EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 53: The Rising
🕑 Added 2025-10-17 00:09:29 +0000 UTCSpring came quietly to the plains of Dobruja. Morning light fell on damp soil and rows of young wheat. Iskander worked a shovel beside a dozen others, men and women laboring over fields held in common. From a distance, they looked like peasants at their work. But their eyes kept drifting to the treeline, where lookouts stood watch. This was no ordinary village labor, and Iskander, though clad in a frayed tunic like the rest, was no ordinary peasant.
He straightened, wiping sweat and mud from his brow. The air carried a cool trace of the distant Black Sea. Iskander closed his eyes and murmured a brief prayer of gratitude, one that could have been uttered in a church or a mosque, thanking the Creator for the earth’s renewal. The world felt hopeful in the quiet dawn.
A shout shattered the calm. Iskander’s eyes snapped open to see a young man sprinting over the rise, waving his arms. One of their lookouts, Yusuf, a lad of seventeen, came running hard, terror on his face. Iskander dropped his shovel and strode forward, heart lurching. Farid, working nearby, was already vaulting an irrigation ditch to meet the messenger.
Yusuf stumbled into Farid’s arms, gasping for breath. A dark smear of blood stained the boy’s sleeve and his cheek was bruised. “Effendi… they came,” he panted, voice breaking. “They burned it all…”
Iskander reached them in two strides and gripped Yusuf by the shoulders. “Easy, son,” he said in a calm tone that belied the dread coiling in his stomach. “Catch your breath. Who came? What happened?”
The others gathered around in a tightening circle. Selim and Sheikh Dawud exchanged grim looks as Yusuf tried to speak. The boy gulped air, eyes wide and shining with tears. “Ottoman riders,” he managed. “Eight or nine of them. They raided Karanli at dawn.” Karanli, just a few miles away, a village that had quietly harbored Iskander’s followers. A collective intake of breath met the name. Farid’s fists clenched.
“How bad?” Farid demanded.
Yusuf’s voice wavered. “Bad,” he whispered. “They killed anyone who resisted. I… I saw bodies in the street. They took women and children, dragged them off tied to their horses. Burned our grain. The imam tried to stop them, and they cut him down in front of the mosque.” A sob escaped him. “I hid in a ditch until they left. They rode west, toward the next villages… laughing.”
A growl of anguish rippled through the listeners. Iskander felt the ground tilt beneath him. Karanli’s people, men and women who had fed and sheltered them, slaughtered for that loyalty. He swayed, a memory flashing in his mind of another village aflame years ago. He saw his mentor Mustafa’s face contorted in agony as Ottoman soldiers crucified him and paraded his body on a camel. The old horror rose in his throat.
Sheikh Dawud’s steady hand on his arm brought Iskander back. He realized he had sunk to one knee. With effort, he stood. Yusuf was looking up at him, eyes pleading. “They knew, effendi,” the boy choked. “They said… any village that helped you will meet the same fate.”
Farid swore under his breath. “Those bastards,” he hissed, voice trembling with rage. He shook off Selim’s attempt to calm him and glared at Iskander. “We cannot let this stand, hoca,” he said, using the honorific for teacher. “How many more villages must burn while we hide? We preach patience and prudence, and meanwhile our people are butchered like sheep!”
Selim laid a hand on Farid’s shoulder. “Keep your head,” he warned softly. His own face was tight with grief. “If we act rashly, we could doom even more of us. We always knew there might be sacrifices—”
“Sacrifices?” Farid spat. “Tell that to the mothers in Karanli whose children were thrown into the flames! Must we watch and do nothing?” He turned to Iskander, eyes burning.
“Ottoman power is splintering, Murad is dead, his armies shattered, and only these jackals remain. If not now, when? What good are our prayers and manifestos if we never fight?”
Dawud stepped between them, raising his hands for peace. “No one says do nothing,” he soothed. “But we must not lose our wits in anger. We need clear minds, not hot heads. Think, what’s our path?”
Inside the old barn, out of earshot of the others, Iskander gathered Farid, Selim, and Dawud. Dust hung in the dim light as they faced one another. Iskander’s heart ached with indecision. Farid’s youthful face was fierce and imploring; Selim’s older gaze was wary, haunted by past failures. Dawud’s eyes shone with compassionate sorrow.
“In my heart?” Iskander said when Dawud asked. “Rage. Grief. Guilt. Karanli burned because of me, because of my vision. I led them to it.”
“No,” Farid said fiercely. “Their blood is on the Ottomans, not you. Your vision is what gave them hope. If we die for it, so be it, but we’ll die on our feet, not on our knees.”
Selim ran a hand over his face, where tears glinted. “I want to fight too, Farid. But I can’t forget 1416. Sheikh Bedreddin’s revolt was crushed because we rose too soon and too openly. I still see our mentor’s body on that cross… I won’t see that happen again. Not to us.” He swallowed. “Unless victory is truly within reach, I won’t lead our people into another slaughter.”
Iskander closed his eyes, torn in two. Farid’s passion and Selim’s caution warred inside him. His mind raced over all the years of quiet preparation: the secret teachings, the manifesto of justice spreading through the villages. They had tried to avoid Bedreddin’s fate by biding their time. But now time had run out, Karanli’s ashes proved that.
Dawud rested a hand on Iskander’s shoulder. “There is a season for all things, my friend,” he said softly. “We have planted and tilled for years. Perhaps now is the season to harvest. To pull up the weeds of tyranny from God’s garden.”
Iskander’s eyes stung with tears he didn’t bother to wipe. He remembered a verse: God does not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves. They had waited for a sign or a perfect moment. But perhaps this horror was the sign, the moment when fear of inaction outweighed fear of failure.
He thought of their distant ally in the West, the emperor who had promised support, but no word had come for years. Whatever war raged in the west, here in Dobruja they stood alone. If not us, who? If not now, when?
Iskander opened his eyes and looked at each of his companions in turn. He saw loyalty and love in their faces, and a readiness to follow him into whatever came next. The decision crystallized.
“You are both right,” Iskander said, voice quiet but resolute. “Farid, we may never get another chance like this. Selim, we must be clever and not throw away our lives. We’ll rise, but we’ll do it the right way.” He drew a steadying breath. “The time for waiting is over. The time to fight is now.”
Farid let out a breath of relief and fierce joy. Selim nodded gravely, resolve hardening his expression. Dawud closed his eyes in a brief prayer.
Iskander pushed open the barn door and stepped out. A few villagers lingered nearby, tense and watchful. “Gather everyone,” Iskander called softly. “Quickly.”
Within minutes, several dozen villagers had assembled in the yard, men, women, even youth clutching slings and hatchets. They looked to Iskander with a mix of fear and hope. He climbed onto a low wooden crate so all could see him.
“My friends,” he began, voice carrying in the spring air, “this morning the Ottomans tried to break us. They turned Karanli to ash. They butchered our brothers and sisters because Karanli dared to share our dream of justice.” Gasps and muffled sobs met his words. He raised his hand. “Now those same riders are headed for another village, and then another, perhaps here next. They mean to wipe out anyone who stands with us.”
Faces in the crowd set in fear and anger. Iskander pressed on. “We have lived under their yoke a long time. We have prayed for deliverance. But no angel is coming to save us.” He let that sink in. “The only ones who can save us are ourselves. God has planted the seed of freedom in our hearts, but we must be the hands that act.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through them. Farid stepped up beside Iskander, scythe in hand, and shouted, “If not now, when?”
“Now!” answered a few voices.
Iskander allowed himself a tight smile. “Ottoman power is fractured. The Sultan’s best troops are far away, defeated on distant fields. Here, only these brigands remain. They think we are weak. They think we will bow and beg while they slaughter us.” His eyes flashed. “They are wrong.”
“They’re wrong!” a farmer echoed, hoisting a club.
“We stand together,” Iskander said, spreading his arms. “Muslim and Christian, peasant and villager, one people. The Almighty, Lord of all, hears the cry of the oppressed, no matter what tongue we pray in. He is with us now as we rise to demand justice.”
Heads nodded; someone yelled “Amen!” and others echoed in different tongues.
“If we fight, some of us may fall,” Iskander said solemnly. “But if we do not fight, all of us will be ground under their heels forever, us, and our children after us. I say better a short life in freedom than a long life in chains.”
A young woman stepped forward, a long knife in her hand. “We’re with you, effendi!” she cried. A growl of assent followed.
Iskander took a deep breath. “Here is the plan,” he said. “Those riders are heading to the village of Cherneva, just west of here. We will go there first and lay a trap.” He began issuing instructions briskly. “Farid, take a horse and ride ahead to warn Cherneva’s folk. Gather everyone willing to fight; have them hide at the tree line with whatever weapons they have.” Farid nodded sharply and sprinted off to fetch a horse.
“Selim, you take the north road,” Iskander continued. “Alert the farms and the next village beyond. Tell them to join us at Cherneva by sundown. Quietly. We’ll surround the raiders.”
Selim bowed his head. “It will be done,” he said, immediately moving to round up a few messengers.
Iskander looked over the rest. “The rest of you, come with me through the woods.” He scanned their faces, lined with fear but also a spark of defiance. “Arm yourselves with whatever you can find, axes, knives, poles. We’ll meet at the old oak by Cherneva.”
A chorus of agreement answered. He lowered his voice, letting tenderness into it. “Have courage. Think of Karanli, think of your own families. We do this for them.”
With that, the crowd dispersed in a flurry of urgent purpose. Hidden weapons were pulled from under floorboards and haystacks, rusty swords, pitchforks sharpened to deadly points. In hushed determination they prepared, then slipped away in twos and threes down winding paths and through the budding woods toward Cherneva.
By late afternoon, a hush lay over Cherneva’s small cluster of cottages. The sun hung low, gilding the fields in copper light. At a glance, the hamlet looked deserted. doors stood ajar, cooking fires were left untended. Not a soul moved in the lanes. But behind hedges and stone walls, dozens of villagers crouched in wait, hearts hammering.
At last the jingle of bridles and clop of hooves echoed up the road. The Ottoman raiders rode in at an easy trot, eight dark silhouettes against the sunset. They saw no resistance, only empty homes. Chuckling, they dismounted to loot. One kicked open a cottage door, another began rifling a cart for grain. Their bearded leader stalked carelessly toward the village well, sword in hand, calling, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Only silence answered.
He never saw the danger in the shadows. At that instant, a horn blast shattered the stillness. With a collective roar, villagers poured from their hiding places and fell upon the raiders from all sides.
The ambush broke like a storm. The Ottomans barely had time to shout before the first blow landed. A broad-shouldered farmer swung his flail and caved in a raider’s skull. A woodcutter’s axe split another man’s spine from behind. Hunters loosed their arrows; two Ottomans dropped where they stood. The rest fought back in a frenzy, one drove his blade into a boy’s belly, another slashed open a man’s throat before a pitchfork caught him in the ribs. The clash was over in moments. Eight Ottomans lay dead or dying, and three villagers with them. The smell of blood and churned soil hung heavy in the air.
As the last raider fell silent, a brief stillness hung in the air. The ambushers stood panting, staring at the bloody work in disbelief. Then a great cheer broke out, raw, exultant. Some wept with relief, others held their heads in their hands, overcome by the enormity of what they’d done.
Without losing a beat, the villagers began stripping weapons and gear from the corpses. Scimitars, daggers, bows, and horses, everything was collected. As they did, Iskander emerged from the line of trees and walked into the village. He had hung back during the fight, allowing his people to take the lead. Now he looked upon the scene: fallen raiders sprawled in the dust, villagers he knew standing triumphant and free. A warm flood of emotion filled his chest at the sight.
One older man stepped forward, bloodied scythe in hand. “Iskander, we did it,” he said, voice half-laughing, half-sobbing. “They’re finished!”
Iskander nodded, a proud, solemn smile on his face. “You fought like lions,” he said to the crowd of peasants gathering around. Many were still catching their breath, faces glowing with adrenaline and astonishment. “Our first battle is won.”
A ripple of prideful laughter traveled through them. Iskander raised his hands for quiet. Dusk was settling, and in the dimming light his figure stood at the center of the circle of villagers.
“It has begun,” he told them, voice clear and calm. “There’s no turning back now.” Dozens of heads nodded; they all understood the weight of that truth.
Iskander pointed to Farid and Selim, who were already mounting fresh horses. “Ride,” he commanded. “Tell everyone what happened here. Rally the villages, every one of them. Tonight, let the word spread like fire that the people of Dobruja have risen. By tomorrow, we’ll have an army.”
Farid grinned fiercely. “We’re on our way!” he shouted, and with a kick of hooves he and Selim and a handful of others sped off into the twilight to carry the revolution outward.
The villagers closed in around Iskander. Their faces were hard now, their fear burned away. These were no longer fearful peasants, Iskander thought, these were men and women who had tasted their own power.
He looked at each of them, eyes shining. “Go back to your families,” he said gently. “Tend the wounded, and comfort those who grieve. But be ready, this was just the beginning. The Ottomans will send more, and we will face them, together.”
A unified murmur of assent answered. In the eyes of the very old and the very young alike, Iskander saw a steely resolve. The spark had become a flame.
Satisfied, he drew in a deep breath. The air smelled of smoke, blood, and spring blossoms crushed underfoot, a bitter and sweet scent of change. As he exhaled, Iskander felt the burden of leadership settle fully on his shoulders. He accepted it without flinching.
With a final sweeping gaze, he lifted his chin and spoke the words that would echo through the hills and fields before the next dawn. His voice was soft but carried to every ear, an oath and an order wrapped in three simple words:
“Down the masters.”
Author's Note: The revolution begins now! Our dear friend Iskandar makes his return! Dobruja, located in the northeast of modern-day Romania, was historically where many of the last followers of Bedreddin sought refuge. And now, it's campaign time in the next chapter!
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
RENAISSANSE SI
Iskander hasn’t sent him the manifesto itself, though the two had spoken about it. Constantine had even promised to help print and spread it.
John Nguyen
Has Iskander sent Constantine a copy of his manifesto yet?
Elaine
good chappie
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