The Seeds of Rebellion

“Swish!”

The whip cracked, creating a sharp pop in the air, and white, soft flesh on the man’s back instantly tore open, gushing blood.

“Aaaahhh—”

The old man, suspended from his bindings, spun uncontrollably with each lash of the whip. Around him, the surrounding thugs and gangsters erupted in mocking laughter.

“You pack of scoundrels, God will never forgive you!”

The young friar, tied to a pillar, glared, his eyes bloodshot. The horrific sight of the Bishop of Opava provoked a roar of indignant fury from him.

His defiant shout only amplified the enjoyment of the despicable onlookers. One burly, bearded man, clad in double-layered leather armor, stepped forward and punched the young friar, dislocating his jaw.

The brute hooked two fingers into the friar’s upper jaw, his eyes alight with a quiet rage. “God? Who is that? How many armies does he command?”

A balding, middle-aged friar, pinned underfoot, bellowed, “Archbishop Jaromir will soon send an army! Just you wait, you—”

The middle-aged friar’s words were cut short as a spiked mace crushed his skull, scattering white and red matter everywhere.

The brute frowned, casting a cold gaze at the henchman who had just killed the friar. “You killed him?”

“Boss, he was talking too much—”

“Did I give you permission to kill him?” The brute strode directly towards his subordinate.

The henchman forced a strained smile, his earlier unbridled laughter completely gone. “Boss, I… I… I…”

“Did I allow you to kill him?!” The brute seized the henchman by the neck with one hand, lifting him effortlessly. His vice-like grip caused the man’s face to quickly turn crimson.

The surrounding crowd fell silent, their eyes fixed on the scene, as if witnessing a judgment.

The henchman frantically clawed at the brute’s thick arm. “I… wrong…”

The force of his struggles grew weaker and weaker until his arms hung limply. With a dull thud, the body dropped to the wooden floor. The dead henchman foamed at the mouth, his body convulsing in spasms, and soon the stench of feces and urine wafted from his lower half.

The brute turned, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “Though we’ve incited a riot, it will be difficult to contend with regular armies. If we act without discipline, we’ll only meet our end faster.”

A voice from the crowd called out, “What should we do then? Run away?”

The brute offered no immediate reply. He spread his arms, addressing the assembly. “I ask you all, are you afraid to die?”

Some fell silent, others shouted, “No!” The remaining few had already begun to retreat to the back of the crowd, preparing to flee.

The brute grinned, revealing a flash of pearly white teeth. “I’ve received word that Duke Meissen will launch a war against the Duchy of Bohemia after next year’s spring planting.”

Those who had been poised to flee halted, while the silent ones began to inquire, “What does that have to do with us?”

The brute explained, “Next spring’s war will be fought along the border between the two nations. In autumn, they’ll be harvesting barley and oats, and sowing wheat and rye. Coupled with preparing for next year’s conflict, the Duke of Bohemia won’t be dispatching any armies.”

A subordinate asked, “What about Jaromir?”

The brute’s expression turned sinister. “While many of the duchy’s monasteries, large and small, fall under the administration of this Archbishop of Prague, I know that Moravia has always been subordinate to the Archbishop of Mainz—a man of considerable power within the Holy Roman Empire. He will certainly intervene if something like this happens.

Aside from his own knights, Jaromir will likely find it impossible to conscript any militia.

Hee hee hee…”

The group that had earlier feigned retreat now stepped forward, asking, “Even if it’s just knights, we still can’t fight them, can we?”

The brute’s brow furrowed. How could there still be such cowards among them, afraid to fight the knightly lords even from atop the city walls?

Before the brute could reprimand him, a hooded thief beside the questioner scoffed, “What’s wrong with knightly lords? We’re standing on the city walls! They’ll have to scale them. You chicken-hearted fool, you’re still thinking of running?”

The man offered a sheepish smile and melted back into the crowd.

The brute issued a final warning to everyone. “I must remind you all that many of us here are native to Opava. It’s best to clarify things before acting, so we don’t end up fighting amongst ourselves.

I warn you all: if infighting truly breaks out, I, ‘Tall’ Otto, will show no mercy!”

The despicable men bowed their heads, then quietly dispersed, until only ‘Tall’ Otto remained in the entire castle hall.

Otto shoved a foul-smelling cloth into the bishop’s mouth, then simply bandaged the young friar’s face. He then walked with heavy steps towards the throne at the front of the hall.

He settled onto the comfortable throne.

Otto gazed up at the hall’s ceiling, his hands resting on his long-handled axe, then closed his eyes and fell into deep thought.

****

“Foolish Jaromir!”

Sithis slapped the letter onto the table. He turned to the blond, powerfully built man beside him, who stood like an iron tower. “This selfish bastard actually wants me to send troops to suppress a rebellion. According to the scouts, that group of rebels in Opava now numbers at least 400.”

Kitil pursed his lips. “Hmm… that’s not many.”

Sithis tapped the table, emphasizing his point. “We get no benefit, even if we suppress the rebellion. That son of a b*tch Jaromir might even demand we pay this year’s tithes!”

Kitil looked bewildered. “No rebellion = no taxes?”

Seeing that Kitil hadn’t grasped his true meaning, Sithis pinched the bridge of his nose, unwilling to elaborate further. “Something like that…”

Sithis didn’t care about the meager taxes. Suppressing a rebellion inevitably meant casualties, and losing even one of his Norsemen was a loss. What would he gain? The trust of that wretched Jaromir? Who cared!

He aspired to make Hradec a free city like Milan or Genoa. All he needed to do was cling to the Duke of Bohemia’s leg; if the Duke didn’t speak, he wouldn’t budge an inch!

Sithis handed another letter to Kitil, his captain of the guard. “This one is from Jaromir to Svein. Send someone to the Barony of Ostrava.”

Kitil nodded.

He left the mayor’s small study with heavy steps.

****

After offering the messenger soldier a cup of ‘Noren Brand’ beer, Svein watched as the soldier spurred his horse, kicking up a cloud of dust. He then untied the string on the letter and unfolded it.

The letter’s content, in brief, read:

My friend Svein, a rebellion has broken out at Opava Castle. I hope you will suppress it.

At the bottom of the parchment letter was a wax seal, Jaromir’s private emblem.

Svein tossed the parchment into the forging furnace. The parchment blackened, curled, and finally turned to ash.

Frey, who was hammering to straighten a sword blade, asked, “Father, what did the parchment say?”

Svein picked up a chilled beer from beside him, chugged it, exhaled, then asked, “What parchment?”

Frey paused his forging. “The one that person just delivered!”

“What person?” Svein’s expression remained placid.

“The one who just…” Frey remembered clearly.

“Are you not focusing on your smithing?”

“I am very focused.”

“Then why are you talking about someone delivering some parchment?”

Frey instinctively drew his neck back, yielding to Svein’s imposing presence. He asked no further questions, instead raising his hammer to continue forging the nascent sword-shaped iron bar.