Milos Obilic
by TJ Kim

T

he streets were dim, lit only by torches. The orphan Milos stood watchful as a lone banker appeared in the tall doorway of the white, limestone building. The squat, but well dressed and fed, man bobbled out, unaware of the thieves behind him. Milos gave the signal and they sprang into action. They nudged him, none too gently, in the shoulders. Surrounding him, Milos’ companions spoke,

“What the bloody crud are you doin’ out ‘ere so late?” Their voices were hoarse from many days without food. Milos made his move.

“Hallo laddies. Watcha’ plannin’ to do with that old man? Well, I’ve got something to say to a couple of hooligans like ya. Scram!” He lurched forward, scaring the bullies away. He hid a proud smile. His younger, thieving friends had done well.

“Good thing I saw ‘em before they saw you, eh?” Milos asked in a friendly tone.

“Yes, thank you, my good child. I would like you to have a little reward for your helpful behavior,” stumbled the old man.

The gentleman tossed him a bronze coin but Milos was after more than that. As the banker walked off, Milos’ nimble fingers deftly slipped the man’s porch of gold out of his pocket. Careful not to jingle any of the coins, he strode away, right into the arms of a barrel-chested guard. As something struck him over the head, everything went black.

M

ilos Obilic awoke in a grimy prison cell, most likely Lazarevac’s city jail. His wrists and ankles were shackled together and he was lying on a dusty, dirt floor. His face was pressed against the dirt as he carefully turned on his back. As he drowsily opened his eyes, his head throbbed and he quickly shut them again. Milos’ next attempt was successful and he took in the sight ahead of him. The cell he was in was filled with boys, and a few girls, who were caught committing a crime, or were just accused of one. Some of them he knew from joint pickpocket schemes. They were all dressed in dank rags that smelled of rusty metal. He, only then, realized he bore the same garments.

“Get up yer’ dirty lot! The king is ready to give ya’ yer’ punishments.” The guard who had captured Milos was now standing in front of the jail cell, armed with a spear. He prodded the little thieves in the back while the slower ones scrambled away from the sharp point. The grimy group approached a room with golden walls. The great ruler, Stefan Dusan, was seated in an enormous throne and watched the pickpockets before him with cold eyes. Milos thought the throne would be very uncomfortable but didn’t say a word.

“Stand up one by one and recite your name and your crimes,” bellowed the massive figure. The first boy stood up, “Jerome Necaro, an’ I did nuthin’ wong.”

“Liar! You are here because one of my guards caught you disobeying the law!” King Dusan was standing now, screaming at the unfortunate boy. “Now confess your crimes!”

“Stole golden… sca…scabbard… your highness,” sputtered the formerly stubborn thief.

“Much better,” grumbled the King. “You are sentenced to ten lashings and 2 months of prison.” Jerome gawked in horror as he was dragged away. We could hear his screams as a whip tore ten lines down his back.

The line of criminals grew shorter as the punishments went on. Finally, Milos was up.

“State your name and crime.” Stefan Dusan’s voice wasn’t even hoarse yet and had the same intense volume as before.

“Milos Obilic, st-“

“Hold on, weren’t you the one who fought my guards with a stolen sword until your friend could get away?” interrupted the king.

“That was only becau-” protested Milos.

“Silence! You’re also the boy who killed a bull with a rock just so you could take a hoof!”

“I was goin-”

“You mugged a fully grown sailor for his hat!” Dusan couldn’t stop. “And muzzled three bloodhounds that were sent after you! And knocked out one of my own generals for his boots!”

All the while Milos thought, ‘How does he know all this?’ He pondered about this until he saw the redness of Stefan’s face. A new thought popped up, ‘He’s probably going to have me executed.’

“Have this boy sent to the army as a foot soldier and make sure someone keeps an eye on him.” The words hit him like a hammer on a bell and echoed over and over while he was dragged to the castle fortress.

“B

ring him to Kosovo. I hear they need recruits and this place is too crammed anyway.” A general was speaking to Milos’ captor in a room across the hall while another soldier watched Milos. He was sitting on a rotting bench in a grimy gray tower in some part of the fort. The heavy oak door in front of him was suddenly thrown opened with violence. Milos’ furious prosecutor left the door swinging wildly on its hinges as he grouchily explained where they were headed. “And I have to come with you,” he added.

Milos was soon on a wagon with other recruits, some who were drafted like himself and others who volunteered. His foreman was in the next wagon with some soldiers.

“What did you do?” A boy behind Milos whispered. Milos turned around to face him.

“What do ya’ mean?” mumbled Milos.

“I mean, did you volunteer or get drafted?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Milos stared glumly at his feet and the wagon was silent once more. The wagon rumbled to a stop as the horses trotted into a stable. The boys were called out to the tents in the Kosovo training ground. The training grounds were dry, dusty fields with some tents scattered here and there. Off in the distance he could just barely make out odd walls that were broken into sections, like giant shields.

“What are those?” he asked the boy who spoke earlier, pointing toward the wooden structures. The boy shielded his eyes from the blazing sun and squinted at the objects.

“I heard there were gonna’ be some battles here with some people from the south called Macedonians. I’ll bet those are their camps. By the way, my name’s Leonard, Leonard DiMigo.”

“I’m Milos Obilic. Hope I see ya’ again Leo, my chap.” The two parted as they were led to their own generals. Milos trudged his way toward his guide.

“Get a move on, you tub o’ lard. I haven’t got all day.” Milos looked up to see that he was the only one from his group that was on this side of the road. Everyone else from his wagon was on the other side. The guard in charge of him was now arguing with an officer at a desk. Milos sat down on a nearby bench and waited for the burly man once more. Again, the guard came back and told him the news.

“They won’t let ya’ join withou’ trainin’ so, they need to test ya’ while I wait,” muttered his foreman. Soon, another officer came out and called for Milos.

“Go on, and don’t make me wait!” called his overseer.

T

he test was simple, defeat the opponent. The opponent was the challenging part. He was an oversized man, at least 4 meters tall and almost as wide. Gripping a long pike, he was as formidable as a herd of deer. Milos heard the officers laugh behind him as he stepped forward with the sword he was given. Milos knew it would be a tough battle but he was determined to earn the respect of the onlookers.

“You will fight at my command, on my mark, get set, go!” cried the soldier who had recently argued with the guard. Milos dove to the side as an iron point rammed the fence behind him. Quick on his feet, Milos leapt up and parried a blow from the side that rattled his bones. The battle continued and the air was filled with the sounds of clashing metal. Milos quickly learned that the spearman didn’t have the stamina needed to continue blocking Milos’ rapid downpour of slashes and jabs. He increased his effort and sent blow after blow down on the massive soldier. With one last strike, the spearman collapsed, his chest heaving. Milos smiled proudly as an uproar arose from the crowd, drowning out all other sounds.

“Cripey, this boy’s a monster,” breathed a general who had stopped to see the outcome of the skirmish. He bustled his way through to the desk and asked for the boy’s name.

“I believe the fighter calls himself Milos Obilic, sir,” a clerk replied.

“Milos Obilic, Milos Obilic, Milos Obilic,” the general repeated to himself. Once more, he pushed through the crowd and introduced himself to Milos.

“Hello, there. I’m General Geoloni, and I would like to ask you a question. Would you like to join my sergeants in Tent B?” The general’s voice was calm and deep.

“I think I would like to join ya’ and your lot, sir,” replied Milos confidently.

“Good, but first you’ll need your uniform and bunk.”

“I

hear his father was a dragon.” Two young foot soldiers were whispering as Milos and his new commander walked by.

“No, his mother was a sorceress and cast a spell on him.”

“Whatever, but I heard the Head Commander talking about watching him to see if he’s good enough to be a general.”

M

ilos was almost the best swordsman, even among the generals. Even with his superior skill, he still had a lot to learn, horseback-riding, archery, spear-throwing, and reconnaissance. However, he proved to be a natural strategist and leader of his little group of soldiers he was to command. Then came the faithful day when the Head Commander came to see him.

“I’ve heard that you’re a sergeant, surprising for someone so young. Is that true?” the Commander asked briskly.

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Milos, unsure if he was in trouble. But, at least his slang was gone and didn’t sound like a child.

“I’ve also heard of your ability to lead others in strategic maneuvers, your rapid growth in all sorts of combat, and your uncanny skill in the art of reconnaissance. Is this all true?”

“Yes, sir.” This was all beginning to sound like the time from Stefan Dusan’s room.

“Thank you, I was just curious to know if my sources were correct,” the Commander’s long brown mustache shook on an unsmiling face as he spoke roughly.

The Head Commander stood and strode out of the tent and when the rest of his bodyguards were gone, Milos let out a deep breath. He was still wondering why he had come, throughout the rest of the day.

T

he sound of trumpets and a soldier shaking his shoulder brought him out of bed.

“The king is coming, sir.” Milos still had to get used to adults calling him “sir.”

Milos shook his head to wake up and he got dressed, still half-asleep. The trumpets sounded once more just as Milos came out of the tent. Seeing everyone kneeling, Milos quickly dropped to his knees, keeping his head down.

“Bring me Milos Obilic!” boomed an easily recognizable voice.

“I’m here, sir,” called out Milos, his own courage surprised him.

“Come forth, Obilic,” bellowed back Stefan. Milos slowly stood up, now the only one not kneeling, and stepped forward cautiously until he was facing King Dusan.

“I have reviewed your achievements and have decided to promote you to Head Commander of the Serbian Army, rewarding you the horse, Zdral,” Stefan Dusan, King of Serbia had replaced the Head Commander with Milos, who was just a boy. Milos’ head was spinning, it couldn’t be true! Milos wasn’t even a general yet! His head started to hurt. The notion of him commanding everyone, even General Geoloni, was insane! Not that he thought the King was insane-

“The Macedonians have begun their attack!” cried the soldier on guard duty.

“Everyone into positions!” Stefan Dusan hollered over the chaos. “Milos, you must command them!” Milos knew the city of Kosovo would be completely destroyed if he hesitated now.

“Tent A through D, use any spears or pikes and hold them off! All sergeants and generals come to Tent B! Archers, head up the look-out towers and fire at will. Everyone else, gear up and get ready for hand combat!” Milos leapt up on the stallion, Zdral, and rode forward, toward the raging battle. It was madness. The Macedonians had gathered all their troops, except for their king’s bodyguards, and all of the allies they could get. Just like the first test, Milos reminded himself. The Serbians were out-numbered three to one, but Milos was determined to make the tide of battle turn in their favor. He rode back to Tent B, where a group of leaders waited anxiously.

“All of the sergeants, get your troops some armor. One sergeant brings his troops back to gear up, while the rest of the units hold back the Macedonians. Then, you switch. The generals, protect the archers as best as you can, but don’t leave too thin of a defense in the main gate. No matter what, don’t stop fighting. General Geolino! I want you to bring some troops back and construct a ballista.” Milos’ voice was getting hoarse from all of the yelling.

“Yes, sir.” Geolino ran back to his troops and brought back a couple dozen infantry.

“Construct it here,” Milos yelled over the war. “As soon as you finish, wipe out their cavalry!” Milos galloped back to the war and knew what he had to do. He rode out the back gate and head toward King Philip II, raising his hands in surrender, but he had a poisoned dagger sheathed under his armor.

“I surrender! Do not shoot!” he roared. Fortunately, someone heard him and called to the king.

“Your majesty! A boy has come to surrender!” a look-out called out to his leader. King Philip soon came galloping on a brilliant white steed, followed by a legion of cavalry. Swallowing a lump in his throat and thinking about his comrades back at the camp, he lurched forward, flashed his dagger, and sunk the knife into King Philip’s stomach. The cavalry shot forward, reacting quickly, and everything was a blur as Milos felt multiple swords come in contact with his flesh.

“Get the King back to camp! Leave the boy! He will soon die!” Milos heard shouts off in the distance and turned his head away from the cavalry and toward the battle. General Geolino’s men had completed the ballista and were now firing at the cavalry. Without their king’s continuous commands, the Macedonians were in disorder and were being pushed back. The tide of battle had turned in favor of the Serbians. His mission completed, Milos’ eyes closed for a final time.