Nil Garran was paying tithe to the hidden army. It was his way of resisting, easier and safer than taking up a weapon. He went about his business as usual, letting the occupying armies take his products at their starvation level prices and demand the occasional tribute.
They didn’t know just how fertile the land was, so could not tell that the fields never yielded all the soil fruit they should. Some of the trees in the wild orchard were half bare before harvest began. The land fowl were free to roam, so he could not know how many nested where he did not look, and the water fowl were not his to worry about.
Somewhere in the forests the soldiers had their hidden communities. They guarded the tracks, guns, bomb lobbers and stonks that the Southerners could not account for despite the supposed rout of the Northern armies. They all waited, biding their time, ready to rise up when the time was right. Just like the god king sleeping in his silver tower in the far North. But Gorran didn’t believe in the god king. The god king didn’t steal his tubers.