53. Seeds if Insurrection

The pale morning sun bled weakly through the tattered clouds. The battlefield stretched out before Harsh, now a patchwork of mud, blood, and broken bodies. The once-fertile soil was marred by deep hoof prints and dark stains of congealed crimson.

A light rain fell over the camp, turning the dirt into slick muck, but no one sought shelter. The freedmen stood in solemn silence, their faces streaked with soot, sweat, and grief. They had fought and they had won—but at a cost.

Harsh walked through the ranks, his boots sinking into the blood-soaked earth with each step. The coppery tang of death clung to the air.

Men clutched at their wounds, some gritting their teeth through the pain, while others stared into the distance with hollow, unseeing eyes. The faces of the dead were already growing pale and stiff in the morning chill.

But the men standing—the men who had fought and survived—now looked at Harsh with eyes that held something far greater than fear or admiration.

They looked at him with conviction.

---

Bharat sat on a fallen tree trunk, his bloodied hands trembling slightly as he ran a cloth over his sword. The gash on his temple had been hastily bandaged, but the edges of the cloth were already soaked with blood.

Ravi crouched nearby, his eyes distant, lost in thought. His knuckles were raw from where he had bashed in a noble's skull with the pommel of his sword.

Harsh approached them slowly.

Neither man spoke.

For a long moment, the three of them simply stared at the bodies being gathered.

"Thirty-two men," Bharat muttered, his voice hoarse. "Thirty-two freedmen died."

Ravi exhaled sharply, clenching his jaw.

"And twice that many wounded," he added bitterly.

Harsh's gaze drifted over the battlefield.

The freedmen moved with grim efficiency, hauling the corpses of their fallen comrades onto makeshift pyres. Smoke billowed into the sky, black and heavy.

"Too many," Harsh muttered under his breath.

Bharat's eyes hardened.

"No," he growled, his voice low and fierce. "Not too many. Not when they died as free men."

Harsh glanced at him, surprised by the steel in Bharat's voice.

The once-docile laborer was gone.

In his place stood a hardened warrior.

---

When the last of the pyres were lit, Harsh gathered the men in the clearing. The fires crackled and spit embers into the sky. The rain hissed softly as it struck the rising flames.

The freedmen stood together, their heads bowed. Their faces were smeared with soot and blood, but their eyes were steady.

Harsh walked before them, his gaze sweeping over the weary ranks.

He let the silence stretch. Let the weight of the moment settle over them.

Finally, he spoke.

"They are gone," he said softly, his voice rough with sorrow. "And there is nothing we can do to bring them back."

His eyes lingered on the flames.

"But we can honor them," he continued, his voice growing stronger. "Not with sorrow. Not with tears. But with defiance."

He turned to face the freedmen fully, his eyes fierce.

"They fought because they wanted to be free. They bled so that their children would never be shackled by another's chains."

His gaze swept over the crowd.

"They were laborers once. But today, they died as warriors. And we will not forget them."

The men let out a collective breath. Some clenched their fists. Others held back tears.

Then Harsh strode forward, stopping before the wounded men who had fought despite their injuries.

One by one, he removed his leather bracers and placed them on the arms of the wounded fighters.

The gesture was simple—but it was seen by all.

He was giving them his own armor.

"Today, you are no longer freedmen," he declared, his voice loud enough for all to hear.

The men's eyes widened in disbelief.

"You are the first of my warriors," Harsh said firmly.

The camp fell into stunned silence.

And then the freedmen began to cheer.

---

By the following day, Harsh stood before his makeshift war council.

Bharat, Ravi, and several freedmen leaders stood with him. Their faces were hard, their eyes sharp.

They had crossed the threshold.

There was no turning back.

Harsh's voice was calm but commanding.

"We can't afford to wait for the next attack," he said. "We need better defenses—and more men."

Bharat frowned.

"Where do we find more men?" he asked. "We can't trust the nobles' vassals."

Harsh smiled grimly.

"We won't take them from the nobles," he replied. "We'll take them from the people."

The men stared at him.

Ravi frowned.

"You mean... the peasants?"

Harsh nodded slowly.

"Every village, every hamlet, every field has men who have suffered under noble rule," he said. "Men who have watched their sons drafted to die in foreign wars. Men who have seen their daughters taken as tribute. Men who have paid their last coin in tax only to be driven from their land."

His eyes hardened.

"They're already angry," he continued. "They just need a reason to fight."

Ravi's eyes narrowed.

"And you'll give them that reason," he said softly.

Harsh met his gaze.

"Yes."

---

Over the next week, Harsh's riders spread out across the region.

They didn't carry banners or declare open rebellion.

Instead, they moved quietly, visiting village after village, speaking to the peasants in secret.

They carried no promises of glory or riches.

They brought only truth.

In the village of Kesarpat, an old man with a bent back and hollow eyes listened as one of Harsh's men knelt before him.

"They took my daughter last year," the old man whispered. His voice was brittle, a threadbare thing. "Said it was a marriage tribute to some noble's second son."

The rider's voice was soft but firm.

"They can't take her if they're dead," he said simply.

In the hamlet of Sahiyari, a young man with calloused hands stared at the small iron sword Harsh's men placed in front of him.

"They'll kill us all," the youth whispered.

The freedman smiled grimly.

"Only if we let them."

And in the town of Vedapur, a woman with tired eyes stared into the face of the man who had once been her neighbor—a man who had been sold into slavery.

He pressed a blade into her hand and looked into her eyes.

"They made us slaves," he whispered hoarsely. "But we are still alive."

The fire began to spread.

Slowly.

Silently.

But relentlessly.

---

Far from the villages, the noble clans gathered.

Their faces were grim, their voices low.

The failed raid had humiliated them.

But worse—Harsh's defiance was spreading.

"He is building an army," one noble spat. "An army of peasants."

The others scoffed.

"They're nothing more than rabble," another sneered. "They'll break like chaff in the wind."

But one man remained silent.

His name was Jayanth Varma.

He was older than the others, his hair streaked with silver. His eyes were cold and calculating.

"They will not break," he said softly.

The other nobles turned toward him, surprised.

Jayanth's lips curled into a cruel smile.

"Because he's giving them something they've never had before."

His eyes gleamed with malice.

"Hope."

---