The Peasant

The Peasant

Fall of the Swords Book I

Scott Michael Decker

Copyright (C) 2014 Scott Michael Decker

Layout Copyright (C) 2016 by Creativia

Published 2016 by Creativia

eBook design by Creativia (www.creativia.org)

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

U.S. Copyright # TX 8-0003-111

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Chapter 23 Introduction, A Book of Five Rings, adapted from
The Book of Five Rings
(五輪書 Go Rin No Sho),

by Miyamoto Musashi, circa 1645

If you like this novel, please post a review on the website where you purchased it, and consider other novels from among these titles by Scott Michael Decker:

Science Fiction:

Bawdy Double

Cube Rube

Doorport

Drink the Water

Edifice Abandoned

Glad You're Born

Half-Breed

Inoculated

Legends of Lemuria

Organo-Topia

The Gael Gates

War Child

Fantasy:

Fall of the Swords (Series)

Gemstone Wyverns

Sword Scroll Stone

Look for these titles at your favorite e-book retailer.

To Bobby Foster,
Who gave me the idea over a cup of coffee in the town of Ft. Bragg on the north coast of California, and who to this day has no idea what an epic it became. Thank you, Bobby – SMD

I
t was a sword. It did not look important. Three feet long and slightly curved, the blade looked tarnished. The metal's dark color suggested it was simply brass. The edge was sharp and without a nick. The haft was pewter-colored, contoured for the human hand, and unremarkable—except for the single ruby set in the pommel.

Despite its modest appearance, the sword was skillfully constructed. The blade itself had been made from microscopic sheets of a chromium-antimony alloy layered one atop the other. The painstaking process made the blade very flexible and the edge very sharp. Even the best swordsmiths found the alloy difficult to work, however, making reproduction improbable.

In addition to its precise construction, the sword was ancient. Forged more than nine thousand years before, the sword had withstood all manner of use and misuse. The number of warriors who'd wielded the sword was a figure lost in the past. The number of warriors who'd died on its edge was many times that. The number of warriors mortally wounded while wielding this sword, however, was fewer than a hundred.

Called the Heir Sword, it assured the succession by preparing an Heir's mind for the Imperial Sword. No different in appearance, other than its slightly larger ruby, the Imperial Sword extended the range of an Emperor's psychic powers to the farthest corners of the Empire. Thus, the Imperial Sword was the figurative and literal source of the Emperor's authority. The Imperial Sword electrocuted anyone inadequately prepared by the Heir Sword, killing the unfortunate (or treacherous) soul. Thus, the Heir Sword was the only way to obtain that authority.

Each of the four Empires had its own pair of Swords, each pair adorned with a different gem. The four Imperial Swords all served the same function: To grant the current Emperor total dominion over his or her Empire. The four Heir Swords all shared their own function: To assure a smooth succession.

Although they shared the same function, the most valuable of the four Heir Swords was the one adorned with a ruby, the Heir Sword for the Northern Empire. Because of this Sword, the Eastern Empire had slaughtered all the people of the Northern Empire. Because of this Sword, a civil war had riven the Eastern Empire. Because of this Sword, bandits besieged the Eastern Empire from across its northern border. Because of this Sword, the four Empires' nine-thousand-year-old political systems were faltering, even though, ironically, the eight Swords had been forged to preserve them.

The Northern Heir Sword did not look important, but because of a single fact, it was the most important object in the world:

The Sword was missing.

T
o understand the fall of the Swords in the year 9323, we look back nearly fifty years to 9274, to the Caven Hills revolt in the Eastern Empire. We can trace the fall to this small skirmish. Heretofore, most historians traced the fall of the Swords to the annihilation of the Northern Empire in 9287, during which the Northern Heir Sword disappeared. However, from the Caven Hills revolt emerged the peasant Guarding Bear, a man with a talent as wild as the hills themselves. Revolting as much against inequitable taxation as his rigid society, Guarding Bear soon dominated Eastern Empire politics. Without him or his revolt, humanity would still be struggling to free itself from its nine-thousand-year cage. The way the revolt began is a story Guarding Bear can tell you himself.—
The Fall of the Swords
.

* * *

We stood on a hill overlooking a canyon with only one entrance. In that narrow defile, a small detachment of our rebels awaited the enemy. They were a full battalion of seasoned Arrow Warriors. We were a disorganized rabble of peasants, without the resources to continue our resistance much longer.

We were in rebellion. Two weeks before, the Lord Emperor Smoking Arrow had raised taxes from thirty to forty-five taels per family per year. In the Caven Hills, most families earned less than fifty. We were so poor only the Infinite knew how we'd pay.

Our insurrection started so innocently.

An hour after the Emperor announced the tax increase on the psychic flow, that great universal mind, my brother and I entered our village. The buildings were mostly wattle-and-daub huts, the only stone structure a small grain silo too large to hold our meager harvests. In inclement weather we kept sheep in it—when we had sheep. Piles of refuse and excrement greeted us with their stench. We'd become accustomed long before and barely noticed. Our father, the village elder, had tried years ago to improve the sanitation. Surviving was such a struggle that the Caven Hills natives cared little for fripperies like sewage systems.

Brazen Bear and I walked through the village, feeling the same dejection and doom all the villagers felt, most of them too ignorant to shield their minds. The village was a community under sentence. The villagers looked at us with hostility, as if we were somehow at fault for the increase in taxes.

We stepped into our hovel and found our father Crazy Bear. He was sitting on his sleeping mat and staring at the dirt. Without a word, we sat on our mats and looked toward him. I felt furious that Father was in such a predicament. No village elder was responsible for the region's poverty. If anyone, it was the Prefect who was responsible.

Crazy Bear looked up slowly, frowning. “Brazen Bear, Guarding Bear, oh my beloved sons.” He dropped his gaze back to the floor. “The Lord Emperor Smoking Arrow in his Infinite-blessed wisdom has raised taxes from thirty to forty five taels. This village can't possibly pay the extra fifteen taels and owes back taxes as well. We'll have to sell one of the village children across the border, perhaps two. Either that, or I lose my head for not collecting our liege lord's taxes.”

“Father—”

Crazy Bear held up a hand to interrupt my brother. Sighing, he looked toward the ceiling. “Infinite forgive me! This is all my fault.” He sighed again, his spirit heavy. In his love for us, Father granted us the honor of his unshielded emotions. “I made a purchase last week with money I began to save over five years ago. Taels we three have earned and taels from the village treasury, which I really shouldn't have spent. I've abused my office, in a way. If I thought my head would satisfy the tax collectors, I'd give it gladly, but my head won't pay the taxes.”

“Can't you sell back whatever you bought?” Brazen Bear asked.

“Only at a loss, my son.” Crazy Bear shook his head. “You know the situation. I want to protect our village from the Prefect to the east, to stop this village from being a pawn between our liege lord and him. In one sense, I want to protect our village. In truth I want my boys to have a measure of control over their lives, some means of making their situation better. I wish I could have presented these at a better time, my sons.” Reaching back, Father pulled an oilcloth bundle into his lap and opened the folds.

From within gleamed a pair of matched swords.

I gasped, having dreamt of swords better than the useless blades we practiced with, so dull we could only use them as bludgeons. These two swords, I saw, were far better than any I'd imagined. The hafts were plain and unadorned, the sheaths only leather, but the blades were a finely-layered, pewter-colored metal—the best workmanship and the best materials. I guessed that the swords were worth more than five times the village taxes. If Father sold them, the money would easily lift the burden Smoking Arrow had laid on our backs. That explained the villagers' hostile glances.

Brazen Bear looked sadly at the swords. “Please forgive me, Father, I can't accept the gift.”

Crazy Bear frowned at my younger brother.

“Neither can I, Father,” I said, wanting to shove my words back in my mouth. I craved one of those swords so much I'd have hacked off my left testicle to get one. To my horror, I added, “In fact, I insist you sell them tomorrow and pay the village taxes. You'll have enough to pay future taxes as well.”

My father smiled. “Fortunately,
I'm
the village elder. As your elder, I insist you take these swords. We know our liege lord doesn't think our village worth a bucket of dung, so we have to protect it ourselves. Tomorrow, I leave for Nest to ask the Lord Prefect Tiger to repay us the money I spent. In my absence, I charge you two to protect the village. I'm confident you'll do well. So take these swords, my sons, and always remember your duty to your village.”

I slid the oilcloth toward me and gestured my brother to choose one. Picking up the other tenderly, I slipped the blade into the sheath. The sword in both hands, I bowed reverently to my father. Brazen Bear knelt as well. In sync we spoke. “These humble peasants ask the Village Elder Bear to accept their swords and their souls into his service.”

We made a mockery of the warrior's ritual vows. The sword is the soul of the warrior. According to nobles, peasants don't have souls—and therefore can't have swords. Most groups in our stratified society twist logic like that to make themselves feel superior.

“This humble peasant accepts the swords and the souls of the Brothers Bear into his service,” Father replied. “His first and only command is that they vow a greater loyalty to the village of their birth. Use the swords with care, my sons, and walk with the Infinite.”

“Thank you, Elder, for entrusting us with this sacred duty.”

Outside the hut, we stopped to examine the weapons. A passing villager saw us. Her face grew cold when she saw our new swords. She was the typical village beauty of the Caven Hills. Disease had pocked her face, sores festered on her arm, her hair was lank and lusterless, and she stank enough to alert game from fifty paces away. Her words were typical too: “Why don't you boys unseat the Emperor and lower taxes, eh?” she said bitterly. “Do something
useful
with all that learning!”

Smiling at her, I repeated my father's refrain: “Why not?” My brother laughed, and we loped off into the forest to practice with our new swords.

Crazy Bear wasn't my father's given name. He'd
earned
it. Since before we could remember, Father had given us lessons each day. He'd nurtured our thirst for knowledge and love of learning, fertilizing the rich soil of our minds. Father included such diverse subjects as strategy, reconnaissance, command, swordsmanship, archery, intrigue, and government. If he weren't familiar with a subject or if we'd learned all he knew, Crazy Bear found those who could teach us further. Comfortable in their ignorance, the villagers often asked if he were rearing us to be Emperors. Father always replied, “Why not?”

It was an admirable if impossible dream. As the years of teaching continued, the villagers began to call him Crazy Bear, a name that always brought a smile to his lips. Since we revere the insane as if the Infinite has blessed them, Father could do with this name what a sane man couldn't, a lesson my brother and I remembered well.

We both knew he'd fail in Nest.

The Prefect Scowling Tiger was only a few years older than I. I was sixteen that year, Brazen Bear fifteen. Scowling Tiger had inherited two prefectures upon his father's death the year before. Since he depended on the taxes from his other prefecture, he cared little about the plight of the Caven Hills. To him, our precious land was a pair of words that adorned his name, a title that enhanced his status. He was a blight upon the Caven Hills.

While Father was in Nest, my brother and I discussed what to do about the taxes. Our village would suffer whatever the result of Crazy Bear's petition. We had vowed to protect it, so we devised a plan.

Talking with the elders from a few neighboring villages, we found out when the collectors would make their rounds. After three days in Nest, Father sent us a message on the psychic flow that Scowling Tiger had laughed at his request for reimbursement. The insult was intolerable.

We killed our first tax collector the next day and stole all the money he carried. During the next two days, we killed three more. With the money, we bought swords, spears, electrical shields, bows and arrows. We wasted not a tael.

After we killed the fourth one, the chief collector for the prefecture made three announcements on the psychic flow. First, a detachment of guards would henceforth escort all collectors. Second, the Prefect would pay a hundred taels for the capture of the criminals. Third, the region would repay all stolen taxes by paying a surtax, due immediately. The announcements enraged our fellow peasants.

The few warriors who lived in the Caven Hills were angry as well. A warrior with any face wouldn't live in such a cesspool; those who did had shameful pasts. Being peasants, my brother and I couldn't expect any warrior, regardless of past, to follow our orders. What warrior would serve a peasant? When we told them our plan, though, most joined us immediately. The other warriors died. We couldn't risk their informing the Prefect.

During the next two days, my brother, I and our band of miscreants ambushed three collectors and their escorts. Our spies in Nest had found out the collectors' routes. After they visited several villages, we massacred them before they took the day's collection back to Nest. We then disappeared into the wilderness of the Caven Hills.

Thus began our insurrection.

While criminal activity in the region was no more widespread than elsewhere, our area had the reputation of being the refuse heap of the Empire, a dumping ground for the Empire's human garbage. Hilly and inaccessible, the Caven Hills was haven to fugitives from across the land. Once every ten years or so, the Prefect would ask the Emperor to send in the Armed Forces to scour the place clean of trash, which only scattered it elsewhere. The actual natives—not the Empire's garbage—were reclusive, irrepressible and fiercely independent. They weathered this drizzle of scoundrel and cloudburst of warrior like willows in a storm—they remained when the storm had gone. The inhabitants did what they could to deter the government's scrutiny. They didn't hesitate to bring the career of a particularly reckless reprobate to an early end.

Our miscreants were unusual, having gained the tacit support of the natives.

My brother and I knew that Scowling Tiger would have to act—or he might lose his position. We'd repaid his neglect of the Caven Hills by taking his taxes, but the income was less important than his face.

Now, I'm Guarding Bear—a peasant. Nobles always tell us peasants we don't have face and can't understand face. I know this much about it: Face is sometimes more important than substance. To nobles, anyway.

Scowling Tiger had inherited more than wealth and position: He'd inherited face. Even the Emperor had respected and feared his father Stretching Tiger. For a week, though, the Prefect did nothing to regain his face. He didn't even collect taxes. He
did
request Smoking Arrow's help. The Emperor sent Scowling Tiger a full battalion of Arrow Warriors.

Not knowing where and when they'd attack, Brazen Bear and I sent envoys to most of the villages and asked them to move temporarily to Bastion Valley. Then, to insure that the battalion attacked where we wanted, we had the location of our camp
and
a false report on our numbers secretly whispered in the right ears.

The canyon where we camped was a natural bowl, its sides steep, like most the hills in the region, those at the entrance almost vertical. Thick scrub oak and gnarled manzanita covered the hillsides with leaves that will send you sprawling if you don't know how to walk on them. My brother and I planted electrical shields in the trees all around and inside the canyon, turning their ranges to maximum. Under those on the rim, we secreted most of our rebels, so the Imperial sectathons couldn't count how many we were. To catch the scouts sent to inspect the shielded areas visually, we placed snares in all likely approaches, a trick so primitive no one thought we'd use it. In the canyon entrance we assembled a hundred volunteers—the same number of rebels we'd whispered in just the right ears. Their shields flickered on and off as though malfunctioning, betraying their presence. Our strategy was to make the Arrow Warriors think we'd scattered the shields in and around the canyon to make our numbers appear greater than they were, a ruse often used to deceive an enemy. Our deception was we actually
did
have rebels under those shields.

The Imperial Battalion marched toward the Caven Hills, Howling Tiger in command. The Emperor had allowed the Prefect's younger brother to lead them to save Scowling Tiger's face. They tried to march through the rough terrain in orderly rows and columns, trying to maintain formation in vain.

Watching them, Brazen Bear and I laughed so hard we pissed all over ourselves. Father had taught us to adapt our strategies and tactics to the terrain, and we exploited their failure to adapt.