maybe two dozen were gifted to his snarling, lizard-like mount. Eight more riders died on approach, because while the garos were more than capable of jumping the walls, they couldn’t make that vertical height without slowing down to jump, which made them prime targets even for commoners who couldn’t move or think as fast as Martial Warriors. Putting his crossbow aside, Bulat aimed his axe-gun at a leaping garo through the built in murder holes and pulled the trigger. His shot took the beast clean through the chest just before its talons left the ground, and its corpse crashed headlong into the wall. The rider snarled a guttural curse before the militia turned him into a pincushion, and a small cheer rang out as the militia celebrated their minor victory.

“First and Second ranks!” he shouted, wishing these idiots would shut up and listen for his orders. “Spears! To arms!”

Enough of them were lucky enough to have their weapons in hand when the first wave of garo riders landed on the wall, all fangs and fury as they set upon the defenders with merciless rage. Thankfully more than half the attackers just barely made the jump, not because the garos weren’t up to the challenge, but because they didn’t have enough room on the battlements to find footing. Many chose to land on the jutting crenellations, which then crumbled under their weight just like Cixi’s team of construction wizards designed them to. Though the fall wouldn’t kill many of the attackers, it forced the Defiled raiders to attack in staggered groups lest more come up short and fall back down, an advantage Bulat was happy to have. If left unchecked, even a dozen garo riders could clear this wall of its fifteen-hundred defenders, but with so many targets to choose from, Bulat and his Warriors had free rein to engage on their own terms. Hurling himself at the closest rider, he buried his axe in the garo’s neck while it was snapping at someone else, and he tried very hard not to see if the beast’s jaws came away bloody. The bossman wasn’t the only one who could be a real bastard, because Bulat might’ve saved a life if he’d acted a second sooner, but he didn’t. He waited for his chance and killed the beast cleanly before driving his fist into the rider’s temple with an audible crack. An easy victory, but he had no time to bask in satisfaction as he was already moving towards his next target with deadly intent.

“Pick your targets and work together! Drive them back!”

Pran got there first, bellowing as his hammer sent beast and rider tumbling to the stone battlements. The nearby militia reacted too slowly to kill the rider where he lay, but the beast was not so lucky. Though several spears glanced off its thick hide, three bit deep into its flank, throat, and spine, but despite its mortal wounds, the garo was not yet finished. Writhing and snapping as it struggled to its last breath and took two unfortunate bastards to the grave with it, men too stubborn to let go of their weapons to let the creature die out. A year ago, Bulat would have thought this enough to send any commoner screaming for the hills, but the good people of this District held fast, for they were fighting not just for their own lives, but the lives of everyone they held dear, which gave them the fortitude to advance upon the rider without so much as a prayer for their fallen friends.

The Defiled tribesman gave a good account, all things considered, leaping forward to chop one commoner with his sword and skewer another, but it was a mistake to think his ferocity would cause his foes to hesitate. In spear training, the militia spent most of their time learning one, single attack, and that was how to put the full weight of their bodies behind a two-handed thrust. No less than eight such attacks drove towards the tribesman from a myriad of angles, with more readied to follow up from behind. Cutting down three of those spears and the men holding them bought the tribesman a half-second to breathe, but then the remaining spears arrived and he had all the time in the world as one drove clean through his back and into his heart.

Even in death, the tribesman took a life, for the weight of his corpse broke three of the shafts protruding from him and allowed a second rider to fight his way free and drive deeper into the Imperial lines, but there was no room for the garo to maneuver. As the beast reared up to stop before barrelling over the edge, Bulat took his time aiming before flinging his axe. Round and round his weapon went, travelling not even five metres before striking blade first in the back of the rider’s skull, but Bulat was not far behind. Slamming into the garo’s hindquarters shoulder first, he sent the beast skittering towards the edge, but not over it, which was perfectly fine with him as it gave him enough time to wrench his axe out of the dead rider’s head and slam it home into the garo’s instead. The snapping fangs fell short of drawing blood, but its flailing legs clawed up his left leg good, so he took a full second to Heal his wounds and reload his gun.

“Fight, ye bastards,” he screamed. “Fight and live! Victory or Death!”

“VICTORY OR DEATH!”

It didn’t seem like much, but in a battle of Defiled against commoners, a single second meant a lot. Pran was drawing most of the attention, waving his massive hammer about, which wasn’t the worst thing so long as he survived. The militia were weak commoners, but there were plenty of them, and they were all armed with sharpened steel. Even if most thrusts failed to connect and the majority that did were merely glancing hits, even ants could bring down an elephant if there were enough of them, and for once, the Defiled were sorely outnumbered. Despite dying in droves to the attackers, the militia held firm on the wall, though it might be because the doors to the stairs were shut and barred. More of the bossman’s bastardly ways, but again, Bulat understood why. The Defiled were wolves and the commoners sheep, so if the sheep ran, the wolves would be upon them like a fox in the henhouse, only bigger, bloodier, and more vicious.

As if to prove his point, a hulking Defiled Champion howled as his snarling garo landed atop the wall, his bone axe pointed at Pran in open challenge. A vicious Aura swept out from the savage invader, and like the fool he was, Pran bellowed and raised his hammer overhead as his own Aura billowed up to meet his foe’s, even though Bulat’s Aura was already holding firm against it. Hammer crashed into axe and both combatants were sent reeling, their strength equally matched, but only because the Champion was still seated atop his mount. Before either one could recover, Bulat snapped a shot off into the garo’s open mouth, killing the beast and sending its rider toppling off its back. Never one to stand on chivalry, Pran brought his hammer down on his fallen foe’s torso, which smashed into the raised axe haft before powering through to cave in the Champion’s chest.

This was only the beginning, as Bulat was already back in the fray with his axe in hand, engaging yet another rider upon the walls. The battle dragged on as Defiled and commoner alike fought and died. Bulat kept throwing himself into the thick of things, but there were more militia than Defiled and he kept getting bogged down in their ranks. Pran didn’t have the same issue as the militia were quick to move out of the hulking half-bull’s way, but Bulat lacked his friend’s towering physique and powerful presence. Not the worst thing in the world, as it allowed him to blend in with the militia and keep killing Defiled before they noticed him approaching, but every kill cost him the lives of more commoners. Difficult to watch so many good people die, and soon Bulat’s courage began to falter and fade, but he held strong and stood fast because how could he, a Martial Warrior Blessed by the Mother Above, falter where lesser men stood and fought?

No, lesser men was a disservice to these fine people, for the militia fought with the courage of lions despite possessing a mouse’s physique. He saw more than one commoner toss aside his broken spear shaft and throw themselves into the fray with dagger or fist, so crazed and frenzied it made it seem like they were the madmen, and the Defiled sane in comparison. Most of those brave fools predictably died, but their valiant efforts bought time for their comrades to load their crossbows or drive their spears home, the deaths of the Defiled bought and paid for with the blood of farmers, teamsters, coolies, and other members who made their living on the lowest rungs of society.

The blood of heroes is what it was, and Bulat would fight anyone who dared suggest otherwise.

Stepping back to check on the gates, he was just in time to watch the first Defiled rider break through the cast-iron grid-work barring their path. The ursadons and gajashias were unable to leap over the walls, so they could only break through the walls or gates, and despite the prevalence of Defiled Weapons, hacking through solid stone was not easy even with a Honed blade. Sure they could carve up a section with relative ease, but carving an entryway would take patience only a select few Defiled might possess. Thus the gates were their preferred targets, as they were easier to hack through, and while the breach in their defences was troublesome, Bulat was more irritated than worried, as replacing those gates would be costly now that the bossman had sold off his cast-iron ventures. The gates were never meant to stop the Defiled from getting in, just slow them down on their approach, so maybe they didn’t even need to be cast-iron to begin with. Either way, he took a moment to enjoy the show as the first wave of gajashia’s crashed into the steel tripwire on their way out of the gatehouse. Though it failed to kill anyone and was easily cut, it did the job it was meant to and kept the Enemy in place long enough for the militia to find their marks.

A hundred bolts flew across the plaza and sent the attackers charging forward to engage, but a second trip wire foiled their attempt. Riding over the still-living bodies of their fallen comrades, the Defiled rushed to close the distance even as a second wave of bolts crashed into them. It would be a while before the next volley arrived, as the district gate only had two-hundred defenders, with the remaining eighteen-hundred militia waiting in reserve, but two-hundred was more than enough thanks to the bossman’s best laid plans. The districts defences were not built with the intention of keeping attackers out, but to draw them into killboxes by ones and twos so as to bleed them to death by a thousand cuts. The Defiled would soon learn that the districts were no easy pickings, as the militia went about their work with reckless abandon. The Defiled would soon lose their stomach for this and pass the word along to their brethren, and hopefully turn to razing empty homes or pillage growing fields; the damage done would be minuscule compared to the havoc they could wreak if the commoners didn’t have the districts to hide in, and Bulat was once again impressed with just how farseeing the bossman could be.

After the tripwires came the sections of false floors laid over deadly pitfalls underneath, followed by a stretch of caltrops scattered across the ground and hidden by a thin layer of oil soaked hay. Once the Defiled were well within the fire-zone, flint met steel and set the ground ablaze, panicking the stupid gajashias who then crippled themselves by stomping through the caltrops to get away from the flames. Those few Defiled who made it all the way through were met with spiked iron barricades defended by spear wielding commoners, assuming they weren’t picked off by errant fire from crossbows first, resulting in a hardy defence that Bulat believed could hold for as long as they had bolts and caltrops.

After catching his breath, he turned to rejoin the battle only to find the Enemy already in full retreat. At first, he thought it strange that they had so little stomach for battle, until he received word of incoming reinforcements approaching from the west. There was no time to relax however as he set his militia to helping the wounded and ending the misery of those too far gone to save, an unpleasant task that few dramas or operas ever cared to delve into. That’s how the reinforcements found him a few minutes later, with his hands caked in blood as he stitched up a puncture wound and hollered at some fool to hurry it up with those damned bandages.

“Well done holding out against the Defiled,” the Khishig said, sounding surprised to find anyone still alive. “Our riders will pursue them and finish the job, but Senior Captain Sumila has instructed us to lend aid where we can.”

“Healers?” The Khishig shook his head, and Bulat wasn’t sure if his grimace was one of regret or scorn. It was a long shot, as few Healers would care to waste their precious Chi saving the lives of commoners when they could be saving Martial Warriors instead, especially considering how commoners were more fragile and therefore required more effort to save. Still, it left a bad taste in Bulat’s mouth to know that not only would many of these wounded die in the coming hours, a good number of the survivors might have already lost their livelihoods too. How was an uneducated coolie supposed to go back to work after losing an arm or a leg? How could a blind farmer till the land or see if his crops were grown? Even those who remained whole might have taken wounds that would pain them for the rest of their lives, but there was nothing anyone could do for them, not so long as they remained commoners.

The bossman could take in Martial Warriors and teach them to use Panacea, but what was he supposed to do with thousands of crippled commoners?

Heaving a sigh as he tightened the bandages, Bulat called for a stretcher to carry his patient away and looked around to see where else he might be of use. Instead, he found a small crowd of militiamen standing around and looking like they had something to say. Stifling the urge to snap, as these brave souls had been through enough tonight without subjecting them to his ire, he counted backwards from three in his head and asked, “Well?

“Thank you, great one.” Bowing her head in gratitude as her shoulders shook with sobs, a woman towards the front of the crowd said, “Thank you for saving us.”

A chorus of echos followed as the other members of the militia followed suit, but Bulat put a stop to this right away. “Don’t thank me,” he growled, his anger slipping out despite his best efforts. “You saved yerselves, you and the people who stood with ye. Me, I just helped, but ain’t no way I could’ve done this on me own. Stand tall with pride, because you fought off the Defiled today, and ain’t nobody can ever take that away from ye.” Even as they registered what he said, Bulat worried that it wouldn’t take, that they’d all go back to bowing their backs and knuckling their foreheads for every ponce who came through, but he’d said his piece and didn’t care to do any more. “Where’s yer mayor? I’ve a need to talk to him.” To find out how many militia died defending these walls and get to work repairing the damage the Defiled had done.

The militia all looked at one another in confusion, until one finally chimed in with, “The mayor left with his family as soon as the first warning came in.”

No wonder that ponce of a fop didn’t get in the way while Bulat was arranging the defences, but he vowed to loosen that dumb bastard’s teeth if they should ever crossed paths again. If he left with his family, that meant he went out through the gates and did so without letting Bulat know. Dumb move, opening the gates with a Defiled attack on the way, and while he didn’t wish death upon the dumb fop, Bulat wouldn’t lose sleep if the Enemy caught up to his carriage either.

No wait. The idiot fop had two sons, insufferable, snotty nosed brats who took after their father, but even then, Bulat would mourn the loss. Children were a treasure, or at least that’s how he felt now that he was going to be a father soon.

Dei An was safe and sound back in their home, with plenty of Khishigs to keep her safe throughout her pregnancy, which still had many months to go before the baby was due. Besides, these Defiled raiders were targeting the less defended stretches of the Western Wall, while the Bekhai district Bulat and Dei An called home was located directly east of the Northern Citadel. For it to come under attack, the Citadel would already have to be overrun, at which point the district walls and Khishig defenders might as well be a paper hat in a rain-storm. She’d come out fine though, he knew this in his bones, because the Mother made precious few people as tough as Dei An. Were it not for her pregnancy and his firm insistence, she would have probably made up some excuse to come along with him, even knowing there were too many districts with too few Warriors to go around. She’d have been on him to do something too, since these brave people had been abandoned by their mayor, because for all her disdain for how the Empire treated their own, she was as kind and generous to outsiders as she was to the people of her home village.

Course, this made things tricky when people sought to take advantage of her kindness, but they stopped coming around as often after she had the last one run out of town by the Khishigs. A grand woman, his Dei An, that she was, sweet as sugar and tough as nails, and Bulat missed her dearly, but pining over her wouldn’t bring her here and there was work still yet to be done. Finding the Khishig leader again, he studied the man’s face until a name finally came to mind. “Yorhu, right? Son of Gasu and Yindi?”

“That I am,” the man replied, with what looked like the ghost of a smile. Not to say his lips were smiling, but rather than he looked like he would be if he were capable of showing human emotion, as the Khishigs were a strange lot. “You have need of my assistance, Old Bulat, son of Maira and Dagen?”

A jokester of a Khishig, a miracle of Heaven as it were. Dei An explained it to him, that the traditional greetings between Bekkies included parents and spouses to emphasize how one had roots in the mountains, and that there was no need for Bulat to mention anyone’s relatives when they met again, but he couldn’t help it. If a man was gonna introduce his parents to him, the least Bulat could do was show he remembered their names, though it always came out as a question. “That I do. Ye mind taking a few Khishigs and gettin’ a tally of the dead and wounded?” Not like knowing would change things, but it seemed like the right thing to do. “And err... could ye find someone to scribe fer me?”

“That I can and will, Old Bulat.” Again, that ghost of a smile appeared as Yorhu offered a martial salute, and Bulat couldn’t make heads or tails of the man. No matter though, so he went back to work and when the scribe arrived, a fresh-faced Bekkie too young to grow a beard, Bulat narrated a few thoughts regarding concerns to bring to Cixi, Consort Luo, and maybe even the bossman regarding the district defences. A second district wall for example, or raised platforms for dedicated crossbowmen, and training for javelins and throwing axes. Wouldn’t take much to improve the odds in their favour, and maybe it’ll save a few lives in the process. This wasn’t the first district to come under attack in recent days, nor would it be the last, and he shuddered to think how many poor commoners had already died to Defiled blades.

Which is why when the young Bekkie scribe, who turned out to be Amal, son of Yorhu and Cirinas, read the casualty report out loud to Bulat, he could scarcely believe his ears. “What was that, now? Say those numbers again?”

“Seven hundred forty three dead, three-hundred ninety eight critically injured, one-thousand eight-hundred thirty four wounded but mobile.” Blinking in confusion, Amal held out the sheet and pointed at the numbers as if to prove he was reading it right. “See?”

“I was surprised as well.” Yorhu’s ghost of a smile was gone now as he regarded Bulat with a critical eye. “The boy has yet to tell you the best part. Go on now.”

“Yes sir.” Nodding like chicken pecking grains, Amal smiled and said, “Of the four-hundred odd Defiled who attacked, one-hundred eighty-five were killed.” No wounded or prisoners there, as any Defiled left behind would have been killed on sight.

Having always had a gift for numbers, Bulat did the calculations in his head and came up with surprising results. Four militia died for every Defiled killed, though that number could shift up to six if every single critically wounded combatant were to die. Making it five militia to one Defiled would be realistic, and while it seemed like a terrible trade at first glance, this was coming from the perspective of a trained soldier. When Bulat joined the army, he was told to fight the Enemy with one concept in mind, that the life of an Imperial soldier was worth ten Defiled. This assumed of course that the Enemy was attacking a fortified Imperial position, just like they were now, so five to one odds against the Defiled was akin to a slaughter in his eyes, except now, the roles were reversed. If it cost five commoners to kill one Defiled, and ten Defiled to kill one soldier, then fifty commoners could ostensibly overpower one Martial Warrior.

Had someone asked him yesterday, Bulat would have wagered good coin that one Martial Warrior was worth significantly more, but the important thing to note was that there was only one Martial Warrior for every ninety-nine commoners, as they made up one percent of the population. However, most of these Warriors belonged to noble families, and most weren’t anything special either, not necessarily stronger than your average Defiled, just able to take advantage of things like static defences, disciplined coordination, and forged steel equipment. Knowing this, Bulat was forced to re-evaluate the disparity between Martial Warriors and commoners, because unlike the Defiled, your average commoner could also make use of tactics, fortifications, and equipment, like the spears, crossbows, and catapults the bossman taught them to craft and use.

So really, one Martial Warrior was worth far less than fifty commoners, as even a Peak Expert like Nian Zu would die from a bolt to the neck, and this was without taking into account the sheer economic power the commoners held if they all rose up as one...

“Indeed,” Yorhu Sent, nodding in unspoken agreement. “As you told those valiant souls outside, they can indeed stand tall with pride, for they hold far more power than anyone ever imagined. They will no longer bow so easily to others, not while Warriors like Old Bulat stand on their side.” The ghost of a smile returned, and Yorhu shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if young Rain understands the implications of his actions, realizes the change and bloodshed his efforts will bring. I believe he does not, that he is naive and foolish yet blessed by the Mother Above. What do you believe?”

“He knows,” Bulat answered, knowing it without even having to think. “He’s always been one to champion the downtrodden, and I think he’s been planning this all along.” The schools, the training, the equipment, even paper money, all of it was geared towards putting more power into the hands of the common people. What’s more, Bulat believed the Mother Above agreed with his plans, for the balance of power was shifting away from the Imperial Clan. Even the nobles of the outer provinces were beginning to grumble about the Imperial Clan’s complete absence from the war effort, with their only contribution being cold hard coin, coin which the outer provinces paid them in taxes. Perhaps the Imperial Clan was banking on the fact that the Defiled would forever be a threat, but if two-thousand commoners could fend off four-hundred Defiled, ten million could certainly fend off one million, and a hundred million commoners might even be enough to drive the Defiled back out of the Western Province.

The logistics of feeding that many people on the move could get tricky, but sharper minds than Bulat’s could probably figure it out, right?

The bossman had known this all along, he must have. He was never one to boast much, so why else would he dare to make that very claim? He announced as much to the whole army before riding out to reinforce Castle JiangHu with ten-thousand irregulars at his side, because he believed he was about to prove what armed commoners could accomplish. A good thing his results were overshadowed by the miracles that took place and his injuries that followed, but even now, the bossman was still stepping up efforts with training and recruitment using the Imperial Scion Liu Xuande as his mouthpiece, and when his plans finally came to fruition, he would have a million strong army of Irregulars at his beck and call, which was a lot less laughable than it was yesterday.

One million could easily grow into ten, and ten into twenty, and Bulat shuddered to think what it would be like to fight against a numerically superior force of commoners using Imperial equipment and tactics. The bossman had already proven he had the technology needed to raise fortifications quickly, and now he’d proven that commoners could be turned into an effective fighting force with only a modicum of training. Were these trained Irregulars manning the walls, Bulat would daresay they might even get away with three or two to one odds against the Defiled, a ratio that would shift sharply if they were supported by more than twenty-four Martial Warriors, like say the three-thousand commoners turned Martial Warriors who were now calling themselves the Legate’s Stormguard.

Add in the Bekkies with Lieutenant General Akanai to command them, and Falling Rain might have enough power to overthrow the Emperor himself, and damned if Bulat would not stand with him. Whether he wanted to or not, the bossman was going places, because if old Bulat could put all this together, the Emperor certainly could too, and few despots cared to leave threats to their power unanswered.

“Mother in Heaven,” Bulat prayed, “Watch over your son, Falling Rain, for these trials and tribulations may be too much, even for someone as blessed as he.”

Chapter Meme